Below the photographs-which showed Matt Payne being held up by the ACT cop; Charles D. Stevens being rolled into Frankford Hospital on a gurney; and Matt Payne, his face caked with blood, on his gurney in the corridor at Frankford Hospital-was the story:
By Michael J. O'Hara
Bulletin Staff Writer
Blood stained the freshly fallen snow in an alley in Frankford early this morning after Charles D. Stevens chose to shoot it out with the cops rather than submit to arrest and picked the wrong cop for his deadly duel.
Stevens, who sometimes calls himself Abu Ben Mohammed, is one of eight suspects in the murder-robbery of Goldblatt's Furniture earlier this week. It was the intention of Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, commanding the Special Operations Division, to arrest all eight suspects at once, and in the wee hours, to minimize risks to both the public and his officers.
Seven of the eight carefully orchestrated arrests went smoothly. But, as this reporter and Officer Matthew M. Payne, administrative assistant to Inspector Wohl, waited in a dark alley behind Stevens's house in the 4700 block of Hawthorne Street for the meticulously planned arrest procedure to begin, Stevens suddenly appeared in the alley, a blazing.45 automatic in his hand.
As this reporter dove for cover, two of Stevens's bullets struck Payne, who had been assigned to escort this reporter during Stevens's arrest. Payne went down, but he was not out. Somehow, Payne managed to get his own pistol into action. When the shooting was over, Stevens was critically, possibly fatally, wounded, and the young cop he had tried to gun down without warning was standing over him, blood dripping from his own wounds.
This was not the first battle for his life fought by Payne, who is twenty-two and a bachelor. Three months ago, while attempting to arrest Warren K. Fletcher, the Northwest Philadelphia serial rapist, Fletcher, who had his latest victim in his van, tried to run over the young police man. Moments later he was dead of a bullet in the brain fired by the then six-months-on-the-police-force rookie.
Payne, who collapsed moments after making sure Stevens posed no further threat, was taken to Frankford Hospital, where he underwent surgery for the removal of the bullet in his leg. His condition is described as "good."
Stevens, who was also rushed to Frankford Hospital by police, is in intensive care, his condition described as "critical" by hospital authorities.
Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, who commands the Detective Division, under whose overall command the mass arrest took place, said that Stevens, if he lives, will have assault with a deadly weapon and resisting arrest added to the other charges, which include firstdegree murder, already lodged against him.
"I regret that force was necessary," Chief Lowenstein said. " Inspector Wohl and his men took every step they could think of to avoid it. But I cannot conceal my admiration for this young officer (Payne) who bravely stood up to this vicious criminal."
By 6:45 A.M., the appropriate plates had been replaced on the presses, and with a deep growl, they began to roll again.
It was the opinion of the managing editor that they could probably sell an additional thirty-five or forty thousand copies of the paper. Blood and shooting always sold.
How that goddamn O'Hara manages to always be in on things like this is a mystery, but giving the sonofabitch his due, he always is, and he probably is worth all the money we have to pay him.
Hector Carlos Estivez was in the first of the vans carrying the prisoners to arrive at the Police Administration Building at 8th and Race Streets in downtown Philadelphia. The others arrived over the next fifteen minutes.
The van carrying Mr. Estivez entered the parking lot at the rear of the Roundhouse, and immediately backed up down the ramp leading to the Central Cell Room.
The driver and his partner got out and went to the rear of the van. They found Homicide detective Joe D'Amata, who had driven in his own car from Frankford, waiting for them. The driver opened the rear door of the van and Mr. Estivez, who had been handcuffed, was helped out of the van.
Detective D'Amata took one of Mr. Estivez's arms, and one of the officers who had been in the back of the van with him took the other.
Mr. Estivez was then led through the Cell Room to an elevator, and taken in it to the Homicide Bureau on the third floor.
There were several people standing just outside the office of Captain Henry Q. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Bureau. Mr. Estivez recognized only one of them, Sergeant Jason Washington. The others were Farnsworth Stillwell, an assistant district attorney of Philadelphia County; Staff Inspector Peter Wohl; and Captain Quaire himself.
Mr. Estivez was taken to a small room furnished with an Early American-style chair and a small table. There was a window with oneway glass in one wall of the room. The chair was made of steel and was bolted to the floor. One end of a pair of handcuffs was looped through a hole in the chair seat.
