A Matter of Conviction

“I see,” Hank said, not seeing at all. “Why was Reardon here?”

“Oh, some street trouble. I don’t remember now what it was. This was several years back, you understand.”

“What was the final outcome?”

“What was the court disposition, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He was released on probation.”

“Even though your study showed him to be — well, potentially dangerous?”

“We’re lucky we were even able to make a study, Mr. Bell. We’re operating with one case worker for every seventy-five boys. That’s spreading it pretty damn thin, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I would say so. What happened while Reardon was on probation?”

“Well, the probation officers are pretty much in the same boat we’re in. Each of them is handling a case load similar to our own. This doesn’t leave time for very much individual attention to a boy’s problems. What happens is that a good percentage of boys on probation get into trouble all over again.”

“Like Reardon?”

“Yes, if you wish to use him as an example. He’s only one of hundreds, though.” Walsh paused. “We could do such a job, Mr. Bell, if we had the money and the staff. Such a job.”

Hank nodded. “Don’t you feel, though, that you’re simplifying things somewhat? I mean, by hiding behind all this psychological—”

“Hiding?”

“Perhaps that’s not the word I wanted. But do you feel that delinquency can be reduced to such simple psychological equations?”

“Of course not. There is practically no such animal as a pure delinquent type. The acting-out neurotic, the wayward egocentric boy, even the passive or socialized delinquent — the one who’ll succumb to the pressures of his environment or his group while not truly being a disturbed personality — are hardly ever encountered in a pure state. And we certainly can’t discount the influence of environment, or a poor school situation, or even the unenlightenment of many police officials, as contributing factors to delinquency. But this is not psychological gobbledygook, Mr. Bell. I hope you didn’t mean to imply that.”

“These boys, Mr. Walsh, killed another boy.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Would you excuse their act by telling me their parents have personality disorders?”

“Would I excuse the act of murder?” Walsh asked.

“Yes.”

“It is your job to decide the law, Mr. Bell, not mine. I am dealing with people, not torts.”

Hank nodded. “May I see the Di Pace boy now, please?”

“Certainly,” Walsh said. As he rose, the phone rang again. “Damnit,” he said. “Betty, would you answer that, please? This way, Mr. Bell.”

The boy had his mother’s red hair and brown eyes, the same oval face, the same mouth, which looked curiously feminine on a boy turning into a man. He was a tall boy, muscularly loose, with the huge hands that identified the street brawler.

“If you’re a cop,” he said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m the district attorney,” Hank said, “and you’d better talk to me. I’m prosecuting this case.”

“All the more reason I got nothing to say. You think I’m gonna help you send me to the electric chair?”

“I want to know what happened on the night Morrez was killed.”

“Yeah? So go ask Morrez. Maybe he’ll tell you. I don’t have to tell you nothing. Go talk to the big-shot lawyers the court appointed. I got four of them all to myself. Go talk to them.”

“I’ve already talked to them, and they had no objections to my questioning you and the other boys. I guess you know you’re in serious trouble. Your lawyers have told you that.”

“I’ll go to Children’s Court.”

“No you won’t, Danny. You’ll be tried with the other boys in General Sessions, Part Three.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. The case will be tried in this county next month. You’ll get a fair trial, but nobody’s going to try to coddle you. You killed a boy, Danny.”

“Yeah? That’s what you got to prove, mister. I’m innocent until I’m proved guilty.”

“That’s true. Now suppose you tell me what happened on the night of July tenth?”

“I told the story a hundred times already. We were out for a stroll. The spic jumped us, so we stabbed him. It was self-defense.”

“The boy you stabbed was blind. You surely must realize that no jury is going to believe he jumped you.”

“I don’t care what they believe. That’s what happened. You can ask Batman and Tower. They’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Who’s Batman?”

“Aposto. That’s what they call him.”

“Who calls him that?”

“The guys on the club he belongs to.”

“What gang is that?”

“You know all this already. Who the hell are you trying to con?”

“I’m asking you anyway,” Hank said. “What’s the name of the gang?”

“The Thunderbirds.” Danny paused. “And it ain’t a gang. It’s a club.”

“I see. And what differentiates a gang from a club?”

“The Thunderbirds never go around looking for no trouble.”

“Then what were you doing in Spanish Harlem on the night of July tenth if not looking for trouble?”

“We were out for a stroll.”

“You and Tower — who I suppose is Reardon — and Batman. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” Danny said.

“Why do you call him Tower?”

“I don’t know. I guess because he’s a tall guy. Also, he’s very strong. Tower kind of rhymes with power.”

“What do they call you?”

“Danny.”