On the way out the door he got close to Leo and grabbed his forearm.
“It’s a good class,” said Spero. “I’m proud of you.”
“Proud of you,” said Leo.
Getting into his Jeep, parked on 11th, Lucas got a call on his cell.
“Where you at?” said Leo.
“Still outside the school.”
“Ernest Lindsay would like to speak with you.”
“Now?”
“It’s lunchtime, so I’m headed to the teachers’ lounge. You two can use my classroom.”
“What, I gotta go through security again?”
“Stop acting like a little girl.”
Spero got out of his vehicle and headed back toward the school.
ELEVEN
Spero Lucas and Ernest Lindsay sat at one of the long tables in Leo’s classroom. Ernest had begun to eat his lunch from a paper bag. His mom had fixed him a tuna fish sandwich and had included Cheetos, a bottle of water, and an apple she had cut into slices.
“Thanks for coming back,” said Ernest.
“No problem,” said Lucas. “You know I been tryin to get up with you.”
“Sorry. I was kinda rude when I saw you on my street.”
“That’s all right.”
Ernest shifted his weight in his chair. “Did you read that book we were talkin about?”
“I read it a while back. Good stuff.”
“That thing teacher said, about the book being a Western in the dis guise of a crime story?” said Ernest.
“That’s right.”
“Works that way in movies, too.”
Lucas remembered that, the night before, Lisa Weitzman had mentioned that Ernest was a movie lover. He did not know that Leo was pushing him to go to college, get his needed education, make contacts, and move ahead from there, possibly to grad school. Ernest’s grades were excellent, but he was reluctant to leave home, so Leo had suggested he apply to the University of the District of Columbia. It was a start.
“How so?” said Lucas.
“You know that first Man with No Name joint?”
“ A Fistful of Dollars.”
“That was based on a Japanese movie about a samurai. And that one was taken from an old crime story. That Hamlet dude-”
“Hammett. You’re talking about Red Harvest.”
“They made a rack of movies based on that book. Not a one of them gave credit to Hamlet.”
“Hammett.”
“Right.”
“You’re pretty smart, Ernest.”
Ernest smiled shyly. “I’m gonna make movies, Mr. Lucas.”
“Call me Spero.”
“Sayin, I’m going to.”
“No doubt. But you need to get your undergrad work done first. Get yourself a base.”
“I picked up an application from UDC a few days ago.”
“There’s plenty of scholarship money for minority students. It’s lying around, waiting to be used. I bet my brother will help you fill out the forms.”
“My mother will help me.”
“Great.”
“I’ma drop the form back off next week.”
“Do it,” said Lucas. “Don’t wait.”
The room became uncomfortably quiet. A failing fluorescent bulb buzzed steadily overhead. Ernest withdrew the apple slices from his bag and handed one to Lucas. As Lucas ate it, he noticed Ernest staring at him.
“What’s up?” said Lucas.
“I was just wondering. About when you were overseas, in the war.”
Lucas sat back. Instinctively, he folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”
Ernest shifted his weight in his chair. “You hear all kinds of stuff about what got done over there. By our soldiers, I mean. Things that got done to, you know, the people that lived in that country.”
“The civilians,” said Lucas.
“People that weren’t the enemy or terrorists.”
“It happens. Especially in wars that get fought today. Generally you’re not fighting men and women in uniform. Mistakes are made involving citizens. What’s called collateral damage.”
“So you saw civilians bein killed in Iraq?”
Lucas did not answer or gesture with his eyes.
“If you saw something like that,” said Ernest, “would you turn the soldier in who did it?”
Lucas shook his head. It was not a no. He was telling Ernest that the question was unanswerable and maybe out of bounds.
“Okay, then,” said Ernest. “Let me ask you this: You know that soldier who got killed by his own men? The one who played football in the NFL? They got a word for what happened to him.”
“Friendly fire. His name was Pat Tillman.”
“Well, it wasn’t just the generals and the politicians who knew what happened. Some of his friends, the other soldiers, they had to know, too. So why didn’t anyone speak out? Why didn’t anyone come forward and say what went down?”
“It got told eventually.”
“But everyone tried to cover it up at first.”
“I don’t know about that, Ernest. I can’t speak for those who were there.”
“You’re not helping me out here much.”
“Helping you out with what?”
“You’re an investigator. You tried to talk to me, and I think I know what it was about.”
“Well?”
Ernest looked toward the windows and gripped his legs above his knees. “Man, I don’t know.”
“What’s going on with you?”
“I got a problem,” said Ernest.
“What is it?” said Lucas.
Ernest leaned forward. “I saw somethin.”
“I wasn’t at school that day,” said Ernest, after Lucas had helped himself to a couple of water bottles from Leo’s desk drawer and returned with them to the table.
“Were you sick?” said Lucas.
“Nah. My mother works at the GAO, and all her other kids, my brothers and sisters, are grown and out the house.”
“So you cut school. What do you do, bring girls over while your mom’s at work, stuff like that?”
Ernest looked away, mildly embarrassed. “I watch movies on Turner, mostly, like if they’re havin like a festival. Something I really want to see.”
“What were you watching that day? Do you remember?” Lucas wanted to test the young man’s veracity. The TCM schedule for the past month was easy enough to check.
“It was…” Ernest’s brow creased. “It was called The Last Hunt. ’Bout buffalo killings in the West. I hadn’t
