Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Sonny Racine may be serving a life sentence for something he didn’t do. I can’t put it any simpler than that. I’ve actually started doing some research, if you’d like to take a look.”

Greer went into the bedroom, came back with a sheet of paper. “I got this at the library.” She laid it on the table: a copy of a seventeen-year-old newspaper clipping from the Millerville Beacon. In the top right-hand corner was a picture of the sun with heat lines radiating off it, and the words SUNNY AND MILD. Below that was a headline: THREE GUILTY IN NORTH SIDE BREAK-IN.

A Superior Court jury rendered a guilty verdict yesterday in the trial of three men for January’s North Side home invasion that resulted in the death of a woman and the wounding of an infant.

Found guilty on charges of murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and other lesser offenses were Arthur Pingree of Millerville, Sonny Racine of East Canton, and Norbert “Doc” Vitti, also of Millerville. Pingree and Racine were given life sentences without parole. Vitti, who testified for the prosecution, received a 15-to 25-year sentence, with the possibility of parole.

The jury deliberated for just under three hours, delivering the verdict shortly before lunchtime.

The charges stemmed from a home invasion at 32 Cain Street on January 17. The house was occupied at the time by Luis Dominguez and his brother, Esteban, both of whom had long criminal records for various drug offenses.

The plot, as outlined in the prosecution’s case and seemingly corroborated by the testimony of Vitti, involved stealing the large amounts of cash that the three men believed were kept in the house. On the stand, Vitti said, “Guys like that, heroin dealers and such, they’re not the type to go crying to the cops.”

What actually occurred after Pingree, Racine, and Vitti broke into the house became the subject of conflicting testimony during the trial, which lasted three days.

Millerville police captain William Mack testified the department had been aware for months of the activities of the Dominguez brothers and patrolled Cain Street on a regular basis, including on the night of the break-in.

Police entered the house just at the finish of a wild gun battle, finding the Dominguez brothers both wounded, eight-month-old Antonia Morales, daughter of Esteban Dominguez and his girlfriend, Maria Morales, shot in the head, and Maria Morales, the mother, dead.

Pingree and Vitti were arrested on the spot. Racine was found hiding in nearby woods shortly after. The murder weapon, a. 22 handgun according to forensic evidence, was not found.

Vitti testified that Racine was the shooter, although all three of the convicted men are equally guilty under the law.

In a separate trial last month, the Dominguez brothers, both illegal aliens, were found guilty on drug charges and sentenced to federal prison in Colorado. On completion of their sentences they will be turned over to the INS for subsequent deportation to Mexico. The child, Antonia Morales, survived with the loss of an eye, and is now in foster care.

Wyatt looked up from the page. He felt sick, that perfect home-cooked breakfast threatening to come back up. Greer stood behind him, reading over his shoulder. “That’s some of the worst writing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “The story barely makes sense.”

“Horrible,” Wyatt said. “The baby.”

“Yeah,” Greer said. “Take that away and it’s almost funny.”

“Funny?”

“In a dark kind of way. Like a Joe Pesci movie.”

“I don’t get the joke,” Wyatt said. He ran his eye over the story again. “And there’s nothing here about any possibility of Sonny Racine being innocent.”

He turned to her. She still didn’t look well, and maybe because of that-the chalkiness of her skin, the bruised smudges under her eyes-the beautiful underlying structure of her face was all the more apparent. “I didn’t say he was,” she said. “I’m just reporting the opinion from inside.”

“From inside the prison, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“The opinion of criminals.”

“I don’t like that word. Not the way you say it.”

“How do I say it?”

“So judgmentally.”

“They’ve already been judged,” Wyatt said, surprising himself with a not-too-stupid remark.

Greer laughed, a strange laugh, not amused. “I’m either going to end up loving you or hating you, no in-between.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just a feeling. But one thing I know is that one particular criminal, the criminal a.k.a. my father, doesn’t claim to be innocent.”

“So he did it? Burned down the amusement center?”

“Torrance Family Fun and Games-might as well get the name right.” Greer went to the window, looked out. “He admits he did it,” she said. “Whether he did or not…” She went silent.

Wyatt thought of what Aunt Hildy had said: A firefighter of my acquaintance got burned that night. And even more: Pretty clear that she was involved, too-they couldn’t prove it, is all.

“The point is,” Greer said, “they drove him mad, just out of his mind.”

“Who did?”

“That bank in San Francisco. All he needed was more time, just to ride out this slump, but those bastards wouldn’t do it.” She turned, and now there was color in her face, coming back in patches. “They cut his balls off instead. And guess what I hear, irony of ironies-now the bank’s in receivership, too.”

“So maybe it was hopeless from the get-go,” Wyatt said.

“What are you saying?” Greer’s voice rose. “What the hell was the point of that?”

Wyatt wasn’t really sure. Also, he didn’t know why she was suddenly angry. Maybe because of all that uncertainty, he blurted out what was bothering him the most. “Did you help him?” he said.

“Whoa,” Greer said, her voice much quieter. She backed up, bumped hard into the window. “Whoa. Who have you been talking to?”

“Nobody.”

She came forward. “Liar.”

Wyatt got up, faced her across the table.

“Let’s get this straight,” Greer said. “You’re asking whether I helped my dad light that fire.”

“You don’t have to answer. But it’s a logical question.”

“Oh, really?” Greer said. “Here’s one for you-friend or foe?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. One assumes friend after what we’ve been doing together, but a woman never fucking knows, does she?”

“Aw, come on,” Wyatt said.

She mimicked him. “Aw, come on-Mister Almost Seventeen.”

Wyatt felt himself reddening. “What’s wrong with you? It’s kind of…”

“Go on.”

“Kind of understandable, if you did help him.”

“Except what? Spill it. You’re thinking something-it’s all over your face.”

“Except for the firefighter who got burned,” Wyatt said.

Greer’s cheeks flushed, one brighter than the other, as though she’d been slapped. “Who have you been talking to? And don’t say nobody.”

Wyatt said nothing.

“That aunt of yours?”

“She’s not really my aunt.”

“But it’s her,” Greer said. She smacked her fist into the palm of her other hand; a gesture Wyatt had seen lots of guys do, but never a girl. “Small towns suck so bad,” she said. “She knows about you and me, right? This aunt-like figure, I’m talking about.”

Wyatt nodded.

“And she doesn’t approve.”

“I don’t care what she thinks.”

“Has she introduced you to Freddie Helms yet?”

“Who’s he?”

“The firefighter. Do you know how awful my dad feels about that?”

“No.”