Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,15

moment, but given the topic of their discussion, this hardly seemed to be an appropriate time.

“I know I’m pushing hard, Cecilia, but first and foremost we’ve got to head off the criminal charges, no matter what. This is serious business,” said Whitcombe. “When I talk to the police and the dean next week, I have to know all the facts. Montaro, why don’t you and Cecilia go for a little walk and let Prissy and me have another ten, fifteen minutes alone?”

Priscilla looked apprehensively at Whitcombe, wishing desperately for her mother to veto his suggestion. She knew that her father liked Gordon Whitcombe, but that her mother never had. Even so, Cecilia rose and smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “Come to the kitchen when you’re finished, Prissy,” she said. “I’ll have some hot milk and cookies for you.” Then, Montaro led her from the room.

Priscilla sat quietly as her parents’ footsteps faded down the hall. When she could no longer hear them, she spread her handkerchief on her thigh, ironed it several times with the palm of her hand, then waited for Whitcombe’s inquisition to continue.

Strolling slowly, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, the lawyer half-circled the room before stopping directly in front of Priscilla and staring down at the teenager. Priscilla stared defiantly back, waiting for the attack, but the man’s tone was gentler than she had expected.

“You know, the damage to you and the embarrassment to your parents will be considerable if this thing gets out of hand,” Whitcombe told her. “I don’t need to remind you about your father’s situation; I’m sure you read the newspapers and I’m sure your parents talk to you about it, too. This problem of yours could wind up affecting your old man, too. There are some people who work with your father who would very much like to see him fall, and this information about you would only help their cause. So, help me to help you. We’ve got to convince the police up there that you never sold drugs to anyone. Think we can do that?”

“No.”

“So, you were dealing drugs on campus?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” said Whitcombe. “Whatever you do in your private life should be none of my business, but …”

“It is none of your business,” Priscilla interrupted.

“Understand me,” said Whitcombe. “I am not interested, at this time, in the names of your friends or fellow students who might be buying, selling, or using. So”—he paused and stared at her before continuing—“you can relax about the other thing.”

“What other thing?” She glanced up suspiciously.

“What you’re most afraid of.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me put it this way, Prissy. Who you neck with at the drive-in, the beach, or wherever you and your boyfriend go to do whatever you do, is strictly between you and him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you cooperate with me, intimate aspects of your private life can remain private.”

“You think we’re having sex orgies up there?” Priscilla asked. “Getting stoned and fucking, right?”

“That’s pretty salty language for a young girl of your upbringing, Priscilla.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking?”

“Orgies?” Whitcombe pretended to ponder for a moment. “No. Getting stoned? A definite yes. My only question is how often and on what. As for the rest, my guess is that you are no longer a virgin, and you’re afraid that your father will find out.”

“My father doesn’t care,” said Priscilla.

“He does,” said Whitcombe. “More than he’d ever let you know. But you’d better start facing the facts. Here’s the story the way I’d like to tell it—you never sold drugs to anyone.”

“Yes, I have,” she replied emphatically. But Whitcombe continued, ignoring Priscilla’s objections.

“You have used, yes, and a great deal more than your parents, or at least your mother, probably imagine, but you have not sold any drugs to anyone.”

“Yes, I did. Lots of times.”

“My God, Prissy, is he so important to you that you’re willing to throw your life away for him?”

Priscilla rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation. Turning away from Whitcombe, she addressed her attention to the handkerchief on her thigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Yes, you do. I’m talking about the boyfriend you haven’t told your parents about. The one you’ve been seeing at Mt. Herman, the one who’s about to graduate.”

“Leave him out of it, O.K.?” she shouted.

“I can’t do that, Prissy,” he shouted back at her.

“Then I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“That’s fine, but you leave me no other choice; I’ll have to turn over