Fic: The Hardest Steps to Take (The First Steps Remix) 2/2
Editor's Note: I frakked up copying and pasting this the first time. I missed key scenes at the end which substantially impact the story. Mea culpa.
“Son of a…” Sam shouts an aborted curse at the pileup of Pyramid players on the wireless screen. “What is wrong with the ref?” he complains loudly. “Tom Barolay is a cheating bastard and a drama queen. How did the ref not see him take a dive? Blue card, my brown Tauron ass.”
“Well, if Latora would play the game with more finesse and less bullying, maybe Barolay wouldn’t be able to so easily take advantage of his nasty reputation to fake fouls,” Evelyn says, pretending to look at the screen, but keeping a corner of her eye on Sam, waiting for his equally faux outrage. It’s a game they play every Saturn’s Day, no matter which team is playing the Bulls that week.
“Brother, seriously!” Sam says, anything but seriously. “How do you let your wife get away with being an Olympia fan? How did you not get a prenup or something you lawyers do to prevent this?”
“What do you mean let her be an Olympia fan?” Joe’s expression is his usual best convince-the-jury deadpan he pulls out for this banter; but there’s truth in his words, and he never would try and convince Evelyn to do something she didn’t believe in.
Larry is smirking behind his ambrosia glass. “Sam, my love,” he says. “you do know she only pretends to give a damn about the Stallions to mess with your head, right?”
Sam ignores his husband for the moment and points the neck of his bottle of Lethe at Evelyn, his tone overly wounded. “You are a traitor to your people, woman-you know that, right?”
“The truth hurts,” Evelyn says loftily and rolls her eyes, so Sam gives up and shifts the bottle to point at his husband.
“You, my love, he says with extra ironic emphasis “wouldn’t have missed the frakking call. You know why? Because not only were you once the finest piece of ass on the Intercolonial Pyramid League’s player roster, you also made a damn fine impartial ref in your day, that’s why.”
Larry grins back, letting slip a tantalizing tidbit gleaned back before he retired from the game eleven years ago. “Well, it also helps that unlike Roland Margitena, I was never secretly a raving C-Bucs fan.”
Sam gasps theatrically. “He could get fired for that! He took an oath!” His eyes squint conspiratorially and he says with overstated sweet talk. “Exactly how do you know that, honey?”
The laughter rolling out of Larry brings a smile to Joe’s face. He experiences a wistful instant of regret Bill doesn’t have a partner like this, someone who brings him pleasure, who takes pleasure in him, who’s got his shit together.
“Don’t even think about it, Sam,” Larry chuckles. “I’ll not have even a mediocre thirty-year career ruined just so you can win a Pyramid bet.”
The halftime horn blares just as Sam mimics looking down at a throwing knife very suddenly embedded in his chest, and Joe laughs out loud this time at his brother’s antics before tapping Evelyn on the shoulder. The two of them rise in unison and glide over to the kitchen to bring out the snacks they’ve prepared.
They return in the middle of an unexpectedly real argument between Sam and Larry.
“I should have never told you about it,” Sam grumbles. His former playfulness has been replaced by defensive sullenness.
“I just asked what the family is doing to help Saul is all!” Larry seems equally triggered into anger. “And what exactly do you mean you never should have told me about it? Would you have let me wait until we came to Solstice Dinner and there was no Saul?”
“Oh come on. Why you gotta give me crap about this, Larry? We got the guy a lawyer, what more do you want?”
Evelyn puts the platter of cheeses and fruits down on the coffee table in between them to try and disrupt their argument, but it’s like stepping in between two cats arguing over territory. They don’t even see her.
“Saul’s a good guy.” Larry’s gaze circles the room. “I know you all don’t like him, but the truth is, I know what it’s like to be him-to be an outsider coming into this family, into this culture. It’s not easy. You all looked at him when he came for the first dinner like he was a germ under a microscope, and then you judged him for having a couple of drinks to feel more comfortable? Think about it!”
“Larry…” Sam lets the single word roll out as a warning, but it’s no use, because Larry has picked one of his rare battles, and soon Joe feels his appeal being turned onto him.
“I never butt my nose in your Ha’la’tha business, Joe, you know that. I understood what the deal was when I married Sam. But this is my only nephew’s happiness we’re talking about. “
“I only have my son’s happiness in mind,” Joe says stiffly. “He would be better off without that man in his life.”
“Saul has problems, but he’s a good man. And Bill loves him like crazy. You can see it in his eyes.” When it has no effect on Joe, he adds, “Come on, Joe. He moved down here for Bill and the boys, even though he loved being in space.”
“He moved down here for unlimited access to booze he couldn’t get up in space.” Sam interrupts with a grimace.
Larry huffs his frustration at the cheap shot, but the horn signaling the beginning of the second half sounds, and everyone turns automatically to the game on the wireless. However, the pleasant mood of the entire room has completely changed, and interest in the game has faded.
“Bill’s never going to find a guy who loves him more.” Larry’s voice soon cuts into the silence again. “The man would do just about anything for Bill.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, still staring at the wireless mindlessly. “Except quit drinking.”
It’s the nuclear option, and Larry can do nothing but look away from his husband. “So you’re just going to let him twist in the wind, then.” The question is directed at Joe.
“You heard Sam. He’s got a lawyer-my best lawyer, in fact. Bill’s nearly thirty. He needs to grow up and start thinking of his kids first. He needs to kick the man out of his life.”
“Loving Saul and thinking of his kids doesn’t have to have a ranking system, Joe.”
“If anyone can give him a fighting chance, Romo can. He’s gotten some of our best soldiers out of some pretty tight spots before. It’s more than Saul deserves, if you ask me.”
Joe realizes he’s feeling the need to justify his actions today. It’s because of the news he got this morning about Saul’s case from his men on the street. He’s been wondering all day what to do about it.
He hasn’t even told Romo. Because Sam’s right: it could be Zak or Lee next time, and maybe he shouldn’t tell Romo, just let Romo do his thing, and if it fails, well then, so be it. The gods will have spoken.
But perhaps it’s old age getting to him, making him soft. Whatever it is, Joe can’t just let it go and let chance take care of matters. After Larry goes early to bed, clearly still angry at Sam for not sticking up for Saul, Joe calls Sam and Evelyn into his study.
