Calvin believed that securing an eyewitness was our only real shot. We poured over the guest list for the gala, cross-referencing names with staff rosters provided by the catering company. It was a long shot, but we found a name: Robert “Bobby” Jenkins, a young waiter.
His address led us to a cramped tenement building on the outskirts of town. We found Bobby sitting on his stoop, smoking, looking tired and much younger than I expected.
“Mr. Jenkins?” Calvin asked gently. “We’re here about the Croft gala.”
Bobby’s eyes widened, and he immediately tried to retreat into the building. “I don’t know nothing about that. I was just working.”
“We know you saw something, Bobby,” I said, stepping forward. “You saw what Mr. Croft did to my son.”
He wrung his hands, glancing nervously up and down the street. “Look, I can’t get involved. Mr. Croft… he’s powerful. I need this job.”
Calvin stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Bobby, my office can provide you with protection. We can ensure your safety. But a child was hurt. Deliberately. You saw it, didn’t you?”
Bobby hesitated, his eyes darting between us. He took another drag from his cigarette, then crushed it under his heel.
“He kicked the kid,” Bobby mumbled, almost to himself. “Hard. And he said something awful about his leg. Called it a ‘fake leg, like a cripple’s.’ It wasn’t no accident. Not at all.”
A surge of vindication rushed through me. Finally, concrete proof.
“Will you testify, Bobby?” Calvin asked, his voice filled with renewed hope.
Bobby looked at the ground, then back at us. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Yeah, I’ll testify.”
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