Little Boy Lost

by Trafford, J. D.

  “What do you mean?” My mother turned. She saw the expression on my face. “Oh.” She nodded. “Understood.”

  “Probably nine or ten bodies buried near Castlewood State Park.” I took a sip of beer. “One of the bodies was the boy I was looking for. Not quite sure what I’m supposed to do now.”

  “Up to you.”

  My mother often said stuff like that. It was both maddening and reassuring at the same time. She picked up a big salt shaker and added some salt to the vegetables, then turned the heat down even further to let them sweat. “I think you did a wonderful thing, helping that little girl out, but you probably have other cases.”

  I laughed. “Unfortunately, I don’t, really.” I put my beer down and started picking at the label, thinking about money and the fading hope that I was going to be able to afford an air conditioner. “Sammy say anything about school?”

  My mother shook her head.

  Then I asked, “Talk to Dad?”

  “I did.” My mom set down her wooden spoon and walked over to me. “He’s wondering what you’re going to do.”

  I shrugged. “Lincoln’s the politician, not me. I don’t need a pity job.”

  “Your father didn’t choose you to follow him out of pity.” My mom put her hand on my shoulder. “He made the decision because he respects you, and, as I recall, you once fancied yourself a politician.”

  “Things change.”

  My mother shook her head. “Not as much as you think.”

  “Lincoln is furious.”

  She nodded. “Feels betrayed. Thinks you may have known all along.”

  “Hope you corrected him.”

  “I tried.” My mother pursed her lips. “But you know Lincoln. He and Buster had some big plans, even thinking about the Senate after being a congressman for a few terms.”

  “Well,” I said, “he’s got every right to be mad.”

  My mother started to speak, but the timer went off. She walked back over to the oven, and peeked at the garlic chicken roasting inside. “You know that I’m not the pretty little housewife that keeps her opinions to herself and lets the men think all the big thoughts.”

  I smiled. “Never were.”

  “But I do know it’s your father’s decision, not mine.” My mother lifted the chicken out of the oven and set it on top of the stove. The smell of garlic in the room became stronger. “Love both you and Lincoln. You’re both wonderful. You’re both different, and that’s fine.”

  Then my mother turned to me. She looked me directly in the eye. “But you need to seriously think about this. You have a lot to offer, and you’ve got a daughter in there that believes you can do or be anything.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it be nice to serve our community, fight the good fight, and pay the bills?”

  She came back to me and put her hand on my cheek. “Just think about it. That’s all. Think hard about it. Lincoln will be fine. There will be other opportunities.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I heard a car pull up and park in the alley as I tucked Sammy into bed. “Good night.” I wanted to lean over and kiss her on the forehead, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. Even after a fresh round of pills, the pain wasn’t fully dulled. “Anything else you need to talk to me about?”

  Sammy shook her head. “Nope.”

  “OK.” I took her hand and gave it a squeeze, then started for the door. As I turned out the light, Sammy said that she loved me.

  I stopped. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

  “Glad you’re moving a little better today.”

  “A little bit,” I lied, but I was really thinking about what I couldn’t tell her about my day, where I’d been and what I’d seen. A grove of bodies with no explanation.

  I held the railing and walked carefully down the steps to the door of the carriage house, and I peeked through the small window beside it. Annie was waiting on the darkened doorstep, scrolling through her e-mails and texts on her cell phone. Never a wasted minute for the mayor.

  I set aside my annoyance and opened the door. She came inside, and as I leaned in to kiss her, she moved away, walking past me.

  “OK,” I said. “Guess there’s no time for that lovey-dovey stuff tonight.”

  “Got that right.” I followed her through the small entryway and into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of beer. “Want one?”

  “Already had a couple with dinner, so I’m fine.” I studied her from just inside the room. “You, on the other hand, don’t seem so fine.”

  “No.” Annie opened a drawer, found the bottle opener, and removed the cap. “Not fine.” She looked at me and then away. In the light of the kitchen, I could now see that she’d been crying.

  “Tell me about it.” I walked over to the little kitchen table and sat. At first Annie didn’t follow, but eventually she collected herself enough to be within a few feet of me.

  She settled into the chair across from me and closed her eyes. There was a silence that seemed like forever, and then she looked me in the eye and asked a question. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Right now?” I shrugged. “Trying to figure out where you’re coming from. Not a kiss. Not a hello. Not even a ‘How’s your day?’ You call me, wanting to meet up. I say OK. You don’t follow up. I hear nothing, so . . . now you’re here, obviously mad.”

  Her face turned hard. “You know exactly what I’m mad about.”

  “No.” I held out my hands in surrender. “No, I don’t. I’ve been in bed for a week or so after being attacked by your cops, and then today I had the pleasure of seeing a whole lot of dead boys and telling the sister and mother of one of them that nobody has any idea what happened, except that the person who did it used plastic handcuffs and liked the solitude of nature.” Her expression didn’t change, and that fired some more anger in me. It was a spark that I hadn’t felt in some time. “That what you’re looking for?” I shook my head. “If not, I haven’t a clue, Madame Mayor. You’re the one who pretty much dropped out of my life the minute I suggested we might want to talk about—”

  Annie held out her hand, cutting me off. “You’re running for Congress.”

