Sleepers

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Where?” Father Bobby asked.

  “Where what?” the lawyer said, a menthol cigarette in his mouth, his hands coiled around a lit match.

  “Where will they be sent?” Father Bobby asked, his face red, his hands gripping his knees. “Which home? Which prison? Which hole are you going to drop them in? That clear enough for you?”

  “Wilkinson’s,” the lawyer said. “It’s a home for boys in upstate New York.”

  “I know where it is,” Father Bobby said.

  “Then you know what it’s like,” the lawyer said.

  “Yes,” Father Bobby said, the color drained from his face. “I know what it’s like.”

  I looked over my shoulder, to the left, for a quick glance at the members of the Caldwell family, sitting in a group in the first two rows behind the prosecutor’s table. Old man Caldwell was home, recuperating from his numerous wounds. According to a medical statement filed with the court, he would never again gain full use of his left leg and would suffer from dizziness and numbness in his other limbs for the rest of his life. His hearing and vision had also been affected.

  Each of us had written him a note, delivered by Father Bobby, telling Mr. Caldwell and his family how sorry we were.

  Each note went unanswered.

  “Do any of you wish to say anything before sentence is passed?” the judge asked, moving aside a sweaty glass of ice water.

  “No, sir,” each of us said in turn.

  The judge nodded, looking at his notes one last time. He was in his late fifties, a short, stout man with a head full of thick white hair and brown eyes that revealed little. He lived in a Manhattan housing complex with his second wife and two dogs. He had no children, was an avid poker player, and spent his summer vacations fishing off the dock of his Cape Cod home.

  He cleared his throat, sipped some water, and closed the folder before him.

  “I’m sure by now you boys have been made aware of the severity of the crime you committed,” the judge began. “It was a crime which combined a careless disregard for one man’s place of business, in this case a hot dog stand, with a criminal attitude toward another man’s safety and well-being. The result left one man ruined and another nearly dead. All for the price of a hot dog.”

  It was hot in the room and I was sweating through my shirt and jacket. I kept my hands clasped in front of me while staring straight ahead. I heard the mumblings of those behind me, the people on my right fearful of the judge’s words, the people on the left anticipating the punishment to come. John’s mother, sitting next to my father, whispered the prayers of the rosary, her fingers moving slowly down the row of beads.

  “Mr. Kratrous has been forced to give up his business and his dream of building a home here. He returns to his native Greece, his belief in our way of life torn apart by the wanton and remorseless act of four boys intent on thievery. Mr. Caldwell is an even more tragic case. Left for dead by a prank gone asunder, his life will never be what it was prior to that fateful day. He will suffer each and every single moment he has left on this earth, drugged with medications to numb the pain, walking with the aid of a cane, fearful of leaving his house. And all this for what? So four boys could sit back and share a laugh, enjoy a joke caused by the pain of others. Well, the joke backfired, didn’t it?”

  It was nine-forty in the morning when the judge pushed back the sleeves of his robe, took another drink of water, and sent us to what he called a home for boys and what everyone else called a prison.

  He took us one at a time, starting with the Count.

  “John Reilly,” the judge said. “The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In prior agreement with the attorneys for both parties, the term is to begin effective September one of this year.”

  Behind me, John’s mother let out a low scream.

  “Thomas Marcano,” the judge said, shifting his attention to Butter. “The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September one of this year.”

  “Michael Sullivan,” the judge said, his tone turning harsher, convinced he was addressing the group ringleader. “The court hereby sentences you to no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September one of this year. I might add, were it not for the intervention of Father Robert Carillo of your local parish, who spoke in glowing terms on your behalf, I would have sentenced you to a much stiffer punishment. I still have my doubts as to your inherent goodness. Only time will serve to prove me wrong.”

  I wiped at my upper lip and forehead, waiting for my name to be called. I turned around and saw my father sitting with his eyes closed, his arms folded, the top of his bald head wet with sweat.

  “Lorenzo Carcaterra,” the judge said, the contempt in his voice no less than it had been for my friends. “In your case, the court will take into account the fact that you are the youngest of the four and arrived on the scene after the theft of the cart had already occurred. With that in mind, the court hereby sentences you to serve no more than one year and no less than six months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, you will begin your sentence on September one of this year.”

  The judge rested his head on his high-backed chair and stared out at us in silence. He tapped the edge of a case folder with the fingers of his right hand, his face an empty canyon, a small, nondescript man made large by the weight of judicial power.

  “I hope,” he said in conclusion, “you make good use of your time at Wilkinson. Learn a trade, perhaps, or further your education. If not, if you turn the other way and ignore the possibilities available to you, then I can guarantee you will stand before me again, guilty of another violent act. And I assure you, next time I won’t be as kind as I was today.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” our lawyer said, sweat lines streaking the sides of his face.

  “Look at the scumbag,” my father said to Father Bobby, sitting in the row behind him, his voice loud enough to reach the bench, watching the judge head back to his chambers. “Look at him smile. Puts four kids away for a year and he smiles. I oughta break his fuckin’ jaw.”

