'And who determined that?'

'The guard on the scene,' Ferguson said.

'So you and Sean Nokes would decide in what way a discipline problem would be dealt with,' O'Connor said. 'Is that correct?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'That's correct.'

'That's a lot of power to have over a boy,' O'Connor said. 'Isn't it?'

'It came with the job,' Ferguson said.

'Did torture come with the job?' O'Connor asked.

'No, it did not,' Ferguson said.

'But boys were tortured weren't they?' O'Connor said, his face turning a shade of red. ''Weren't they, Mr. Ferguson?'

The spectators all leaned forward, waiting for Ferguson's answer. Judge Weisman poured himself a glass of water and rolled his chair back, his angry eyes focused on Michael.

'On occasion,' Ferguson said, looking as if he were about to faint.

'Who tortured them?' O'Connor asked.

'The guards,' Ferguson said.

''Which guards?' O'Connor asked.

'I can't remember all of them,' Ferguson said.

'Remember one,' O'Connor said.

Ferguson wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. He looked over at Michael who sat in his chair, hands folded before him. He looked at John and Tommy, who stared back impassively. He put his head back and took a deep breath.

'Sean Nokes,' Ferguson said.

O'Connor waited for the court room murmurs to quiet. He watched as Judge Weisman lifted his gavel and then placed it back down, as troubled as everyone else by the testimony he was hearing.

I looked over at Carol and saw tears streaming down her face. I put my arm around her and moved her closer.

'Let me ask you, Mr. Ferguson,' O'Connor said, standing next to him, one hand in his pocket. 'Was there any sexual abuse at the Wilkinson Home for Boys?'

'Counselor,' Judge Weisman said to O'Connor. 'This line of questioning better lead someplace having to do with this case.'

'It will, your Honor,' O'Connor said, keeping his eyes on Ferguson.

'For your sake,' Judge Weisman said.

'Answer the question, Mr. Ferguson,' O'Connor said.

'Was there any sexual abuse at the Wilkinson Home for Boys?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'I heard that there was.'

'I'm not asking if you heard,' O'Connor said. I'm asking if you saw.'

'Yes, I saw,' Ferguson said in a low voice.

'Did you and Sean Nokes ever force yourselves on any of the boys?' O'Connor asked, taking two steps back, his voice hitting full range. 'Did you and Sean Nokes rape any of the boys at the Wilkinson Home? And again, I remind you that you are under oath.'

The courtroom held the silence of the moment, no moving, no coughing, no crumbling of paper. All eyes were on the witness stand. The twelve heads of the jury were turned at an angle. John and Tommy sat at attention. Carol gripped my hand as Michael looked above the bench at the painting of blind justice gripping her sword.

'Counselors,' Judge Weisman said, breaking the silence. 'Approach the bench. Now!'

Michael and O'Connor moved to the sidebar, on the end furthest from the witness stand.

'What the hell is going on here?' Judge Weisman asked Michael, temper flashing above his calm demeanor.

'Well, your Honor,' Michael said, glancing over at Ferguson, 'it looks like I called the wrong character witness.'

'And what are you going to do about it?' Judge Weisman asked.

'Nothing, your Honor,' Michael said. 'There's nothing I can do.'

'Or maybe, counselor,' Judge Weisman said, 'you've already done enough.'

The lawyers returned to their positions.

'Please answer the question, Mr. Ferguson,' Judge Weisman ordered.

'Yes,' Ferguson said in a choked voice, tears lining his face.

'Yes what?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes, boys were raped,' Ferguson said.

'By you and Sean Nokes?' O'Connor said.

'Not just by us,' Ferguson said.

'By you and Sean Nokes?' O'Connor said, repeating the question, raising his voice even louder.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'On more than one occasion?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'With more than one boy?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'Now, do you still think Sean Nokes was a good man, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked.

'He was my friend,' Ferguson said.

'A friend who raped and abused boys he was paid to watch over,' O'Connor said. 'Boys who could maybe grow up and become an enemy of such a good man.'

'Are you finished?' Ferguson asked, his eyes red, his hands shaking.

'Not just yet,' O'Connor said.

'I want it to be over,' Ferguson said. 'Please, your Honor, I want it to be over.'

'Mr. O'Connor?' the Judge asked.

'This won't take long, your Honor,' O'Connor said.

'Proceed,' Judge Weisman said.

'Sean Nokes spent a lot of time at your home, is that right?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'As much as a week at a time, is that also correct?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'And you have a child, is that correct?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'A daughter.'

'In all the time your good friend Sean Nokes spent in your home, all the days, all the hours, did either you or your wife ever allow him to be alone with your daughter?' O'Connor asked. 'At any time? For any reason?'

Ferguson stared at O'Connor, his fear evident, his body leaning toward the Judge's bench for support. 'No,' he finally said. 'No, we never did.'

'Why was that, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked. 'If he was such a good, man.'

'Objection, your Honor,' Michael said for the first time, looking at Ferguson. 'Question doesn't call for an answer.'

'Counselor's right, your Honor,' O'Connor said. 'I withdraw the question.'

'Witness is excused,' Judge Weisman said.

'Thank you, your Honor,' Ferguson said, stepping down from the stand.

'Mr. Ferguson, if I were you, I wouldn't stray too far from home,' Judge Weisman said. 'People will need to talk to you. Do you understand?'

'Yes, your Honor,' Ferguson said meekly, his eyes darting from John to Tommy and then to Michael, slowly, finally recoiling in recognition. 'I understand.'

Michael waited until Ferguson walked out of the courtroom and then stood up.

'The prosecution rests its case, your Honor,' he said. 'We have no further witnesses.'

'Thank God for that,' Judge Weisman said.

Fat Mancho bounced a spauldeen against the ground, his eyes fixed on the brick wall in front of him. He was wearing a long-sleeve wool shirt, a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, scruffy blue jeans and high-top PF Flyers.

I stood five feet to his left, wearing a leather jacket, two black wool gloves and a pull cap. My jeans felt stiff in the windy cold and my sneakers and thin white socks weren't enough to prevent the late Sunday afternoon chill from seeping through.

Carol stood with her back to the chain fence separating the open lot from the sidewalk. She was on her third cup of coffee and had two thick winter scarves wrapped around her neck.

'Most people play handball in the summer,' I said to Fat Mancho, rubbing my hands together. 'It's easier to see the ball without tears in your eyes.'

'I give a fuck about most people,' Fat Mancho said.

'What do you have planned for after the game?' I asked. 'A swim?'

'Your balls all twisted up 'cause you gonna lose the game,' Fat Mancho said. 'And you one of them fuckers that can't live with losin'.'

'Freezing, Fat Man,' I said. 'I'm one of those fuckers who can't live with freezing.'

Fat Mancho slapped the ball against the wall, a hard shot, aimed low, with a heavy spin to it. I took three steps back and returned the hit. Fat Mancho was ready for the return, crouched down, hands on his knees, not wearing gloves, his eyes on the ball, looking like an overweight third baseman who forgot his Old-Timer's Day uniform.