Mr. Estivez's handcuffs were removed. Detective D'Amata told him to sit down and, when he had done so, put Mr. Estivez's left wrist in the handcuff cuffed to the chair.
Mr. Estivez was then left alone.
He looked with a mixture of contempt and uneasiness at the one-way glass window. There was no way of telling if someone was on the other side, looking in at him.
A minute or so later the door to the room opened, and Detective D' Amata returned. On his heels came Sergeant Jason Washington, Staff Inspector Wohl, and Assistant District Attorney Stillwell.
"Which one is this one?" Sergeant Washington inquired.
"This is Mr. Hector Carlos Estivez," Detective D'Amata replied.
Sergeant Washington, a carefully calculated (and in fact, once practiced before a mirror) look of contempt, scorn, and dislike on his face, then took two steps toward Mr. Estivez. Mr. Estivez, who was sitting, had to look up at him. There was no way that Mr. Estivez could not be aware of Washington's considerable bulk.
Sergeant Washington then squatted down, so that his face was on a level with Mr. Estivez, and examined him carefully for twenty seconds or so.
He then grunted, stood erect, said, "Okay, Hector CarlosEstivez. Fine," and scribbled something in his notebook.
This was a little psychological warfare, Jason Washington having long ago come to believe that the greatest fear is the fear of the unknown.
Washington knew he enjoyed a certain fame (perhaps notoriety) in the criminal community. There was a perhaps fifty-fifty chance that Estivez knew who he was. And even if he didn't, Washington was sure that the sight of a very large, very well-dressed black man in an obvious position of police authority would be unnerving.
Jason Washington then covered his mouth with his hand and said softly, so that Mr. Estivez could not understand him, "Obviously a pillar of his community, wouldn't you say?"
The remark caused Wohl to smile, which was Washington's intention. He had long ago also come to believe that knowing that one is the source of amusement, but not knowing specifically how, is also psychologically disturbing, particularly if the person amused holds great-if undefined-power over you. At that point, Inspector Wohl, Assistant District Attorney Stillwell, and Sergeant Washington left the interview room, closing the door behind them and leaving Detective D'Amata alone with Mr. Estivez.
"Mr. Estivez," Detective D'Amata said, "you have been arrested on warrants charging you with murder and armed robbery. Before I say anything else, I want to make sure that you are aware of your rights under the Constitution."
He then took a small card from his jacket pocket and read Mr. Estivez his rights under the Miranda Decision. Mr. Estivez had seen them enough on television to know them by heart, but he listened attentively anyway.
"Do you understand the rights I have pointed out to you?" Detective D'Amata said.
"Yeah," Mr. Estivez said. "I'm not going to say one fucking word without my lawyer."
"That is your right, sir," Detective D'Amata said.
He then left Mr. Estivez alone in the interview room again.
"Mr. Estivez," Detective D'Amata said dryly to Mssrs. Washington, Wohl, and Stillwell, "has elected to exercise his rights under the Miranda Decision."
"Really?" Wohl replied with a smile.
"So what happens now?" Farnsworth Stillwell asked. "We're not going to run into trouble with the Six-Hour Rule are we?"
The Pennsylvania Supreme Court had issued another ruling designed to protect the innocent from the police. It had decreed that unless an accused was brought before an arraignment judge within six hours of his arrest, any statement he had made could not be used against him.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Counselor," Jason Washington said with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "but as I understand the SixHour-Rule, it does not prohibit the use of a statement inadmissible against the individual who made it being used against other participants in the offense."
"Yes, of course, you're right." Stillwell said. It was obvious he did not like being lectured on the law.
"We'll take him back downstairs, process him, and send him over to the House of Detention," D'Amata replied.
"What I'm going to do, Inspector, unless you have something else in mind," Jason Washington announced, "is give them all day to thoughtfully consider their situation, and maybe get a little sound advice from the legal profession. Then, after they have had their supper, and are convinced that nothing further is going to happen to them today, starting at six-fifteen, I'm going to run them all through the lineup, for a positive identification by Mr. Monahan. Then I will give them the rest of the night to consider their situation, now that they know we have a witness, and then starting at eight tomorrow morning, I will interview them."
"Have at it, Jason," Wohl said.