“Listen,” Joe tells the two of them as soon as they each choose an upholstered chair done in intricate Tauronese metalwork. They settle their gazes on him in curiosity. “I still think Bill needs to get away from this guy; he’s bad news. But the truth is, he didn’t do what they say he did.”
Evelyn’s eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
He nods. She doesn’t ask how he knows, because she knows Joe doesn’t say something without knowing. “Then why haven’t you told the police?”
“Because we have no idea who did do it.” A sigh presses out of him like wine from a grape. “And this case has been all over the news. Turned out the reason she was even out so late at night was because she was avoiding her father, who liked to beat on her and her mother. The city’s found the mother excellent public housing and her hospital bills are going to be paid for by a foundation someone started. They’ve already raised forty thousand cubits in two days. The public is crazy over this story, and they’re demanding justice.”
“And the police have a nearly guaranteed conviction if they go with Saul, even though he didn’t do it.” She shakes her head back and forth several times. “They don’t want to have to start back from square one.”
“And I don’t want a drunk near my grandchildren,” he replies. “You see my dilemma.”
Sam scratches behind his neck. “Then you could just let things run their course. Problem solved, right?”
Joe shakes his head. “I could. But then there would still be the problem of William.”
A crack of Sam’s knuckles precedes his question: “What problem?”
“Romo’s trying to get Saul to plead guilty, to avoid a trial. I really don’t need the publicity, and William doesn’t need it either. But if Saul goes for the jury trial…”
“Bill will try to save him,” Evelyn says.
“If there is a trial, he’ll be there every day in the courtroom. When the media sees him there, along with Romo, someone’s going to put together who Saul is to us before long.”
“You’re afraid of what Fidelia is going to say.” Sam nods with sudden understanding.
Four years ago, Joe’s son joined the Colonial military, one of several historic oppressors who sent in troops to help the government suppress the Ha’la’tha. “I paid a heavy price with the Guatrau for letting William join the Colonial military and doing nothing. I’ve only just rebuilt myself back up in her eyes.“
Evelyn presses a kiss to her husband’s temple. “The irony of this situation is, Joe, our son is just like you.” She gives him a sad smile. “Nothing you say will convince him not to stand by Saul if there’s a trial.”
“I know.”
“What if Saul wasn’t a drunk?” Sam asks. His voice is thoughtful, like he’s in the middle of formulating an idea, a plan. Joe can almost hear the gears coming unstuck in his brother’s brain, turning faster and faster until the teeth suddenly click and lock into place.
“The arraignment’s tomorrow, right?” Sam says. “I know what to do. Can you call the prosecutor at home this late?”
***
By the morning of the arraignment, Saul thinks he might die.
He’s admitted to himself by now he needs the liquor, but it took forty-eight hours without a drop to really understand his body was actually physically addicted to this stuff. He only realizes today just how much he was clinging to the notion he could stop anytime, he had power over the booze. He’s got chills, and it feels like someone took a hammer to every part of his body.
When Lampkin arrives at his cell in the morning with Saul’s dress blues, he’s completely unable to hide his shock at how much Saul looks like utter shit.
“Well, let’s hope the uniform helps,” he says grimly.
He’s beginning to see his situation as indeed just punishment, whether or not he ran over the girl. “I wanna do the plea,” he says in a rush, before he can change his mind.
“You want to plead guilty?” There’s something faint in the man’s demeanor telling Saul Lampkin’s not exactly pleased about Saul’s decision, but does feel something akin to satisfaction.
He still hasn’t heard anything from Bill. “Yeah,” he says with a shudder.
Bill is not at the arraignment either, which both saddens and relieves Saul; he’s not sure he could hold it together for this if he caught sight of Bill’s expression, be it stoic or disappointed, or angry…
But he does recognize one person in the back pews, much to his surprise. Although when he stops to think about it, perhaps it makes a lot of sense. Bill’s uncle Sam Adama has placed himself as close as possible to the door. Nothing is a coincidence with Sam, so he wonders what he’s doing here. Maybe he’s keeping tabs on Saul. Maybe he just wants to see if Joe’s crazy lawyer is getting the job done.
“What happens now?” he whispers at Lampkin as they settle into the defense table and Lampkin arranges his belongings.
Lampkin shrugs in the frustrating noncommittal way Saul is already used to. “The judge is a pretty tough one,” he says in an undertone. “He’ll start with confirming everyone’s identity, and then he’ll read the charges. And then he’s gonna ask how you plead, which is your cue.”
The next two to three years of Saul’s life unfold in his mind, and he tries to imagine himself in jail; at least it’ll force him to quit the sauce. That’s one silver lining.
He looks around one more time futilely for Bill. Of course he’s not there. But he does accidentally catch Bill’s uncle’s gaze, and the man gives him a grim smile. Saul scowls and turns away.
The judge begins by calling the names of both the prosecutor and the defense lawyers, and asks them to confirm their identity. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s get going.” He begins to read the charges, and Saul holds his breath, getting ready for the question: how do you plead?
“Your Honor…” the prosecutor interrupts, and Saul can’t believe his ears.
Did the prosecutor just say the state was withdrawing the charges? Lampkin takes in a sharp breath too, and Saul realizes he didn’t know this was coming either.
“Yes, your Honor,” the prosecutor says. “We are dismissing the charges due to lack of compelling evidence, and also because another suspect has emerged, whom we apprehended late last night. Under questioning , he confessed to the crime.” The prosecutor looks sheepish. “He’ll be appearing on tomorrow’s docket, your Honor.”
The judge picks up a different piece of paper and examines it. Saul watches the judge’s hand curl and uncurl slightly, as if suppressing the formation of a fist. He acknowledges the changes with a curt nod. “And why, then, may I ask, are we here wasting the court’s time today, Counselor?”
“It was out of my control, your Honor. This all happened at the last possible minute; we didn’t have time to change the docket.”
After a pause, the judge looks up from the paperwork and with a few words uttered with bored annoyance, declares Saul a free man. “You’re a very lucky man to have Mr. Lampkin as your attorney, Mr. Tigh,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. Saul can’t tell if it means Lampkin would have sucked, or he knows the guy is one of Joe’s gang lawyers, which Lampkin is.
