It was Sobelman’s turn to shrug. “Maybe only to illustrate how horrible things like the Holocaust start small-a few evil men in a pub, or in a corporate boardroom, or a socialist workers’ party meeting. These evil men believe they know what’s best for everyone else. They say some things that make people uncomfortable, but no one does anything about it. People shrug and say, ‘It’s their right to free speech,’ which is fine, but they don’t counter it, or denounce it, with free speech of their own. The masses are mute. Perhaps they are too intimidated by the smear campaign that would be directed at them. Or maybe they’re afraid of physical violence, even assassination. But deep down in their souls where they are frightened, they know they actually want someone else to make the tough decisions for them.”
Sobelman reached across the table and set his hands on Zak’s wrists. “Right now it’s just a few bullies on a boys’ baseball team. But tolerating this behavior now becomes a mind-set that will carry into the future. These bullies are the same sort of people who end up in those pubs and boardrooms and meeting halls. And those who witness the debasement of another human being and do nothing about it are the same people who may someday ask themselves why they didn’t stand up when the evil men come for them.”
“But shouldn’t Esteban have to stand up for himself first?” Zak asked. “He never does anything about the crap he gets. He won’t fight. He doesn’t tell the principal.”
“Certainly he has to defend himself,” Sobelman said in agreement. “We Jews in Europe learned that the hard way. Except for a few anomalies like the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto and our revolt at the Sobibor camp, we allowed ourselves to be led like sheep to the slaughter.”
Sobelman shook his head. “No wonder those of us who survived it, who want nothing more than to live a peaceful life in the manner that God has ordained for our people, swore that never again would we surrender without a fight. People who criticize the Israelis for their tendency to react harshly to threats might do well to remember that Arabs were not the first people to decide that Jews had no right to exist.”
“So then you agree that this is really Esteban’s problem?” Zak asked, thinking he’d scored a point.
“It’s only part of the equation,” Sobelman replied. “It’s hard to face the world on your own. Still, if you won’t stick up for yourself, you can’t expect others to always fight your battles for you.”
“That’s what I mean about Esteban,” Zak said. “Maybe he should tell his parents, and they should talk to the coach.”
“That’ll never happen,” Giancarlo replied. “His parents are from Mexico. He’s got a scholarship to a good school. They’re probably more afraid to say something than he is. He’s on his own. Even the other minority players aren’t speaking up because they know they could be next. But you’re wrong that he doesn’t stick up for himself. Every time they knock him down with a pitch, he gets back up. They call him names; he smiles and plays that much harder. That’s why I was worried they were actually going to have to hurt him to get him to quit. And now they may have done it, and nobody says anything.”
“So what do you think you should do, Giancarlo?” the old man asked.
“I think we should tell Dad.”
“So you want your father to fight your battles for you?”
Giancarlo furrowed his brow, surprised that the debate had taken this sudden twist. “I guess I was thinking this is the sort of thing that adults handle.”
“Maybe,” Sobelman said. “When there is no other choice, maybe you will have to enlist your father’s help. But if that is your first response, what have you learned from this experience? Rather than standing up yourself and saying this is wrong, and maybe suffering personal consequences, you’d rather some higher authority do it for you. Count on the government, perhaps, to make those tough decisions that you don’t want to really know about. Just so long as the streets are safe at night and the trains run on time, eh? Oh, and of course, hope that when the crisis has passed, the government remembers to return your rights to you.”
Zak nodded. “Right, so we don’t tell Dad,” he said. “Maybe I can talk to Max and Chase and get them to lay off… if Esteban comes back.” He looked for approval from Sobelman. “How’s that?”
Sobelman smiled and patted his hand. “You do what you think is right; you’re almost a man now. But remember what I told you about the bar mitzvah being more than a right of passage. It is the day you become morally responsible for your actions in the eyes of God and man.”
Zak sighed. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”
15
Although it was only midmorning, Monday already promised to be an unseasonably warm day in the Bronx. It showed in the desultory attitudes of the youths hanging out on the northwest corner of Mullayly Park as they stopped talking and watched the attractive white woman approach.
She was petite but otherwise unremarkable, except that she was walking a dog that easily weighed as much as she did and looked like it could eat the local pit bulls for snacks. The youths hoped the pair would pass on by, but instead the woman and her dog walked right up to them.
“Are you Raymond?” she asked a tall black kid in front of the group.
“Who wants to know?” Raymond replied, trying to hold his ground and not look intimidated while keeping an eye on the dog, who he thought was staring at him like he was a leg of fried chicken.
Marlene noted the look and smiled. Walk softly, she thought, but with a big dog, especially in the Bronx.
It had been nearly a week since her meeting with Alejandro Garcia and Amelia Acevedo. She had been able to meet with Felix the following day in the company of Alea Watkins, who looked like an English teacher but fought in the courtroom like a barroom bouncer. She’d listened to Marlene’s presentation and then said she’d be happy to take the Manhattan case. In the meantime, Marlene would work as a private investigator for Felix.
After his indictment, Felix Acevedo had been transferred from the Bronx jail to the Tombs, otherwise known as the Manhattan House of Detention for Men, which was situated at the northern end of the Criminal Courts Building complex. It was a massive gray building; if the exterior was cheerless and imposing it was even more oppressive within its cold stone walls, steel gates, and cell bars.
Marlene had wrinkled her nose at the smell of the place as she and Watkins passed through security and were escorted to an interview room. It smelled of unwashed bodies, splashed urine, industrial-strength cleansers, and the acrid aroma of fear.
Some of the latter was coming from Felix, who was waiting for them seated in a chair on the other side of a table. His head was down and he did not look up when they entered.
“Hello, Felix, my name is Marlene Ciampi and this is Alea Watkins,” she said, standing before him. “Your mother has asked Ms. Watkins to represent you for your case in Manhattan and I’m going to help look into the allegations. I’m a friend of Alejandro Garcia, so I hope you’ll trust me and tell us the truth no matter what.”
At the mention of his mother and Garcia, Felix looked up hopefully. It was then that the women saw that behind his thick glasses his left eye was swollen shut by an ugly purple bruise, and his upper lip appeared to have been split, requiring several stitches to close.
“Did that happen in here?” Watkins asked as they sat down across from him. The young man nodded. “Do you know who did it?” He dropped his eyes and didn’t answer. “Are you afraid you’ll get hurt if you tell us?” He nodded.
Watkins and Marlene exchanged glances. “We’ll see if we can get you moved to a safer place,” Watkins said. “In the meantime, are you okay with me representing you?”
Acevedo shook his head. “My dad will be angry.”
The statement caught the women off guard. “Because you’ve been arrested?” Watkins asked.
Felix shook his head again. “Because lawyers cost money.”
The women smiled. “That’s okay, Felix,” Watkins said. “We’re going to help you for free. All you have to do is tell us the truth. Remember, we’re your lawyers; anything you tell us is a secret and we won’t tell anyone else without your permission.”
Acevedo looked troubled. “I told the truth but they didn’t believe me.”
“Who didn’t believe you?” Marlene asked.
“The detectives.”
Marlene leaned across the table. “Were you telling the truth when you said you killed Dolores Atkins, Olivia
