Police arrived and locked down the neighborhood. A woman, her name deleted from the document, had been watching from the window inside Nunzio’s market at the time of the shooting, and told the store manager to call the police. Upon questioning, she described the young men who had been involved in the crime but claimed she could not identify them. Upon further, more intense questioning, she recalled the names of the young men.
Police raided the home of Ernest and Almeda Monroe, who were both at work, and arrested their sons, James and Raymond Monroe, without resistance. They found a cheap. 38 pistol in the dresser drawer of the older brother. The woman in Nunzio’s had described the shooter as a tall young man wearing a T-shirt with numbers hand-printed upon it. James Monroe, when the police found him, was wearing the shirt. It appeared to be stained with blood. At this time, James Monroe admitted to firing the gun that killed William Cachoris. Ballistics tests would later match the bullet to the gun.
Police next arrested Charles Baker at the residence of his mother, Carlotta Baker, an unemployed, unmarried hairdresser. Later, at the police station, Charles Baker confessed to the assault on Alexander Pappas.
Alex felt blood move slowly to his face as he read on.
At the trial, Baker testified against James Monroe in exchange for a dropping of the murder charge and a reduced sentence, provided he pleaded guilty to the assault charge. In accordance with the terms of the prearranged deal, the state would then recommend a sentence for Baker of less than one year. In court, on the stand, Baker said, “James shot the boy,” and pointed James Monroe out for the jury. Furioso, the defense attorney, asked Baker about his deal, which he readily described, and then asked him if the police had coerced his confession in any way. He said, “The police bought me a bottle of Sneaky Pete. I drank it, but that ain’t what made me talk. My conscience was bothering me.” Furioso moved for a mistrial on the grounds of bribery, but Judge Conners found his reasoning weak and unjustified, and his motion was denied.
James Monroe was found guilty of manslaughter in the first degree, assault, and multiple gun charges. Baker drew a conviction for assault with intent to maim. The younger brother, Raymond Monroe, was acquitted of all charges.
Alex dropped the trial document and returned to the Washington Post archives, where he brought up the last recorded story on the event. It described the sentencing of James Monroe.
At a hearing before the sentencing, Furioso handed the judge a petition that had been signed by more than one hundred residents of Heathrow Heights, pleading leniency and declaring that William Cachoris, Peter Whitten, and Alexander Pappas had enacted a “racially motivated aggression” against their “peaceful community and its citizens” that had directly caused the shooting. Judge Conners stated that he would take the petition under consideration. But at the sentencing, he rejected the notion that the circumstances of the “prank” should be given any weight. “William Cachoris and his friends made a bad decision that day, a very stupid and hurtful decision… but in no way does their foolishness excuse the taking of a human life.” Conners went on to say, “This kind of thing goes on in the county all the time. We all put up with racial nonsense. I see it in my own neighborhood, and there is never any retribution of this kind.” The Post reported a rising murmur in the courtroom, perhaps a reaction of incredulity, as it was known that Conners lived in Bethesda, one of the whitest and most affluent areas of Montgomery County.
Judge Conners sentenced James Monroe to ten years in prison on the manslaughter charges. He would be eligible for parole in two and one half years. In addition, Conners sentenced Monroe to two years in prison for the assault charges and three years on the gun charges. These sentences would run concurrently with the sentence for manslaughter. Baker received the agreed sentence of less than one year. Defense attorney Furioso vowed to appeal. There were no further stories related to the case listed in the archives of the Washington Post.
Alex Pappas sat for a while longer, moving a finger in the dust that had settled on the computer table, making a line and another line through it that formed a cross. He switched off the lamp, went to the front door of the house, checked the lock, and left a light on for Johnny, who was at a movie with a friend. Upstairs, he passed Gus’s room but did not go inside.
Alex had convinced himself that Gus’s death had been random. On the last day of Gus’s life, the driver of the Humvee he was riding in had taken one road rather than another, and on the road he’d taken was a makeshift bomb hidden underneath debris. Did God send the driver of the Humvee down that road? Alex could not believe this. God gave us life; after that, he neither protected nor harmed us. We were on our own. But what about sin? There had to be punishment for sin.
Alex could have gotten out of the Torino that day. Alex could have demanded that Billy stop the car. He knew that what they were about to do was wrong. He’d let it happen. Because of his inaction, many lives had been broken. Two young men had gone to prison. Billy was dead. Gus was dead, too.
Alex undressed and got into bed. Vicki stirred beside him. Alex touched his hand to her shoulder and squeezed it.
“Vicki?”
“What?” she said, her eyes still closed.
“I’m going to call that man,” said Alex.
“Go to sleep.”
Alex extinguished the bedside light. But he didn’t go to sleep.
Fifteen
James Monroe’s apartment was very small. Its single main room held a double bed, a cheap dresser, a couple of chairs, a television set on a stand, and a compact stereo on a wire cart. Monroe could barely turn around in the kitchen. When he sat on the toilet in the bathroom, he had to keep his arms in tight or they would touch the walls.
James Monroe and Charles Baker sat close to each other in the room’s two chairs. Both of them were drinking beer. Monroe was watching television, and Baker was talking.
Monroe did not particularly care for the show they were watching. It was the autopsy series set in Miami, and he didn’t believe one thing about it. But it was easier to watch the show than give his full attention to Baker.
“Now Red gonna shoot someone,” said Baker. “In his designer suit and sunglasses. You know that’s some bullshit, too.”
“What is?”
“I’m talkin about crime scene investigators drawing their guns out and shootin people. You know that shit don’t never happen. Even real police don’t pull their guns out, most times. But Red here, he kills a motherfucker with his gun every week. With that pretty head of hair he got, blowin in the breeze.”
From one of the many books Monroe had read in prison, he remembered a passage about American television shows that dealt with crime. The author said that it was a “fascistic genre” because in these shows the criminals were always apprehended, and the police and prosecutors always won. The shows were warning the citizens, in effect, to stay in line. That if they dared to break the law, they would be caught and put in jail. Monroe had chuckled a little when he’d read it. People wanted to be reassured that their lives were safe. These television writers were just making money by feeding citizens the lies they craved.