“What just happened in there?” he asks Lampkin as they walked out. The ruling has taken everyone by surprised, and the bored journalists outside scramble around them to ask questions and shape a new story before deadline.
Lampkin is gruff and closemouthed, and Saul gets no answers. “You heard the same as me,” he says. “If I were you, I’d ask your guardian angel in the back about it.” His voice has a similar depth of bored annoyance as the judge’s.
“Guardian angel? Hell, I thought Sam Adama just came to watch me go down in flames.”
At that, Lampkin gives him a quizzical look. Saul shrugs. “What else makes sense? Joe paid for you to defend me out of loyalty to his son, but he has zero love for me. I figure he sent his brother to personally make sure I got what I deserved. Or maybe he means to get me off for the sake of his reputation, follow me home afterward, and then off me.”
Lampkin doesn’t comment. With a surprised harrumph and a parting shake of the hand, the man is soon gone from his life.
He loses sight of Sam the Ha’la’tha hitman too, which he supposes is part of the man’s job. For a moment, he chuckles mirthlessly at the singsong rhyme he just made up, like a children’s verse-Sam, the Ha’la’tha hitman. Then he seriously wonders if he’s going to die tonight with one of Sam’s knives in his chest. He’s covered in clammy sweat, sick to his stomach, and so covered in aches and pains from the withdrawal, it’s like the flu times a hundred. And even though he’s been exonerated, he still knows he lied to Bill about the drinking and driving, and now Bill will never talk to, never mind trust, Saul again.
A knife in the chest would be a more merciful way to go, he thinks.
***
When Joe picks up the extension in his office an hour after Saul’s arraignment, Romo doesn’t even bother with a greeting, he’s so pissed.
“You know, it would have been nice of you to tell me before I get to court you were pulling a Ha’la’tha favor from the prosecutor.” His words drip with sarcasm Joe ignores. When he doesn’t say anything at first, Romo adds, “I saw your brother in the back of the courtroom.”
Joe coolly chooses his remark to take his brilliant ex-student down a notch or two. “Your exorbitant fees preclude the need for niceness,” he says. “I pay you to work your legal miracles, Romo, not give me lessons in manners. ”
There is silence on the other end of the line. Joe is about to hang up on him when he hears the click and slight hiss of a cigarette lighter igniting. “All right, I’ll admit it. At least give me this one: who was this convenient confessor then? Who did you screw over so your son’s drunken boyfriend is free to run over more children?”
Joe notices the sarcasm has no heat behind it. He’s more angry about not being informed than actually morally offended.
“He didn’t run over the girl,” Joe tells him anyway. “We had people in the area who saw Saul drive himself home without incident.
“Then who did run her over?”
“Unknown.”
One of the reasons Joe is so secretly proud of his former student is his powers of observation and his ability to connect the dots. It’s nearly uncanny. It’s often annoying. But it’s always reliable.
“So the cops won’t give up on Saul, even if he didn’t do it, unless they’ve got someone else to railroad,” he says.
“One of our soldiers owed a sizable gambling debt he had foolishly incurred. We paid it off in exchange for his confession. This way justice is done, the police are happy, and a gambler who was facing mortal danger from one of our competitors for not paying his debts has learned a valuable lesson without paying an unfortunate penalty.
“Does Saul know he didn’t do it? Because last I saw him, he still wasn’t sure what happened.”
Joe picks up a draft letter to a client from his secretary and idly edits it. “Do you really care about Saul Tigh?”
Romo sighs. “No, but it does feel a little cruel. He saw Sam in the courtroom, too, you know. He thinks Sam’s coming for him tonight.”
Joe shrugs although Romo can’t see. “Can’t hurt for him to get a fear of the gods in him.” In truth, he’s surprised Saul hit it so right on the money. If Saul doesn’t make the right choice tonight, Joe’s not going to stand by and watch his grandchildren die in a flaming car wreck because he was too sentimental to do what needed to be done to take care of family.
“You’re a bastard when it comes to this Tauron shit, Joe. You know that, don’t you?”
Joe hangs up the phone without saying good-bye.
***
It’s not a surprise exactly when later the same night, Saul turns around at the sound of a soft noise in the motel room he’s rented for the night and Sam Adama is there at his side, like a grimly smiling ghost.
“This is how you celebrate finding out you didn’t hit the girl?” His reproachful tone refers to the empty ambrosia bottle on the bed right next to Saul. The alcohol has blissfully numbed everything that ails him-the withdrawal symptoms, the fear of death, the shame, and the bittersweet memories of flirting with Bill for the first time in a Picon bar, back when he still used the alcohol as a calibrated tool instead of a blunt instrument he can no longer control.
Saul, gods help him, laughs at the Ha’la’tha hitman, because nothing matters anymore; he’s lost Bill and the boys, and it’s clear he’s been unceremoniously kicked out of their home without a word; and now Sam’s here to finish the process. At least he’ll never have to endure Bill seeing him like this-weak, an utter slave to his addiction.
He talks in a slurred voice, “So I guess you’re here to kill me now.” He hopes the punishment for screwing over a Ha’la’tha family isn’t a long and painful execution.
To his surprise, instead of pulling out something terrifying to skewer Saul with, his would-be uncle-in-law pushes aside the empty ambrosia bottle and sits down on the bed next to him. “That’s not how this has to go,” he says with an unflappable aura Saul will never have. Sam talks on one side of his mouth about killing Saul while at the same time holding a brochure of some kind. He’s talking out the other side of his mouth about second chances. Saul is pretty confused at this point, and the alcohol doesn’t help.
“It’s a real good program.” Sam talks to him with a surprising amount of earnest kindness, and Saul’s pretty sure it’s not the alcohol confusing things, despite how good and drunk he is right now.
“You were never this nice to me when I came over for family parties,” he accuses. “What is this-some kind of cruel Tauron vengeance thing? Get me to beg you to let me live, say I’ll do anything you want, and only then shove the knife in my back?”
Adama’s grim, unaffectionate smile is back, which truth be told, Saul likes better, because at least it’s honest.
