I look over at Jim. “You knew Tommy would break, didn’t you? You knew it all along.”
“Yes, I thought if we gave him a way out, he would take it.”
“How did you know?”
“Glen, I don’t believe the boy hates you. I talked with all the boys out there at New Horizons. Everyone of them thinks the world of you and wishes you were back. Tommy’s no different.”
“Then why did he get on that stand and say the things he did?”
“You’re the psychologist, Glen. Think about it. He’s a kid. He doesn’t want to have to admit that this has all been a big lie. I think he started regretting what he’d done from day one. But once he got in the system, with Lucile and the others pounding him with questions, he couldn’t see his way clear to tell the truth. So we get all the way to the trial and he gets on the stand and plays his part one more time. He had to save face. But it was obvious he was trying to screw up his own testimony in the beginning. You saw that.”
“So what’s going to happen now?”
“Moultrie will question Tommy and hopefully the boy will tell the truth now.”
“So Mary Manning winds up finding out after all.”
“No, I don’t think so. Tommy saw that you weren’t going to name Chris. I don’t think he will either. If Moultrie questions him, you gave Tommy the answers he needs up there on the stand. That was my plan, Glen. Everyone in that courtroom is thinking Tommy is involved with another boy at New Horizons, not you—and certainly not his dead counselor. And it looks like we may have stumbled onto the truth anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about what the doctor said, Glen. It’s pretty clear Tommy got buggered early that morning, when you couldn’t have possibly done it. It had to be someone there at the group home. My guess is the roommate.”
I think about what Jim has just said. It makes sense. Curtis Sloan is gay, and out about it. Tommy is clearly struggling with his own sexual identity, so it’s entirely possible he’s been in a relationship with Curtis all along.
“What if Tommy doesn’t recant tomorrow, Jim? What if this still winds up going to the jury?” I ask.
“With Tommy crying and apologizing right there in front of God and everybody, Glen...well, that’s called ‘reasonable doubt’, buddy. As long as the jury’s got that, you’re not going to jail.”
“How did Moultrie’s name wind up on the FBI list?”
Jim laughs. “Mr. Moultrie should be getting some interesting materials in the mail shortly.” Jim turns to me with a devilish grin on his face.
I am laughing so hard I can’t speak. I can just picture Moultrie’s face when he goes to his mail box and pulls out a bunch of pedophile literature addressed to him.
Another mile or so in silence. My thoughts return to the trial. “What do you think will happen tomorrow if your plan didn’t work?” I ask.
“Closing arguments. Moultrie will get up and tell the jury how he thinks they should view the facts of the case. Then I’ll get up and do the same. Then it’s in their hands.”
“And you think they will find me not guilty?”
“Yep, tomorrow this time it’ll all be over.”
“Twenty-four hours,” I say and look out the window at the trees flashing by.
“Yeah,” Jim says, “twenty-four hours.”
* * *
“I want to thank you again for what you did,” I say to David Fain. We are standing in the drive. It’s a little after seven and David has to catch his nine o’clock flight. He had dinner with us. And now I hate to see him leave.
“I was glad to do it, Glen. I just hope it helped. Do you think they believed me?”
“Yes. But whether they did or not, I’ll never forget it. I’ll be honest with you, if I had been in your shoes, I don’t know if I could have gotten up on the stand and did what you did.”
“Oh, I think you could have,” David says. “Look what you’ve put yourself through for the boy who is accusing you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I’ve never forgotten what you did for me. I’m glad I finally got the chance to come close to paying you back.”
I smile and extend my hand. David shakes it, and as I look into those bright green eyes I still see the twelve-year-old boy from so long ago.
David gets into his rented Honda and I close the door. He starts the engine and rolls down the window.
“David?”
He looks at me.
“Were you serious when you said you named your little boy ‘Glen’?”
“Yes, I named him after you. Would you like to see a picture of him?”
“Do you have one?”
David reaches in the breast pocket of his jacket and removes his wallet. He pulls out a picture of his little boy. “This is Glen Michael Fain,” he says and hands me the picture.
It’s remarkable how much David’s son looks like him. Same auburn hair. Same green eyes. “He’s beautiful,” I say and hand the picture back to David.
“Would you like to keep it?”
“I’d like that very much,” I answer and slip the picture into my shirt pocket.
“Well, I better go. I wish I could stay through tomorrow and be here for the verdict. But I know there’s no way they’ll find you guilty. Your lawyer did a good job. The jury knows you didn’t abuse that boy.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
“Goodbye, Glen,” he says and slips the gearshift into reverse.
“Bye, David. Thanks again.”
And with a smile and a wave David Fain is gone.
When I get back in the house Suzanne and the boys are in front of the television in the den.
“Hey, Dad,” Peter says, “they’re gonna talk about the trial next.”
“Who is?” I ask.
“Dan Rather and some legal expert.”
“Come on, Benjamin,” Suzanne says, “it’s time for your bath.”
I expect my little man to protest, but he doesn’t. He goes upstairs with his mother and leaves Peter and me to watch The CBS Evening News.
