Matter of Trust (42 page)

‘My mom sees everything and gets nothing.'

‘Same,' said Connor, and then: ‘Dad decided against the plea.'

Jack nodded – the initial feeling of relief soon replaced by a fresh sense of horror. ‘He's taking his chances at trial?'

‘Yeah,' said Connor, his own fear written all over his brooding olive-skinned face. ‘If he loses, he goes away for life.'

Jack said nothing – both boys past trying to cheer each other up with platitudes.

‘I've been thinking,' said Jack as they took a seat on the grass, the shade of the cherry blossoms casting irregular patterns across their faces. ‘Not so much thinking, but remembering.'

‘Remembering what?' asked Connor.

‘That day we met. You, me and Will.'

Jack knew Connor would remember it – that grief-stricken memorial ceremony wrapped up in hope. Jack recalled the pride on his mother's face as the tears rolled down her cheeks when her husband's name was called out and he was saluted by his fellow police officers. He remembered Chris Kincaid hugging the widows and consoling their kids. He remembered Will's mom lost in a catatonic haze as she placed a picture of her late husband on the makeshift shrine. And he recalled the confusion on the skinny Kincaid kid's face as his dad introduced him to the two fatherless public school kids.

‘Do you remember what Will said to you?' asked Jack.

‘Yes,' said Connor. ‘He said, “What the fuck would you know about tragedy?” '

‘And you said . . .'

‘“Nothing.” '

‘And he said . . .'

‘“Then I'll be happy to fucking teach you,” ' finished Connor. ‘And then when my dad wasn't looking, he spat at my feet.'

They sat there in silence for a while.

‘It made me respect him,' admitted Connor.

‘Who?'

‘Will – treating me like shit when he first met me. It made me look up to him.'

‘Because you were used to people sucking up to you?' asked Jack.

‘Because he didn't give a crap what people thought.'

‘But you did.'

‘Yes.'

‘And still do.'

‘Yes.

‘Me too.'

The breeze picked up to a steady wind, the leaves around them lifting before settling once again on the carpet of green around them. Connor's eyes went to the baseball game, and Jack noted the cherry-haired kid was now having his first shot at pitching, his left arm lifting as he raised his right leg in mimicry of the superstars on TV.

‘I'm not sure I can hold it in much longer,' said Jack then.

Connor said nothing.

‘I don't want to hurt your dad, or you, or Will . . . but . . . I'm not sure I can do it. It's creeping up on me, Connor – what we did.'

‘What did we do, Jack?' asked Connor, as if finally needing Jack to spell it out.

‘We made the wrong decision.'

‘And if we hadn't made it?'

‘She'd still be alive.'

‘But my dad would still be in prison.'

Jack didn't answer, merely closed his eyes as the red-haired kid pitched his third strike. ‘I wish we were wrong,' he said, his eyes still shut tight.

‘About what?' asked Connor. ‘Your dad.'

‘Me too.'

‘I was wrong about my dad,' said Jack.

‘You were?' asked Connor, obviously surprised by Jack's confession.

‘He said one thing and did another.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because I inherited the mess he left behind.' Jack finally opened his eyes to see Connor looking at him in confusion.

‘Your dad was a hero.'

‘My dad was a man – just like yours.'

‘And that makes up for things?' asked Connor.

‘That depends,' said Jack, ‘on just how guilty we believe our fathers to have been.'

Connor said nothing, until, ‘Will says he has a new plan,' he continued, the shadows casting dark circles under his eyes. ‘He came by my house and took something belonging to my dad. Maybe we should trust him, Jack. He says he can fix things. He was there for me, just like you were on that horrible night.'

More than ever Jack wanted to tell his good friend the truth – about his motives, his selfishness, but doing that would only implicate another, and that he would never do. ‘Will is your friend,' he said instead. ‘He'll do whatever he can to protect your father, Connor.'

‘I know. And I'm grateful but . . .'

Jack turned to meet his eye.

