Breach of Trust

82

Hector answered on the second ring. “Hey,” he said, clearly relieved to hear from me. “I talked to Carl. I heard about, y’know, what happened.”

“I figured.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to stick around, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, a little more specificity would’ve been nice, Hector.”

“Carl feels terrible. He’s really embarrassed.”

“It’s fine, Hector.”

“Listen-this is something you can keep to yourself, right? I mean, you can keep this a secret?”

That, clearly, was the purpose of the call, not the apology.

“Who would I tell?”

“I know,” he said, “but Jason, I’m serious here. This kind of thing gets out, it’s over for Carl. He’s finished.”

In this day and age? “Oh, come on,” I said, but I was reconsidering my reaction before I’d finished speaking. In many contexts, it seemed like it had become downright fashionable to swing from the other side. But, now that I thought about it, what was true for movie stars or baristas at Starbucks might not be true for governors of large Midwestern states. There wasn’t exactly a sea full of outwardly gay politicians anywhere, actually. There had been the governor out east, Jersey I think, who’d held that press conference to out himself, but that presser was quickly followed by a resignation. Maybe that old line was still true, the only things that will end your political career are being caught in bed with a dead girl or a live boy.

“You have to tell me that you understand what I’m saying,” said Hector.

“I thought I already did.”

Silence. Then, “Tell me what you want, J. You can have whatever you want. Seriously.”

“I want the vacancy on the supreme court,” I said.

“The sup-” He spent a moment with that, to my surprise. “I mean, that’s pretty-could we talk about the appellate court maybe?”

“Hector, I’m kidding. A Porsche 944, yellow with black interior, will be more than enough.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“I can see that.”

“Jason. Jason. You understand, you’re holding his whole political future in your-”

“I understand you’re serious, Hector. I’m not going to mention this to anybody, all right? I’m probably more embarrassed than he is.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

In the background on Hector’s side of the phone call, there was the sound of something breaking, a glass it sounded like, followed by cussing. Hector covered the phone and said something I couldn’t make out, save for the scolding tone. The voice of the person cussing was a man’s voice.

Right. Those of us on Hector’s defense team had always suspected; Lightner had been absolutely sure of Hector’s sexual preference. And now I had a much more informed idea why Hector was so close to Governor Snow. I’d always thought it was window dressing for Latino voters. Instead, it seemed they shared a common trait. I wondered if there was any kind of relationship between the two of them, but it was hard to imagine. More than likely, they were just two very public men who bonded over a shared, very private personal predilection.

Yesterday, I thought maybe I knew one gay politician; now I was sure I knew two.

“Hector, no bullshit, I wouldn’t-”

My throat closed involuntarily. I couldn’t finish the sentence. My heart started racing, my instincts outpacing my brain.

I asked myself a simple question, and I thought I knew the answer.

“You still there?” Hector said. “Hello?”

I braced my arm on the kitchen counter and played it out in my head.

Hector said, “I told Carl, if there was anyone I knew who could keep a secret, it was you. So I’m not gonna be wrong about that, am I? Jason. Am I gonna be wrong?”

I couldn’t speak, or at least I couldn’t focus on what Hector was saying. My mind was spinning now, trying to build a story, layer one fact upon another.

“Let’s talk first thing in the morning? Okay, Counselor? Sound like a plan? Let’s have breakfast at Apple Jacks, eight-thirty. Carl’s going to make this up to you, Jason, I’ll make sure of it. Okay?”

I didn’t reply. I killed the cell phone and paced the kitchen, playing a game of what-if in my mind, recognizing holes in my logic but feeling in my gut that I could plug them up with additional information.

I tried it from different angles, questioning myself, playing devil’s advocate, but I kept coming to the same conclusions. I was short on a couple of facts but I knew they were true, even if I didn’t know. I was sure of it.

I felt my senses slowing, my mind shifting to a dead-alert focus. My limbs were trembling with rage.

What do you plan to do when you figure it out? Essie Ramirez had asked me.

So what’s the plan, J? Joel Lightner had said. When you figure out who killed Ernesto? You going to kill that person?

I felt everything break down, all of the walls I’d built up crumbling like a house of cards. Maybe that was a good analogy. Maybe I’d been kidding myself that I could get past this. I thought I’d done so. I thought I’d moved on. I missed my wife and daughter, but I was putting it behind me. I told myself the guilt I felt would ultimately harden, would become a permanent scar but one that would fade with each passing day.

I was backsliding and I didn’t care. How familiar and comfortable it felt, the self-destructive rage and bitterness. This is who you are. The guy who picked fights on the schoolyard with guys twice your size. The guy who blew his ride at State, his career in football, just so he could prove to the team captain how tough he was. Wanting to lash out and hurt, fully knowing the hurt would be returned twice over, wanting that hurt, seeking it out.

This is who you are.

I went upstairs to my bedroom. In the closet, top shelf, I found my old badge from the county attorney’s office. I’d thought I lost it once and had to put in for a replacement. I’d paid a heavy price for doing so-a week’s pay-the prosecutor’s office not having a sense of humor about official badges making their way into the public domain, and when I found it later, my replacement already in my wallet, I figured I’d already paid for the right to keep the original issue. So I did, even when I left my job as an ACA and turned in my replacement badge.

I had a gun, too, which I hardly knew how to use. I’d had the bare amount of training and even spent an afternoon at the FBI shooting range, a Friday perk for us low-paid, hard-working prosecutors, but I hadn’t handled this thing for more than four years and I wasn’t sure I could hit a mountain from a distance of two feet with this weapon at this point.

I didn’t have a plan, either, except that I wasn’t going to wait any longer.

Now I knew. I finally knew. The only remaining question was what I would do about it.