by Ace Atkins
“How long did you get?”
“Six months.”
I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at Jake. Unlike me, Jake had worn his letterman’s jacket. I didn’t think I could pull it off without looking like a complete wacko.
“I was screwing around with some friends at one of the old warehouses,” Jake said. “We were just breaking bottles and windows and shit. A cop caught us and Scali sent me away for nine months. I missed my senior year.”
“Are you in school now?” I said.
“Nah.” He shook his head and looked away. “What’s the point?”
Beth sat nearby in an oversized leather chair, feet off the ground, knees tucked up to her chin. Her hair bad been pulled up into a bun on top of her head with the black streak falling in a curlicue over one eye. She played with the strand, studying its color and then tucking it behind an ear.
“Did either of you have an attorney?” I said.
The boys looked at each other and then me, shaking their heads.
“Was an attorney offered?”
They shook their heads again.
“What did your parents say?”
“My dad told me it was good for me,” Ryan said. “He said it would toughen me up. Said my stepmother was afraid to sleep at night. She’s up all night because she’s on pills and addicted to watching reality shows. He met the crazy woman on some kind of dating website. Ick.”
“I live with my mom,” Jake said. “She tried to get me an attorney, but someone told her the judge would be harder on me if she did. You know, like he thought we were fighting the system? She was told for me to take what was given and say thank you. I didn’t think it would be nine fucking months for breaking some windows.”
“Judge Roy Bean.”
“Who’s that?” Beth said.
“A real a-hole,” I said. “From the old days.”
“When you were a kid?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”
The kids were impressed. I told them I’d like to talk to their parents, find out what the Blackburn court had told them about a kid’s right to an attorney.
“What’s it matter?” Ryan said. “It’s all a mess now. Nobody is going to go against Scali. This is just what people do here. People say you got to have a tough judge for a tough town. When he came to school and spoke to us, he said he was the reason we didn’t have gangs around here.”
“You do have gangs,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “But not like the old days. People believe he’s keeping them safe.”
“From kids breaking windows and throwing steaks at their stepmoms.”
The boys and Beth didn’t know what to say. They stayed silent. The speakers overhead played a pop song that I barely recalled from thirty years ago and hoped to never hear again. I guessed now it was hip. This was the very reason I never threw away ties. “So what’s it like at the MCC?” I said.
“On the island?” Jake said. “It freakin’ sucked.”
“Sucked big-time,” Ryan said.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“You got to live in bunks,” Ryan said. “Five bunks. Ten boys to a room. They wake you up at five a.m. with an air horn. You know, like people bring to football games?”
“And then?”
“And then nothing,” Jake said. “You get crummy food. You can go outside for an hour in the morning and at night. There’s one TV that has shitty reception.”
“They don’t have you weaving baskets or making license plates?”
“You’re supposed to do schoolwork,” Ryan said. “But that’s a joke. You go to this big room where you fill out workbooks. No one can talk and then you turn them in when you’re done. You never get them back. You never get a grade or anything. I started sketching in them to see if anyone would notice. I drew horses and dolphins and things like that. No one said a thing.”
“So you both left the island reformed and upright members of society.”
Beth snorted out a little coffee and then wiped her nose. Ryan got up from the sofa and went to join her in the big chair. He sat on her knee, her arm around his waist. She leaned her head onto his back the way a sister might. He smiled.
Jake excused himself and walked to the bathroom. I hadn’t taken any notes. I’d write down a few things when I got back to my car. But I wanted this to be loose and informal. I wanted to talk to their parents. I still didn’t know where I was headed or how it might help my client. Megan Mullen had appealed Dillon’s case based on no counsel. We were playing the waiting game with legal channels while I continued to snoop. Maybe the snooping would help Dillon, or maybe it would just expose more ugliness.
“Are you really a private eye?” Ryan said.
“Yeah.”
“You like it?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I have a big neon sign outside my office with a magnifying glass,” I said. “And a sexy secretary who sits on my desk while I think.”
“No,” Beth said, looking doubtful. “Really?”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” I said. “I like being my own boss.”
“I’d like that, too,” Ryan said. “I just don’t know what I want to do.”
“He can draw,” Beth said, rubbing circles on his back. “He can draw really good. You see the artwork on the wall? He made those.”
I looked up and spotted his signature. For a teenager, they were very good. Charcoal etchings of bowls of fruit, trees, and vacant playgrounds. One of the sketches, I noted, as I stood up and walked closer, was of Beth. Her eyes were obscured, but it was the same nose and mouth, the same long strand of black. It was a nude. Beth’s face flushed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Ryan’s not like that. I told him I didn’t mind.”
“Oh.”
“She’s not my type,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“You’re gay,” I said.
“Very.”