‘I want to protect my father because I love him,' Connor continued. ‘But Will, why would he—'

‘Because he hated him,' Jack cut in.

‘My father?'

‘No, his.'

Connor blinked in understanding, and the two boys turned their attention toward the game once again.

‘My father says he is innocent,' said Connor after a time.

‘Then maybe you should forget everything you know.'

‘Could you?' he asked.

‘He's not my father.'

Connor nodded again. ‘Are you going to tell someone?'

‘Part of me wants to, but if I do . . .' Jack shook his head. ‘You're my friend, Connor, your father's been good to me and – and Will, well, he's . . .'

‘I'm not sure we deserve protecting, Jack.'

‘It's what friends do, Connor.'

And then there was silence, until, ‘Will was wrong about one thing,' continued Jack.

‘What's that?' asked Connor.

‘About you knowing nothing about tragedy.'

Connor nodded. ‘Do you ever get over it?'

‘Over what?'

‘Losing your father.'

‘That depends on how you lose him,' said Jack, as the freckle-faced kid caught a high ball in his scratched leather mitt. ‘But in your case, my friend, my guess is . . . no.'

S
aint Stephen's Preparatory school for boys is located in the University Heights area of Downtown Newark. It encompasses twelve buildings over twelve acres – each of them constructed in soot-stained red brick. The main entrance fronts onto Martin Luther King Boulevard where the shadow of the spire of Saint Stephen's church cuts a long, narrow swathe across the school's heavy wooden doors. A plaque to the left carries the school's name and a crest to the right bares its motto – Fortitudo, Veneratio, Veritas – Courage, Honour, Truth.

Nothing has changed, thought David, as nostalgia overwhelmed him. As he and McNally approached the young woman in the reception area, he felt both a desire to embrace the reminiscence, and a simultaneous urge to run. For while his memories of high school were largely positive, there was also that sense of being stifled – of a need to forge his own way – a long way from the place he called home.

‘My name is David Cavanaugh and this is Detective Harry McNally from the Newark PD,' he said to the pretty mocha-skinned girl. ‘We're here to see Father Patrick.' He took a breath, the name of his old school principal triggering a Pavlovian sensation of apprehension. ‘He's expecting us.'

David had called Father Patrick's secretary late yesterday and requested a meeting at the headmaster's earliest convenience. Together with McNally
and Sara, David had made two decisions after the conference call with Joe yesterday, the first being that they would approach Father Patrick for some discreet information on Will – and perhaps even seek an opportunity to speak with him under the guise of David wanting to take up his earlier offer to be a character witness for Chris. At this stage, all they had to implicate the kid was a fuzzy image on a hotel security disc and a set of close to indecipherable text messages they were assuming Will sent. Neither was enough to accuse the boy of even the slightest of indiscretions, let alone murder.

Their second decision involved Sara's offer to accompany them to Saint Stephen's. Both David and McNally agreed it would be best if they slipped in and out of the school relatively unnoticed, a task David had argued would be impossible with Sara tagging along.

‘Why is that?' she'd asked, perhaps a little frustrated at their excluding her.

‘Sara, this is a school full of teenage boys,' David had said before looking to McNally. ‘No offence, but a girl like you in a place like that . . .'

‘You think I'll be less of a distraction down at County?' she'd asked, given they had suggested she be the one to spend the day getting Chris's take on their latest findings regarding Will.

‘No,' David had smiled. ‘But the jail has guards and the inmates are behind bars.'

‘And you expect me to find this argument flattering?' She'd managed a smile.

‘I've heard it gets you everywhere.'

‘Oh, please,' she'd answered. ‘Go back to high school where you belong.'

And so they'd agreed to go their separate ways until later this afternoon, when the Sands hearing was scheduled to consider David's request to rule Chris's previous record inadmissible.

The receptionist made a call before looking up toward David once again. ‘Father Patrick is expecting you. I can get one of the students to show you to his office.'

‘No need,' said David.

‘You know the way?' she asked.