"By then, I think we can count on somebody going to Mr. Stillwell to make a deal," Washington said. "There's seven of them. I think the odds are pretty good that at least one of them will try to save his skin."
Farnsworth Stillwell, whose wordless role in the little playlet had been orchestrated by Sergeant Washington, had played along for several reasons. For one thing, he had never seen how something like this was actually carried out, and he was curious. For another, when he had worked with Wohl during the investigation and prosecution of Judge Findermann, he had come to understand that Wohl was anything but a fool, and it logically followed from that that if Wohl was willing to play along with Washington, there was probably a good reason for it.
Secondly, the one bit of specific advice he had been given by District Attorney Thomas J. Callis had concerned Jason Washington.
"Not only does he know how to deal with, in other words, read, this kind of scum, but he has forgotten more about criminal law than you know. So don't make the mistake of trying to tell him how to do his job. I can't imagine Washington doing anything dumb, but if he does, Wohl will catch him at it, and he will take 'suggestions' from Wohl. Understand?"
The idea of getting one or more of the seven to testify against the others to save himself had a positive appeal. The State had only Monahan as a witness, which was rather frightening to consider. If this case went down the toilet, he would have egg all over his face. People with egg on their faces only rarely ever get to become the governor.
Kenneth H. Dome, aka "King," aka Hussein El Baruca, in handcuffs, a uniformed police officer on each arm, was led into Homicide and taken into a second, identical interview room and cuffed to the steel chair.
"Here we go again," D'Amata said. "Anyone want to bet that this one will announce that he has been thinking of his aged mother and wants to make a clean breast of the whole thing?"
D'Amata, Wohl, and Washington waited until Mr. Estivez had been uncuffed from his steel chair, cuffed behind his back, and led out of Homicide before going into the second interview room. Stillwell followed them.
The only thing that bothered him was how long this process was taking. He had scheduled a press conference to announce the arrest of these people, and the determination of Assistant District Attorney Farnsworth Stillwell to prosecute them to the full extent of the law, for nine o'clock, and two things bothered him about that: Should he take Wohl and Washington with him, or, more accurately,ask them, one of them, or both, to come along?
Having Washington in the picture-literally the picture, there were sure to be photographers-might be valuable, vis-a-vis the AfroAmerican voters, somewhere down the pike. Wohl, however, was a little too attractive, well dressed, well spoken, and with a reputation. The goddamn press was likely to be as interested, even more interested, in what he had to say than they would be in Farnsworth Stillwell.
And finally, is there going to be time to get from here to my office in time to meet the press?
The little playlet was run again, and a few minutes later, Wohl, Washington, and Stillwell were standing outside Captain Quaire's office again.
"I don't want to bubble over with enthusiasm," Washington said. "But I have a feeling that Mr. Dome may decide that being a religious martyr is not really his bag."
Detective D'Amata came out of the interview room, and announced, surprising no one, that Kenneth H. Dome, aka "King," aka Hussein El Baruca, had also elected to avail himself of his right to legal counsel before deciding whether or not he would answer any questions.
"What about him, Joe?" Washington said.
"You picked up on that too, huh, Jason?" D'Amata replied. "Yeah. Maybe. Maybe after the lineup. I wouldn't bet on it."
"I'm tempted to," Stillwell said. "Sergeant Washington's insight into things like that is legendary."
The flattery,he decided, after looking at Washington's face,had not gone wide of the mark.
"If you and Inspector Wohl could find the time," he went on, having made that decision, "I'd like you to come help me deal with the press. I asked the ladies and gentlemen of the press to be at the office at nine."
"I'll beg off, thank you just the same," Washington said. "I want a good look at the others."
"Peter?"
"No, thank you. I live by the rule never to talk to the press unless I have to. And anyway, I want to go back to Frankford Hospital. The officer who was shot works for me."
"I'm going up there too," Washington said. "When I'm finished here."
"Tragic, tragic," Stillwell said. "Thank God, he's alive."
"Yes," Washington said.
"Would you call my office, Sergeant, when you're finished? I'd really like to hear your assessment of these people."
"Certainly."
Farnsworth Stillwell offered Wohl and Washington his hand.
"Thank you very much for letting me share this with you," he said. " It's been a-aneducation. I've never been in here before."
"This is where it happens, Mr. Stillwell," Washington said.
