Little Boy Lost

by Trafford, J. D.

  “What if I sign the contract, and my daughter misses more days of school?”

  “As I’ve said, then we send you to the city attorney and they file a petition.” He sighed. “The performance contract gives you a second chance.” He leaned forward, stressing the importance of what he was about to say. “It’s an opportunity to keep this private.”

  I nodded, understanding what he meant and the ramifications. Regardless of whether I ran for Congress or not, I was from a political family, and political families keep these things private.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was dusk by the time I got back to the house. My cell phone rang as I pulled into the back drive. It was Emma. She gave an update on what happened after I left, and told me I had a full day of work tomorrow. She had set up Lost Boys interviews one after another from nine until five. She didn’t want me to be late.

  “Sounds painful,” I said.

  She didn’t care. “It’s money. We need the money.” Then she hung up.

  I got out of the car, wondering how a woman I had met and hired just that morning had somehow become my new boss.

  I walked through the backyard up to the main house. The door was unlocked, and I went inside. “Mom?” There was no answer, so I walked through the mud room and the empty kitchen. “Anybody around?” Then I heard giggling coming from the library.

  The door was open a crack. I looked inside through the narrow slit but didn’t open the door. I didn’t want to interrupt.

  Sammy was sidled up to the Judge. One of his arms circled around her. They were both smiling and talking about a picture in one of the old man’s books. She looked so happy in this moment, and yet I knew it was just a moment. I knew that things weren’t right.

  She was hurting, and I’d been so self-absorbed that I hadn’t noticed. I knew she missed her mother, like I did, but I didn’t know school had gotten so bad that she’d lie to me. I wondered where she spent her days. What did she do for six or eight hours a day by herself?

  My weight shifted and the floor creaked.

  Both of them stopped talking and looked toward the sound, and I was forced to open the door and reveal myself. Both looked disappointed. “Sorry,” I said, stepping inside. “It’s getting late. Time to go.”

  She stuck out her lip, but she knew that I was right.

  “Run along now.” The Judge kissed her cheek and then patted her back as she got off the couch.

  “See you tomorrow, Judge.” Sammy waved good-bye.

  “Of course.” The Judge smiled back, and then Sammy and I walked out of the library.

  “Grandma left a plate of dinner for you in the fridge.”

  “That was nice of her.” At the mention of food, I realized how hungry I was. “I’ll grab it and take it back to our place.” We walked from the hallway into the kitchen.

  I found a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans in the refrigerator, secured beneath plastic wrap.

  “Do your homework tonight?” I asked as we continued to the back door.

  “Yes.” Sammy answered a little too quickly.

  “Great.” I opened the door and we went outside. “You can show it to me, tell me what you’ve been working on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to see it.” I got the carriage house key out of my pocket. “I want to see how you’re doing.”

  “Since when?” She sounded defensive, but I didn’t blame her. I hadn’t ever asked to see her homework, but now things were different.

  “Things change,” I told her. “Conversations with Vice Principal Gieser will do that.” I opened the door to the carriage house, and Sammy walked inside, her head bowed. She’d been caught.

  I took refuge that night in the toy room among the figurines and playthings of my youth. An old Artie Flake record spun on the player as I sat at my worktable. My time traveler was almost done. There was, however, some trim work on the clay base. Paint needed to be applied. Then there were the other figurines. Every good hero needs a cast of supporting players.

  Monica looked as dazzling as ever. Her framed picture sat on the edge of my table, and we talked about Sammy and the Lost Boys. I didn’t tell her much about the family drama and Annie. Some things needed to be kept close, even if I was talking to a memory.

  The record played through to the final song. The music was slow and simple. A light brush on the snare kept time. An upright bass carried the tune, and Artie Flake sang the tale:

  Won’t you come down to Saint Louie.

  Won’t you be my pretty baby.

  Won’t you come down to Saint Louie.

  This town’s got me crazy.

  It was well past midnight when I turned off the lights and closed the door. I walked through the kitchen, then started up the stairs. My mind was now too dull and my body too tired for the worries that had stacked up over the past week to interfere with my sleep.

  That was the magic of the toy room.

  I got to the upper landing, thinking only about brushing my teeth and laying my head down on my pillow. Then there was a noise in the alley. It sounded like a few empty bottles rolling across the cobblestones.

  I turned out the lights and stood at the edge of the window. Whatever calm I had felt seconds before was gone. I scanned the alley, not sure what I was looking for and even less sure about what I was going to do about whatever I might find.

  I waited.

  My heart beat faster. Adrenaline.

  It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but even then there wasn’t anything to see. No cars drove by. Nobody emerged from the shadows. I saw nothing, but I knew there was someone out there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning didn’t go as planned. Emma had scheduled family interviews with a half dozen new clients, but I got a call from the city prosecutor as I arrived with Sammy at her school.

  “Hold on.” I covered the phone and looked back at Sammy. She had her backpack in her lap and was staring at the front entrance. “You gonna be OK?”

  She looked at me and nodded. “I’ll be fine.” She didn’t sound convinced. She reached out toward the handle, but hesitated.

