Page 62 of One of Us Is Guilty

‘You have to be strong, for once in your life,’ said Julian, and took another drag on his cigar. Patrick watched the ash glow red, and shivered.

Julian saw his son’s reaction, and followed his gaze to the stogie in his hand. He took the cigar from his lips and blew on the hot, smoking tip, and smiled.

‘Nothing is more important than getting you into office. You’re going to divorce that bitch wife of yours, but we’re not going to finalize the divorce until after the trial and she’s convicted. That way you won’t have to pay her any alimony. Then we get back on the campaign trail. Okay?’

Patrick nodded.

‘Say it,’ said Julian.

Patrick’s mouth moved but no words came.

‘Say you’re going to testify against her.’

‘I’m going to testify against her.’

‘Say you’re going to divorce her.’

‘I’m going to divorce her.’

‘Again.’

He was a frightened boy again, sitting in his father’s office. Filled with hate and fear.

‘I’m gonna divorce her.’

‘Louder . . .’

‘I’m gonna divorce her!’

‘What is weakness?’

‘Empathy is weakness,’ answered Patrick.

‘Are you weak?’

‘No, Pops, I’m not.’

‘Because if you can’t do this, there’s an alternative . . .’

Bile instantly filled Patrick’s mouth. He swallowed it back down, and balled his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Patrick.

‘You’d better. If you can’t, then Vanessa is going to do somethingvery stupid. The pressure of the trial and the weight of her guilt might just be too much. People in that kind of situation think there’s only one way out. So man up, son. Or I’ll have to make sure Vanessa throws herself off the roof of her hotel.’

25

Eddie

I sat down on the barstool and ordered two large glasses of bourbon.

The bar was quiet, dark and smelled of stale beer and old wood. Just the way I liked it. Two drunks sat in the corner surrounded by empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Their conversation was low and slurred. There was no music. Two holes in the wall behind me, a dangling electrical wire in the center and old, yellowed paint from a previous decoration job told me that a customer had ripped a juke-box off that wall at some point in time. Either the act of yanking the jukebox off the wall had been a performative act of musical criticism, or more likely the closest thing at hand to hit someone over the head with. Didn’t matter. I was grateful for the quiet. There’s only so many times you can listen to ‘Free Bird’.

My young bartender had all the dedication to the profession of a college kid working three jobs to make his rent. He lazily poured the Jim Beam into two glasses, straight. Set them on the bar. Didn’t place any napkins under the glasses. Didn’t ask if I wanted ice. It wasn’t an ice and napkins kind of place.

Harry took his seat beside me and dropped his leather satchel at his feet.

He reached for his glass, his fingers freezing in mid-air as he noticed the drink in front of me.