  Now I regretted not having another beer.

  I should have known this mess of my brother’s and my father’s would get back to her.

  “I was asked by my father to run for Congress.” I tried to minimize it, but that didn’t work.

  “And you told him no, absolutely not?”

  I wavered. “Not exactly, and please keep your voice down.” I looked up. “My daughter is up there.”

  Annie shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said. “So Lincoln was right.” Her hand curled into a tight ball. “That’s a pretty big deal, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.” I nodded. “But I’ve never told Lincoln or my father or anyone else that I’m running. My dad asked me, and I think it deserves consideration, out of respect.” I started to get more agitated. “I have a right to think about it. It’s something that I haven’t thought about for a long time, and I’m tired of you hacks pushing me around.”

  “I’m a hack now.” Annie pursed her lips. “That’s what you think of me—that I’m a political hack.”

  I waved it off. It wasn’t personal. “I think you’re all a bunch of political hacks—Lincoln, Buster, you—all of you.” OK, maybe it was personal.

  She set her jaw. “Let’s stay on topic. Look me in the eye and tell me your father is not giving you his endorsement and you’re not going to run as some outsider with a famous name.”

  “This is crazy.” I stood up a little too fast. A fresh shot of pain ripped up my side. “Maybe you should leave before you really do wake up my daughter.”

  “I’m not leaving until we talk about this.”

  “That’s the problem.” I folded my arms across my chest. “We ain’t talking. You’re just attacking me for some unknown reason.”

  “Unknown reason?” Now Annie was on her feet. She put her beer do
wn on the table. “You don’t think this affects me? You don’t think that a congressional campaign by you will impact me?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. It’s a family thing. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Well,” Annie said. “Your brother doesn’t share your view. He says if you run, he’ll take me down. He says he’ll find another candidate, maybe he’d run against me himself.” She looked up at the ceiling, hands on her hips. “Our secret is not as big a secret as we think, Justin.” She looked back at me, tears pooling in her eyes. “People know, and your brother will make sure everybody knows about it when I’m running for reelection next year.”

  “He said that?”

  Annie blinked, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. “He and Buster.” She turned away from me, staring out the dark window. “Stop this,” she said. “Please.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next day, I returned to the law factory. Despite my absence, it had remained in constant operation. Criminal charges were brought. Lawsuits were filed. Agreements were made. Nothing had changed upon my return, although I may have changed a little.

  The hallway outside the courtroom was as crowded as ever, filled with people who were at some stage of “growing into their guilt.” This refers to a concept very similar to the five stages of grief developed by Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: First, a criminal defendant denies; he claims to be innocent. Second, he gets angry at the system, lashing out at the cops or the judge or his attorney. Third, he bargains, searching for a plea deal that will keep him out of jail or prison. Fourth and fifth come depression, and, ultimately, acceptance.

  The system lurches forward. I could argue that some of them are actually innocent, which may be true, but the law factory doesn’t work like that. It isn’t about guilt or innocence. The system is about keeping things moving. It grinds a person down—innocent or guilty—until he or she submits.

  With fresh cocktail of painkillers working through my body, I set my stack of files on the hallway bench without too much trouble. I took the first file off the top and then called out the name. The crowd quieted down. I called out the name again.

  “That’s me.” A large white woman raised her hand. She was leaning against the wall about fifteen feet away from me. I waved her over, and we began our brief consultation.

  A half hour later, I had worked through most of the stack. It really didn’t matter whether I needed more time. The judge wanted to get started, and so it began.

  Judge Saul Polansky processed twenty-two cases in an hour and half, working out to a little more than four minutes per case. That’s an average of 240 seconds per file, which is not bad.

  About half were plea agreements. Three were set for trial, and the remainder were no-shows triggering arrest warrants.

  The final case of the morning was Cecil Bates, the client who was having trouble moving out of the first phase. Though absent this morning, he was still claiming his innocence and had left messages throughout my recuperation about various legal theories and constitutional violations associated with his arrest.

  The clerk called his name. “File 65-MD-14-358217, State versus Cecil Bates.”

  Judge Polansky nodded toward the prosecutor, and the prosecutor stepped forward.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Since Mr. Bates had proper notice of this hearing and has failed to appear, I ask that a warrant be issued for his arrest and bail be set at five hundred dollars.”

  The judge looked at me.

  “I’d ask that another notice be issued for this hearing instead of a warrant. I’ve been in pretty regular contact with Mr. Bates, and I’m surprised he’s not here this morning.” I had to make the argument. I had to ask for it, even though everyone knew that the request would be denied.

  It was frustrating.

  Giving Mr. Bates and the other low-level offenders another opportunity to come to court voluntarily could potentially save the taxpayers money, because we wouldn’t have to pay for the arrest, transport, processing, and incarceration of somebody who wasn’t a real threat to public safety. But it was easy to issue a warrant, and, more importantly, it put the clock on hold.