“And was that a problem at MCC?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Can you tell me about that?”
He seemed to be very far away for a moment and then appeared as if he might cry. He didn’t speak, only shook his head. “Not now.”
Jake came back and said he had to get going. He looked to the door and around the coffee shop. Everyone was so intent on their phones, computers, and tablets that I didn’t think our presence had even been noted.
“Where do you work?” I said.
“Warehouse,” he said. “I move stone and tile. I take inventory. Drive a forklift.”
“Can’t you go back to school?” I said.
“Now?” Jake said, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m done. Screw those people. I need to get on with my life.”
“But that’s not easy,” I said. “Without the paper.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
We all walked out into the dark together. My popularity was growing.
12
Susan and I were walking in Harvard Square on the way to Russell House Tavern. Susan had on a long black down coat and dark designer blue jeans tucked into a tall pair of Italian riding boots. She bought the boots on our recent trip to Paris and was fond of telling me the great deal they’d been. Nearly half-off at a boutique in the Saint-Germain.
“They remind me of the Brasserie Lipp,” I said.
“Everything about Paris reminds you of the Lipp.”
“The frankfurters with spicy mustard, the sauerkraut.”
“And don’t forget the beer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “We’ll always have the beer.”
Harvard Square bustled in and around the T station despite it being cold enough to freeze the banana off a brass monkey. A gray-bearded man in an Army coat and
fingerless gloves played some Simon and Garfunkel on a battered guitar. Undergrads were hanging out outside the bars, smoking cigarettes and talking about things that Harvard undergrads discuss. Two inebriated girls were in an argument. One told the other that her judgment was skewed so heteronormative.
A homeless man in a ski hat smelling of Mad Dog 20/20 challenged passersby to a Bible trivia test for five bucks. Or at least that’s what his sandwich board promised.
“Let me ask you a professional question.”
“No shrink talk after hours,” she said.
“This isn’t about being a shrink,” I said. “This is about your previous occupation.”
“Housewife or guidance counselor?”
“Guidance counselor.”
She linked her arm in mine. “Fair enough. Fire away.”
“What are your thoughts about cops in schools?”
“When I was a counselor, we didn’t have them,” she said. “It’s a relatively new idea, and while I understand the need, I don’t like the message.”
“Meaning?”
“Some horrific things have happened in schools lately,” she said. “But while the old model had the counselors or teachers or administrators looking for solutions to most problems, all those problems now seem to fall to the school resource officer, and they’re ill-equipped to solve them. From what you’ve told me about Blackburn, and other things I’ve heard, it’s gotten very much out of hand. They’re cops. They have only one approach to a problem.”
“Cops make an arrest and the school’s hands are clean.”
“Out of sight and out of mind.”
“Do you still have any old contacts who may know about the current climate in Blackburn?”
“I resent that my contacts are old.”
“Old is a relative term.”
“I can make some calls Monday.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll buy you an extra order of the deviled eggs.”
“You were going to do that anyway.”
“How about a Bloody Mary?”
“This late?” she said. “I’ll take a gimlet. Ketel One. Fresh lime juice.”
“Of course,” I said. “I may need a double myself.”
“That bad?”
“It’s rotten as hell up there,” I said, both of us turning off the street and into the Russell House Tavern patio, tall mushroom heaters burning a bright orange, and ducking inside and down into the basement. “The juvie courts don’t have an issue with suspending the Constitution. And none of the locals, or even the public defender, wants to challenge it.”
Miracle of all miracles, we found a spot for two at the bar. I ordered a gimlet for Susan and a Harpoon Ale for myself. I tried to keep away from the hard stuff except on very bad days or for medicinal reasons. There was soft music playing and a lot of loud, but not unpleasant, conversation.
“It seems I’m dealing with a lot of trusting and naïve parents,” I said. “Some of them are immigrants who are slow to question authority.”
“Are you sure their rights are being denied?”
“I spent a great portion of my day talking with parents,” I said. “Some I found had the option of a release. My client had the option of a release. I found three others who said the release wasn’t optional and they were told to sign.”
“Do you think that’s the norm?”
“The good judge tries a lot of cases,” I said. “All of them are confidential.”
“But even one case of a child being denied an attorney would be enough for an official inquiry?”
“One would think,” I said. “Apparently another judge up there, a family court judge, filed a complaint that Scali was eating up his budget with all the kids he was putting away.”
“Then why not just talk to the judge?”
“I’d have to retain the services of Madame Blavatsky.”
“Dead.”
“As a doornail,” I said. “Died last year. I tried to speak to his widow, but she seems to be out of town.”
