The Advocate's Conviction (24 page)

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“It’s my pleasure. I always love telling old tales about our school.”

“And you apparently have first-hand knowledge. They tell me you’ve been here since Moses was a pup.”

“Yup. It’ll be forty years this spring. I started teaching here right out of college and never left. I’ve taught everything from P.E. to history at one time or another. History was my major and it’s my class of preference, but I’ve filled in over the years wherever they needed me.” He pointed to a chair at one of the tables. “Please have a seat.” JP sat down and the teacher pulled a chair out from under the table and sat next to him.

“Did you ever coach?”

“I was the assistant football coach my first five years here. I played college ball and was real close to being drafted into the NFL, but I made some pretty foolish decisions and lost out on the opportunity. But Bucher High was just starting to make a name for itself on the football field and they were happy to put my expertise to use.”

“Why did you stop coaching?”

“Teaching in the classroom was more rewarding for me, so that’s where I decided to spend my energy. I continued to help out on the field when I was needed over the years, but I would never accept another position that took me out of the classroom.” Mr. Williams smiled and said, “Enough about me. What can I do for you?”

“As I told you on the phone, I’m doing some research for an attorney on an old trust. That’s about all the information I can give you, but I assure you it needs to be done.”

“And you’re interested in some students who attended here when?”

“They would’ve graduated around 1975 or ’76.”

Mr. Williams stood up and walked to a cupboard behind his desk. When he opened it, JP saw three rows of school annuals lined up on the shelves. “I have every annual this school published since I started teaching here.” He brought down five of them ranging from 1973 through 1977. He sat them on the table in front of JP. “Who are you looking for anyway? Can you tell me that much?”

“Yes, three brothers. Last name Cavitt.”

Mr. Williams smiled. “I remember the Cavitt boys, especially Roger. He was one hell of a football player. My first year here he was a senior. Bucher High was just starting to make a name for itself on the football field.” He walked over to the cabinet and took out another album, continuing to talk. “A lot of that was thanks to Roger Cavitt. That kid could throw a football better than anyone I’ve ever seen, at the high school level anyway.” The annual read 1971 on the cover. He opened it up to the senior page and handed it to JP, pointing to a photo. “There he is. That’s Roger.”

“And you were his coach?”

“I just helped out. Coach Madrigal was the man. He inspired those young men to put forth everything they had. If Roger had been here a few years later, he would’ve been drafted for a major college football team instead of the military service.”

“I understand he was killed in Vietnam.”

Mr. Williams shook his head. “It was a pity. He came to me the day after he received his notice in the mail. He tried to act tough, but I could tell how frightened he was. He told me a lot of things that day … stuff I don’t think he ever told anyone else. He talked to me like a friend. Heck, I guess I was his friend. I was only a couple years older than him.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“He told me how mean his father was.”

“He was abusive?”

“Yeah. He was some hoity-toity doctor who beat his kids. He’d belittle Roger all the time and even knock him around. Every once in a while he came to school with a black eye or bruising somewhere on his body. He always made excuses up until that day. That day his fear won out. He was really afraid he’d be sent to war, but I’ll never forget what he told me. He said, ‘Heck, I’ve been at war all my life with my father. At least now I’ll have a gun to fight back.’”

“That’s horrible. Did his father beat the other boys too?”

“Not until Roger went away. I think Roger protected them and took the brunt of everything his dad dished out. But when he was gone I started to see the signs on the other boys, especially Ric. I had the impression that Ric received more abuse because his father saw him as weak.”

“Did you ever report him?” JP asked.

Mr. Williams sighed. “Several times, but nothing was ever done. Dr. Cavitt was an important man in the community and he contributed a lot to the athletic department at our school. I was warned by the principal to stay out of it.”

“Did either of the younger boys play football?”

“Rob did. And he was quite good. In 1976 he played under Coach Madrigal as he took the Cheetahs to the CIF playoffs. Rob was good, but nothing like Roger. Ric didn’t play at all. I think it was one more reason why his father was rougher on him than Rob. Ric played some tennis for a little while but that wasn’t good enough for Dr. Cavitt. The old man was quite a football fan.”

“Did the doctor go to the games?”

“Oh yeah. Football was sacred to him. I don’t think he made it to any of the boy’s graduations and I know he never went to a tennis match, but he never missed a football game.”

JP picked up the 1976 school annual and opened it to the senior page. There were photos of Richard and Robert Cavitt, side by side. They didn’t look much alike. Ric was already slightly overweight and wore glasses. Rob was handsome and muscular. The pictures throughout the annual depicted very different lives for these two brothers. Rob was athletic, prom king, and always surrounded by pretty girls. Ric was a member of CSF, captain of the debate team, and winner of the science fair several years running.

“Were the younger boys close?” JP asked.

“They were very tight in spite of their different personalities, at least until their senior year. They hung out together and supported each other whenever they weren’t involved in an activity that conflicted with their own. They were just over a year apart and because of the way their birthdays fell, they ended up starting school at the same time. They went through school like twins. A lot of people thought they were.”

“What happened in their senior year?” JP held the annual in two hands flipping it back and forth in front of his face in an effort to fan himself and then laid it on the table.

“Ric and Rob suddenly grew apart. A lot of people blamed it on the loss of their brother. Roger was killed that summer in Vietnam in one of the last battles of the war. He was also in the last group to be drafted. They had a draft lottery in 1972 for men born the year after him, but they were never drafted because the draft was abolished in 1973. So his was the last group to go.” The teacher furrowed his brow.

JP noted Mr. Williams’ expression. “But you don’t think it was Roger’s death that caused the rift between Ric and Rob. What do you think it was?”

