WEDNESDAY MORNING
Charles knocked. He was in his Sunday suit and Dorothy beside him wore a dark, respectable dress.
The door opened. Angelo was dressed in his own best clothes: a buttoned shirt and dark pants, leather shoes and combed hair.
“Are you ready?” Charles asked. Angelo answered by stepping past them and walking down the stairs.
“All rise. This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Glenn Woody presiding.”
“Please sit down.”
Five people sat. Charles and Dorothy were on either side of Angelo, and behind them were Mr. Conway and one other man with a briefcase.
“I will be very brief,” the judge said.
The back door opened.
Karen Liu staggered in. Her pace was slow, her energy dissipated, and her face haggard. There was nothing domineering about her; she looked no larger than she actually was.
“Congresswoman Liu?” the judge said.
“I am very sorry to interrupt,” she said, falling into a seat in the back. “Please go on.”
He did.
“Based on the facts of the initial case against Mr. Acevedo, the original probation arrangement was the minimum sentence the defendant deserved. Without the extenuating circumstance of the offer made by the supervisors, Mr. and Mrs. Beale, Mr. Acevedo would be in prison.
“Because of the special request filed by the Office of Probation, I have ordered a full report by Mr. Conway and by the supervisors. The reports showed good progress in keeping with the expectations of the original probation order.”
He paused and his brow darkened. “I have also reviewed the special brief filed by Congresswoman Karen Liu’s office.” For a few seconds he seemed resolute, but then he sank back in his chair as if he had given up a struggle. When he went on, he was uncomfortable and visibly angry, but defeated; and his eyes were on the congresswoman in the back row.
“Therefore, it is my judgment that Angelo Acevedo will be released from probation. Mr. Acevedo, you have used this rare opportunity that was offered, and you have demonstrated that you are able to act responsibly and participate in society. Congratulations. This hearing is now adjourned.”
Angelo stared.
“He just gave in to her!” Dorothy said, making her own judgments. “We have to talk to him.”
“No, he’s made his decision.” Charles turned to Angelo, and then to Karen Liu, just leaving the room. “Take Angelo home. I’ll be there as quickly as I can to talk with him. But I have to see Karen Liu.”
“Congresswoman.” He caught up with her much easier than the last time, still in the maze of courthouse halls. “Excuse me. We need to talk.”
“I don’t think I can,” she said, and sounded even worse than she looked.
“Then let’s walk first. Do you have some time?”
“I told them I wouldn’t be in today.”
It was still early and they had most of the sunlight to themselves. Charles crossed King Street from the courthouse, and Karen Liu followed. They came to an empty Market Square, the fountains in the wide pool playing and ignored. Self-absorbed City Hall paid them no attention either, but just sat to be watched itself.
The air was still cool. “Let’s sit,” Charles said, and he chose a bench in the sun.
“It’s been very hard on you,” he said, “about Patrick White.”
“Oh, Mr. Beale.” She was close to tears. “It’s not just yesterday. It’s his whole death, all six long months of it.”
“I saw him yesterday morning. He came to the shop.”
“I saw him Sunday,” she said. “He was angry and accusing me of being John Borchard’s tool. He said that to me! He said I was as bad as the rest, as everyone. After all we’ve been through together, those were his last words to me.”
“Is that why you came to Angelo’s meeting Monday?” Charles asked.
“I wanted to prove I could still show compassion. Even if Patrick didn’t think I could, I wanted to prove it to myself.” The political rally cadence emerged, but hollowly. “I will fight for people who are persecuted, who have been imprisoned by their poverty and circumstances. That is why I am here.” But then the platform collapsed and a much weaker voice drifted out of the ruins. “But I can’t fight forever.”
“You’ll get past this.”
“I don’t think so. I want to give up.”
“But you’re a fighter.” They had both been facing forward toward the fountain, but Charles turned to her, eye to eye. “Why would you give up now?”
“He’s beaten me.” She looked down, away from Charles. “Borchard.”
“He is not the one you’re fighting.”
By force of will she regained herself. “You wouldn’t know, Mr. Beale.”
“I would know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know that eight years ago in your first election, someone gave you five hundred thousand dollars. It was illegal.”
“Yes.”
“And I know you’ve been threatened, that if you didn’t do what you were supposed to, you would be exposed. Just like Patrick White.”
“It’s been three years since the first letter. What do you think those three years have been like?”
“I know it’s been very hard.”
“Yes, they have been very hard.” She wasn’t showing weakness now. Her voice was vehement and her expression wild.
“You sound like Patrick White,” Charles said.
“Not yet, Mr. Beale, but I’m getting there.”
“Then I want to ask you some questions, and they’re very important.”
“All right.” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. White said there was someone who would help him against John Borchard. Did he ever tell you that?”
“Yes, he said that to me.”
“Do you know who it was? I even wondered if it was you.”
“It wasn’t me. No, I don’t know who it was.”
“My other question is, how do you know it was John Borchard who was sending you these letters?”
“He made it obvious. Three times when we had conflicts, Derek arranged meetings. Mr. Borchard would say what he wanted in the meeting, and then a few days later I would get a letter. It would threaten me, saying the Washington Post would get copies of my checks if I didn’t cooperate, and it would say what I had to do in the exact words Borchard had used at the meeting.”
“Patrick White went to Derek for help.”
“Yes, and I did, too. He said he would help, but then…”
“Then he was killed.”
“How do you know so much, Mr. Beale?”
“I learned it from Derek.”
“He told you about John Borchard?”
“No.”
A mournful note played. A dozen feet away, a young man had put his lips to an oboe. His eyes closed, he played a slow scale upwards. The oboe case was open on the pavement in front of him for coins.
“But he told you what I told him,” Karen Liu said.