  All judges and judicial districts were measured by, and their performance evaluated solely upon, how quickly they processed cases. The State of Missouri required that 80 percent of all petty misdemeanor and misdemeanor cases be concluded within sixty days of charges being brought. While on warrant—as Cecil would be, should a warrant for his arrest be issued—the clock stopped. If Judge Polansky gave Cecil Bates another chance, the clock would continue to tick, and his own performance would be called into question.

  So Judge Polansky denied my request and issued a warrant for Cecil Bates.

  I nodded, turned back toward the table, and started to gather up my files. I heard Judge Polansky say my name and looked back. “Yes, Judge?”

  “Moment to chat?”

  I was a little stunned. Nobody ever wanted to chat with a criminal defense lawyer, especially a public defender.

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  The judge smiled. “Good. My clerk will lead you back to my chambers.” Judge Polansky then stood and walked out the back door.

  He wanted to gossip.

  My mother often talked about how isolated her father had felt after being appointed to the federal bench. His friends wouldn’t call him by his first name, and his drinking partners soon became very limited. Judge Polansky appeared to be no different.

  “Please, have a seat.” Judge Polansky gestured for his law clerk to leave and close the door. “Read the paper this morning, and I couldn’t resist.”

  “Resist what?”

  “Asking if it’s true.” He blushed, a little embarrassed. “Whether you’re going to run for Congress.” I didn’t respond, so Judge Polansky filled the silence with a series of declarations. “Kiss Saint Louis good-bye. Guaranteed paycheck. Escape from this hell hole, and you’d be a million times better than your brother.”

  I thought about Lincoln and then about Annie and the threat. “Not sure I’m cutthroat enough for Washington. Don’t really aspire to it.”

  “But you’ve paid your dues.” Judge Polansky shook his head. “Working out there for nothing. You’ve more than earned it. Plus representing one of the Lost Boys doesn’t hurt.”

  “Lost Boys?”

  “That kid,” he said. “The one who was found in the park. They’re calling him that—all of them—the Lost Boys. Nobody really knows who they were and how long they’ve been gone.”

  “I didn’t know they had a name.”

  Judge Polansky shook his head. “You obviously don’t watch television.”

  “Not really.” I checked my watch and then looked back up. “Try to avoid it if I can.”

  “Or read the newspaper?” Judge Polansky picked up a copy of the current St. Louis Post-Dispatch from the top of his desk and handed it to me.

  On its cover were pictures of Devon Walker and two other boys, as well as six boxes with large question marks. Across the top of the page, the headline read, MANY LOST BOYS REMAIN A MYSTERY.

  I tried to play it cool, even though the whole thing made me feel uneasy.

  I read the first few sensational sentences about the problem that the police were having in identifying the majority of victims and understanding why they were killed, then tried to hand the newspaper back to Judge Polansky. “Very subtle journalism.”

  “You can keep it.” Judge Polansky smiled. “Read it all.” He pointed toward the bottom of the page. “Says you’re pretty much a saint, and the free plug for your congressional campaign was pretty nice, too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The line outside my office was not welcome. If I sold shoes or televisions, a line of people waiting for my doors to open would’ve been a happy sight. For a lawyer, not so much.

  I took my time driving by, taking in the scene. Most appeared to be mothers or grandmothers. Many of them holding photographs, several crying. A dozen young kids ran the
street.

  I circled the block to the alley and parked behind the Northside Roastery. Nobody answered when I knocked on the coffee shop’s back door, but it opened when I turned the knob so I went inside.

  “Hermes?” I took a step into their back storage area. “Nikolas?” I took another few steps. The back door closed behind me. “Hey, Hermes. It’s me, Justin. Justin Glass.”

  “The famous celebrity is here.” Hermes came around the corner with a big smile on his face. “You looking like rock star. Fans waiting to touch you.”

  “I don’t feel like a rock star.”

  “Come.” He grabbed my shoulder and guided me past the boxes and bags of green coffee beans to the front of the shop. “I get you something to drink.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You doing OK?”

  Hermes hedged. “Doing OK. I had some bad feelings.”

  “Another premonition?” I played along, but Hermes was serious.

  He pointed to a little shelf underneath the cash register. “Got me a gun for protection now.” He tilted his head from side to side, considering whether he should elaborate. “Makes me feel a little better.”

  I sat at a table near the window and watched the people coming and going. There was a mix of emotions, but mostly a realization that this wasn’t going to change. This was the new normal, and I was at the center of the storm.

  Hermes knew I was overwhelmed, but he didn’t want to overstep. “Mind if I sit a moment?” He pointed at the chair across from me.

  I nodded, still fixated on the crowd as Hermes sat down. He told me that he had a cousin who was going through a divorce and looking for work. She needed some money, and I clearly needed some help. I’d never met her. Didn’t know her qualifications, but Hermes dismissed my concerns. “She take care of everything. Very smart. Be here in thirty minutes.”

  Who was I to argue?

  It took her forty minutes, but I didn’t mind. I hoped that all the people standing outside my law office would give up and leave, but instead of shrinking, the crowd only grew.