Steven James - The Knight

“Yes,” I said, returning to his question. “That’s why I entered this field.”

We were nearing the exit for O’Hare airport, and I sensed that we hadn’t yet made it to the crux of our conversation. “Calvin, at the courthouse you said you wanted to ask me a question.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Now, please understand that I mean no disrespect whatsoever when I make reference to your stepdaughter in my hypothetical example.”

“Go ahead.”

“Imagine that a man is on trial for first degree sexual assault. You are called in as a witness and you know that he is guilty and that your testimony will make the difference in the verdict.”

I began to feel a little uneasy. “All right.”

“However, the evidence is not sufficient for a conviction and you know that if you relate only the facts of the case, he will be acquitted and will sexually assault Tessa, or perhaps another girl her age. However, if you shade the truth in your testimony toward his guilt, he will be convicted. What would you do?”

His hypothetical situation left me very little wiggle room.

“Assuming my testimony was the only deciding factor.” I felt my throat tighten. “I would lie to protect her.” Finally, like a lens slowly coming into focus, I realized what Calvin was saying and how it related to the events earlier in the day.

“Yes.” He nodded gently. “Because protecting the innocent matters more than anything else.”

He turned his head and gazed at me. Despite his age, his eyes were as piercingly observant and incisive as ever, and this time he cut straight to the point. “Do you believe Richard Basque is guilty of those murders?”

There was no question in my mind. “Yes, he is. And probably more that we don’t know about.”

“I’ve reviewed the case, as you know. And I am convinced of it as well.”

We came to the airport exit. Calvin took it.

A thought.

No, it couldn’t be.

But maybe it was.

“Calvin, you loaded the gun, didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you. There must be someone else out there thinking the same things as I am.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have believed him, but I did. After all, someone else had killed Heather and Chris and had left the taunting message in the mine. So then, Calvin’s comments could mean only one thing: “You don’t think I should have stopped Sikora.”

He was quick with a reply. “No, no. I’m not questioning anything you did. I think you did the noble thing, the heroic thing.”

“But not the right thing?”

“If you hadn’t reacted as swiftly as you did, two people would be dead instead of one. They would not have taken Mr. Sikora alive, you know that.”

I noticed he hadn’t answered my question. “But if you’re not questioning what I did, what are you doing?”

“Explaining myself.”

He stopped the car in front of Terminal 1.

“What are you talking about?”

Calvin let the car idle. “For more than five decades I have told the truth and then watched as people whom I knew to be killers and rapists and pedophiles were set free.” His fingers shook slightly. He laid them on the steering wheel, probably so that I wouldn’t notice. But I did.

“And they molested again,” he said. “They raped again, they murdered again. So many lives have been destroyed because I trusted that if I related the facts, justice would be carried out. But it wasn’t. And now, the suffering of the innocent weighs heavily upon my conscience.”

He looked at me, a gray fire burning in his eyes, a single terrible teardrop trailing down his cheek. “Perhaps I could have done more to help them.”

“But perhaps not.”

“True,” he acknowledged. “But either way, it is too late to change what has been done. We can only change what is and what will be.”

A police officer approached the car. We either had to move or I needed to grab my suitcase and head to the ticket counter. I could have identified myself as a federal agent, but my wallet was in my computer bag in the trunk and I didn’t want to mess with all that. I just wanted to finish this conversation. “You’re no longer sure you did the right thing by telling the truth all these years.”

Calvin stared out the window at the rain. His silence was all the answer I needed.

I remembered his hypothetical question regarding the rapist: “If you shade the truth in your testimony toward his guilt, he will be convicted. What would you do?”

Truth and justice always wrestle against each other in our courts. For all these years I’d chosen the side of truth. So had Calvin. Maybe we’d chosen the wrong side.

“Promise me,” Mr. Sikora had said.

“I promise,” I’d told him.

I could feel something shifting inside of me. The confidence I’d always had in the justice system suddenly seemed overly naive and optimistic.

“Do you believe Basque will kill again if he is set free?” Calvin asked.

“Yes.”

“As do I.”

The officer rapped a knuckle against the glass. I held up a finger to tell him to give me a moment, then I asked Calvin, “You’re going to do something, aren’t you?”

Silence.

“What is it? What are you going to do?”

He folded his hands on the top of the steering wheel. “I’m going to watch carefully.” His words were decisive. Firm. “And see what happens next.”

I searched for what to say. The officer pounded on the door and began to demand I step outside, which I finally did. He pointed to Calvin. “He needs to move along.”

I exited the car, and Calvin rolled down his window. “I’ll call you,” I said.

“Yes, do. Ring me.”

Then I retrieved my bags and watched as Calvin drove away, the taillights of his car glimmering off the wet pavement. A blurry, distorted reflection.

The officer was still standing beside me, and when I didn’t move he said, “Is everything all right?”

No. It’s not. It might never be.

“Yes,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

Then I entered the terminal, wondering if I should have just let Sikora kill Richard Basque, or if maybe I should have helped him aim the gun. Calvin’s words stalked me as I made my way through the concourse: “I’m going to watch carefully and see what happens next.”

Well, so would I.

Baptist Memorial HospitalDenver, Colorado7:51 p.m. Mountain Time

Disguised and dressed as a custodian, Giovanni passed through the lower level of Baptist Memorial Hospital toward the morgue. He carried a black waterproof duffel bag and was careful to avoid the hallways that had security cameras.

His flight had arrived nearly an hour ago, which had given him plenty of time to get ready.

Now, he picked the lock to the morgue, entered the room, and shut the door behind him. Set down his duffel bag. Unzipped it.

Then, he headed to the cold storage area where the recent arrivals were kept.

Giovanni had never served time for murder, which was a bit surprising, considering how many of them he’d committed.

And considering he’d even confessed to one.

But no crimes, not even that first one, appeared on his record because he was only eleven when he confessed to it and the court system decided that he was too young to understand his actions, that he was just a boy and so.

And so.

And so.

Instead of serving time in jail, he’d spent six months at a special hospital and then attended a boarding school and met with a counselor three times a week to talk about his feelings.

But neither his counselor nor any of his lawyers or the judges or court-appointed advocates had ever understood that he really had known what he was doing when he killed his grandmother two days before his twelfth birthday. He’d known very well. And even now, all these years later, everything was still fresh in his mind.