“I don’t really know, but something happened that September about a week after school started. When they began school everything was fine. They were both in my history class so I knew when they began acting differently toward each other.”

“What do you mean, different?”

“They almost stopped talking to one another—not like they were really angry, but almost like they were afraid of something. I tried to get through to them, but neither of them would open up. It’s hard to explain, but a few other things happened around the same time. Rob and his girlfriend, who he had been with for about a year, broke up.”

“Do you think it was over a girl?”

“No.” Mr. Williams stood up and walked toward his desk. “I’m thirsty. Would you like some water?”

“That would be great.” JP could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead.

“I’m just saying lots of things changed for both of them. They had a couple of friends from Rialto they had hung out with all through high school until that September. Then it stopped. I never saw those boys again, and neither Ric nor Rob ever mentioned their names after that.” The teacher took two bottles of water out of a small blue ice chest next to his desk. He handed one to JP.

“Thanks.” JP took the water and unscrewed the top. He asked, “Are you sure it was in September?”

“I can almost tell you the exact date. If I had a 1976 calendar I could. School started the Tuesday after Labor Day weekend. On the following Monday they came to class and life was just different. I think something happened over the weekend. Rob’s grades fell way below par. He only kept them up enough to play football. He didn’t seem to care about anything else. Ric buried himself even further into his books.”

JP took another drink of his water, downing almost half of the bottle. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was until he started to drink. “Do you think the breakup between Rob and his girlfriend had something to do with what happened on the weekend?”

Mr. Williams nodded his head. “I do because I heard them arguing on Monday. She said she couldn’t deal with what happened and for some reason she was worried about her little brother. It was so long ago, I don’t recall exactly what was said, but she looked terrified.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Hmm…it was Maryanne or Marion something. I think her last name started with an M or an N, or a C. I can’t remember. It was an Italian name.” He picked up the 1975 annual. “She was in the class below Rob.” He turned to the section with the senior class photos and glanced through it. It was only four or five pages long. “There she is. Maryanne Miconi.” He handed the book to JP.

“Beautiful girl.”

“And very sweet. Good student, too.”

“Do you know the names of the boys from Rialto?”

“One was named Billy, or Barney, or something. He was a tall, skinny kid with more than his share of pimples. I think he graduated valedictorian in his class, so he must have been a pretty good student. The other boy was more athletic. He played football against us. It was always interesting when Bucher High played Monroe, that was the high school in Rialto, since the star quarterbacks were best friends and they wore the same number.” He wrinkled his brow in thought and then sighed. “I can’t for the life of me remember his name.”

JP picked up the 1976 annual and turned to the photos of the football players. Rob wore jersey number six. The quarterback from Rialto must have as well. “Do you remember if the Cavitt brothers had any affiliation with Route 66?”

“You’re good, JP. The two quarterbacks together were “Route 66.” It was sort of a school joke. And they both lived on Foothill Boulevard, the old Route 66, which made it more interesting. I think at some point they called their little clique the Route 66 Club.”

“They actually formed a club?”

“Not really. As far as I know it was only the four of them, the two Cavitt brothers and the boys from Rialto. They had Route 66 stickers on their notebooks. There was lots of memorabilia still around from the “Route 66” television show back in the sixties. Of course, that all ended when the group disband in September that year. When they were about to play Monroe that fall, Rob became very angry at a pep rally when someone said something about “Route 66,” referring to the two quarterbacks. He said, ‘There is no Route 66, just one six kicking another six’s ass.’ There were a bunch of posters put up at school for that game with the Route 66 sign torn in half. One half was maroon and white and it had a foot on it kicking the green and white half. It was pretty clever, actually. Rob didn’t really like that, either, and since he was the big man on campus, everyone pretty much dropped any reference to Route 66 after that.”

“One other thing, do you remember a student by the name of Scott Jamison? He would have been here about ten years later.”

Mr. Williams thought for a moment. “Uh, ah. I can’t say that I do. You’re free to look through the other annuals if you’d like.” He nodded toward the cupboard. “I’ll be at my desk correcting some papers. If you find him, show me. I might recognize his photo.”

JP walked over to the cupboard and rifled through the books from 1983 through 1989. If he went to school there, it would have to be within that time frame. He found nothing under the name of Scott Jamison. The only Jamison he found was an African-American girl.

JP put the books back and walked over to the teacher’s desk. He reached his hand out to the teacher. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Williams.”

“Jimmy,” he said. “I’m Mr. Williams all day long in the classroom. The rest of the time I’m just Jimmy.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.”

Before JP reached the door he turned and asked, “By the way, I understand Dr. Cavitt had quite a collection of antique Chryslers.”

Mr. Williams nodded. “He did.”

“Do you know if any of the boys ever drove any of them?”

“Just Roger. He drove a 1948 Plymouth for most of his senior year. It was a reward for playing football. Neither of the other boys drove any of the antiques that I’m aware of.”

JP turned south out of the parking lot and backtracked to a Starbucks he had passed on his way to the high school. After finding it, he took his computer and went inside to have a cup of coffee and do some research online. He had a few things to follow up on before he left the area.

As soon as he had his coffee in hand, he found a corner table and sat down. He opened his computer, turned it on, and then checked his phone messages while he waited for it to boot up. Sabre had called but said it wasn’t important and to just call when he had a chance. The only other call was from his friend, Kim, at the DMV. She called to let him know that Richard Cavitt never had a 1948 Plymouth registered to his name. He did have a 1931 Chrysler Imperial when he was twenty-one years old which he maintained for about four years. He had no other Chrysler products ever registered in his name.