Free EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories by Sean Chercover Page B

a year or so and keep my head down, they said. I didn’t know what else to do.”
    I glanced at the crucifix hanging above the doorway and said, “Don’t sell your soul, George.”
    “It’s not the money. These men are very bad. They come by every Monday to give me my week’s pay, but really just to check on me. If I back out…and they carry guns.” He took a long pull on the beer.
    “I appreciate your honesty, and we can protect you. Just give a statement and you can come with me. We’ll make sure they don’t find you.” George Garcia drained the rest of the bottle and stared into space for a while. Then he nodded his head.
    On the morning of the accident, Rocky Millwood served George with Betty’s divorce papers. George hadn’t gone out drinking. He stayed at work and did his job. But he was an emotional wreck and he couldn’t concentrate. Images of Betty and their child flooded his mind and he spent the day fighting back tears. With a knot in his gut, he went through the motions of his job on autopilot.
    “Honestly, I don’t even remember working on the car,” he said. “I’m sure I did and I’m sure I fucked up somehow, but I don’t remember. The whole day is a fog, after the divorce papers.” He reached for a new beer. “Boss wouldn’t give me the day off but I should a taken it anyway, even if they fired me. I shouldn’t a been working. That poor woman…I’m just so very sorry.” Tears ran down George Garcia’s face and he let them run.
    I found some paper towels in the kitchen and brought the roll back to him. He wiped his face and blew his nose. I asked him a few more questions and he answered them and I clicked stop on the recorder.
    “Okay George, you did very well,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    He shook his head. “My mom’s coming by in the morning. If I’m gone, she’ll worry.”
    “Tomorrow’s Monday. You said the Juno’s goons come on Mondays. Leave her a note.”
    “No, I have to speak to her…explain things. She’ll be here at eight. Come back at nine and I’ll go with you.”
    “You don’t want to risk them showing up.”
    “It’s okay,” said George with a failed attempt at a smile. “They never come before noon. Just make sure you’re not late. I have to say goodbye to my mom.”
    A waning gibbous moon above and Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline on the stereo made the drive back to Chicago tolerable. I sang along with Bob to chase George Garcia’s sadness away and arrived at my office just after midnight.
    I transcribed the witness statement from the audiotape into my computer. I made sure to include the coercion by Juno’s legal department. Of course they’d deny it, but with the implied threat of a criminal investigation, a quick settlement was Rik’s for the taking. I printed out the statement and emailed a copy to Rik’s office, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Three days to find a witness who was hiding in another state and didn’t want to be found. Not too shabby.
    But the congratulatory pep talk was impotent and George’s sadness returned and I had a hankering to drink myself to sleep. A bad idea. I tried to focus on just one of the multiple streams of thought that clamored for my attention. The voices in my head were doing just fine without any help from me, so I finally gave up and let them fight it out amongst themselves. As I sat there, George Garcia’s sadness grew and morphed into Sarah Shipman’s sadness. And mine. And everyone’s.
    We encounter people like George and Sarah and Phil (and even Betty) and we say to ourselves: There but for the grace of God go I . Then we are self-satisfied. Look how grateful we are, not taking our good fortune for granted. Look how virtuous. We pity George and Sarah and we wallow in our gratitude, because pity and gratitude reinforce the illusion of a great distance between us and them . We avoid that other thought. The thought that goes: Better him than me . Because we’re all just one