After all, it was important that everyone understand that he would not help Christina with this case. Not in the least.

The day of my high school graduation I decided I was coming out. This was no small decision. I lived in the suburbs, after all, deeply traditional, conservative suburbs, dominated by huge churches, Democrats who always voted Republican, and trailer trash who measured success by the size of the wheels on your pickup. To say that gay men had to remain in the closet is to state the obvious. Oh, there were probably worse places-we did at least have some gay bars and a small gay underground network-but it wasn’t exactly Greenwich Village, if you catch my drift.

And my father. Since I’m treating this journal more like a third-rate autobiography than a diary, I should make the point up front that my father was not a bad person. More than once he surprised me with his kindness, with his startling gentility. But he had not exactly been raised with a progressive attitude, and it showed. At heart, he was still the kid from the projects raised by poor white laborers, and as a result, he carried around the baggage of every kind of prejudice there was: prejudice against foreigners, minorities, Catholics, aggressive women and, predictably enough, homosexuals. I remember once in the seventh grade when I got the lead in the middle school musical. My mother was delighted, but I noticed that Dad’s reaction was much more subdued. Late that night, when Mother wasn’t around, he made a rare effort to talk to me. “I guess being in plays is all right,” he said in that awkward sputtering drawl of his. “Problem is you gotta watch out for the fags.” He said it as if it were a two-syllable word.

I didn’t know what he was talking about, or pretended I didn’t, but he reinforced my later determination to keep my secret to myself. He was right, of course; there were plenty of guys who shared my sexual inclination treading the boards, but that didn’t make it any easier. In the early Eighties, when the AIDS plague started making the papers, I remember my father throwing down the Sun-Times in disgust and saying, “Who the hell cares about a bunch of queers?” Quite a statement, coming from a man who I knew had a good heart, who really had no meanness in him. Imagine what you’d get if you combined all those inbred prejudices with someone who did have some meanness in him. Maybe a lot of meanness.

That and countless similar remarks told me exactly where my dad stood on this issue that was of crushing importance to me. Which explains why I put off telling him for as long as I did. Mother was a different matter-she wasn’t going to like it, just as she didn’t like it when I wouldn’t try out for the tennis team. But bottom line-she loved me, and she always would, and if it turned out I was gay, she’d learn to live with it. Father was different. I couldn’t predict how he’d take it.

Not well, as it turned out. I don’t believe for a minute it came as any great surprise. He wasn’t a stupid person. I’m sure he’d seen the signs. About the only time in his life he gave me money without my asking for it was before that senior prom. I found an envelope on my bed with a hundred-dollar bill in it and a note that read: TAKE A GIRL OUT FOR THE TIME OF HER LIFE. He knew, or at least suspected. But I guess that isn’t the same as being told.

The weird thing was he seemed to take it as a reflection on himself, not me. “Too much time with his mother,” he muttered, turning his eyes skyward. “Never had to work for anything. Not like I did.” I didn’t know what that had to do with anything, but it seemed to make sense to him. Mother was okay till he spewed out, “You had to push him into all those plays, didn’t you? Singing lessons? My God, it’s no wonder.” Mother broke down at that point-and I left. I already had an apartment lined up for the summer, and a job. I didn’t need this crap. Not from the people who brought me into the world.

Things got better with my mom. After about a month, we started meeting on the sly-having lunch together at the Institute of Art or window-shopping on the Magnificent Mile. But I haven’t spoken to my father in years. The few times I’ve seen him, he just stares at me, examines me like some awful black blot, like I’m a stain on his shirt. He never says anything. Not even hello.

A few months ago, I went to the funeral for my friend Gary’s father. He held it in till everyone went home, then cried like a baby all night long. You can’t imagine what it feels like, he kept saying. I mean, you’ve known your father all your life. He’s a part of you. And then, one day, he’s gone. It changes everything.

I held Gary all night long, trying to comfort him, because I think I understood what he was going through better than he realized. It’s even worse, I thought to myself, when you’ve lost your father-and he only lives about two miles away.

Christina berated herself all the way to the courtroom. Good grief, girl. It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve ever come to a courthouse by yourself. But Chicago was a very different city; skyscrapers towered all around her, and everyone seemed so busy, busy, busy. She dodged taxicabs seemingly intent on murder as she crossed the street, avoiding well-dressed panhandlers on her way up the courthouse steps. Yes, there was something different today, but it wasn’t just the fact that she was away from home. It wasn’t the pressure, the imminent trial date, the parade of protesters camped outside the courthouse. She had been spilling files and dumping coffee on her briefs and generally acting like a flibbertigibbet all morning long. It wasn’t her usual leitmotiv, and she didn’t like it a bit.

She intentionally arrived early so she would have a chance to meet the district attorney, Richard Drabble, in his office-not in the courtroom. She still hoped she could talk some reason into him; there was no reason for a protracted trial played before all America. Surely they could reach some sort of understanding. And she wanted a chance to size the man up, to get some idea who she was up against. She’d seen him on television, of course, but it wasn’t the same. When she met someone face-to-face, looked into their eyes, shook their hands-that’s when she started to get a picture of who this person really was.

She found the DA’s office near the door and introduced herself to the receptionist. She was surprised-and impressed-when the man himself appeared barely more than a minute later.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. McCall. Thank you for stopping by.”

She took his hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t drop in sooner.”

“Very brave thing you’ve done-taking over this case on such short notice. And with so little prep time.”

“Well, you have to play the hand you’re dealt.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” He chuckled. He was a handsome fellow, Christina thought-intense blue eyes, a square jaw, salt-and-pepper hair. Early fifties, she guessed, but the years were making him look stronger and more distinguished, not less. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly, “I did wonder if you’d consider any sort of deal that-”

He held up his hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. McCall, I can’t. There’s just too much pressure bearing down on us, demanding a conviction. And frankly-our case is too strong. I don’t envy your position at all. I know you can’t win, but I sincerely hope you can save face and not appear incompetent.”

“Or perhaps I prefer cases that come with built-in excuses because I really am incompetent.”

He flashed some teeth. “Don’t be modest, Ms. McCall. You’ve had a distinguished little career. Not many legal assistants make it to your level.”