They are driving home from the Angels game, Dick smiling from the passenger seat of Steve’s rental car as Jim retells the story of the Cubs’ season-ending loss. Though they didn’t come out on top, Jim hit a double and snagged a fly ball, so it was an amazing final game.
True to his word, Steve got VIP treatment at the ballpark, and they spent over half the game in the announcer’s booth with Mike Mitchell. Jim even got to say, “Play ball!”
It was an amazing experience, and Jim and Jesse really connected. Since the divorce, the cousins haven’t gotten together, and even before that, Caroline despised going to Independence and Dee wasn’t a fan of Caroline, so the kids rarely saw each other. Jesse and Jim are only a year apart, and neither has a brother, and Dick wonders if maybe this could be the start of something deeper between them. After the third inning, Jim asked if Jesse could spend the night at the house for a sleepover, and Dick agreed.
They get to Caroline’s, and the boys climb out.
“Later,” Jim says.
“Peace out,” Jesse says with a peace symbol.
Steve huff-laughs, and Dick smiles.
The car door closes, and Steve says, “How about a drink?”
The last thing Dick wants is to have a drink with FBI Agent Steve Patterson. The entire night, despite appearances, tension pulsed between them. The day after they met at Dee’s, Steve sent a text confirming that the strange vibe Dick felt wasn’t imagined.
Dick chose not to respond, and yesterday Steve followed up with another message:
Dick thought long and hard about how to answer and finally texted back:
“There was this place somewhere around here where Mike took me once. It has a kazillion beers on tap,” Steve says.
“Henry-N-Harry’s,” Dick says, the bar legendary.
“Yeah. That’s the place.”
Dick directs him to the old saloon, and they take two stools at the mostly empty bar. A sign above the mirror says, “141 beers on tap,” and Dick studies it for a moment, wondering what made them stop at 141. Why not go for 150? Or stop at a clean 100?
“What’s your poison?” Steve asks.
With 141 selections to choose from, it seems like a loaded question. Normally, he orders Miller. Lately, he’s been drinking Miller Lite. He sees one called “Hoppy Ending” and, hoping it’s an omen, chooses it. Steve smiles, then orders an Arrogant Bastard, and Dick smirks back.
“So, Dick,” Steve says after their beers are delivered. “I have a problem.”
Dick knows what Steve’s problem is but doesn’t help him out. Turning his beer in his hands, he says nothing.
“The problem I have is I know about Otis, and I know about Shea.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick says.
Steve’s eyes lock on Dick’s. “Let’s not do that, okay? Just say nothing, and I’ll fill in the rote lies for myself. I’m not looking for a confession. I’m just going to tell you the situation in the hopes that you and I can come to an understanding.”
Dick takes a sip of his beer, Hoppy Ending surprisingly smooth.
“The thing is, I’m in love with your sister, and your sister loves you.”
Dick startles. While he knew Steve and Dee were seeing each other, he had no idea it was already that serious.
“Otis I get. You were protecting your sister and Jesse. But what I’m worried about is that you’re now on some sort of crusade.”
Crusade? The word sounds warriorlike and not at all like what this is, which is more like a concerned bystander noticing an accident about to happen and doing what he can to stop it.
“All I want,” Steve goes on, “is your assurance that this is where it ends, and that from here on out, you’ll go back to doing your job and leaving the cops to do theirs.”
“Unfortunately they can’t,” Dick blurts, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them.
Steve lifts a brow.
Dick’s given so much thought to this it’s like there’s a pressure cooker inside his head.
“The law, as it stands,” he says, “makes it so the cops can’t do anything about men like Otis or Shea.” His heart tightens as it does each time he thinks about Willy and Germaine. “Our system is founded on the principle of presumed innocence, and it allows forgiveness for past mistakes. It’s what makes America great but also what leaves it vulnerable. The police can’t track down a threat and eliminate it. They can only react to a crime after it’s been committed.”
It’s very small, but Dick watches as Steve’s left eye twitches, the smallest tell that he might not entirely disagree.
But when he responds, it’s to say, “And you think rogue justice is the answer? No trial. Guilty by presumption?”
“More like suspicion by assumption,” Dick says. “A rational monitoring of an abhorrent segment of society that’s already proven to be a danger.”
“Abhorrent?” Steve says, his voice pitching high and losing some of its cool. “You do realize not every sex offender is abhorrent? Some are good people who just made a mistake or did something stupid. And some are extremely remorseful?”
“Agreed. Which is why you don’t presume them guilty as you said. But you also don’t ignore the statistics and the known pathologies or fail to recognize that there are men who are predators, raptors without conscience who, once released, will inevitably prey again.” He feels his own emotions rising and works to tamp them down. “And therefore, you watch them, and if they exhibit predatory behavior, you stop them.”
“By killing them?”
“Shea was arrested.”
Steve squints hard. “So your argument is that any average Tom, Dick, or Harry should be able to take it upon themselves to follow any released felon they think might commit a crime and deal with them as they see fit?”
“Not exactly,” Dick says, then stops himself from going deeper into the analysis he created. “But since the law is powerless to stop high-probability threats from manifesting into heinous, violent crimes, then yes, it makes sense for there to be monitoring and possible action outside the law.”
Steve shakes his head. “Could you imagine the anarchy that would lead to? It would be open hunting season on ex-felons.”
“Only if the rogue justice, as you call it, was widespread and if its enforcement wasn’t moral, judicial, and careful. Which, in the instances of Otis and Kevin Shea, it was. Otis was going to hurt Jesse. Kevin Shea had two dead boys in a freezer.”
“And now, because of that, you’ve anointed yourself rebel enforcer of justice and moral righter of wrong? That’s ludicrous!”
Dick looks hard at his beer as he tries to figure out a way to explain it.
“My whole life,” he says, “as far back as I can remember, I’ve watched as bad things have happened around me, feeling like I had no control. Then, out of nowhere, Otis became my burden. No one else could do anything about it, so there was no choice but to do something myself. And yes, that changed things, made me realize I have more power than I believed.”
He stops, frustrated with his inability to express himself more clearly.
Finally, he says, “Tell me, do you believe in God?”
Steve tilts his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it much, but I suppose I hope He exists.”
Dick nods. “Before all this, I couldn’t convince myself of some higher, all-powerful force looking down on us and controlling the minutiae of the world, or that anything so magnificent would give a crap about me and my petty existence.” He looks up at the massive chalkboard with the 141 different beers, then back at his nearly empty Hoppy Ending. “But now, I know I was wrong.”
“So you’re doing this because you’ve found God?”
Dick shakes his head. “The opposite. I realize now, I was right. God is not some supreme Buddha sitting on a heavenly perch passing judgment and hurling lightning bolts of mercy or penance at his flock. He’s not that at all. He is the mundane and the ordinary, the everyday and the unremarkable. He is everything. But mostly, He is you and me and every other trapped soul walking this earth trying to do right. Some might call it morality. I call it the collective human spirit of good that stands up against that which is not, whether through kindness, good deeds, or noble actions that stretch beyond our individual selves. It is the all-powerful, irrepressible shared conscience within us that dictates that we be accountable for our actions and hold others accountable for theirs. Maybe what I’m doing is a crusade, as you called it, or maybe it’s even a calling. Call it what you like, but now I believe.”