“No tricks,” the assassin says with widened arms to show Saul he means him no harm. But it’s confusing, because obviously, he must. “Let’s just say my husband is a wise man and leave it, eh?” He puts a hand on Saul’s shoulder, and Saul is too drunk to navigate sloughing it off without possibly doing something embarrassing as his last moment alive. “Trust me when I say it would be a real good idea if you were to try this program.”
He looks down at the man’s hands instead. “Program?” he echoes.
“I’ve seen a couple of my guys go through it.” Sam’s thick fingers push the brochure into Saul’s hands; Saul lets his bony fingers open to accept it. “They were more at peace with themselves afterward,” Sam says. “And they’ve managed to stay in control now for a long time.”
Saul doesn’t believe in the power of any program to help him. However badly he’s been damaged by his frakked-up childhood, by his bad habits, his inability to stay away from bad choices, he’s pretty sure it’s permanent. He doesn’t see how fixing himself is possible after twenty-seven years of life. But in this brochure Saul looks over with blurred vision is a chance to see Bill one more time, to apologize and give his lover closure, if not give him the Saul Tigh Bill wanted him to be. Saul’s got just enough free will left inside him to do whatever this program tells him to do for the six-to-eight weeks mentioned in the bullet points, if it’ll get him an audience with Bill. He imagines himself holding Bill tight and whispering into his shoulder, I’m sorry for everything. You deserved better. He vows to keep the image in mind for as long as it takes to get access to Bill one last time.
***
When the door to their apartment (no,it’s Bill’s apartment now, he reminds himself) opens, Lee stands behind Bill looking Saul over warily.
I’ve worn your same exact expression, kid, he tells himself, remembering examining his father in this way when he was a child. “Hello, Lee,” his words say, but his eyes try to say, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to make you wear that expression.
The fact Saul could even recognize the expression on Lee’s face as his own is something Saul attributes entirely to the rehab program on Tauron Sam had helped him get into after he hit bottom the night in the motel. They had unearthed a lot of Saul’s childhood memories like this Saul had forgotten because he needed to. He’d been cynical at first about the program’s ability to help him when he’d enrolled, agreeing to it only for the one last chance to see Bill again. But after they helped him get through the withdrawal symptoms and he could think more long-term than his next drink, he’d started trying for real, believing finally in the seriousness of the second chance he was being offered.
“Hi Bill,” he says next, and by those words he means, Thank you for giving me another chance to see you after everything I put you through.
He doesn’t know if Bill realizes it, but Bill replies, “You look good,” which Saul takes to mean, Don’t try and make your case yet for why we should be a couple again, but I’m willing to consider it.
“I feel good,” he says. Those words have no subtext; he just means what he says. He hasn’t been able to say those words truthfully without alcohol in his system for a long, long time.
He follows Bill’s eyes tracking down from his eyes to his neck, where Saul now bears a tattooed symbol. “I asked for them. It took some convincing, because they don’t usually do it with outsiders. But they rarely have outsiders at this clinic, either. They told me in Tauronese this one means ‘hardship’.
It was one they gave him after he’d spent a month sober. “The other one means ‘persistence’.” he says.
Bill just nods, his eyes nearly as wide as those on Zak, who has come over to join Lee. “Now you look like Dad and Uncle Sammy,” he says, then turns to his father. “Can Lee and I get them too?”
Lee’s voice turns all big brother superior. “You don’t want to be marked, Zak,” he says. “They hurt, stupid.” And just like that somehow, the first cracks in the icy awkwardness between him and Bill appear.
“Why don’t you go throw the ball around outside with your brother, Lee?” Bill says, his eyes still fixed on Saul. “Maybe we’ll come join you in a few.”
Saul can see the doubt in Lee’s eyes, the way his gaze lingers on Saul for a few moments longer even as he obeys his father and leads Zak off to the hall closet with all the sports equipment. Zak chatters excitedly about something or other, oblivious to the meaning of the moment, and Lee gets sucked into his mood. Their childish conversation cuts off as they close the front door behind Saul.
“Thanks for letting me come see you,” he tells Bill. The awful night in the motel, the night he’d seen a whole different side to Sam, he had envisioned this reunion much more melodramatically. But the program taught him a lot about how drunks like grand gestures and big speeches a little too much for their own good, and it can get in the way of realistic thinking. This quiet conversation seems more right.
“I’ve missed you.” Bill’s voice is thick with emotion, and it’s the best thing Saul’s heard in months. “You should come home.”
“Yeah?” Saul’s hands twist nervously behind his back as he tries to remember what the program taught him about this moment. Resist the impulse to rebuild your life all at once. Don’t jump forward too fast. The first steps are the most difficult. But he’s got Sam as his sponsor, and Larry told him when they came to visit him in the facility together he’d help him smooth things out with Joe and Evelyn. And someday soon, he’s determined, he and Bill will have a talk about all the things they’ve been hiding from each other for the sake of peace in the relationship.
“I’ve missed you too. A lot. Can I really come home?” He really wants to be here again, as much as the fear of botching it up like his dad did with his family is still there, and this time there’s no booze to numb it over with. “You realize I’m gonna be a lot more boring now.” It’s a joke, but there’s a little bit of real anxiety behind it.
Bill raises his eyebrow. “Boring is really underrated.” He takes Saul’s hand. “Come on,” he says. “Larry’s been teaching the boys his old tricks on the Pyramid court. They’re getting really good. I’m thinking of signing Lee up for the local boys’ league. But my schedule wouldn’t let me be there for all the games. Think you could fill in for the ones I can’t make?”
Saul takes in a deep breath at the ever-so-casually phrased request. “I think I’d like Larry to come with me at first,” he says just as casually. “He’s retired, so I bet he’ll have the time. And he could offer Lee some pro tips for his technique.”
Bill nods slowly, thinking about Saul’s answer. “Makes sense to me. What do you think about asking him at dinner next week end at my father’s house?”
Saul remembers Larry’s promise. “Yeah,” he says tentatively, then after a long moment, adds, “Good idea.”
His body slips into the comfortable nook of Bill’s arm as Bill guides Saul out the door to where the boys are playing around the Pyramid goal post in the front yard. They call out to Bill and Saul, and their boyish yelps of excitement help Saul take the first few steps toward the boys standing waiting on the court.