  “It’ll be OK.” I nodded. “Love you, Sammy.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy.” She opened the door and got out.

  I didn’t pull away, even though the volunteer running the school drop-off lane waved me forward. I watched her go up the large walkway to the entrance of the school, and then I waited until she was inside. The whole time I was half expecting her to run away.

  “Mr. Glass?” It was a faint voice. The prosecutor was still on the line.

  I put the cell phone back to my ear. “Sorry about that.” I pulled away from the curb. “What’s going on?”

  Cecil Bates was in jail, scheduled to appear on the morning detention calendar, and the prosecutor wanted to cut a deal. No probation. No additional time to serve hanging over his head. Credit for time served with a minimal fine that everybody knew would never be collected.

  It was a good deal, but it wasn’t because the prosecutor thought she had a bad case. She wanted to dump it. A trial would be a waste of resources.

  I called Emma and told her to reschedule the interviews. She cursed, but I told her that I didn’t have any choice. That was the life of a solo street lawyer. There weren’t associates or other partners available to bail you out when there was an unexpected court hearing. The meetings had to be rescheduled, and I had to drive down to the City Justice Center and convince Cecil to take the plea.

  The building was new—built in the last twenty years, when every major American city built a new jail and a new sports stadium downtown.

  Constructed of polished stone and glass, it was meant to look like a mid-rise office tower. The cameras, metal detectors, cops, and lack of windows on the sides of the building, however, gave its true purpose away.

  I found a parking space off Tucker at a surface lot behind city hall, then crossed the street. The last t
ime I had been down at the jail was the night that one of Saint Louis’s finest kicked my ass.

  I went up the steps, pushed through the revolving doors, and checked in through security. They directed me to the courtrooms on the second floor, and, from there, I was hustled to the back by the deputies.

  Ten guys sat on a bench along the wall. I saw Cecil sitting at the end. He appeared to be about half the size of the other defendants in orange. That old Sesame Street song popped into my head. Cecil Bates was not like the others. Cecil Bates was doing his own thing.

  I called Cecil toward me so that we could speak in semiprivacy. Leaning in, I said, “They offered a nice deal this time.” I relayed the details to him—no probation and no additional time.

  Cecil shook his head. “Didn’t do it. Ain’t gonna say I did.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Done lots of stuff, but didn’t do this.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “We aren’t playing games here. This is it.”

  “I know.” Cecil’s face hardened. “Ain’t my first rodeo, you know?” He held his chin high and puffed out his chest. “Ain’t pleadin’ to nothing I didn’t do.”

  The judge handling the detention calendar looked like a gigantic black buzzard peering down at us from the bench. His bald head had turned a splotched red. His sharp nose shot out from his face like a beak, and his beady eyes examined Cecil.

  He gave a look of both hunger and disgust.

  “Not taking the deal?” His face tightened even further. “Don’t get much better than that.” He swung his buzzard head toward the prosecutor and then back to us.

  “I’ve explained the prosecution’s generous offer to my client, Your Honor.” I took a breath. “But he’s been clear with me from the beginning. Mr. Bates would like to take this matter to trial. He is not pleading guilty. If held, he’ll be demanding a speedy trial.”

  The judge leaned back. “Lots of people say that, but then when the time comes, they plead. They all plead, but not before disrupting the lives of potential jurors, the witnesses, and the court.” He folded his arms across his chest, and we waited in silence. Finally, he looked at the clerk. “Set this matter on for trial in fifteen days, back with Judge Polansky. Bail is set at fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “Your honor, Mr. Bates doesn’t have ten dollars for bail, much less fifteen hundred dollars.”

  My argument was ignored.

  The gavel came down, and Cecil went back to jail.

  So far, the prosecution of Cecil Bates for allegedly drinking an alcoholic beverage in a public space had cost the good taxpayers of Missouri over $2,000 for booking, incarceration, prosecution, and defense.

  And we hadn’t even had a trial.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I arrived at my office in the late morning. Thankfully there was no line outside my door. It looked quiet.

  I drove around the block and then came through the alley in the back. After I parked the car and got out, I noticed that the dumpster was full.

  The dumpster was never full.

  I walked a little closer.

  There were three trash bags piled next to it, a table with a broken leg, and a lamp without a shade. Inside, the dumpster was filled with other pieces of old, broken office furniture.

  Every piece piled in the dumpster was mine.

  With the discarded lamp in hand, I opened the office door. “Emma.” I didn’t wait for a greeting. “Want to explain what the—” My voice fell away.

  A family sat in the front waiting area, staring at me. They sat on a new brown leather couch. The mother was flipping through a magazine, and the kids were in mid-squirm. “Good morning,” I said to them as my eyes scanned the completely redecorated room. The office was beautiful, clean, and bright.

  I held my finger up in the air. “I need a moment to talk with my paralegal.” My eyes locked on Emma Tadic, sitting at a new oak desk with brass trim. “Perhaps you and I could talk in private?”

  I walked back toward my office, and Emma followed.

  She shut the door behind her as I walked around my new desk and sat down in a high-backed, leather chair. “Ms. Tadic . . .” I closed my eyes, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

  Not knowing where to begin, I tried to keep it simple.

