Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Content to take my punishment.”

Wyatt leaned forward. “Punishment for what? Esteban Dominguez testified he only saw two people-Pingree and Doc. Why didn’t you fight the charges?”

“I did fight,” Sonny said. “I pled not guilty.”

Their eyes met. “But you didn’t do a good job,” Wyatt said. For a brief moment, Sonny’s face changed, became thinner and harder. “Why did you take the stand?”

Sonny shook his head. “I’m telling you not to go there.”

“Why?” Who would help put themselves behind bars, or not do whatever they could to get out?

“I already explained.”

“But this newspaper guy thinks you might not have even been there. And Mr. Wertz said only an innocent man wants to take the stand.”

“That just proves his incompetence. This place is full of guys who took the stand and were guilty as sin.”

Taneeka cracked her gum.

“Were you there that night?” Wyatt said.

“Front and center.”

Wyatt couldn’t believe that. It felt wrong, if not completely then at least partly. “Was my-was Linda involved in any way?”

“I’ve answered that. Why do you keep asking?”

“Because Mr. Wertz-”

“I told you he’s a drunk.”

“-and the newspaper guy both said there might have been a fourth person, someone you were-”

Sonny held his hand up in the stop position. They gazed at each other. “Don’t look so angry,” Sonny said.

Wyatt hadn’t been aware of his anger, but it was there, all right. He tried to tamp it down. “I’m moving back home,” he said. “Back to East Canton.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Yeah.” No baseball? It really wasn’t important; Wyatt could now see a life beyond baseball, not clearly, but a life that included interesting work, maybe the kind Mr. Rentner did. “But before I go, I just want to know the truth.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Wyatt said, “you’re my father.”

Sonny’s eyes closed and stayed closed for a moment or two. When he opened them, the expression had changed in a way that was hard to define: less guarded, maybe; and all the hardness was gone from his face. “Don’t think that way,” Sonny said. “I don’t deserve the name.”

“But it’s a fact anyway. Look at us.”

Sonny smiled slightly and shook his head. “For one thing, I’m not as smart as you. For another, that may be a fact, the DNA part, but other parts, all the missing ones, are more important.”

“Okay,” Wyatt said, “that’s what I want to know-the missing parts.”

Sonny gave him a long look. Was there admiration in it, even pride? Wyatt didn’t know-but whatever was in that look made him feel good. “That’s not what I meant by the missing parts,” Sonny said.

Wyatt could sense Sonny thinking, got the impression he was about to say more, and kept quiet. A silence fell over the visiting room, a comfortable sort of silence, like this was a cozy place and they were simply two guys long accustomed to each other’s company.

“The missing parts,” Sonny said. He glanced over at Taneeka. Her face was slack, like the face of a sleeper, although her eyes were open. “What do you want to know?”

“Who fired the gun?”

Sonny let out his breath, long and slow. “Art Pingree,” he said. “It was his gun, of course, this little snubnose twenty-two, but Art shouldn’t have been the one packing-just not reliable in a crisis.”

“Why didn’t you say it was him at the time?”

“I’d like to think it’s because I’m not a rat,” Sonny said. “And maybe that’s true. But it’s also true that Doc Vitti cut his deal first. The DA only takes one.”

“What happened to the gun?” Wyatt said.

“No idea.”

“Then why did you say you threw it in the woods?”

Sonny shook his head. “I don’t know. That whole part-my testimony-is just a fog now. Was then, too, to be honest.”

“What was the point of getting on the stand at all?” Wyatt said.

“It was pointless in retrospect. Back then, I thought…” His voice trailed off and he got a distant look in his eyes.

“What? What did you think?”

Sonny shrugged. That shrug of his-almost teenage-like, and Sonny had been hardly more than a teenager at the time of the trial.

“You weren’t even there, were you?” Wyatt said.

Sonny looked up, confused. “In court?”

“At thirty-two Cain Street.”

Sonny reached out as though to touch Wyatt’s knee, stopped with his hand inches away. “I was there, Wyatt. No getting around that.”

“I meant inside. You didn’t go in. You weren’t part of the home invasion.”

“It’s the same under the law. Let’s not go over that again.”

“Not if you went there to stop it,” Wyatt said. “Arrived too late, or something like that.” Sonny was watching him, mouth slightly open. “That’s the real story, isn’t it?”

“I wish it was.”

“You’re still protecting someone.”

Sonny gave him a long look. “Any idea what you’re going to do in life, after school and all that?”

“No.”

“Give it some thought. You’ve got the brains to go all the way in something.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Sonny said.

Wyatt waved that away, at the same time realizing the gesture was exactly like Sonny’s. “This is about filling in the missing parts,” he said. “Who are you protecting?”

“Nobody. I can’t make it any clearer. You’ve got all the missing parts, all that matter. I hope it helps.” He smiled. There was something sweet about Sonny’s smile, and maybe brave as well. “This has really been something,” he said, “getting to know you a bit. I can’t help thinking that if-”

Whatever Sonny couldn’t help thinking remained unspoken, because at that moment the visitors’ door opened and Greer walked in. She glanced at Wyatt and Sonny, then sat at the far end of Taneeka’s row. “Hey, Greer, how’s it goin’?” Taneeka said.

“Great,” said Greer. She took a book from her pocket, started reading. She looked great, completely undamaged except for a scab on her biggest knuckle.

The inmate door opened and a pale, heavy man entered. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, had a bandage over one eye. Greer jumped up. “Dad-what happened?”

The inmate approached her. Greer rushed forward and threw her arms around him.

“Hey!” Taneeka said.

Greer and her father separated.

“Hi, Greer,” Sonny said.

Greer turned to him. “What happened to my dad?” she called across the room.

Now Taneeka, too, was watching Sonny. “I actually don’t know,” he said.

“Was it that horrible man, Hector?” Greer said. “The one with Jesus on his face?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Sonny said. But out of the corner of his eye, Wyatt had seen Greer’s dad flinch at the mention of Hector’s name.

“It was an accident,” Greer’s dad said. “In the shop.”

“You’re sure?” Greer said.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Accidents happen all the time in the shop,” Sonny said. “Isn’t that true, Taneeka?”

“True enough,” said Taneeka.

“I’m fine,” Greer’s dad said again, not looking at anyone in particular, in fact gazing down at the floor, a cement floor painted the color of cement.

“Bert?” Sonny said, rising. “Like you to meet Wyatt. Wyatt, Bert Torrance.”

Bert looked up. “Heard a lot about you,” he said.

“Hi,” Wyatt said. He stood up, tried to think of some good follow-up. “I, uh, liked the batting cage.”

“Thanks,” Bert said.

Wyatt felt Greer’s glare at the same time.

“Come on, Dad,” she said. “Let’s sit down.”