Each of us had written him a note, delivered by Father Bobby, telling Mr. Caldwell and his family how sorry we were.
Each note went unanswered.
'Do any of you wish to say anything before sentence is passed?' the Judge asked, moving aside a sweaty glass of ice water.
'No, sir,' each of us said in turn.
The Judge nodded, looking at his notes one last time. He was in his late fifties, a short, stout man with a head full of thick white hair and brown eyes that revealed little. He lived in a Manhattan housing complex with his second wife and two dogs. He had no children, was an avid poker player and spent his summer vacations fishing off the dock of his Cape Cod home.
He cleared his throat, sipped some water and closed the folder before him.
'I'm sure by now, you boys have been made aware of the severity of the crime you committed,' the Judge began. 'It was a crime which combined a careless disregard for one man's place of business, in this case a hot dog stand, with a criminal attitude toward another man's safety and well-being. The end result left one man ruined and another nearly dead. All for the price of a hot dog.'
It was hot in the room and I was sweating through my shirt and jacket. I kept my hands clasped in front of me while staring straight ahead. I heard the mumblings of those behind me, the people on my right fearful of the Judge's words, the people on the left anticipating the punishment to come. John's mother, sitting next to my father, whispered the prayers of the rosary, her fingers moving slowly down the row of beads.
'Mr. Kratrous has been forced to give up his business and his dream of building a home here. He returns to his native Greece, his belief in our way of life torn apart by the wanton and remorseless act of four boys intent on thievery. Mr. Caldwell is an even more tragic case. Left for dead by a prank gone asunder, his life will never be what it was prior to that fateful day. He will suffer each and every single moment he has left on this earth, drugged with medications to numb the pain, walking with the aid of a cane, fearful of leaving his house. And all this for what? So four boys could sit back and share a laugh, enjoy a joke caused by the pain of others. Well, the joke backfired didn't it?'
It was nine-forty in the morning when the Judge pushed back the sleeves of his robe, took another drink of water and sent us to what he called a home for boys and what everyone else called a prison.
He took us on one at a time, starting with the Count.
'John Reilly,' the Judge said. 'The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In prior agreement with the attorneys for both parties, the term is to begin effective September 1 of this year.'
Behind me, John's mother let out a low scream.
'Thomas Marcano,' the Judge said, shifting his attention to Butter. 'The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September 1 of this year.'
'Michael Sullivan,' the Judge said, his tone turning harsher, convinced he was addressing the group ringleader. 'The court hereby sentences you to no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September 1 of this year. I might add, were it not for the intervention of Father Robert Carillo of your local parish, who spoke in glowing terms on your behalf, I would have sentenced you to a much stiffer punishment. I still have my doubts as to your inherent goodness. Only time will serve to prove me wrong.'
I wiped at my upper lip and forehead, waiting for my name to be called. I turned around and saw my father sitting with his eyes closed, his arms folded, the top of his bald head wet with sweat.
'Lorenzo Carcaterra,' the Judge said, the contempt in his voice no less than it had been for my friends. 'In your case, the court will take into account the fact that you are the youngest of the four and arrived on the scene after the theft of the cart had already occurred. With that in mind, the court hereby sentences you to serve no more than one year and no less than six months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, you will begin your sentence on September 1 of this year.'
The Judge rested his head on his high-backed chair and stared out at us in silence. He tapped the edge of a case folder with the fingers of his right hand, his face an empty canyon,.a small, nondescript man made large by the weight of judicial power.
'I hope,' he said in conclusion, 'you make good use of your time at Wilkinson. Learn a trade, perhaps, or further your education. If not, if you turn the other way and ignore the possibilities available to you, then I can guarantee you will stand before me again, guilty of another violent act. And I assure you, next time I won't be as kind as I was today.'
'Thank you, your Honor,' our lawyer said, sweat lines streaking the sides of his face.
'Look at the scumbag,' my father said to Father Bobby, sitting in the row behind him, his voice loud enough to reach the bench, watching the Judge head back to his chambers. 'Look at him smile. Puts four kids away for a year and he smiles. I oughta break his fuckin' jaw.'
Father Bobby leaned over and put a hand on my father's shoulder.
'Easy, Mario,' Father Bobby said. 'This isn't the place and now's not the time.'
'It's never the place,' my father said. 'And it sure as shit ain't never the time.'
Our lawyer reached over the barrier and put out a hand toward Father Bobby, his low voice barely audible over the din coming from the Caldwell family side of the courtroom.
'It went as well as could be expected,' the lawyer said.
'For you, maybe,' Father Bobby said.
'They could have gotten a lot more time,' the lawyer said. 'For what they did, a lot more time.'
Father Bobby stood and leaned on the barrier, his Roman collar off his neck and in his right hand.
'This isn't a game,' Father Bobby said. 'It's not about deals or less time or more time. It's about four boys. Four boys whose names you didn't even bother to learn. So don't be so quick to pat yourself on the back.'
'I did my job,' the lawyer said.
'The sworn oath of the mediocre,' Father Bobby said.
'You could have done better with them yourself, Father,' the lawyer said. 'Then you wouldn't have needed the services of a shit like me.'
Father Bobby sat back down, his eyes catching mine, his face ashen and pained.
'It won't be so bad,' the lawyer told him. 'After all, it's not like everybody who spends time at Wilkinson ends up a criminal.'
The lawyer turned away and cleared off the top of the defense table, shoving a handful of manilla folders inside his tattered brown bag and snapping it closed.
'Some of them even find God and become priests,' the lawyer said, turning again to face Father Bobby. 'Don't they?'
'Go to hell,' Father Bobby said.
Outside, a light summer rain began to fall.
BOOK TWO
''Live then, beloved children of my heart,
and never forget that,
until the day God deigns
to reveal the future to man,
the sum of all human wisdom
will be contained in these two words:
Wait and hope.' -
The Count of Monte Cristo
ONE
I had been in my cell for less than an hour when the panic set in. To fight it, I closed my eyes and thought of home, of the neighborhood, of the streets where I played and of the people I knew. I imagined a hydrant spreading its cold spray over my face, felt the stitches of a baseball in my hand, heard soft music floating off a rooftop. I wasn't yet thirteen years old and I wanted to be in those places, back where I belonged. I wanted everything to be the way it was before the hot dog cart. I wanted to be in Hell's Kitchen and not in a place with cold walls and a tiny cot. A place where I was too afraid to move.