“Son of a…” Sam shouts an aborted curse at the pileup of Pyramid players on the wireless screen. “What is wrong with the ref?” he complains loudly. “Tom Barolay is a cheating bastard and a drama queen. How did the ref not see him take a dive? Blue card, my brown Tauron ass.”
“Well, if Latora would play the game with more finesse and less bullying, maybe Barolay wouldn’t be able to so easily take advantage of his nasty reputation to fake fouls,” Evelyn says, pretending to look at the screen, but keeping a corner of her eye on Sam, waiting for his equally faux outrage. It’s a game they play every Saturn’s Day, no matter which team is playing the Bulls that week.
“Brother, seriously!” Sam says, anything but seriously. “How do you let your wife get away with being an Olympia fan? How did you not get a prenup or something you lawyers do to prevent this?”
“What do you mean let her be an Olympia fan?” Joe’s expression is his usual best convince-the-jury deadpan he pulls out for this banter; but there’s truth in his words, and he never would try and convince Evelyn to do something she didn’t believe in.
Larry is smirking behind his ambrosia glass. “Sam, my love,” he says. “you do know she only pretends to give a damn about the Stallions to mess with your head, right?”
Sam ignores his husband for the moment and points the neck of his bottle of Lethe at Evelyn, his tone overly wounded. “You are a traitor to your people, woman-you know that, right?”
“The truth hurts,” Evelyn says loftily and rolls her eyes, so Sam gives up and shifts the bottle to point at his husband.
“You, my love, he says with extra ironic emphasis “wouldn’t have missed the frakking call. You know why? Because not only were you once the finest piece of ass on the Intercolonial Pyramid League’s player roster, you also made a damn fine impartial ref in your day, that’s why.”
Larry grins back, letting slip a tantalizing tidbit gleaned back before he retired from the game eleven years ago. “Well, it also helps that unlike Roland Margitena, I was never secretly a raving C-Bucs fan.”
Sam gasps theatrically. “He could get fired for that! He took an oath!” His eyes squint conspiratorially and he says with overstated sweet talk. “Exactly how do you know that, honey?”
The laughter rolling out of Larry brings a smile to Joe’s face. He experiences a wistful instant of regret Bill doesn’t have a partner like this, someone who brings him pleasure, who takes pleasure in him, who’s got his shit together.
“Don’t even think about it, Sam,” Larry chuckles. “I’ll not have even a mediocre thirty-year career ruined just so you can win a Pyramid bet.”
The halftime horn blares just as Sam mimics looking down at a throwing knife very suddenly embedded in his chest, and Joe laughs out loud this time at his brother’s antics before tapping Evelyn on the shoulder. The two of them rise in unison and glide over to the kitchen to bring out the snacks they’ve prepared.
They return in the middle of an unexpectedly real argument between Sam and Larry.
“I should have never told you about it,” Sam grumbles. His former playfulness has been replaced by defensive sullenness.
“I just asked what the family is doing to help Saul is all!” Larry seems equally triggered into anger. “And what exactly do you mean you never should have told me about it? Would you have let me wait until we came to Solstice Dinner and there was no Saul?”
“Oh come on. Why you gotta give me crap about this, Larry? We got the guy a lawyer, what more do you want?”
Evelyn puts the platter of cheeses and fruits down on the coffee table in between them to try and disrupt their argument, but it’s like stepping in between two cats arguing over territory. They don’t even see her.
“Saul’s a good guy.” Larry’s gaze circles the room. “I know you all don’t like him, but the truth is, I know what it’s like to be him-to be an outsider coming into this family, into this culture. It’s not easy. You all looked at him when he came for the first dinner like he was a germ under a microscope, and then you judged him for having a couple of drinks to feel more comfortable? Think about it!”
“Larry…” Sam lets the single word roll out as a warning, but it’s no use, because Larry has picked one of his rare battles, and soon Joe feels his appeal being turned onto him.
“I never butt my nose in your Ha’la’tha business, Joe, you know that. I understood what the deal was when I married Sam. But this is my only nephew’s happiness we’re talking about. “
“I only have my son’s happiness in mind,” Joe says stiffly. “He would be better off without that man in his life.”
“Saul has problems, but he’s a good man. And Bill loves him like crazy. You can see it in his eyes.” When it has no effect on Joe, he adds, “Come on, Joe. He moved down here for Bill and the boys, even though he loved being in space.”
“He moved down here for unlimited access to booze he couldn’t get up in space.” Sam interrupts with a grimace.
Larry huffs his frustration at the cheap shot, but the horn signaling the beginning of the second half sounds, and everyone turns automatically to the game on the wireless. However, the pleasant mood of the entire room has completely changed, and interest in the game has faded.
“Bill’s never going to find a guy who loves him more.” Larry’s voice soon cuts into the silence again. “The man would do just about anything for Bill.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, still staring at the wireless mindlessly. “Except quit drinking.”
It’s the nuclear option, and Larry can do nothing but look away from his husband. “So you’re just going to let him twist in the wind, then.” The question is directed at Joe.
“You heard Sam. He’s got a lawyer-my best lawyer, in fact. Bill’s nearly thirty. He needs to grow up and start thinking of his kids first. He needs to kick the man out of his life.”
“Loving Saul and thinking of his kids doesn’t have to have a ranking system, Joe.”
“If anyone can give him a fighting chance, Romo can. He’s gotten some of our best soldiers out of some pretty tight spots before. It’s more than Saul deserves, if you ask me.”
Joe realizes he’s feeling the need to justify his actions today. It’s because of the news he got this morning about Saul’s case from his men on the street. He’s been wondering all day what to do about it.
He hasn’t even told Romo. Because Sam’s right: it could be Zak or Lee next time, and maybe he shouldn’t tell Romo, just let Romo do his thing, and if it fails, well then, so be it. The gods will have spoken.
But perhaps it’s old age getting to him, making him soft. Whatever it is, Joe can’t just let it go and let chance take care of matters. After Larry goes early to bed, clearly still angry at Sam for not sticking up for Saul, Joe calls Sam and Evelyn into his study.