I look at my soon to be thirteen-year-old sitting on the floor in front of the TV. What must he be thinking? Arguably the most recognized name in American journalism is about to discuss his father’s trial on national TV. Millions of people will be watching. And I suddenly realize that except for that first day, when Jim and I watched the local news at the Backstreet Tavern, I haven’t seen any of the news coverage of my trial.
“Peter?”
“Yeah, Dad?” He turns and looks up at me.
“Have you been following the trial on the news?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They talk about it much?”
“Not as much as they did the O.J. Simpson trial or Susan Smith.”
I am struck by the tone in Peter’s voice. I am certain there is a hint of pride there—and disappointment. Obviously, he sees me as some sort of celebrity now. I’m number three behind O.J. and South Carolina’s most infamous murderess.
“What have they been saying?” I ask.
“Everybody thinks you’re gonna win, Dad.”
“Really?”
“Yeah...oh, wait. The news is comin’ back on.”
We turn our attention to Dan Rather.
“Today was the last day of testimony in the Erskine child molestation trial in Charleston, South Carolina,” Rather says. “Tomorrow the lawyers will offer their closing arguments and the case will go to the jury.” The picture goes to a split screen, Rather on one side, some guy with a bow tie on the other. “Joining me now from our CBS affiliate in Columbia, South Carolina is Prof. Lewis Perkins of the University of South Carolina School of Law. Prof. Perkins, thank you for being with us this evening.”
“It’s my pleasure, Dan,” the professor says.
“Prof. Perkins, help us get some perspective on this case. I know you have been following the trial closely. The general opinion thus far is that things have not gone well for the pros
ecution.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. The judge has allowed in evidence that could be pretty damaging to Dr. Erskine. But overall, Dr. Erskine’s attorney has done an excellent job of neutralizing the prosecution’s witnesses and evidence. It is obvious to me, and I’m sure to the jury, that the man on trial here is no child molester. Everything—even the medical testimony—seems to be pointing to someone else—”
“And, indeed, that is what came out in today’s testimony from Dr. Erskine himself. This seems to be a case of the boy being involved sexually with another resident of the group home.”
“Yes, that is correct. And Dr. Erskine gave a plausible reason for keeping what he knew to himself—even allowing himself to be accused and brought to trial. I think it’s important to note that the victim in this case broke down after Dr. Erskine’s testimony. The boy apologized to Dr. Erskine in open court and every juror heard it. I would not be at all surprised if the solicitor drops this case tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” I say to myself. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 20
Resolution
It is after ten now and Suzanne has gone up to bed. Peter is in bed, too, but still reading. Benjamin is dreaming little boy dreams. And I don’t think I will get much sleep tonight. I feel like a condemned man on death row awaiting the inevitable. I am alone here in the den, but I feel a loneliness of heart—of soul—that I have never known before.
Why should I feel this way? After all, Jim seems to think it’s a foregone conclusion that Moultrie will dismiss the charges in the morning. Even Dan Rather’s “expert” said the same thing on the news earlier. But I’m not so sure. I think the solicitor still believes I molested Tommy Jackson. I think my fate rests with the jury, not with Moultrie. I believe my entire future will be decided by twelve people whom I have never met. Twelve people who only know me from what they have heard, seen, and been told during the course of this trial.
As I reflect on my career, now, for reasons that seem all too clear, I know why I do what I do. I have counseled hundreds of abused boys. Physical abuse, emotional abuse, spiritual abuse, sexual abuse. I’ve held them and cried with them. I’ve loved them and more often than not been witness to a miracle: the rebirth of a slain spirit: A boy’s heart set free to love again—or, as with Tommy, to love for the first time. We all saw that love manifest itself today in court when Tommy cried in my arms.
An intense sadness envelops me now. Not because my life may be over, but because that life and what it has meant to so many is known only in caricature by twelve people—and beyond them, thousands, maybe millions more—who see me as a monster.
Or do they?
I would like to think that my friend and attorney has done the wonderful job that everyone seems to think he has. That, like everyone else, the jury sees the truth.
The doorbell is ringing. It’s Jim, I’m sure. Probably with a six-pack. We’ll sit up all night, drink beer, and feel like hell tomorrow.
I get to the front door just as the bell rings again. I open it, and my knees almost buckle. I can’t believe this. Standing before me, shivering in the cold...is Tommy Jackson.
“Tommy? What are you doing here?”
“Hi,” he says, bouncing from one foot to the other.
“How’d you get here?” I ask him. I look out to see a car, headlights ablaze, sitting in our drive.
“I took a cab. I owe him seventeen dollars and twenty-six cents. Can I borrow the money until I get my allowance next week?”
I take out my wallet and give Tommy a twenty. He runs out and pays the driver and returns.
I start to say something about a tip for the driver, but he’s already speeding off—no doubt pissed off for being stiffed out of a gratuity.
“You’re frozen,” I say. The night is cold and he’s not wearing a coat. “You really should not be here, but come on in the kitchen, I’ll fix you some hot chocolate.”
“Okay.”
