At two-forty-five in the afternoon, Grace is listening to a boy talking about his father. He hates me. He says I’m only doing this to get back at him. I told him being gay was a helluva way to get back at your father. I told him if I wanted to get back at him, I’d have sold his golf clubs. He smiles. The other kids in the group laugh. He loves his golf clubs more than he loves me.
Andrés Segovia is sitting in a room—two detectives are asking him questions. Why’d you kill him, son? What did he do to you? When did you meet him? Tell us. We could book you. We have enough evidence. A whole shitload of people saw you beat that man with your fists. And he’s dead. We got a coroner’s report that points the finger at you, son. We could take it to the DA right now. Right now. Andrés Segovia looks up at them. So what’s stopping you?
Dave is in court. The jury is in. The head juror says guilty. He utters the word with respect. His client bows his head and whispers, bastards. In his heart, Dave knows his client is guilty. He is wealthy and has paid him top dollar. Top dollar, and today they’ve lost. Guilty. He whispers to his client that they will appeal. And anyway, he thinks, they will suspend the sentence—or most of it. White-collar crime. No one was killed. It was only a few bucks that were stolen. Only money.
Mister is talking to Liz on the phone. “She hated me, Liz.” She’s just angry, Mister. Maybe she has a right to be.
“When do we stop being angry, Liz?”