“Listen,” Joe tells the two of them as soon as they each choose an upholstered chair done in intricate Tauronese metalwork. They settle their gazes on him in curiosity. “I still think Bill needs to get away from this guy; he’s bad news. But the truth is, he didn’t do what they say he did.”
Evelyn’s eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
He nods. She doesn’t ask how he knows, because she knows Joe doesn’t say something without knowing. “Then why haven’t you told the police?”
“Because we have no idea who did do it.” A sigh presses out of him like wine from a grape. “And this case has been all over the news. Turned out the reason she was even out so late at night was because she was avoiding her father, who liked to beat on her and her mother. The city’s found the mother excellent public housing and her hospital bills are going to be paid for by a foundation someone started. They’ve already raised forty thousand cubits in two days. The public is crazy over this story, and they’re demanding justice.”
“And the police have a nearly guaranteed conviction if they go with Saul, even though he didn’t do it.” She shakes her head back and forth several times. “They don’t want to have to start back from square one.”
“And I don’t want a drunk near my grandchildren,” he replies. “You see my dilemma.”
Sam scratches behind his neck. “Then you could just let things run their course. Problem solved, right?”
Joe shakes his head. “I could. But then there would still be the problem of William.”
A crack of Sam’s knuckles precedes his question: “What problem?”
“Romo’s trying to get Saul to plead guilty, to avoid a trial. I really don’t need the publicity, and William doesn’t need it either. But if Saul goes for the jury trial…”
“Bill will try to save him,” Evelyn says.
“If there is a trial, he’ll be there every day in the courtroom. When the media sees him there, along with Romo, someone’s going to put together who Saul is to us before long.”
“You’re afraid of what Fidelia is going to say.” Sam nods with sudden understanding.
Four years ago, Joe’s son joined the Colonial military, one of several historic oppressors who sent in troops to help the government suppress the Ha’la’tha. “I paid a heavy price with the Guatrau for letting William join the Colonial military and doing nothing. I’ve only just rebuilt myself back up in her eyes.“
Evelyn presses a kiss to her husband’s temple. “The irony of this situation is, Joe, our son is just like you.” She gives him a sad smile. “Nothing you say will convince him not to stand by Saul if there’s a trial.”
“I know.”
“What if Saul wasn’t a drunk?” Sam asks. His voice is thoughtful, like he’s in the middle of formulating an idea, a plan. Joe can almost hear the gears coming unstuck in his brother’s brain, turning faster and faster until the teeth suddenly click and lock into place.
“The arraignment’s tomorrow, right?” Sam says. “I know what to do. Can you call the prosecutor at home this late?”
***
By the morning of the arraignment, Saul thinks he might die.
He’s admitted to himself by now he needs the liquor, but it took forty-eight hours without a drop to really understand his body was actually physically addicted to this stuff. He only realizes today just how much he was clinging to the notion he could stop anytime, he had power over the booze. He’s got chills, and it feels like someone took a hammer to every part of his body.
When Lampkin arrives at his cell in the morning with Saul’s dress blues, he’s completely unable to hide his shock at how much Saul looks like utter shit.
“Well, let’s hope the uniform helps,” he says grimly.
He’s beginning to see his situation as indeed just punishment, whether or not he ran over the girl. “I wanna do the plea,” he says in a rush, before he can change his mind.
“You want to plead guilty?” There’s something faint in the man’s demeanor telling Saul Lampkin’s not exactly pleased about Saul’s decision, but does feel something akin to satisfaction.
He still hasn’t heard anything from Bill. “Yeah,” he says with a shudder.
Bill is not at the arraignment either, which both saddens and relieves Saul; he’s not sure he could hold it together for this if he caught sight of Bill’s expression, be it stoic or disappointed, or angry…
But he does recognize one person in the back pews, much to his surprise. Although when he stops to think about it, perhaps it makes a lot of sense. Bill’s uncle Sam Adama has placed himself as close as possible to the door. Nothing is a coincidence with Sam, so he wonders what he’s doing here. Maybe he’s keeping tabs on Saul. Maybe he just wants to see if Joe’s crazy lawyer is getting the job done.
“What happens now?” he whispers at Lampkin as they settle into the defense table and Lampkin arranges his belongings.
Lampkin shrugs in the frustrating noncommittal way Saul is already used to. “The judge is a pretty tough one,” he says in an undertone. “He’ll start with confirming everyone’s identity, and then he’ll read the charges. And then he’s gonna ask how you plead, which is your cue.”
The next two to three years of Saul’s life unfold in his mind, and he tries to imagine himself in jail; at least it’ll force him to quit the sauce. That’s one silver lining.
He looks around one more time futilely for Bill. Of course he’s not there. But he does accidentally catch Bill’s uncle’s gaze, and the man gives him a grim smile. Saul scowls and turns away.
The judge begins by calling the names of both the prosecutor and the defense lawyers, and asks them to confirm their identity. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s get going.” He begins to read the charges, and Saul holds his breath, getting ready for the question: how do you plead?
“Your Honor…” the prosecutor interrupts, and Saul can’t believe his ears.
Did the prosecutor just say the state was withdrawing the charges? Lampkin takes in a sharp breath too, and Saul realizes he didn’t know this was coming either.
“Yes, your Honor,” the prosecutor says. “We are dismissing the charges due to lack of compelling evidence, and also because another suspect has emerged, whom we apprehended late last night. Under questioning , he confessed to the crime.” The prosecutor looks sheepish. “He’ll be appearing on tomorrow’s docket, your Honor.”
The judge picks up a different piece of paper and examines it. Saul watches the judge’s hand curl and uncurl slightly, as if suppressing the formation of a fist. He acknowledges the changes with a curt nod. “And why, then, may I ask, are we here wasting the court’s time today, Counselor?”
“It was out of my control, your Honor. This all happened at the last possible minute; we didn’t have time to change the docket.”
After a pause, the judge looks up from the paperwork and with a few words uttered with bored annoyance, declares Saul a free man. “You’re a very lucky man to have Mr. Lampkin as your attorney, Mr. Tigh,” he says, his voice dripping with irony. Saul can’t tell if it means Lampkin would have sucked, or he knows the guy is one of Joe’s gang lawyers, which Lampkin is.