  Father Bobby leaned over and put a hand on my father’s shoulder.

  “Easy, Mario,” Father Bobby said. “This isn’t the place and now’s not the time.”

  “It’s never the place,” my father said. “And it sure as shit ain’t never the time.”

  Our lawyer reached over the barrier and put out a hand toward Father Bobby, his low voice barely audible over the din coming from the Caldwell family side of the courtroom.

  “It went as well as could be expected,” the lawyer said.

  “For you, maybe,” Father Bobby said.

  “They could have gotten a lot more time,” the lawyer said. “For what they did, a lot more time.”

  Father Bobby stood and leaned on the barrier, his Roman collar off his neck and in his right hand.

  “This isn’t a game,” Father Bobby said. “It’s not about deals or less time or more time. It’s about four boys. Four boys whose names you didn’t even bother to learn. So don’t be so quick to pat yourself on the back.”

  “I did my job,” the lawyer said.

  “The sworn oath of the mediocre,” Father Bobby said.

  “You could have done better with them yourself, Father,” the lawyer said. “Then you wouldn’t have needed the services of a shit like me.”

  Father Bobby sat back down, his eyes catching mine, his face ashen and pained.

  “It won’t be so bad,” the lawyer told him. “After all, it’s not like everybody who spends time at Wilkinson ends up a criminal.”

  The lawyer turned away and cleared off the top of the defense table, shoving a handful of manila
folders inside his tattered brown bag and snapping it closed.

  “Some of them even find God and become priests,” the lawyer said, turning again to face Father Bobby. “Don’t they?”

  “Go to hell,” Father Bobby said.

  Outside, a light summer rain began to fall.

  BOOK TWO

  “Live then, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope.”

  —The Count of Monte Cristo

  1

  I HAD BEEN in my cell for less than an hour when the panic set in. To fight it, I closed my eyes and thought of home, of the neighborhood, of the streets where I played and of the people I knew. I imagined a hydrant spreading its cold spray over my face, felt the stitches of a baseball in my hand, heard soft music floating off a rooftop. I wasn’t yet thirteen years old and I wanted to be in those places, back where I belonged. I wanted everything to be the way it was before the hot dog cart. I wanted to be in Hell’s Kitchen and not in a place with cold walls and a tiny cot. A place where I was too afraid to move.

  It was dark and I was hungry, the dank air heavy with the smell of cleaning fluids. I didn’t like tight places or dark rooms and my cell was both. Its walls were cracked and peeling, a torn photo of James Dean taped to one. I hated to be alone, to be without books to read or baseball cards to sort through, forced to stare at a thick iron door that was locked from the outside. The steady rumbling sounds that came out of the other cells were difficult to ignore, making me long for those peaceful hours when I would sit in Sacred Heart Church and find solace in its silence.

  It doesn’t take very long to know how tough a person you are or how strong you can be. I knew from my first day at Wilkinson that I was neither tough nor strong. It takes only a moment for the fear to find its way, to seep through the carefully constructed armor. Once it does, it finds a permanent place. It is as true for a hardened criminal as it is for a young boy.

  THE FIRST GUARD I met inside Wilkinson was Sean Nokes, who was then twenty-five years old. He stood inside my cell, his legs pressed close together, a black baton cupped in both hands. He had a thick, ruddy face and close-cropped blond hair and he wore sharply creased brown slacks, thick-soled black shoes, and a starched white button-down shirt with a black name tag clipped to the front pocket. His eyes were cold, his voice deep.

  “Toss your old clothes to the floor” were the first words he said to me.

  “Here?”

  “If you’re expecting a dressing room, forget it. We don’t have any. So lose the clothes.”

  “In front of you?” I asked.

  A smile cracked the side of Nokes’s face. “For the time you’re here, day or night, you do everything in front of someone. Piss, shit, shower, brush your teeth, play with yourself, write letters home. Whatever. Somebody’s gonna be looking. Most times, that somebody’s gonna be me.”

  I tossed my shirt to the floor, unzipped my pants, and let them drop past my knees. I stepped out of the pants, kicked them aside, and, wearing only my white cotton briefs, white socks with holes in both heels, and a lace-less pair of Keds, looked back up at Nokes.

  “Everything,” Nokes said, still standing in stiff military posture. “Here on, the only clothes you wear are state issued.”

  “You want me to stand here naked?” I asked.

  “Now you’re catching on. I knew you Hell’s Kitchen boys couldn’t be as dumb as people say.”

  I took off my underwear, kicked off my sneakers, and balled up the white socks, dropping them all on the pile beside me. I stood there naked and embarrassed.

  “Now what?”

  “Get dressed,” Nokes said, nodding his head toward the clothes that had been left on my cot. “Assembly’s in fifteen minutes. That’s when you’ll meet the other boys.”

  “Are my friends on this floor?” I asked, taking two steps toward the cot and reaching for a folded green T-shirt.

  “Friends?” Nokes said, turning away. “You got a lot to learn, little boy. Nobody’s got friends in this place. That’s something you best not forget.”