‘Too well,' he responded.

She smiled.

Five minutes later they were in the familiar waiting room outside the priest's office – a portrait of the Virgin Mary on the far wall looking down at them as if in sympathy. A few minutes after that, Father Patrick was opening the door to his office – the same office David and his two best friends had frequented so regularly all those years ago.

‘David Cavanaugh,' he said, extending his hand. ‘It has been too long.'

David was surprised by the overwhelming feeling of warmth brought on by the old man's smile. ‘I thought you were happy to see the back of me, Father,' he said, moving forward to take the priest's leathery hand, noting the priest's own school ring which had worn a groove in his right ring finger.

‘That's just because you heard the rumour that I celebrated with a whole bottle of whisky the day you and your two friends moved on.'

‘Is the rumour true, Father?' asked David.

‘Why, of course it's true,' smiled Father Patrick, standing back so that they might enter his shady corner enclave. ‘But I don't expect you gentlemen are here to reminisce,' he added, as David introduced him to McNally.

‘I'm afraid not, Father,' said David.

‘Then let me know how I can help you,' he said, ‘and your old friend Chris Kincaid.'

 

‘Will Cusack is a tormented young man,' said a concerned Father Patrick, slowly, carefully, as if wanting to choose his words. ‘I would like to say he is who he is because of his father's death, but in all honesty I think the odds were against Will long before 9/11.'

‘So who exactly is he, Father?' asked David.

‘He is an only child, an average student with a chip on his shoulder, a young man in an adult's body who, I believe, has been neglected in one way or another by both of his parents over his eighteen years.'

‘He's not close to his mother?'

‘His mother is a mess.'

‘So he has no family to speak of?'

‘No, that's not exactly true. When his father died, the Delgados sort of took him in.'

‘The Delgados,' David said, thinking of Connor Kincaid's other friend, the boy named Jack.

‘Jack Delgado is a straight-A student who has recently been accepted into Harvard,' Father Patrick continued. ‘He wants to study law. His mother is Vicki Delgado,' he added, looking toward McNally.

David saw McNally's eyebrows rise at this new piece of information.

‘Vicki Delgado is one of those Jersey women who banded together to raise money for the victims of 9/11,' explained McNally.

David nodded. ‘I've heard of them. Are they still fundraising?'

‘Some of them,' said McNally. ‘Delgado has made quite a name for herself as a charity powerhouse. She does a lot of good.'

‘So the kid comes from a good home?' asked David.

‘The best,' said Father Patrick, but concern was still carved in his heavily wrinkled face. ‘Of course, Jack suffered a double tragedy in 9/11. His father was freelancing at the Towers as a security guard when the attack occurred – and unfortunately Jack's brother was with him.'

‘Jack Delgado lost his brother as well?' asked a horrified David.

‘Yes, Joshua was his twin – and in many ways Will filled that void for Jack and his mother. I think Vicki Delgado sensed Will might not survive without some sort of family base, so she made it clear he was always welcome.'

David nodded, then saw Father Patrick's brow furrow once again.

‘Forgive me, David, but I hope you will understand when I tell you I'm a little at odds with sharing all this information without knowing the motivation behind your queries.'

‘I'm just trying to get the lay of the land here, Father,' said David.

Father Patrick nodded. ‘I appreciate that, but you must remember that one of my roles, as principal, is to act as a safeguard for all of my students. This place may look the same to you, David, but it has changed a great deal since you were last in my office. The days when we educated middle-class whites – sons of fathers and grandfathers who once walked these halls with enthusiasm – are gone. Those people moved to the suburbs a long time ago, and now we cater for inner-city youth, kids from diverse racial backgrounds whose parents barely have two dimes to rub together.'

‘I'm not trying to shake anybody down, Father.'

‘Perhaps not, but I assume your queries about these boys have some connection to the fact that they are both friends with Connor Kincaid?'

‘Do you see them as an odd trio, Father?' asked David, both avoiding the priest's question and fishing for more.