Stillwell rode the elevator down to the main lobby and started for the parking lot, but as he reached the door, he had a second thought, one he immediately recognized to be a first-rate idea.
He turned and went to the desk, asked permission of the sergeant to use the telephone, and dialed his office number.
"When the press arrives," he ordered. "Give them my apologies, and tell them I have gone to Frankford Hospital to visit the police officer who was shot this morning. I feel I have that duty. Tell them that too. And tell them if they come to the hospital, I'll meet with them there."
When he hung up, he had another idea, even better, and pulled the telephone to him again and dialed his home.
"Darling," he said when his wife answered, "I'm glad I caught you. Something has come up. I'm going to Frankford Hospital, to visit with the cop who got himself shot this morning-"
"What are you talking about?"
"-I'll tell you all about it in the car. I want you there with me. The press will be there."
There was twenty seconds of silence.
"Darling, this is important to me," he said firmly. "I'll be waiting outside for you in fifteen minutes."
He hung up thinking, somewhat petulantly, If she really wants to be the governor's wife, she damned well had better learn that there is no free lunch, that certain things are going to be required of her.
"Mother," Officer Matt Payne said, "why don't you get out of here? I' m all right, and there's nothing you can do for me here."
Patricia and Brewster C. Payne had been in the Recovery Room when Matt was taken there from the surgical suite. It was strictly against hospital policy, but the chairman of the board of trustees of Frankford Hospital entrusted his legal affairs to Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester. A telephone call to him had resulted not only in a telephone call to the senior staff physician, but the physical presence of that gentleman himself, three minutes later, to make sure that whatever Brewster Payne thought the hospital should do for his son was being done.
Aside from access to the Recovery Room, the only request Brewster Payne had made was that Matt be given a private room, something the senior staff physician had already decided to provide to spare some other patient from the horde of people who had come to the hospital to see Matt Payne.
The mayor, the police commissioner, two chief inspectors, and their respective entourages, plus a number of less senior police officers, plus representatives of the print and electronic media had begun to descend on the hospital at about the same time screaming sirens on two Highway Patrol cars had announced the arrival of the Payne family.
While the press could be required to wait in the main lobby, the others immediately made it plain they would wait right where they were, overflowing the small waiting room on the surgical floor, until Officer Payne was out of surgery and his condition known.
And when that had come to pass-the removal of a bullet from the calf musculature was a fairly simple procedure, routinely handled by surgical residents half a dozen times on any given weekend-and Young Payne was taken to the Recovery Room, the Hospital Security Staff was unable to deter the mayor's driver from carrying out his assigned mission-"Go down and bring the press up here. They'll want a picture of me with Payne when he wakes up."
The senior staff physician was able to delay the picture taking until the staff had put Young Payne in a private room, and after the mayor had taken the necessary steps to keep the public aware that their mayor, in his never-ceasing efforts to rid the streets of Philadelphia of crime, was never far from the action, he left, and so did perhaps half of the people who had arrived at about the time he had.
"You'll need pajamas," Patricia Payne said to her son. "And your toilet things-"
"I won't be in here long," Matt said. "You don't know that," Patricia Payne said, and looked at her daughter, Amelia.
"I don't know how long they're going to keep him, Mother," she replied. "But I'll find out. I'll call you at home and let you know. And I'll go by his apartment and get him what he needs. I have to come back out here anyway. You and Dad go on home."
"I suppose he should rest," Patricia Payne gave in. She leaned over her son and kissed him. "Do what they tell you to do, for once."
"Yes, ma'am," Matt said.
"If you need anything, Matt," Brewster Payne said, "I'm as close as that phone."
"Thank you, Dad. I don't think I'll need anything."
"I'll call as soon as I have a chance to go home, change, and get to the office."
"Go on, you two, get out of here," Amelia Payne said. They left.
"Thank you," Matt said when the door had closed.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself, you sonofabitch," Amy Payne snapped. "I did that for them, not you."
"Wow!"
"Youbastard! Are you trying to drive Mother crazy, or what?" She dipped into an extra large purse, came out with a copy of theBulletin and threw it at him. "I hope she doesn't see that!"
The front page showed Matt, bloody-faced, holding his gun on Charles D. Stevens.
"Hey, I didn't do this on purpose. That bastard was shooting at me."
"That bastard died thirty minutes ago. You can carve another notch on your gun, Jesse James."