  THE BUS RIDE up to the Wilkinson Home for Boys had taken more than three hours, including two stops for gas and a short bathroom break. Lunch was eaten on board: soggy butter sandwiches on white bread, lukewarm containers of apple juice, and Oh Henry! candy bars. Outside the temperature topped 90 degrees. Inside, it was even hotter. The old air conditioner hissed warm air and half the windows were sealed shut, dust lines smearing their chipped panes.

  The bus was old, narrow, and dirty, painted slate-gray inside and out. Half the thirty-six seats were taken up by boys younger than I was; none was older than sixteen. There were three guards along for the ride, one in the front next to the driver and two in the back sharing a pack of smokes and a skin magazine. Each guard had a long black nightstick and a can of Mace looped inside his belt. The guard up front had a small handgun shoved inside the front band of his pants.

  Four of the boys were black, two looked to be Hispanic, and the rest were white. We sat alone, occupying every other seat, our feet chained to a thin iron bar that stretched the length of the bus. Our hands were free and we were allowed to speak, but most seemed content to stare out at the passing countryside. For many, it was their first trip beyond New York City borders.

  Michael sat two rows ahead of me and John and Tommy were close behind to my left.

  “This is like the bus Doug McClure drove in The Longest Hundred Miles,” John said to a pock-marked teen across the aisle. “Don’t you think?”

  “Who the fuck is Doug McClure?” the kid said.

  “Not important,” John said, turning his attention back to the sloping hills of upstate New York.

  EARLIER THAT MORNING, we had said our good-byes to relatives and friends outside the courtroom across from Foley Square. My father hugged and held me until one of the guards told him it was time for us to go.

  “Treat him right,” my father told the guard.

  “Don’t worry,” he answered. “He’ll be okay. Now, please, step away.”

  I walked from my father and into a line forming near the bus. The crowd around us drew closer, older hands reaching out for a final touch, mothers crying softly, fathers bowing their heads in angry silence. I saw John’s mother lay a strand of rosary beads over his head, her knees buckling from emotion. Michael and Tommy stood behind me on the line, their eyes staring at empty spaces; no one was there to see them off.

  I looked to my left and saw Father Bobby standing next to an open-air parking lot, his back pressing a light pole. I nodded in his direction and tried but couldn’t bring myself to smile. I watched as he flicked his cigarette to the sidewalk and walked toward the bus.

  I wished he wasn’t there. I wished none of them were there. I didn’t want anyone, let alone people I cared about, to see me get on a bus that was going to take me to a place I could only think of as a jail. Father Bobby especially. I felt I had let him down, betrayed his trust in me. He tried to help us as much as he could—sent a stream of letters to the judge, hoping to get the charges dropped or reduced; argued to have us assigned to another institution; begged to have us placed in his custody. None of it worked and now he was left with only prayer.

  He stood across from me, his eyes saddened, his strong body sagging.

  “Will you write to me?” he asked.

  I wanted so much to cry, to put my arms around him and hold him as close as I had held my father. I fought back the tears and tried to swallow, my mouth dirt-dry.

  “Don’t worry,” I managed to say. “You’ll hear from me.”

  “It’ll mean a lot,” Father Bobby said, his voice as choked and cracked as mine.

  He stared at me with wet eyes. Years later I would realize what that look contained, the warnings he wished he could utter. But he couldn’t tell me. He didn’t dare risk making me even more frightened. It took all the strength he ha
d not to grab me, to grab all of us, and run from the steps of that bus. Run as far and as fast as we could. Run until we were all free.

  “Would you do me a favor?” I asked him.

  “Name it.”

  “Check on my mother and father,” I said. “These last few weeks, they look ready to kill each other.”

  “I will,” Father Bobby said.

  “And no matter what you hear, tell ’em I’m doin’ okay,” I said.

  “You want me to lie?” Father Bobby said, a smile breaking through the sadness, one hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s a good lie, Father,” I said. “You can do it.”

  Father Bobby moved from the bus and watched as I boarded, his eyes scanning the faces of the other boys already in their seats. He pulled another cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply. He then went over to my father and stood by his side until the bus closed its doors and pulled away from the curb. Then the two men—one a priest, the other an ex-con—walked with heads down and hands inside their pockets toward a nearby subway station for the ride back to the only place either one ever trusted.

  2

  THE WILKINSON HOME for Boys held 375 youthful offenders, housed in five separate units spread across seven well-tended acres. It had two large gyms, a football field, a quarter-mile oval track, and one chapel suitable for all religions.

  From the outside, the facility resembled what those who ran it most wanted it to resemble—a secluded private school. One hundred guards were on hand to monitor the inmates. The majority were local recruits only a few years older than their oldest charges. For them, this was a way-slop on a path to other jobs in law enforcement or government. A two-year tour of duty at Wilkinson, which was the average stay for most guards, always looked good on a résumé.

  The teachers, groundskeepers, handymen, cooks, and maintenance crews were also local hires. This served the dual function of keeping labor costs low and secrecy high. No one was going to do damage to one of the largest employers in the area, regardless of what they might see or hear.