James Benn - A Blind Goddess

I tried again with Mrs. Bishop, but she was gone. Took her nest egg and moved to Maine to live with her daughter, the neighbors said. Conveniently outside of the local jurisdiction. Looked to me like any nest egg she had went into buying smokes, and I wondered if Basher had shown up with a wad of cash. No wonder my single pack of coffin nails hadn’t opened any doors for me.

I went to see Tree after that. I said I’d talked to the DA, that he’d been to the house a few times, and was what my dad called one of the good guys. Even among lawyers, cops, and robbers there were good guys and bad guys, and you couldn’t always count on the uniform or suit coat to tell them apart.

Tree said no, let it go to trial. That way I was in the clear, and he stood a chance of keeping his record clean. I didn’t see it that way, but he was in the hot seat, so I told him he was probably right.

But I never said I wouldn’t talk to the DA.

I waited outside the courtroom the next afternoon. A big trial was wrapping up, and I knew DA Flanagan would be there for the cameras. He was. As the flashbulbs popped and he puffed out his chest in the August heat, I strolled around the edges of the crowd. Finally I caught his eye, and as the crowd dispersed and he walked to his waiting sedan, he waved me over.

“What are you doing here, Billy?”

“Waiting to talk to you, Mr. Flanagan. About Tree … I mean Eugene Jackson,” I said.

“Your father know you’re here?” He’d stopped and given me his full attention, tapping out a cigarette and firing up a gold lighter.

“No, sir. This isn’t his idea, it’s all mine.”

“And what exactly is it you want?” He drew in smoke and exhaled through his nose. It looked strange, and I unaccountably thought of dragons.

I told him about how Basher had treated us, about Mrs. Bishop and the statement I’d given to the first public defender. “I just want Eugene to get a fair shake. But Basher’s got everything lined up against him.”

“Billy, the police have presented sufficient evidence for my office to act. If Mrs. Bishop will come forward and give a proper statement, we’ll be glad to take it into consideration.”

“She’s gone. It looked like she didn’t have a dime to spare, and now she’s moved up to Maine with a nest egg.”

“So all I have is your word,” Flanagan said.

“Yes, sir.”

“It might look very bad for your father if word got out his son tried to influence the prosecution in favor of a defendant,” Flanagan said. He moved toward his automobile and the driver hopped to and opened the rear door. He stopped, took a drag, and crushed the cigarette out on the curb. “I wouldn’t try this again, young man. You might stir up trouble your family doesn’t need.”

“Yes, sir,” I said to the door as it slammed shut.

I went back to mopping floors as the summer ended. Tree’s trial was scheduled for right after Labor Day. The day before the holiday, Dad came home with good news. The prosecutor had offered Tree a deal. A terrific deal. All charges dropped except breaking and entering. And he was given a choice about how to do his time. Take one year in jail, or join the army.

Tree hadn’t wanted to take the deal. He was ready for a fight, and thought Dorch could win the case. But Pop Jackson wasn’t so sure, and told Tree to take the offer. He wasn’t a guy you argued with, whether he was your boss or your father. So Tree took the deal.

I made the mistake of telling Tree that I had been the one to talk to the DA. I was bragging about it, to tell the truth. I thought I’d gambled and won, and I wanted my friend to know. Flanagan had believed me, or at least knew enough about Basher to reconsider his case. I thought Tree would be happy, even thankful. But he was roaring mad. I was the one who’d taken away his chance to prove himself innocent and make his own choices about college or the army. It wasn’t my place to decide for him. I wasn’t that much better than Basher, when it came down to it. Both of us used the system to get what we wanted, without giving Tree a choice in the matter. We had a big blow-out fight, and Tree told me to never come around again.

I didn’t. He chose the army, of course.

“And here we all are,” Tree said. “I thought my life was over. No college, no future. But we didn’t see this war coming. I’d be in the army anyway by now. This way, I’m a non-com in a combat outfit. I don’t know if you guys know what that means for a Negro. I’m going to fight for my country, and if I get home, I’m going to fight for myself, and my people.”

“You’re satisfied how it worked out?” Big Mike asked. “You’re not still sore at Billy?”

“I’m not happy I missed Pop’s funeral,” Tree said. “But that was the Deep South for you. Wasn’t Billy’s fault. Billy Boyle is a born snoop, but this time around it worked out for me. I got my gunner back.” He raised his pint to Angry Smith, and we all drank a toast to the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion.

Later, as we piled into the jeep to drive Tree and Angry back to their bivouac area, Tree asked Angry why he’d had such a hard time thanking me earlier that day. He took a deep breath, and his answer didn’t come right away.

“Because I never thanked a white man before, and meant it. Colored man got to say a lot of things to keep trouble at bay, Captain. Some of those things eat at you, know what I mean? But I can’t say no white man ever did me a kindness, until you come along. I know you did it to even things up with Tree, but still, it put me in your debt. I owe you.”

I made the drive to Saint Albans the next day to see Major Cosgrove. I told Kaz and Big Mike to head back to SHAEF, knowing that Cosgrove wanted to talk to me alone. Saint Albans was a rest home, a hospital for those who held secrets in their heads and sometimes demons as well. It was top secret, staffed by doctors and nurses who had security clearances better than mine.

Saint Albans was reserved mainly for those who had been emotionally damaged but who needed to be patched up, for the greater good, and sent back into the fight. There were SOE agents, commandos, and foreigners from all over Europe. Major Cosgrove of MI5 was important enough to warrant a bed here as well. Or perhaps it was the knowledge he held.

My name was on the list, which got me past the armed guard at the entrance gate. I was taken to the back garden, where I spied Cosgrove seated in a wheelchair, reading a book. He looked up as I approached, and I was surprised at how good he looked, compared to how terrible he had looked the last time I saw him.

“Boyle,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “Good of you to come.” He was dressed in blue pajamas and a quilted robe. The wheelchair was wicker, and looked built for comfort as opposed to transport. There was color in his face, which had been pallid and pasty after his attack. “Please excuse the casual attire; uniform of the day at Saint Albans.”

“Are you supposed to stand, Major?” I asked, pulling a lawn chair closer and taking my seat.

“They have me doing a bit of exercise,” he said. “This thing is for moving about the property easily, not because I need it.” He slammed his palm down as if to reinforce the point. Charles Cosgrove was not the kind of man who wanted to appear helpless, and I could tell being in the chair bothered him. “But the medicos insist, so here I am.”

“You do look pretty good, Major,” I said. “I thought I’d find you in a hospital bed, hooked up to some contraption.”

“I’m not dead yet, Boyle. It was a heart attack, yes. But they said I was also suffering from exhaustion. I didn’t like being taken here, but I must admit the rest has done me wonders. Didn’t really understand how tired I was.”