I unfolded the report and read the part I knew by heart. “At 01:14, three armed suspects entered the warehouse. The night watchman, Walter Pryce, unarmed, was able to lock the loading doors from inside, trapping himself with the suspects. For fifty-one minutes, Mr. Pryce spoke to the suspects calmly, made them coffee, and convinced all three to lay down their weapons before officers arrived. No shots were fired.” I looked up. “He locked himself in with three men holding guns, Uncle Phil, so they couldn’t get to the dock workers on the night shift. There were nine of them.”
The laughter was gone. My father was staring at his water glass. I kept going. “The newspaper called him a security guard. The police chief wanted to give him a medal. Dad said no. He said those boys had mothers, and he didn’t want their names in the paper next to his.”
Then a man at table twelve stood up. He was in his thirties, in a neat button-down shirt, and his hands were shaking. “I was the youngest one,” he said. “I was nineteen. I had the gun pointed at his chest, and he asked me how I took my coffee.” The room gasped. “He visited me in prison every month for four years. He got me my first job. I counsel kids in juvenile court now. I came tonight because he invited me.”
Uncle Phil sank slowly into his chair. His drink sat untouched in front of him. My father finally looked up at me and shook his head, not angry, just tired. “I told you not to,” he said softly. “I know, Dad,” I said. “But everybody deserved to know who was in that booth.”
Phil didn’t sell anything that night. At the end of the party, he walked over to the young man from table twelve and shook his hand for a long time. Then he turned to my father and said, “Thirty-six years, Walt. I watched the monitor. I never watched you.” My father smiled for the first time all evening and said, “Nobody’s supposed to watch the watchman, Phil. That’s the job.”
