A swirl of rumors, like rotted leaves in the wind. A plague of rumors and a stink of rumors and yet, nothing came of them. After several days our mother’s voice on the phone grew frantic: “. . . no one is supposed to know, our lawyer says it has to be kept confidential, Hadrian Johnson had gotten in a fight with another black basketball player that weekend, over a girl, and ‘sliced’ him with a knife, and the other boy threatened to kill him, and . . .”

Jerome Jr. and Lionel were summoned back to the police station. Walt Lemire, Don Brinkhaus were summoned. Now there were three lawyers: one for the Kerrigan brothers, one for Walt Lemire and one for Don Brinkhaus.

Yet, the boys were not arrested. So long as they were not arrested, their names would not appear in local media.

Everyone talked of them: the Kerrigans, especially. Somehow it began to be known, or to be suspected, that Jerome Kerrigan Jr. had struck Hadrian Johnson in a hit-and-run accident.

Not on purpose. Accident.

Blaming the kid more than he deserves, because he is WHITE.

Daddy insisted that Jerr move back into his old room; there’d been “racist” threats against him, and he wasn’t safe in his place downtown, Daddy believed. Lionel was informed by the high school principal that he should stay home for a while, feelings were running high between “whites” and “blacks” at South Niagara High and Lionel’s presence was “distracting.” Mom wanted to keep me home from school too but I was so upset, she relented. I could not bear to miss school—I loved school! And I was sure, I wanted to believe, school loved me.

The thought of being kept home with my mother and my brothers day after day panicked me. Trapped in the house where everyone was waiting for—what? What would save them? For someone else to be arrested for the crime?

As Mom said, “Whoever did this terrible thing. The guilty people.”

There was the hope, too, that the evidence police were assembling was only circumstantial, not enough to present to a grand jury. Especially, a jury comprised of white people. This was what the boys’ lawyers insisted.

Relatives, neighbors, friends of Daddy’s dropped by our house to show support. Fellow Vietnam veterans. At least, this was the pretext for their visit.

A call came from Tommy Kerrigan’s office, for Daddy. Not clear whether Tommy Kerrigan himself spoke to Daddy or one of his assistants.

Sometimes Mom refused to see visitors but hid away upstairs when the doorbell rang and told us not to answer it. At other times she was excited, insisting that visitors stay for meals. Female relatives helped in the kitchen. Beer, ale was consumed. There was an air of festivity. The subject of all conversation was the boys—how badly they were being treated by the police, how unfair, unjust the investigation was.

Because they are WHITE. No other reason!