“What just happened in there?” he asks Lampkin as they walked out. The ruling has taken everyone by surprised, and the bored journalists outside scramble around them to ask questions and shape a new story before deadline.
Lampkin is gruff and closemouthed, and Saul gets no answers. “You heard the same as me,” he says. “If I were you, I’d ask your guardian angel in the back about it.” His voice has a similar depth of bored annoyance as the judge’s.
“Guardian angel? Hell, I thought Sam Adama just came to watch me go down in flames.”
At that, Lampkin gives him a quizzical look. Saul shrugs. “What else makes sense? Joe paid for you to defend me out of loyalty to his son, but he has zero love for me. I figure he sent his brother to personally make sure I got what I deserved. Or maybe he means to get me off for the sake of his reputation, follow me home afterward, and then off me.”
Lampkin doesn’t comment. With a surprised harrumph and a parting shake of the hand, the man is soon gone from his life.
He loses sight of Sam the Ha’la’tha hitman too, which he supposes is part of the man’s job. For a moment, he chuckles mirthlessly at the singsong rhyme he just made up, like a children’s verse-Sam, the Ha’la’tha hitman. Then he seriously wonders if he’s going to die tonight with one of Sam’s knives in his chest. He’s covered in clammy sweat, sick to his stomach, and so covered in aches and pains from the withdrawal, it’s like the flu times a hundred. And even though he’s been exonerated, he still knows he lied to Bill about the drinking and driving, and now Bill will never talk to, never mind trust, Saul again.
A knife in the chest would be a more merciful way to go, he thinks.
***
When Joe picks up the extension in his office an hour after Saul’s arraignment, Romo doesn’t even bother with a greeting, he’s so pissed.
“You know, it would have been nice of you to tell me before I get to court you were pulling a Ha’la’tha favor from the prosecutor.” His words drip with sarcasm Joe ignores. When he doesn’t say anything at first, Romo adds, “I saw your brother in the back of the courtroom.”
Joe coolly chooses his remark to take his brilliant ex-student down a notch or two. “Your exorbitant fees preclude the need for niceness,” he says. “I pay you to work your legal miracles, Romo, not give me lessons in manners. ”
There is silence on the other end of the line. Joe is about to hang up on him when he hears the click and slight hiss of a cigarette lighter igniting. “All right, I’ll admit it. At least give me this one: who was this convenient confessor then? Who did you screw over so your son’s drunken boyfriend is free to run over more children?”
Joe notices the sarcasm has no heat behind it. He’s more angry about not being informed than actually morally offended.
“He didn’t run over the girl,” Joe tells him anyway. “We had people in the area who saw Saul drive himself home without incident.
“Then who did run her over?”
“Unknown.”
One of the reasons Joe is so secretly proud of his former student is his powers of observation and his ability to connect the dots. It’s nearly uncanny. It’s often annoying. But it’s always reliable.
“So the cops won’t give up on Saul, even if he didn’t do it, unless they’ve got someone else to railroad,” he says.
“One of our soldiers owed a sizable gambling debt he had foolishly incurred. We paid it off in exchange for his confession. This way justice is done, the police are happy, and a gambler who was facing mortal danger from one of our competitors for not paying his debts has learned a valuable lesson without paying an unfortunate penalty.
“Does Saul know he didn’t do it? Because last I saw him, he still wasn’t sure what happened.”
Joe picks up a draft letter to a client from his secretary and idly edits it. “Do you really care about Saul Tigh?”
Romo sighs. “No, but it does feel a little cruel. He saw Sam in the courtroom, too, you know. He thinks Sam’s coming for him tonight.”
Joe shrugs although Romo can’t see. “Can’t hurt for him to get a fear of the gods in him.” In truth, he’s surprised Saul hit it so right on the money. If Saul doesn’t make the right choice tonight, Joe’s not going to stand by and watch his grandchildren die in a flaming car wreck because he was too sentimental to do what needed to be done to take care of family.
“You’re a bastard when it comes to this Tauron shit, Joe. You know that, don’t you?”
Joe hangs up the phone without saying good-bye.
***
It’s not a surprise exactly when later the same night, Saul turns around at the sound of a soft noise in the motel room he’s rented for the night and Sam Adama is there at his side, like a grimly smiling ghost.
“This is how you celebrate finding out you didn’t hit the girl?” His reproachful tone refers to the empty ambrosia bottle on the bed right next to Saul. The alcohol has blissfully numbed everything that ails him-the withdrawal symptoms, the fear of death, the shame, and the bittersweet memories of flirting with Bill for the first time in a Picon bar, back when he still used the alcohol as a calibrated tool instead of a blunt instrument he can no longer control.
Saul, gods help him, laughs at the Ha’la’tha hitman, because nothing matters anymore; he’s lost Bill and the boys, and it’s clear he’s been unceremoniously kicked out of their home without a word; and now Sam’s here to finish the process. At least he’ll never have to endure Bill seeing him like this-weak, an utter slave to his addiction.
He talks in a slurred voice, “So I guess you’re here to kill me now.” He hopes the punishment for screwing over a Ha’la’tha family isn’t a long and painful execution.
To his surprise, instead of pulling out something terrifying to skewer Saul with, his would-be uncle-in-law pushes aside the empty ambrosia bottle and sits down on the bed next to him. “That’s not how this has to go,” he says with an unflappable aura Saul will never have. Sam talks on one side of his mouth about killing Saul while at the same time holding a brochure of some kind. He’s talking out the other side of his mouth about second chances. Saul is pretty confused at this point, and the alcohol doesn’t help.
“It’s a real good program.” Sam talks to him with a surprising amount of earnest kindness, and Saul’s pretty sure it’s not the alcohol confusing things, despite how good and drunk he is right now.
“You were never this nice to me when I came over for family parties,” he accuses. “What is this-some kind of cruel Tauron vengeance thing? Get me to beg you to let me live, say I’ll do anything you want, and only then shove the knife in my back?”
Adama’s grim, unaffectionate smile is back, which truth be told, Saul likes better, because at least it’s honest.
