“Because of the special request filed by the Office of Probation, I have ordered a full report by Mr. Conway and by the supervisors. The reports showed good progress in keeping with the expectations of the original probation order.”
He paused and his brow darkened. “I have also reviewed the special brief filed by Congresswoman Karen Liu’s office.” For a few seconds he seemed resolute, but then he sank back in his chair as if he had given up a struggle. When he went on, he was uncomfortable and visibly angry, but defeated; and his eyes were on the congresswoman in the back row.
“Therefore, it is my judgment that Angelo Acevedo will be released from probation. Mr. Acevedo, you have used this rare opportunity that was offered, and you have demonstrated that you are able to act responsibly and participate in society. Congratulations. This hearing is now adjourned.”
Angelo stared.
“He just gave in to her!” Dorothy said, making her own judgments. “We have to talk to him.”
“No, he’s made his decision.” Charles turned to Angelo, and then to Karen Liu, just leaving the room. “Take Angelo home. I’ll be there as quickly as I can to talk with him. But I have to see Karen Liu.”
“Congresswoman.” He caught up with her much easier than the last time, still in the maze of courthouse halls. “Excuse me. We need to talk.”
“I don’t think I can,” she said, and sounded even worse than she looked.
“Then let’s walk first. Do you have some time?”
“I told them I wouldn’t be in today.”
It was still early and they had most of the sunlight to themselves. Charles crossed King Street from the courthouse, and Karen Liu followed. They came to an empty Market Square, the fountains in the wide pool playing and ignored. Self-absorbed City Hall paid them no attention either, but just sat to be watched itself.
The air was still cool. “Let’s sit,” Charles said, and he chose a bench in the sun.
“It’s been very hard on you,” he said, “about Patrick White.”
“Oh, Mr. Beale.” She was close to tears. “It’s not just yesterday. It’s his whole death, all six long months of it.”
“I saw him yesterday morning. He came to the shop.”
“I saw him Sunday,” she said. “He was angry and accusing me of being John Borchard’s tool. He said that to me! He said I was as bad as the rest, as everyone. After all we’ve been through together, those were his last words to me.”
“Is that why you came to Angelo’s meeting Monday?” Charles asked.
“I wanted to prove I could still show compassion. Even if Patrick didn’t think I could, I wanted to prove it to myself.” The political rally cadence emerged, but hollowly. “I will fight for people who are persecuted, who have been imprisoned by their poverty and circumstances. That is why I am here.” But then the platform collapsed and a much weaker voice drifted out of the ruins. “But I can’t fight forever.”
“You’ll get past this.”
“I don’t think so. I want to give up.”
“But you’re a fighter.” They had both been facing forward toward the fountain, but Charles turned to her, eye to eye. “Why would you give up now?”
“He’s beaten me.” She looked down, away from Charles. “Borchard.”
“He is not the one you’re fighting.”
By force of will she regained herself. “You wouldn’t know, Mr. Beale.”
“I would know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know that eight years ago in your first election, someone gave you five hundred thousand dollars. It was illegal.”
“Yes.”
“And I know you’ve been threatened, that if you didn’t do what you were supposed to, you would be exposed. Just like Patrick White.”
“It’s been three years since the first letter. What do you think those three years have been like?”
“I know it’s been very hard.”
“Yes, they have been very hard.” She wasn’t showing weakness now. Her voice was vehement and her expression wild.
“You sound like Patrick White,” Charles said.
“Not yet, Mr. Beale, but I’m getting there.”
“Then I want to ask you some questions, and they’re very important.”
“All right.” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. White said there was someone who would help him against John Borchard. Did he ever tell you that?”
“Yes, he said that to me.”
“Do you know who it was? I even wondered if it was you.”
“It wasn’t me. No, I don’t know who it was.”
“My other question is, how do you know it was John Borchard who was sending you these letters?”
“He made it obvious. Three times when we had conflicts, Derek arranged meetings. Mr. Borchard would say what he wanted in the meeting, and then a few days later I would get a letter. It would threaten me, saying the Washington Post would get copies of my checks if I didn’t cooperate, and it would say what I had to do in the exact words Borchard had used at the meeting.”
“Patrick White went to Derek for help.”
“Yes, and I did, too. He said he would help, but then…”
“Then he was killed.”
“How do you know so much, Mr. Beale?”
“I learned it from Derek.”
“He told you about John Borchard?”
“No.”
A mournful note played. A dozen feet away, a young man had put his lips to an oboe. His eyes closed, he played a slow scale upwards. The oboe case was open on the pavement in front of him for coins.
“But he told you what I told him,” Karen Liu said.
“No. He already knew before you told him.”
The oboe player had finished his beginning and he started a melody, peaceful and minor.
“But how? How would he know?”
“He was the one sending you the letters. Karen, Derek was blackmailing and threatening you. It wasn’t John Borchard.”
The reedy music circled them as Karen Liu fought to understand. “That can’t be.”
“I’m sure of it. I’m completely sure.”
“He told you?”
“No. I didn’t know anything before he died. I’ve only learned it since. But I know it’s true.”
“Not Derek Bastien. I can’t believe it, Mr. Beale.” But then she said, “Did you tell any of this to Patrick?”
“No.”
“He was sure it was John Borchard.”
“I know,” Charles said. “If only I had told him.”
“I didn’t know what he was planning. I knew he had made some decision. That must have been it. The police said he was making a bomb and it went off.”
The oboe tune sped in faster circles.
“John Borchard is afraid,” Charles said. “He thinks the other person may still try to kill him. That’s why I need to find out who it is.”
“Why you, Mr. Beale?”
“I think Derek has challenged me to.”
Karen Liu didn’t question his statement. She had a different question. “What have you done, Mr. Beale?”
“What do you mean?”
“What have you done wrong? Everyone else has done something.”
“I’ve done lots of things wrong.”
“What is the worst?”
The oboe dove deep and then flew. “I killed my son.”
Finally, Karen Liu said, “How?”
“His name was William. There was something wrong with him. We never knew what.”
“What happened?”
“As he grew, he became hostile. Then he became violent. And then. .. I’ll be brief. He took his own life. He found a gun, somewhere, and held it to his head.”
“Mr. Beale-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago, and it’s not a secret. I find I can usually talk about it now.”
“But how can you say that you killed him?”
“He was only seventeen. He was still under my care and my protection.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Whose fault was it?” The oboe was passionate, wailing jaggedly high and low. “We don’t know if it was something hereditary. There are adoptions in our family, you see. Even though Dorothy is on the board of directors at the orphanage, she still can’t get any information about her own family.” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I lost control for a moment. Maybe I still can’t talk about it.”