Chapter 31: Sentencing

"There weren't any others," I said.

The prosecutor was quiet on the line.

"Ms. Devlin, she's offering names. Dates. Two men on the foundation's board."

"I don't care what she's offering," I said.

"I counted every dollar that came into that house for twelve years. Every cup, every corner, every envelope."

Dez sat up beside me in the quilt.

"There was one picture on the wall over the money table," I said. "One. In white."

"If anybody else had paid him a dollar, I'd have counted it, and he'd have bragged about it, and I'd tell you the date."

"You're certain."

"I'm more certain of that than I am of my own birthday," I said. "I didn't know my birthday until November."

The radiator knocked.

"She's trying to buy her way out," I said. "It's the only thing she's ever known how to do."

On Monday the government said no.

In February Verity pleaded guilty to everything, without a deal.

Her lawyer had read Uncle's statement.

He'd read the tip line's log, and the assistant's, and the bank's.

There was nothing left to argue about.

Uncle pleaded guilty the same month.

In March he got life.

I didn't go to that one.

I'd already watched him lying on a laundromat floor, and that was the only sentence I needed to see.

Verity's was in April.

The federal courtroom on Dearborn had tall windows, and it was raining against them.

Mom sat between Dad and me in the second row.

Brendan sat on my right.

He'd come to Sunday dinner seventeen weeks in a row.

He'd missed one deal in Denver to do it, and he hadn't mentioned it, so Dad had.

Dez sat behind us in his good jacket.

Every seat in the gallery was full.

The woman with the reading glasses was there.

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