"He died?" Matt asked, wanting confirmation.
"I didn't think Mother needed to know that."
She looked at him. Their eyes met.
"How do you feel about that?" she asked.
"I'm not about to wallow in remorse, if that's what you're hoping. He was trying to kill me."
"And almost did. Do you have any idea how lucky you are? Have you ever seen what a.45-caliber bullet does to tissue?"
"I just found out."
"No, you didn't. The bullet that hit you had lost most of its energy bouncing off a wall."
"Amy, I wasn't trying to be hero. This just happened. I can't understand why you're sore at me."
"Because, youass, of what you're doing to Mother. When are you going to come to your senses, for her sake, if nothing else?"
Matt was not given time to form a reply. The door opened, and a nurse put her head in.
"Are you a family member?"
"I'm Dr. Payne," Amy replied, not at all pleasantly. "What do you want?"
"Mr. Payne's grandmother and aunt are here, Doctor. They'd like to see him."
"Let them come in, I'm leaving."
The nurse pushed the door open. A stout, somewhat florid-faced woman in her sixties, her gray hair done up in a bun, followed by a blond woman in her late thirties came into he room.
"Hello, Mother Moffitt," Amy Payne said. "Jeannie."
"Hello, Amy," the younger woman replied.
The older woman flashed Amy a cold look, nodded, and said, "Miss Payne."
"It'sDr. Payne, Mrs. Moffitt," Amy said, and walked out of the room.
"Hello, Grandma," Matt said.
"Your grandfather, your father, and your Uncle Richard would be proud of you, darling," Gertrude Moffitt said emotionally, walking to the bed and grasping his hand.
"Hello, Aunt Jeannie," Matt said.
"I'm just sorry you didn't kill the man who did this to you," Mother Moffitt said.
"I apparently did," Matt said. "They told me he died half an hour ago."
"Then I hope he burns in hell."
"Mother Moffitt!" Jeannie Moffitt protested. "For God's sake."
"I have lost two sons to the scum of this city. I have no compassion in my heart for them, and neither should you."
"I'm just grateful Matt's not more seriously injured," Jeannie said.
"Chief Coughlin called and told me," Mother Moffitt said. "Your mother apparently couldn't be bothered."
"She was upset, for God's sake!" Jeannie Moffitt protested. "You, of all people, should understand that."
"No matter what trials and pain God has sent me, I take pride in always having done my duty."
Jeannie Moffitt shook her head, and she and Matt exchanged a smile.
"So, how are you, Matty?" she asked.
"Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"
Jeannie Moffitt laughed.
"What was that? I don't understand that," Mother Moffitt said.
"A little joke, Grandma," Matt said.
The nurse stuck her head through the door again.
"I'm afraid you'll have to leave now," she said.
"I just got here," Mother Moffitt said indignantly.
"Doctor's orders," the nurse said, and walked to the side of Matt's bed. "Mr. Payne needs rest."
"Officer Payne,thank you," Mother Moffitt said.
"Do you need anything, Matty?" Jeannie asked.
"Not a thing, thank you."
"I'll come back, of course, if Jeannie can find the time to bring me," Mother Moffitt said.
"Of course, I will. You know that."
"It's a terrible thing when the only time I get to see him is in a hospital bed with a bullet in him," Mother Moffitt said.
She bent and kissed his cheek and marched out of the room. The nurse went to the door and turned and smiled.
"Dr. Payne said to tell you, you owe her one," she said.
"Thank both of you," Matt said.
"There's some other people out here to see you. You feel up to it?"
"Who?"
"A Highway Patrolman, some kind of a big-shot cop named Coughlin, and a man from the district attorney's office. And his wife."
"The district attorney?"
"I think he saidassistant. And his wife. I can run them off."
"No. I'm all right. Isn't this thing supposed to hurt?"
"It will. When it starts to hurt, ring for a nurse."
"I'm also hungry. Can I get something to eat?"
"I can probably arrange for something," she said. "So you want to see them?"
"Please."
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Officer Charles McFadden, and Assistant District Attorney and Mrs. Farnsworth Stillwell filed into the room.
"Hey, Charley," Matt said. "Uncle Denny."
"I'm Farnsworth Stillwell, Officer Payne," the assistant district attorney said, walking up to the bed with his hand extended, "and this is Mrs. Stillwell."