The bartender, looking spiffy in a crisp white shirt and black vest, served our drinks. I liked the new trend of bartenders dressing like bartenders. The bar had a lot of handsome polished wood and marble counters. Single lights hung from the ceiling, filaments burning in vintage globes. We raised our glasses and clinked them together.
“If the kid gets off on a technicality,” she said, “that won’t be enough for you.”
“Or his mother. On principle.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Hard to open closed doors and secrecy,” I said.
“Unless you happen to have a size-twelve steel-toed boot.”
“You have a solid point.” I smiled and sipped some of the Harpoon. “How’d you get so smart?”
“It doesn’t take a Ph.D. to appreciate your unnatural persistence,” she said. “Especially to those abusing power.”
“Toward kids.”
“The worst.”
13
I awoke early Monday morning, fixed myself two semi-poached eggs, some corned-beef hash, and rye toast lathered in Irish butter. Showered and closely shaved, I tugged on a pair of Levi’s with a black cable-knit sweater, slipped a peacoat over the .38 on my hip, and drove north along I-93. At a quarter till nine, I knocked on the door of the late Judge Price. When the knocking didn’t work, I tried the bell. If I ever dropped sleuthing, I would be a dynamite employee for Avon.
After the third attempt, the door opened and an older woman with perfect grayish-black hair and exact makeup stood facing me.
I introduced myself. I told her I was working a case related to her husband.
She stared at me. She did not smile or even register if she understood me. When I finished, her eyes lingered and then wandered down to my Red Wing boots. She nodded a couple times and said, “All right then. I am Mary Price. You may come in for a moment, but I’m already running very late.”
I wiped my boots on a Christmas-themed welcome mat and walked into a still and dark house. The floors were wide-planked hardwoods. The walls were white and spare, with framed family photos and oil paintings of New England landscapes. She had a nice fire going in her family room, where she invited me to sit on a long brown leather couch. An old mantel clock over the hearth clicked off time in a steady and assured tick-tock.
“Would you like coffee?”
“I don’t want to make you any later.”
“You said you wish to talk about Jim.”
“Yes.”
“Then my appointments can wait,” she said. “If I acted rude, please excuse me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“No apology necessary.”
“You’re the one who left the business card?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I was happy to invite you in,” she said. “But if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll strike you with a fire poker.”
“Yikes.”
There was a hint of a smile. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and charcoal slacks. We were of different generations but I couldn’t help but notice she was a very attractive woman. Thirty years ago, she must’ve been a knockout. I didn’t know a nice way of saying that, so I kept my mouth shut and waited for her to return with the coffee.
She had her chair, high-backed and well used, close to the fire, with a woven blanket folded over the back and a book in the seat. After a few minutes, she returned with two cups of coffee on a silver serving tray and set them down on a table. The fire popped and the logs hissed.
She removed the book and sat. Her hair was long for a woman her age, with a portion pinned back and most lying on her shoulders. She had prominent cheekbones and gray eyes that watched me as I added a little sugar. I’d recently stopped with the cream. Every little bit counts.
“I work for a woman whose son was sen
tenced to a juvenile camp by Judge Scali,” I said. “The sentencing was harsh and unfair. In the course of my work, I found out your late husband may have raised similar questions.”
“And where did you hear that?”
“From a woman named Iris Milford with The Star,” I said. “She told me your husband had been a source for her before he died.”
She had not added any milk or sugar to her coffee. The steam curled and dissipated off the mug while the fire glowed and popped. “I wish she hadn’t told you that.”
“She wouldn’t have, but knew it was important.”
“What did the young man do?”
“He made some jokes about his vice principal on the Internet,” I said. “They weren’t exactly high-brow. But they weren’t the kind of thing that needed the attention of a cop.”
She nodded, stared at me with her gray, hooded eyes, and bit the inside of her cheek. I downed some more coffee. I was pretty sure she was weighing the odds of shutting down altogether. The mantel clock ticked off more time.
“Joe Scali is an immoral, soulless bastard,” she said.
Hot damn. I tried not to show my excitement. I leaned forward on the sofa. The bright light from outside was blocked by a pair of heavy dark green curtains.
“As you know, Jim was appointed to family court,” she said. “He held that position for more than twenty years.”
“And his connection with Joe Scali?”
“The whole mess started by a very honest, straightforward inquiry,” she said. “Jim and Joe Scali shared the same budget. Three years ago, Jim was told he’d have to go to the county for more funding for his programs. He didn’t care to go hat in hand.”
“What kind of programs?”
“His budget included counseling for parents who didn’t want to lose their kids and for placement of kids into foster homes,” she said. “He’d never had to ask for additional funding. This was all new. The next year, the same thing happened. Some administrators made innuendos about Jim’s budget, which was laughable. These were all good and fair programs. Nothing had changed as far as the caseload.”