Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"The jury found Ryan guilty. He confessed to me," the priest said dully as if he was repeating a catechism.

"Ryan was innocent. I'm going to prove that."

"And then what?" Father Steve asked, glancing at Mason.

"You tell me, Father. Is it a sin to let an innocent man die?"

The priest drew on his cigarette. "If you know he's innocent and you remain silent, that's a grave sin."

"The sin of silence. Where does it rank on your list?" Mason asked.

"It's one of the worst," the priest said, his voice steeped in sadness. He moved away from the wall, putting space between him and Mason. "Our sins reflect our weaknesses as human beings. Many of them come from the things we want. Sex, money, power. The sin of silence is different. It comes from fear and it condemns the innocent whom the guilty are afraid to save."

"Is that what happened when Whitney King shot my client, Nick Byrnes? Were you afraid to save him?"

The priest took a final drag, the tobacco glowing red, the smoke slithering off his face. "I thought Mary was your client."

"They both are and they both want the same thing. To prove that Whitney King killed Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes."

"And now you would add the shooting of Nick Byrnes to Whitney's list of crimes?"

"Nick was no match for Whitney, even if he had a gun. You were there. Tell me what happened."

"Oh, with that gun, that boy was more than a match for anyone," Father Steve said. "He was screaming at Whitney, threatening to kill him. I was a witness and he would have killed me as well. If Whitney hadn't stopped him, both us would be dead."

"Describe what happened, Father. Give me the blow-byblow."

Father Steve sighed. "I don't do play-by-play commentary, Mr. Mason. Especially when I'm scared to death."

"Give it a try, Father," Mason said.

The priest took a deep breath, his cigarette down to a stub. "All right. We came out of the office building. The boy was there, like he was waiting for Whitney. He was waving the gun around at first, carrying on, as I said. I recognized him from the execution. I told him that I understood his pain but that he was making it worse, not better. I tried to calm him, but he wouldn't be calmed. He just got more upset. Then he pointed the gun straight at Whitney. Whitney grabbed his arm. They struggled. The gun went off."

Mason didn't know enough yet about what had happened to argue. He just wanted to get the priest committed to a version he'd have to live with. "Why were you with Whitney King last night?"

"You ask me that question as if I was somehow a suspect too. Do you include me in your conspiracy, Mr. Mason? Is that why you asked about those who stood by silently and let Ryan be executed? A boy I baptized? The child of a woman who has been at my side for thirty years?"

"I've known people to do worse, Father. With or without God on their side. I don't apologize for doing my job. You can tell me now or tell me in court."

The priest's jaw hardened for an instant, his eyes narrowing; then a small smile crept into the corners of his mouth as he relaxed. "Money, Mr. Mason. The church needs it and Whitney has it. My job is to ask him for it. It's demeaning but necessary. Is that all?"

"Almost. That woman who has been at your side for thirty years has disappeared. Do you know anything about that?"

"Mary's disappeared?" Father Steve asked, hands at his sides, mouth open. "What do you mean?"

"She's missing. She left home yesterday, got on a bus to come here and see you. She never made it home."

"Am I supposed to have spirited her away? Come now, Mr. Mason."

"Was Mary here yesterday?"

"Of course she was. She volunteers every Wednesday, helping out in the office, whatever needs to be done."

"You saw her, then?"

Father Steve dropped his cigarette to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. "Yes, Mr. Mason," he answered with diminished patience. "I saw Mary. I spoke with Mary. I saw Mary leave. Now what do you mean she didn't go home?"

Mason studied the priest, thinking of him as any other witness, evaluating his demeanor, his motive for telling the truth or not, his interest in the outcome of the case, conceding that his collar enhanced his credibility.

"Just that," Mason said, still pressing, "she's disappeared and you're the last person to have seen her alive."

"I hope you are not such an alarmist with all of your clients," Father Steve said. "Mary told me she was going away for a few days. She said she might go visit her husband. They never divorced, you know. He called her after Ryan's death."

"Did she say where her husband was living?" Mason asked.

"Omaha, I believe she said."

"Well, then. I'm sure she'll be back soon," Mason said, his sarcasm lost on the priest.

"Of course she will," Father Steve said. "I've got to get back. If you'll excuse me."

"One last thing. Something you said bothered me," Mason said.

Father Steve stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, his smile and his patience flattening out. "Try me, Mr. Mason. I'm a priest. I specialize in things that bother people."

"Why do you suppose Mary would go to Omaha for a few days and leave her suitcase under her bed?"

Father Steve stopped rocking, tilted his head to one side, biting the corner of his mouth. "I suppose," he answered softly. "She had two suitcases."

Certainty is the sum of need and faith. Wisdom is the remainder of living. Knowledge is the division of doubt by facts. Truth is the product of them all. Mason repeated the math Claire had taught him when he was growing up as he jogged toward the Plaza on Saturday morning before most people were out of their houses. The sky teased the city with the promise of rain, the sun burning through a low layer of gray clouds like dry kindling.

Mason was certain that Ryan Kowalczyk was innocent and Whitney King was guilty, though his certainty was the sum of need and faith, as was his belief that Claire was hiding the truth about his parents. He rejected the wisdom of Harry and Claire who said leave well enough alone. He had yet to find the facts that would divide their doubts. The truth still eluded him.

He ran east along Brush Creek, a landscaped tributary of the Missouri River that defined the southern border of the Plaza. He looped back, finding Tuffy waiting for him, thumping her tail for breakfast as he carried the morning paper inside. The headline read "Hot Streak Breaks Record," nothing selling better than bad news turned into a spectator sport.

The toll was charted in a sidebar column with numbers followed by the calamity they represented. Forty-two days without measurable precipitation. Nineteen days above ninety-five degrees. Eleven power outages due to high demand for electricity. Eighty-three people admitted to area hospitals for heat exhaustion. Sixteen people dead throughout the state from heat-related causes, five of them from Kansas City.

Mason took the paper with him to his office, posting his personal tally for the week on the dry erase board. One execution witnessed. One client missing. One client critically wounded. One girlfriend lost. Two best friends pissed off. One closest living relative maybe not so close. His numbers were smaller, but the toll bore down on him like a personal heat wave.

What made it worse was how little he had to show for it, getting pimped by a priest the highlight. I suppose she had two suitcases, Mason repeated the punch line, throwing another dart across his office, taking little satisfaction in the puff of plaster as it stuck in the wall, tail feathers vibrating. Maybe she did. Mason didn't think so.

He tried directory assistance for Omaha. There was no listing for Vince Kowalczyk. Mickey had convinced him to subscribe to an Internet service that promised to find anyone, anywhere in the United States for twenty-five dollars, as long as you had a Social Security number. Otherwise, the most you could hope for was a list of people with the same name. Mason booted up, striking out on Vince, the Web site practically accusing Mason of making up the name.