That afternoon, the police issued an order of immediate custody, a juvenile arrest warrant, against the four of us. We were charged with a series of crimes: reckless endangerment; assault in the first; possession of a dangerous instrument; assault with intent; misdemeanor assault; petty theft. We were each assigned PINS status, branding us persons in need of supervision. We were also tagged as youthful offenders, Y.O. on the streets. The label came with the luxury of keeping our records sealed and the knowledge that Y.O.'s were seldom dealt adult-length sentences, even by the harshest family court judge.

While James Caldwell lay in critical condition in the intensive care unit of St. Clare's Hospital, clinging to life on a respirator, we were remanded into our parents' custody. The shock of the day still had not worn away as we moved with great speed and little care through the system of arrest and booking, our eyes and ears closed to the sobs and screams surrounding us. We were in another world. Above the action. Our parents cried and cursed, the cops were stone-faced, Caldwell's family wanted us dead and the whole neighborhood, it seemed, was waiting for us outside the station house. We'd always been on the other side looking in at the guys getting busted. Now it was us. We were the ones they pointed at. The ones they talked about. We were the guilty ones now.

My father had just slapped me, hard, across my face. I stared at him; he was slumped on a chair next to the kitchen table, wearing only briefs and a T-shirt. His face was red, his hands were twitching, his eyes welled with tears. My mother was in a back room, face down on her bed, crying.

My parents had always granted me free reign, confident in my ability to steer clear of street jams, believing I was not the type to bring trouble knocking at the front door. This freedom also served to keep me out of view of their daily physical and verbal battles.

I lost that freedom the instant the hot dog cart crashed against the body of James Caldwell.

'I'm sorry, Dad,' was all I could manage to say.

'Sorry ain't gonna do you much good now, kid,' my father said, softening. 'You gotta face up to what you did. The four of you.'

'What's going to happen to us?' I asked, my voice breaking, tears falling down my cheeks.

'The old man lives, you might catch a break,' my father said. 'Do a few months in a juvenile home.'

I could barely ask the question. 'And if he doesn't?'

My father couldn't answer. He reached out his arms and held me, both of us crying, both of us afraid.

Over the next several days, Hell's Kitchen, which, in the past, never failed to embrace its criminals, seemed a neighborhood in shock. It wasn't the crime that had hands raised to the sky, but the fact that Michael, John, Tommy and I had committed it.

'You guys were different,' Fat Mancho told me years later. 'Yeah, sure, you fooled around, busted balls, got into fights, shit like that. But, you never went outta your way to hurt anybody. You were never punks. Until you did the job with the cart. That was an upstate number and that's something nobody figured on.'

By the day, two weeks later, when we stood before a family court Judge, we knew that James Caldwell was going to make it out of the hospital alive. The news had been relayed to us by Father Bobby, who counseled all the families involved.

During the time between our arrest and scheduled judgment, I was not allowed to associate with my friends, be seen in their company or talk to them by phone. We were each kept under close family scrutiny, spending the bulk of our days buried inside our apartments. Father Bobby visited each of us daily, bringing with him a handful of comics and a few words of encouragement. He always left a little sadder than when he arrived.

Our crime had not been terrible enough to make any of the papers, so our notoriety did not move further than the neighborhood. Still, we couldn't help but feel like public enemies. There were whispers behind my mother's back whenever she went for groceries or headed off to church. John's mother missed so many days of work she was close to losing her job. When Michael was sent out on a fast errand, a beer bottle was tossed his way. Tommy was denied entry to a local movie theater.

'Your kind ain't welcome,' he was told. 'Not here. Not in my place.'

'I didn't do anything to you,' Tommy said.

'You got a problem with what I done?' the theater manager asked. 'Call the cops.'

During those two long, frightening and tedious weeks, I left my apartment on just three occasions.

The first two, I went to church with my mother.

The third, I went to see King Benny.

I poured myself an espresso from a two-cup pot, King Benny staring across the table. It was late Sunday afternoon of the Labor Day Weekend, and a transistor radio resting against the window behind me was tuned in low to a Yankee game. Two men, wearing dark slacks and sleeveless T-shirts, sat outside the club on wooden chairs. I drank my coffee and listened to Phil Rizzuto call the game, taking it into the bottom half of the eighth inning,

Yanks down by three runs. King Benny's hands were spread flat on the table, his face a clean-shaven mask.

'They suck this year,' he said, lifting a finger in the direction of the radio.

'They sucked last year,' I said.

'Gets to be habit,' he said. 'A bad habit. Like going to jail.'

I nodded and lowered my head, averting his gaze.

'We didn't mean to hurt anybody,' I said.

'You didn't mean it don't make it not happen.'

'We didn't go out looking to hurt is what I meant,' I said.

'Few do,' King Benny said.

'How long do you think we'll get?'

'A year,' King Benny told me and it made my knees go weak. 'Maybe more. Depends on the mood the judge is in.'

'I hear the one we got is tough,' I said. 'Likes to set examples.'

'They're all tough,' King Benny said.

I drank some more coffee and scanned the room, framing it in my mind, not wanting to forget its look, its stench, its feeling of safety. King Benny's foul-smelling club was a second home to me and, like the library, had become a place to escape the harshness of the life I knew.

It was an escape to the quiet company of the single most dangerous man in Hell's Kitchen.

'Your father tell you what to expect?' King Benny asked. 'Tell you how to handle yourself?'

'He hasn't talked much,' I said. 'He's pretty upset. Most of the time, he and my mom just sit and cry. Or they fight. One or the other.'

'I can't help you up there,' King Benny said, leaning closer to me, his eyes tight on my face. 'Or your friends. You're gonna be on your own in that place. It won't be easy, Shakes. It's gonna be hard. The hardest thing you and your friends are ever gonna have to do.'

'My father thinks that too,' I said. 'That's why he's crying.'

'Your father knows that,' King Benny said. 'Only he don't think you're ready for it. Don't think you can take it.'

'Do you believe that?'

'No,' King Benny said. 'I don't. There's a part of you that's a lot like me. A small part. That should be enough to bring you back alive.'

'I better go,' I said, pushing the cup to one side. 'I'm not allowed to stay out alone too long.'

'When do you leave?'

'I see the judge on Thursday,' I said, looking at the man I had grown to love as much as my own father. 'That's when we find out where we go and for how long.'

'Your parents be with you?'

'My father,' I said. 'I don't think my mother can handle it. You know how she gets.'

'It's better that way,' King Benny said. 'She shouldn't see you in a courtroom.'

'Will you still be here when I get back?' I asked, my voice choked, my eyes focusing on the two men outside, trying not to let King Benny see me cry.