“No tricks,” the assassin says with widened arms to show Saul he means him no harm. But it’s confusing, because obviously, he must. “Let’s just say my husband is a wise man and leave it, eh?” He puts a hand on Saul’s shoulder, and Saul is too drunk to navigate sloughing it off without possibly doing something embarrassing as his last moment alive. “Trust me when I say it would be a real good idea if you were to try this program.”
He looks down at the man’s hands instead. “Program?” he echoes.
“I’ve seen a couple of my guys go through it.” Sam’s thick fingers push the brochure into Saul’s hands; Saul lets his bony fingers open to accept it. “They were more at peace with themselves afterward,” Sam says. “And they’ve managed to stay in control now for a long time.”
Saul doesn’t believe in the power of any program to help him. However badly he’s been damaged by his frakked-up childhood, by his bad habits, his inability to stay away from bad choices, he’s pretty sure it’s permanent. He doesn’t see how fixing himself is possible after twenty-seven years of life. But in this brochure Saul looks over with blurred vision is a chance to see Bill one more time, to apologize and give his lover closure, if not give him the Saul Tigh Bill wanted him to be. Saul’s got just enough free will left inside him to do whatever this program tells him to do for the six-to-eight weeks mentioned in the bullet points, if it’ll get him an audience with Bill. He imagines himself holding Bill tight and whispering into his shoulder, I’m sorry for everything. You deserved better. He vows to keep the image in mind for as long as it takes to get access to Bill one last time.
***
When the door to their apartment (no,it’s Bill’s apartment now, he reminds himself) opens, Lee stands behind Bill looking Saul over warily.
I’ve worn your same exact expression, kid, he tells himself, remembering examining his father in this way when he was a child. “Hello, Lee,” his words say, but his eyes try to say, I’m sorry for what I’ve done to make you wear that expression.
The fact Saul could even recognize the expression on Lee’s face as his own is something Saul attributes entirely to the rehab program on Tauron Sam had helped him get into after he hit bottom the night in the motel. They had unearthed a lot of Saul’s childhood memories like this Saul had forgotten because he needed to. He’d been cynical at first about the program’s ability to help him when he’d enrolled, agreeing to it only for the one last chance to see Bill again. But after they helped him get through the withdrawal symptoms and he could think more long-term than his next drink, he’d started trying for real, believing finally in the seriousness of the second chance he was being offered.
“Hi Bill,” he says next, and by those words he means, Thank you for giving me another chance to see you after everything I put you through.
He doesn’t know if Bill realizes it, but Bill replies, “You look good,” which Saul takes to mean, Don’t try and make your case yet for why we should be a couple again, but I’m willing to consider it.
“I feel good,” he says. Those words have no subtext; he just means what he says. He hasn’t been able to say those words truthfully without alcohol in his system for a long, long time.
He follows Bill’s eyes tracking down from his eyes to his neck, where Saul now bears a tattooed symbol. “I asked for them. It took some convincing, because they don’t usually do it with outsiders. But they rarely have outsiders at this clinic, either. They told me in Tauronese this one means ‘hardship’.
It was one they gave him after he’d spent a month sober. “The other one means ‘persistence’.” he says.
Bill just nods, his eyes nearly as wide as those on Zak, who has come over to join Lee. “Now you look like Dad and Uncle Sammy,” he says, then turns to his father. “Can Lee and I get them too?”
Lee’s voice turns all big brother superior. “You don’t want to be marked, Zak,” he says. “They hurt, stupid.” And just like that somehow, the first cracks in the icy awkwardness between him and Bill appear.
“Why don’t you go throw the ball around outside with your brother, Lee?” Bill says, his eyes still fixed on Saul. “Maybe we’ll come join you in a few.”
Saul can see the doubt in Lee’s eyes, the way his gaze lingers on Saul for a few moments longer even as he obeys his father and leads Zak off to the hall closet with all the sports equipment. Zak chatters excitedly about something or other, oblivious to the meaning of the moment, and Lee gets sucked into his mood. Their childish conversation cuts off as they close the front door behind Saul.
“Thanks for letting me come see you,” he tells Bill. The awful night in the motel, the night he’d seen a whole different side to Sam, he had envisioned this reunion much more melodramatically. But the program taught him a lot about how drunks like grand gestures and big speeches a little too much for their own good, and it can get in the way of realistic thinking. This quiet conversation seems more right.
“I’ve missed you.” Bill’s voice is thick with emotion, and it’s the best thing Saul’s heard in months. “You should come home.”
“Yeah?” Saul’s hands twist nervously behind his back as he tries to remember what the program taught him about this moment. Resist the impulse to rebuild your life all at once. Don’t jump forward too fast. The first steps are the most difficult. But he’s got Sam as his sponsor, and Larry told him when they came to visit him in the facility together he’d help him smooth things out with Joe and Evelyn. And someday soon, he’s determined, he and Bill will have a talk about all the things they’ve been hiding from each other for the sake of peace in the relationship.
“I’ve missed you too. A lot. Can I really come home?” He really wants to be here again, as much as the fear of botching it up like his dad did with his family is still there, and this time there’s no booze to numb it over with. “You realize I’m gonna be a lot more boring now.” It’s a joke, but there’s a little bit of real anxiety behind it.
Bill raises his eyebrow. “Boring is really underrated.” He takes Saul’s hand. “Come on,” he says. “Larry’s been teaching the boys his old tricks on the Pyramid court. They’re getting really good. I’m thinking of signing Lee up for the local boys’ league. But my schedule wouldn’t let me be there for all the games. Think you could fill in for the ones I can’t make?”
Saul takes in a deep breath at the ever-so-casually phrased request. “I think I’d like Larry to come with me at first,” he says just as casually. “He’s retired, so I bet he’ll have the time. And he could offer Lee some pro tips for his technique.”
Bill nods slowly, thinking about Saul’s answer. “Makes sense to me. What do you think about asking him at dinner next week end at my father’s house?”
Saul remembers Larry’s promise. “Yeah,” he says tentatively, then after a long moment, adds, “Good idea.”
His body slips into the comfortable nook of Bill’s arm as Bill guides Saul out the door to where the boys are playing around the Pyramid goal post in the front yard. They call out to Bill and Saul, and their boyish yelps of excitement help Saul take the first few steps toward the boys standing waiting on the court.