A Matter of Conviction

Does it? What about that report on the knives? Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Bell?

The report meant nothing, a freak accident, something that had to do with the way the knife was held, or the rain perhaps.

Or perhaps something else? Perhaps something important?

Damnit, I’ve got to put the blame someplace! I can’t just exonerate...

Then put the blame, damnit! Stand up in that courtroom before the judge and the jury and the newspapermen...

Mike Barton’s newspaper would cut me to ribbons. He’d murder me.

...and the world and put the goddamn blame! For once in your life, do something, be something, take the chance, risk something, stop playing it safe!

And if I get killed? If they slaughter me? What then? Henry Bell goes down the drain. You remember Henry Bell, don’t you? That bright young lad — well, not really that young — who used to work in the D.A.’s office before he goofed on the Morrez case. Oh, there was a lot of public sentiment aroused on that one, don’t you remember? Open-and-shut case of first-degree murder, open and shut, three cold-blooded killers stabbing a blind boy to death, a blind boy, open and shut. And Bell muffed it. Stood up in court and presented his case as if he were...

...interested in justice?

I am interested in justice.

Then what about that report?

What about it? It means nothing.

Come on, Bell, you know what’s in that report. Will you try to suppress it?

There’s nothing to suppress. The defense won’t even bring it up, that’s how important it is. They won’t even mention the damn thing. They admit the stabbing. Their only hope is self-defense. That report isn’t important at all.

You know how important it is! You know because you’ve lived with fear, you’ve been kissed by that ugly bitch, she’s held you in her arms, she’s...

STOP IT!

Stop it.

Stop. Please.

I owe them nothing. I owe them nothing. I don’t even know them. They’re strangers to me. I don’t know them.

You know them, Bell. They’re not strangers. You know them very well.

I owe them nothing, he thought. I owe them nothing.

The night was quite still. He sat looking out over the water, and he thought over and over again, I owe them nothing. He was not sure at first that he heard footsteps coming through the trees. Suddenly alert, he listened. Yes, footsteps. Stealthy, uncertain, moving cautiously through the trees toward the rock where he sat.

“This way,” a boy’s voice whispered, and Hank felt a sudden chill race up his spine to raise the hairs at the back of his neck.

Another beating, he thought. Oh, my God, another beating.

He clenched his fists. He expected to be frightened, as frightened as he’d been when approaching that bench in City Hall Park, but instead there was no fear. He was surprised by his own reaction. Sitting with his fists clenched, he listened to the approaching footsteps, recognizing a rising determination inside him.

I will not be beaten again, he thought. Those bastards won’t do it to me again!

Like an animal crouched to spring, he waited.

The boy’s voice sounded in the darkness again. “Over here. This way. You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” a voice said, and Hank’s brow furrowed in puzzlement because the second voice belonged to a girl.

“Here,” the boy said. “Let’s sit under this tree here.” There was silence. “Wait a minute. Let me put my jacket down.”

Lovers, Hank thought, and he was filled instantly with deep embarrassment. He unclenched his fists. There would be no battle; only a balcony scene. He smiled grimly. The thing to do now was to get away from here as swiftly and as quietly as...

“This is a nice spot,” the boy said. “Nice and cool. You get a breeze here from the river.”

“I love the river,” the girl answered. “I love to look at the lights. I always wonder where the boats are going.”

“Would you like a cigarette?” the boy asked.

“I’m not supposed to smoke.”

“I’ve seen you smoke,” the boy said.

“Yes. But I’m not supposed to.”