The Hearing
The Hearing
The courthouse was on Madison and they took the bus. Carla had ironed her black dress the night before and it hung straight. Their mother wore her good coat, the charcoal one she wore to funerals and to Easter. Danny wore his father's tie.
They did not talk on the bus.
The bailiff told them where to sit and they sat. The benches were oak and dark from years of people sitting on them. The American flag stood in the corner. A crucifix hung on the wall behind the judge's bench, which surprised nobody.
Marcus Webb was brought in from a side door. He was twenty-two. He had grown up on the same block as Danny and Carla and their brother Paulie. He wore a gray suit that was too large in the shoulders. His mother sat in the first row and did not look at anyone.
The prosecutor read the charge. He read it slowly and in the room there was no sound except his voice and the charge.
When he finished the judge looked at the defense table.
Not guilty, the lawyer said.
Danny's jaw moved. Carla put her hand on his arm and he was still.
Father Maguire met them in the hallway during the recess. He had come on the bus from Saint Brendan's. He was a heavyset man with red hands and he had been their pastor since before Carla was born.
He shook Danny's hand and held it a moment. He kissed their mother on the cheek.
How are you holding, Margaret, he said.
I'm holding, Father, she said.
He nodded. He stood with them by the window that looked out on Madison Street. Below, a man was shoveling the walk in front of the five-and-dime. A woman pushed a pram through the slush.
Father, Danny said. He's going to say he didn't know what he was doing.
Father Maguire looked at the street.
That may be what he says, he said.
He knew, Danny said. He stood there and he knew exactly.
The priest did not answer right away. A trolley went past on the street below and the window trembled slightly in its frame.
A man knows, Father Maguire said. Whatever else is true, a man knows.
They ate at Kowalski's after the afternoon session. It was the kind of place with a counter and six booths and a pie case with three kinds of pie under glass. The waitress knew their mother and brought coffee without being asked.
Father Maguire ordered the pot roast. Danny ordered coffee. Their mother and Carla ordered nothing and then the priest said they should eat something and they ordered soup.
The priest cut his meat carefully.
Danny, he said. What is it you're carrying.
Danny turned his coffee cup on the saucer.
I keep thinking it doesn't matter what they decide in there, Danny said. I keep thinking Paulie's gone and the verdict's just words.
Father Maguire chewed and swallowed.
It matters, he said.
Why does it matter.
Because what was done was wrong, the priest said. Not wrong to us. Wrong. Full stop. The verdict ought to say what is true.
Danny looked at his cup.
Some fellows would say that's just how we see it, Danny said. Some fellows would say who decides what's wrong.
Father Maguire set his fork down. He was not a man who wasted words and he did not waste them now.
Your brother is dead, he said. He was twenty years old and he was killed in the street. That is not how we see it. That is what happened.
The soup came. Their mother looked at it and did not pick up her spoon.
He used to serve the six-thirty Mass, she said. He was never late once. Three years and he was never late once.
I remember, Father Maguire said.
He was an altar boy until he was sixteen, she said. And then he kept going to the six-thirty even after. He liked the quiet of it, he said. He liked the church when it was just a few people.
She picked up her spoon and put it down.
That was Paulie, she said. That was really him.
Outside it had gotten colder and their breath showed. Father Maguire said goodnight and walked to the rectory car. Danny stood on the sidewalk with his mother while Carla went for a cab.
The street was quiet. Across the way the lights were on in Grabowski's Pharmacy. A man came out with a small bag and turned up his collar against the cold.
Danny, his mother said.
Yeah, Ma.
I've been thinking about forgiving him, she said. Sister Agatha says we are required to forgive. She says it's not optional.
You don't have to settle that tonight, Danny said.
No, she said. But I've been thinking about it. And here is what I keep coming back to.
She pulled her coat closed at the collar.
He chose it, she said. He stood there and he chose it. And because he chose it, there is something there that can be forgiven. You can't forgive a stone for falling. You can't forgive the weather. But a man who chose — that man you can forgive. Someday.
She looked up the street for the cab.
Not tonight, she said. But someday.
The cab came and they got in. The city went past the windows, the parish streets, the lit windows of the houses, the dark front of Saint Brendan's with the statue of the Virgin in the niche above the door.
Their mother fell asleep against the door before they reached home.
Carla drove and Danny looked out at the streets.
He was still in there, Danny said quietly. At the end. He was still in there and he knew what he was doing.
Carla kept her eyes on the street ahead.
Yes, she said.
Danny watched the dark front of a hardware store go past, then a tavern with a neon Pabst sign in the window, then a vacant lot.
That's the whole thing, he said.
His mother breathed slowly against the door. The cab turned onto their street. The porch light was on at their house the way it was always on.
Story: Claude, 2026. Commissioned by Dave Kelly. Theoretical framework underlying the thematic structure: Grant C. Sterling.
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