"How do you do?" Matt said politely. He had previously had the pleasure of making Mrs. Stillwell's acquaintance. He not only knew her Christian name, but a number of other intimate details about her.
Her name was Helene, and the last time he had seen her, she was putting her clothing back on in his apartment, whence they had gone from the Delaware Valley Cancer Society's cocktail party.
"Hello," Helene said. "I'm a little vague about the protocol here. Is it permitted to say I'm so sorry you've been shot?"
"This is my first time too," Matt said. "I'm a little fuzzy about the protocol myself."
She walked to the bed and offered him her hand.
"I'm sorry you've been shot."
"Thank you. So am I," Matt said.
"Are you all right?"
"Just fine."
"We're all sorry you've-this has happened," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "And I must tell you, I feel to some degree responsible."
"Nonsense," Denny Coughlin said. "No one is responsible except the man who pulled the trigger."
"I'm sorry we didn't bring you anything," Helene Stillwell said. "But I didn't know who you were, what you would be like, and at this time of the morning-"
"It was good of you to come," Matt said.
Helene finally took her hand back.
"We wanted you to know that we were concerned," Stillwell said, " concerned and grateful."
"I think we should let Officer Payne get some rest, darling," Helene said.
"There are some members of the press outside who would like to have our picture together," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "Would you feel up to that?"
Matt looked at Denny Coughlin, who shrugged and then nodded his head.
"Sure," Matt said.
A photographer came into the room. He asked if the bed could be cranked up, and when it had, he suggested that Mr. Stillwell get on one side of him, and Mrs. Stillwell on the other. When they had done so, he suggested that they get closer to Matt. "It feels a little awkward, but the picture comes out better."
When they had moved into the desired positions, they had to swap sides, so that Assistant District Attorney Stillwell and Officer Payne could shake hands. Mrs. Stillwell, in order to get closer, put her arm behind Officer Payne's shoulders, a position that pressed her breast against his arm, and for a moment allowed her fingers to caress the back of his neck.
And then the flashbulb went off, Farnsworth Stillwell told Officer Payne that if he needed anything, anything at all, all he had to do was let him know, and they were gone.
"I don't like that sonofabitch," Denny Coughlin said, "but I wouldn't be surprised if he really does get to be governor."
"Really?" Matt asked.
"So how are you, Matty?" Denny Coughlin asked.
"Worried about my car," Matt said, looking at Charley.
"I got it downstairs," Charley said. "Aside from no radio, doors, or seats, it's okay."
"You'd better be kidding."
"I got it downstairs, all in one piece. Inspector Wohl asked me to ask you where you want it."
"In the garage under the apartment, please."
"You got it. You need anything else?"
"Can't think of anything."
"I'll come see you when I get off. But I'd better get going now. Quinn's sitting in the car about to shit a brick."
"Thanks, Charley," Matt said.
Dennis V. Coughlin closed the door after McFadden, and then exhaled audibly. He walked to the bed and sat down on it.
"Jesus, Matty, you gave us a scare. What the hell happened?"
This is more than a godfather, more than my blood father's buddy, doing his duty, Matt suddenly realized. This man loves me.
He remembered that his father, the other father, the only one he had ever known, Brewster C. Payne, had told him that he believed Dennis V. Coughlin had always been in love with his mother.
"Lieutenant Suffern let us out of his car in the alley behind Stevens's house-"
"You and O'Hara?"
"Yeah. We were waiting for the ACT team and the sergeant to bring Stevens down so Mickey could get a picture. Then I heard a noise, a creaking noise, like wood breaking. I think now it was Stevens coming over a fence. Anyway, all of a sudden, there he was shooting at us."
"He shot first?"
"He shot first."
"That makes it justifiable homicide. You're absolutely sure he shot first?"
"Hey, I thought you were here to comfort me on my bed of pain, not interview me?"
"Are you in pain?" Coughlin asked, concern and possibly even a hint of pity-or maybe shame-in his voice.
"No, Uncle Denny, I'm not," Matt said, and touched the older man's shoulder. After a moment, Coughlin's hand came up and covered his.
"It'll probably start to hurt later, Matty," he said. "But they'll give you something for it. I'm sure."
Their eyes met.
Coughlin stood up.
"I got to go. You need anything, you know how to reach me."