We go to the kitchen and Tommy sits at the table while I prepare the hot chocolate. I glance over at him. He is staring at me. While the microwave heats the water, Tommy is silent. I look at him again as I pour the steaming water over the powder, stir it, and hand the mug to Tommy. I sit across the table from him. I watch as he takes a sip.
“It’s good,” he says.
“Where have you been staying?” I ask.
“With foster parents in North Charleston—their name’s Pierce. They live close to my school.”
“Do they know you are gone?”
“No, I snuck out.” Tommy takes another sip of hot chocolate.
“Why did you come here?”
Tommy looks to be considering my question. He leans back in his chair and pulls something from his pocket. A crumpled envelope. He hands it to me. I straighten it out. It’s addressed to “Tommy.” There is no stamp or post mark. I lift the torn flap and remove the contents. A letter. From Chris Manning.
30 Oct
Dear Tommy,
I had to write this letter to you before I go just to tell you how much you mean to me. I am not ashamed to say I love you, Tommy. You have touched my heart like I thought no one could. Certainly no thirteen-year-old boy. Whatever has happened between us and whatever may happen after I’m gone, please don’t blame yourself.
I am so sorry about the way I treated you Friday night. It was wrong. I know that now and I guess I knew it then. Glen made me realize this morning how wrong I was to leave you there without talking to you, to help you (and me) understand what had happened to us. I never meant to hurt you, Tommy. You should not feel ashamed of what happened, but I know that’s the way you must feel. The blame is with me. I was ashamed.
If I had the courage I would say these things to your face. But I don’t have the courage to face you. I cannot face you with this and I cannot face my wife with this. Mary really likes you, Tommy. But I can’t tell her what happened. It would kill her to know that in some way I have loved you only as I have loved her. I could never expect her forgiveness and I don’t deserve it. I’ve done something no husband can do and expect to live with himself.
Finally, Tommy, don’t be angry with Glen. He was gracious enough to give me today to tell my wife. Whatever he does, I know it will be the best thing for you. Cooperate with him. Be honest. Have the courage that I don’t. I love you and I believe in you.
Your counselor and friend,
Chris Manning
I fold the letter and put it back in the envelope. I look up at Tommy and slide Chris’ letter across to him. “You’ve had that letter from the beginning, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. It was on my bed when I got home from school...the day Chris killed himself. I guess he left it there.”
“So you believe Chris committed suicide in that wreck.”
“Yes, don’t you?”
“I do. I also believe you blamed me for Chris’ death. That’s why you told them I molested you. To get back at me.”
Tommy nods.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Tommy. Why did you come here?”
The boy looks at me. “Are you mad at me, Glen?”
For a brief moment I try to conjure up some of the justifiable anger I felt in the beginning. But nothing comes. “Do you think I should be angry with you?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Tommy says without hesitation. “Are you?”
“I was.”
“But you’re not mad now?”
“Let’s just say...I’ve dealt with it.”
We sit, looking at each other. Silence.
“I don’t think they’ll find you guilty,” Tommy finally says.
I don’t respond. We sit in silence a while longer.
“You want me to tell, don’t you?” Tommy says.
I reach up and scratch my nose. “Tommy, you’re going to have to decide what you want to do.”
“Yeah, but you want me to tell, don’t you?”
“This is your call, Tommy. You make the decision that’s rig
ht for you.”
If I’ve hand any influence on this boy, if my actions throughout the course of this nightmare have in any way helped to shape, alter, and amend his moral character, I know what his decision will be. At least I pray I do.
Tommy fiddles with the spoon in the mug. Then he fingers the envelope containing Chris’ letter. “I’m sorry for what I did, Glen,” he says and stuffs the envelope back in his pocket.
I don’t say anything.
“Don’t you believe me?” he says and looks up.
“I believe you,” I tell him.
“Can I use your phone?”
I point to the phone on the bar. Tommy gets up and walks over to it. He pulls out a dog-eared business card from the back pocket of his jeans. He lifts the handset and punches in the number.
“Could I speak with Mr. Moultrie, please? This is Tommy Jackson.”
He waits.
“It’s me, Mr. Moultrie. Yeah. I’m at Glen’s...Yeah, Glen Erskine. I ran away...No, he didn’t call me, he didn’t even know where I was staying. Can you come over here? I’ve got something to show you...No, I’ll tell you when you get here. And don’t bring any cops...just you, okay? Okay, bye.” Tommy hangs up the phone and turns to me. “He’s comin’ over. I’m gonna show him Chris’ letter and tell him the truth about what happened.”
I smile, and Tommy smiles back.
“I think I better make a call, too,” I say. I get up and walk over beside Tommy and pick up the phone. I punch in Jim’s number, the one that rings directly into his study. He answers on the second ring.
“Jim Aiken.”
“Hey, I figured you’d be in your study. I think you better get over here.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Guess who’s standing here beside me?” I say and rub my hand over Tommy’s hair.
“Who?”
“Tommy Jackson.”
“WHAT!”
“He’s here. And Moultrie is on his way.”
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