According to Their Deeds (34 page)

“No. No. I just had a thought.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing exact, Charles. Just that, if somehow I lose the game playing by my rules, you might win it playing by yours.”

WEDNESDAY

MORNING

Charles knocked. He was in his Sunday suit and Dorothy beside him wore a dark, respectable dress.

The door opened. Angelo was dressed in his own best clothes: a buttoned shirt and dark pants, leather shoes and combed hair.

“Are you ready?” Charles asked. Angelo answered by stepping past them and walking down the stairs.

“All rise. This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Glenn Woody presiding.”

“Please sit down.”

Five people sat. Charles and Dorothy were on either side of Angelo, and behind them were Mr. Conway and one other man with a briefcase.

“I will be very brief,” the judge said.

The back door opened.

Karen Liu staggered in. Her pace was slow, her energy dissipated, and her face haggard. There was nothing domineering about her; she looked no larger than she actually was.

“Congresswoman Liu?” the judge said.

“I am very sorry to interrupt,” she said, falling into a seat in the back. “Please go on.”

He did.

“Based on the facts of the initial case against Mr. Acevedo, the original probation arrangement was the minimum sentence the defendant deserved. Without the extenuating circumstance of the offer made by the supervisors, Mr. and Mrs. Beale, Mr. Acevedo would be in prison.

“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.”

“Thank you for telling me. It isn’t the same as what I’ve done.”

“I feel the same way about it.”

They sat for a while, listening, until the notes died.

“I have to go see Angelo,” Charles said. “Maybe he is a redemption for both of us.”

“I’ve never had a congresswoman cry on my shoulder before,” Charles said. He didn’t sit in his chair. “Is Angelo upstairs?”

“Yes,” Dorothy said.

“Have you talked with him?”

“We were waiting for you.”

“I’ll get him.”

“Sit down.” Charles had sat and Dorothy was sitting. Angelo lowered himself to the chair, bending but not yielding. He was absolutely expressionless.

Charles faced the black hair and narrowed eyes and swarthy skin that were all anyone saw of him.

“Do you understand what happened?”

“That judge, he said no more probation.” His voice was as blank as his face.

“Yes. He did.”

“And you said no jail.”

“No jail, no probation. It’s all over. You’re free.”

Silence.

“What will you do, Angelo?” Dorothy said.

More silence.

“You can do whatever you want now,” Charles said.

It was unnerving.

“All right,” Charles said. “We can talk again after you’ve thought about it.”

Angelo stood and left.

“What did that mean?” Dorothy said.

“I don’t know. He’s never been closed up that tight.”

“I’m almost scared, Charles.”

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes, Alice?”

“Mr. Leatherman is here.”

“Jacob.”

Charles held out his hand. Jacob Leatherman took it, frail as an autumn leaf, his other hand propped on his walking stick.

“Do you have it?”

“I have it. I’ll bring it up.” Charles looked closer at Jacob. “Alice, bring a chair.”

“Whippersnapper.” But he didn’t complain, and he sat, his face the color of yellowed pages and faded ink. Charles knelt down on one knee.

“How are you, Jacob?”

“Just give me a minute.”

“Alice, get Dorothy.”

Jacob’s color was getting better.

“Jacob!” Dorothy flew down the stairs. “Why in the world did you fly overnight? Let me look at you.”

“I’m fine.” He glared at the three of them around him, Charles, Dorothy and Alice. “Just get short of breath once in a while.”

“And do you think you’re flying back tonight?” Dorothy asked.

“It’s this afternoon.”

“Alice. Call Mr. Leatherman’s store and tell them to change his flight to tomorrow. Then get a hotel room. Try the Marriott on Duke Street. Jacob, you need to take better care of yourself.” Dorothy looked him straight in the eye. “You are not as young as you used to be.”

“He never was,” Charles said.

“I’m not staying over the night,” Jacob said, but not firmly. Nothing about him was very firm.

“You need to do what she says,” Charles said. “There’s no use fighting. Believe me.”

“Well.” Jacob took a deep breath. “Maybe I could use a rest.”

“Of course,” Charles said.

“Flight was the worst I’ve ever had.”

“I know the best thing to revive you,” Charles said. “Can you make it downstairs? Dorothy, I think we’ll be all right. Thank you.”

It was a slow process going down the steps. Jacob was recovering, though, and at the bottom he clattered across the floor with his stick as fast as Charles could keep up with him. He put Jacob in the desk chair.

Jacob Leatherman took a few minutes to look around the room, and to breathe it in.

“You have a few nice books down here.”

“They’re all nice,” Charles said.

“Yes. They are. You treat them with respect, Charles, and it’ll show.”

“Let me get you the Homer.” He took it from the shelf and laid it on the desk. “Here it is.”

“Here it is,” Jacob said. He pushed his wrinkled hand into his pocket and pulled out a magnifying lens set in an eyepiece. He took off his glasses and fit the magnifier to his eye and tightened his cheek to hold it in place. “Now I can see.”

Charles was silent as Jacob hunched over the book, the glass only an inch from the gold letters on the cover.

“Hand-stamped, of course. Give me gloves.”

Charles handed him the white cotton gloves and the thin silver page turner. Jacob opened the front board.

For three minutes he stared at the faded signature, first moving side to side, then without any motion.

“Her own hand, Charles. Rested right there. She put her pen to the page and wrote the name of a queen.”

“I assume it was hers. It hasn’t been authenticated.”

“It has been now.” There was no strength in his wavering words, only absolute authority. “It was hers or I don’t know anything.”