I laughed at that. I had to laugh. I lit my cigarette and sucked the smoke and laughed. What an asshole I was. Thirty-five years on the face of the earth and still as deluded about life as a college kid.
I switched off the engine. I kicked the door open, got out and slammed it shut. I walked across the lot to a phone booth that stood beside the gas station wall.
I called the paper first, but Alan had left for the day. I called him at home. He answered the phone breathless. I could hear Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald singing in the background. “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” I could hear Alan’s wife singing along with them at the top of her lungs. “What?” said Alan, gasping.
“It’s Everett.”
“Ev! You dumb shit! He confessed.”
“I just heard.”
“Even Bob laughed.”
“I hope you took pictures.”
“Look,” he said, coughing a little as his breath came back. “It might not be so bad. Mrs. Bob called after you left. Bob went home to her. Maybe they’ll work things out. Maybe he’ll forgive you.”
I blew smoke at the booth’s glass wall. “I don’t think Bob ever forgave anybody anything in his entire life.”
“Oh yeah. Good point,” Alan said. “Well, sorry. You’re screwed.”
“I guess.”
“I can’t lose him.”
“No.”
“Lowenstein loves the guy. Everybody loves the guy.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe you could file a grievance or something. I mean, look, we all know it’s personal. He’s blowing this Beachum interview out of proportion.”
“No, no. That’d drag it out,” I said. “I don’t want to do that to Barbara.”
There was a pause. “Well, my friend …”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll get you a month’s notice. I’ll call some friends at other papers. I’ll do what I can do.”
“I know you will, pal. Dance on.”
“Amen, brother.”
I broke the connection, fed another quarter into the slot and called my wife. She answered as she always did: abrupt, annoyed, as if she’d been interrupted in the middle of a million chores.
“It’s me,” I said. “Has the kid gone to bed yet?”
“Not yet,” she said brusquely. “I was just getting him ready.”
“Keep him up another fifteen minutes, willya? So I can say goodnight to him.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer and in the silence I felt as if a fist had squeezed my heart.
“All right,” she said quietly then. “Fifteen minutes. Will you be here?”
“I’ll be there,” I answered. “I’m finished. I’m through. I’m coming home.”
7
When Reverend Stanley B. Shillerman walked into Luther Plunkitt’s office, the warden was sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. Luther could not keep his eyes from moving down the man, from his beatific face, to his open white shirt, to his jeans, to his brown loafers. Luther examined them all with a gaze of steel.
The warden was not a man who hated many people. He prided himself on his tolerance, on watching the human comedy from a wry, forgiving point of view. With a firm sense of right and wrong, he’d found, you could make your way from cradle to tomb downright calmly, if you worked at it. You did your job, you protected your own square mile and you let the villains and fools fend for themselves. That was his philosophy. So even he was not prepared for the throat-clogging rush of rage he felt against the Reverend Stanley B. He felt it rising to the surface of him, shining like light through the pores of his skin, coming off him in waves. He could imagine the waves, breaking against the other man, battering him, swallowing him, dragging him under. He could not remember the last time he had been so angry.
“Reverend,” he said, leaning forward, folding his hands neatly on his desk blotter.
Shillerman fashioned an expression of sober benevolence on his face but, as their eyes met, Luther spotted a flush of color come into the preacher’s soft cheeks. The gentle creases of the skin there looked clammy. Luther was glad. Shillerman could feel the waves of anger coming off him too. Luther nodded, satisfied. He smiled blandly.
“How’s it going in there, Luther?” Shillerman said, a bit hoarsely. “Anything I can do? I’ve been, you know, visiting with the prisoners. Lending an ear to their concerns but, you know, if the condemned man needs me, or any of the men feel they could use a willing ear-I’m their man. Here I am.”
Shillerman spoke softly, but quickly, and there was the slightest tremor at the bottom of his voice.
Luther kept nodding, kept smiling. “Reverend,” he said, “I understand there was a report on television to the effect that the prisoner Beachum has confessed. I understand it came from a source in the governor’s office.”
The reverend lifted his chin. He shifted his weight onto his right foot, the left knee bending. He opened his mouth, gestured with his hand-and said nothing. Luther watched him, smiling, feeling the waves of anger coming out of his own center.
Shillerman finally cleared his throat. “Well, of course, you know, from time to time, the governor’s aides will, uh, phone to me on matters of concern to the governor himself.”
Which meant Sam Tandy, his brother-in-law, would call him for his spy reports. Luther nodded and smiled, his hands folded in front of him.
“And, of course,” Shillerman went on, “I consider that part of an important liaison role that I can play-for all parties-and, at a time like this, when the governor has many, um, many, many people coming to him appealing for mercy and whatnot, uh, any information that would affect that decision on the part of the governor personally might make a crucial difference.”
Luther nodded. Luther smiled. The waves of rage came off him. Shillerman licked his lips and went on.
“And then if, through my ministrations and my spiritual discussions with a prisoner, I can-without violating any confidences, of course-well, obviously, that goes without saying-but if I can add to the governor’s store of information, I feel that’s an important aspect of my, uh, ministry as a prison, urn …”
Luther’s head bobbed up and down. His smile remained in place, his eyes remained hard as blue diamonds, incredibly bright.
“Not that I approve of any leaks to the press!” said Stanley Shillerman quickly. “Not that I … and if I made a … If I misunderstood something the prisoner might have said to me, of course, in the course of spiritual counseling … but if he says to me, meaning the prisoner, says to me ‘I’m sorry,’ in those words, and it’s under these extreme conditions, then when the governor’s aide on behalf of the governor himself comes to me expecting that I’ve been-as is my job, as you yourself know-that I’ve been in spiritual ministration with this man and so am able to communicate with the governor what it’s necessary or even urgent for him to know at this point when people are coming to him, well, then …” Another, deeper flush passed over the reverend’s features. Luther could see the sweat glistening now in the folds of his face. “But, of course, if I misunderstood, well … And I could see where that would do harm,” Shillerman said. “I could see where that would, uh, be, uh, of a nature … And if you felt-” He made a large gesture across the desk toward Luther. “If you were to feel that-anything I had caused … Or if my sense of what I understood was somehow harmful …” Shillerman swallowed. His gesturing hand had begun to shake and he brought it down, pressed it hard against the leg of his jeans. “And I know that the governor would not be happy if you were to … but if you would understand that in the kind of spiritual communication that might go back and forth between me and a prisoner in extreme circumstances might be interpreted in many ways or if … Um, I wouldn’t want …” Shillerman tried to chuckle amiably and shook his head, sweating. Luther watched him, nodding, smiling his bland smile. “Well, not for a minute, that’s for darn sure,” Shillerman said. “And if you were to feel in any way because I, you know, seeing as how this job is important to me and to my family and I certainly have tried and tried to communicate, God knows-I mean, God knows, Luther, with the sort of element coming into this place because, of course, it’s a prison-as, of course, you’re aware-and I certainly wouldn’t want you to feel that my performance in that regard was such that you would say to anyone who might affect me that this was deleterious. And you know it certainly is something I ask for guidance for every day from God-and I know he’s your God too and that’s something between us that we can understand and, well, if I could approach you in that regard, then I would certainly hate to feel that you couldn’t say to, for instance, the press or the governor’s aides or the governor or indeed any future employer who might still be willing to consider my ministry of importance as you know it is to my wife and family and everyone who knows me and understands my position, I would certainly hope you would find it in yourself to say to these people in all charity and forgiveness, Luther, you know, that this is someone who, as you understand it, is a man and that is something that we can take into consideration in such a way that you could say finally with a clear conscience of course that, well, as I say, this is a man. Uh. This is just a man …”