  “I don’t believe that I asked you to throw all my furniture into the garbage, true?”

  “No.” Emma didn’t seem to care, nor was she offering to explain. She looked at me like she had better things to do.

  So I tried a different approach. “The office looks very nice. This is all beautiful, but I can’t afford any of it. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m not that kind of a lawyer. I do street law. I work for the public defender. I have trouble making a small lease payment every month.”

  “No worries.” She smiled. “I got this from my uncle. He runs a furniture store down on Market and Beaumont. You can pay him later.”

  “But I don’t have the money now, and I don’t think I’ll have the money later, either.”

  Emma dismissed my concerns. “Then he’ll take it back when he needs it.”

  “But I don’t feel right about—”

  “Nonsense, he knows what you did for my cousin Nikolas. He knows what you do for me.” She tilted her head to the side. “And, of course, he knows your family. It’s always good to have friends in high places, he says.”

  “I understand, but all this stuff is a waste.” I ran my hand along the smooth oak desktop. “I don’t need it, and my clients don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do need it, and your clients definitely care.” Emma rolled her eyes at my naïveté. “People buy the sizzle, not the steak. You know that. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. Plus”—she put her hands on her hips—“I do not work in a dump. Are we now done?”

  I didn’t have the energy to fight her. “I guess so.”

  “Good.” Emma nodded. “I have a new client you need to meet this afternoon. Retainer is paid, but you need to go over the agreement with him and get it signed. First appearance tomorrow, suburban guy with a simple DWI. Just don’t plead him right away. Keep him on the hook a little, let him sweat it out. He’ll be more appreciative of your work if you fight a little, maybe challenge the traffic stop.”

  If she ever allowed my practice a quiet moment, I needed to ask Emma where she’d learned everything she knew about retainer agreements, client management, and running a law practice. “Thanks,” I said as she stepped forward and handed me the file with the name of the new client printed neatly on the front. “You also need to meet with that family out in the waiting area right now and get them out of here. The kids are driving me crazy, and you have two others in about ten minutes.”

  I nodded, trying to process all the information. It had been a long time since I was part of a functioning law office, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. “Anything else?”

  “You do civil?”

  Thinking back to my days as a young lawyer and husband, before it all fell apart, I said, “I used to do civil.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “I told them, yes. They want you to work on a real estate deal for some affordable housing near the convention center. Part legal and part political.”

  I held out my palms, trying to slow her down. “I’m not sure about—”

  “I say ten-thousand-dollar retainer, up front. You charge three hundred fifty dollars an hour and one hundred fifty dollars an hour for paralegal—that’s me. They say no problem.”

  The money stopped me cold. I ran the calculations in my head. Even if it was a simple deal, I’d make more on that single file than I did working for the public defender in three months.

  The room was silent.

  Emma waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. So she pushed forward. “Any questions?” She tilted her head, setting the big hoop earring on one side swaying back and forth.

  Resigned, I quietly told her that I had nothing more.

  Emma offered an understan
ding smile and nod. Then she turned and opened the door.

  “Ms. Tadic,” I said before she left. “How?”

  She glanced back, smiling. “I answered the phone.” Then she turned back and walked into the reception area. Before the door closed, she said, “Being on the front page of the newspaper also doesn’t hurt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  By the third family interview, I was exhausted. Talking to people was my job, but these were more confessionals than anything else.

  I heard about abusive boyfriends, drug use, working two jobs, evictions, intermittent homelessness, and couch-crashing. It was the harshness of living on the edge.

  The disappearances in the first two interviews followed a progression. The same pattern as Tanisha’s brother, Devon Walker.

  When the boys hit puberty, their attendance at school worsened. They began hanging around with other boys who’d spend their days smoking marijuana, committing petty crimes, and hustling.

  They joined a gang, but not in the way that a person joins the Rotary Club or the Masons. It wasn’t even as formal as jumping into the Bloods or Crips. These gangs were more like loose affiliations, with names that teenage boys might think are cool, but actually revealed that they were still kids: Egan’s Rats, Shaw Boys, Money Over Bitches (MOB), Saint Louis Crime Family, Bottoms Gang, Black Mafia.

  They’d disappear for a weekend or even a week, dropping in for food or money or just to hide. The crimes got increasingly serious. Probation officers and cops became regular fixtures in their lives.

  And then, one day they were gone.

  I listened and took notes, and then, eventually, we had just one more for the day.

  Emma brought me a cup of coffee and set it and the file on my desk, then leaned in. “You do this last one”—she patted my shoulder and whispered—“then you run to the jail before four o’clock. The DWI retainer agreement is on my desk.”

  Emma left as Deonna Villa and her sister came into the office.

  I pointed to the seats in front of me, introduced myself, and took a sip of the coffee, hoping the caffeine would bring me back to life. “And which one of you is Deonna Villa?” I looked back and forth until, eventually, Deonna identified herself. “Well I apologize for the wait.” I nodded, forcing a smile, and she nodded back. “Been a long day, but I’m sure it’s been a longer day for you.”