at the end of the day. Mason took advantage, ducking inside, the hallways stuffy, air-conditioning being saved for the school year. The lights were off, but sunlight made its way from tall classroom windows to rectangular-shaped windows laid end-to-end like dominos along the interior wall above rows of lockers, painting the halls a smoky gray.
Mason had graduated from Southwest High School, a mile or two south of his house, a big city public school with big city public school problems-not enough money, motivated students, or interested parents. Mason managed to get a decent education anyway. Claire told him that four years spent with people who didn't look, live, or think like he did was his enrichment program.
The gym was tucked onto the back of the school, an addition made in 1955. A trophy case displayed accumulated hardware; basketball team rosters were engraved on plaques hung on the wall outside the gym. Mason traced the ten-member teams through the years, finding Ryan Kowalczyk's and Whitney King's team, Whitney's name was preserved along with those of eight other boys. Ryan's name was missing-a blank spot in its place.
'It was easier for the school to pretend he'd never been here than to try to forget what happened,' Father Steve said. Mason spun around, finding the priest behind him. The priest apologized, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Mason. They teach us to walk quietly at the seminary.' He smiled at his joke and Mason smiled back.
'Makes it easier to sneak up on the sinners,' Mason said.
'Oh, I don't have to worry about that. God catches all sinners eventually,' Father Steve said. 'Like me and this dirty habit of mine,' he continued, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. 'I can't sneak a smoke in the church, so I sneak one at the school. How about that?'
Mason couldn't help smiling again. Father Steve was short, stocky, and willing to make fun of his shortcomings. A benign, soothing combination Mason was certain put congregants at ease. Father Steve hadn't shown such self-effacing charm at Ryan's execution or in their last prickly exchange in front of Mary's house. Since then, Mary had disappeared and Nick Byrnes had been shot right before his eyes, jolts that should rattle, not calm.
Maybe, Mason thought, the priest was just more comfortable on his own turf, enjoying an ecclesiastical home-court advantage.
'I imagine there are worse sins,' Mason said.
'Would you like the complete list?' Father Steve asked.
'No thanks. I've got my hands full with murder.'
Father Steve pulled a cigarette from the pack, tapped the end of it against his palm, lighting it, drawing hard, the smoke working its way through him, thin vapors escaping from his mouth and nose. 'You've chosen one of the greatest sins, taking another's life.'
'When Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes were killed, it was murder. When Ryan Kowalczyk was executed, it was justice. Sin is a tricky thing.'
'Not really, Mr. Mason. Killing is killing. The church opposes capital punishment unless executing the offender is the only way of protecting society against an unjust aggressor, a circumstance the pope says is virtually certain never to exist. There's always a way to protect people. That's what jails are for.'
Mason asked, 'Is it a greater sin if the state executes an innocent man?'
'No life is more valuable than another, though Ryan Kowalczyk was not innocent. He confessed to me, as you heard me tell his mother.'
'I believe Ryan was innocent,' Mason said.
'Then we're both men of faith, Mr. Mason. We just believe different things to be true. In my world, faith is proof enough of the existence of God. In yours, belief in a man's innocence doesn't overrule a jury's verdict.'
'Juries make mistakes. That's not a matter of faith. It's a matter of fact,' Mason said.
'This jury struggled with the truth until they found it.
Whitney's father told me they were deadlocked for two days before they reached a verdict on the third day. You're entitled to your own struggle.'
Mason studied the priest for some sign that he knew the significance of what he had said. Ryan's lawyer, Nancy Troy, knew about the deadlock, as did Harry Ryman. Father Steve had added himself and Whitney's father to that inner circle. Rachel's question about how Nancy and Harry had known took on added significance.
'The jury refused to talk with anyone about their deliberations. How did Whitney's father know what had happened?'
The priest flicked the ash from his cigarette, an involuntary twitch that matched his stuttered answer. 'He didn't… say. Maybe…he just assumed,' he said, looking down the hall to avoid Mason's stare.
'Did you attend the trial? Did you talk with the jurors?' Mason asked, homing in.
Father Steve's shoulders sagged. 'I ministered to both Ryan and Whitney, and their families.'
Mason stepped toward the priest, backing him against the wall. 'I'm sure you were a comfort to them, Father. I'm more interested in the jury and why you're trying so hard not to answer my question. The jury was deadlocked for two days. Something happened that made them convict Ryan and acquit Whitney. What do you know about that?'
'The jury found Ryan guilty. He confessed to me,' the priest said dully as if he was repeating a catechism.
'Ryan was innocent. I'm going to prove that.'
'And then what?' Father Steve asked, glancing at Mason.
'You tell me, Father. Is it a sin to let an innocent man die?'
The priest drew on his cigarette. 'If you know he's innocent and you remain silent, that's a grave sin.'
'The sin of silence. Where does it rank on your list?' Mason asked.
'It's one of the worst,' the priest said, his voice steeped in sadness. He moved away from the wall, putting space between him and Mason. 'Our sins reflect our weaknesses as human beings. Many of them come from the things we want. Sex, money, power. The sin of silence is different. It comes from fear and it condemns the innocent whom the guilty are afraid to save.'
'Is that what happened when Whitney King shot my client, Nick Byrnes? Were you afraid to save him?'
The priest took a final drag, the tobacco glowing red, the smoke slithering off his face. 'I thought Mary was your client.'
'They both are and they both want the same thing. To prove that Whitney King killed Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes.'
'And now you would add the shooting of Nick Byrnes to Whitney's list of crimes?'
'Nick was no match for Whitney, even if he had a gun. You were there. Tell me what happened.'
'Oh, with that gun, that boy was more than a match for anyone,' Father Steve said. 'He was screaming at Whitney, threatening to kill him. I was a witness and he would have killed me as well. If Whitney hadn't stopped him, both us would be dead.'
'Describe what happened, Father. Give me the blow-byblow.'
Father Steve sighed. 'I don't do play-by-play commentary, Mr. Mason. Especially when I'm scared to death.'
'Give it a try, Father,' Mason said.
The priest took a deep breath, his cigarette down to a stub. 'All right. We came out of the office building. The boy was there, like he was waiting for Whitney. He was waving the gun around at first, carrying on, as I said. I recognized him from the execution. I told him that I understood his pain but that he was making it worse, not better. I tried to calm him, but he wouldn't be calmed. He just got more upset. Then he pointed the gun straight at Whitney. Whitney grabbed his arm. They struggled. The gun went off.'
Mason didn't know enough yet about what had happened to argue. He just wanted to get the priest committed to a version he'd have to live with. 'Why were you with Whitney King last night?'
'You ask me that question as if I was somehow a suspect too. Do you include me in your conspiracy, Mr. Mason? Is that why you asked about those who stood by silently and let Ryan be executed? A boy I baptized? The child of a woman who has been at my side for thirty years?'
'I've known people to do worse, Father. With or without God on their side. I don't apologize for doing my job. You can tell me now or tell me in court.'
