After the final pot was scrubbed and dried, I walked from the kitchen to the library, where Sammy sat with the Judge on the couch. They’d finished The Iliad. They had now moved on to a compilation of poems by Walt Whitman. I knocked on the door frame as I entered. “Time for bed, sweetie.”
Sammy groaned.
“Have to talk to the Judge for a few minutes.” I gave her my hand and pulled her from the couch. “Why don’t you stop in the kitchen and have another cookie and some milk with Grandma. I’ll be out in a few.”
My consent to yet another cookie got her moving toward the door, where she stopped and blew the Judge a kiss before hustling away.
He smiled, then closed the book and put it on the end table next to the couch. “Everything going OK?” He gestured to the chair. “Have a seat and tell me what the great political mastermind had to say.”
I sat down. “You must be talking about Lincoln?”
“Of course,” the Judge said. “I’m sure he had a plan.”
I nodded. “Always.” I thought for a moment and then added, “Not a bad one, either.”
“I’m sure it entails you giving up your father’s congressional seat.” The Judge was always skeptical of Lincoln’s motives.
“Yes,” I said, “but the seat was never mine to begin with.”
The Judge scoffed. “You don’t believe that, do you? Your father, in a rare moment of insight and wisdom, picked you, and that’s the end of it. Lincoln could bluster and whine, but he’s smart enough to know the rules.” He folded his arms across his chest, signaling his opinion was final. “You win.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s more complicated.”
The Judge raised an eyebrow. “The good mayor?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the Judge knew, too. Seemed like everybody knew.
“That’s part of it,” I said. “Sammy is another part . . . school issues.”
“You have the name and your father’s support. That’s all you need.”
“Maybe.” I nodded. “But politics hasn’t been my thing for a long time.”
“You say that now.” The Judge shook his head. “So that means the state Senate seat is out, too?”
“I don’t know,” I said, which was true.
The Judge looked at me, knowing the haze that I’d been living in and continued to struggle with, then he set it all aside, ready for a new topic. “Assume you had other reasons that you wanted to talk.”
“I do.” I leaned back, thinking about Sammy. “I told Sammy that I wasn’t going to send her back to her old school, so”—the words caught in my throat—“I am going to need your . . . help.”
The Judge looked at me with kindness. I knew it had more to do with his love of Sammy than me, but it was the first time he’d ever looked at me like that. “Of course.” He nodded.
I half expected him to snap out of it and revert to his old self, bashing public schools and government regulation, but he didn’t. He didn’t make me feel guilty or sign a contract with a repayment plan. He just gave me a sympathetic grin. “Anything else?”
It took a moment, but my mind shifted to Devon Walker and all the bodies in Castlewood Park and my conversation with Chief Wilson. I remembered promising to help the families, but I didn’t remember agreeing to heed his warning about doing my own investigation. I didn’t see any harm in doing a little more independent field research. “Wondering if you know any of the judges who work down in juvenile?”
“In the city?” The Judge raised his eyebrows. “Most of them have long retired, but I think I know a few that are active.”
“There’s a probation officer I want to talk to somebody about, hear from somebody who works with him.”
The Judge thought about it a little more. “Danny Bryce would probably be your man. He’s pretty passionate about all that stuff.”
The name rang a bell for me. “The Missouri Miracle?”
The Judge nodded. “That’s the one. He’s the judge they put on all the legal panels to talk about juvenile crime. He’s written quite a few law review articles about intervening early in a juvenile’s life and providing them with wraparound support. He started it in the 1990s and experienced significant drops in juvenile crime. Many jurisdictions copied it, wanting their own miracle.”
“Can you make an introduction for me?”
“You can use my name if it’ll help you get a meeting.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
They scheduled the press conference for ten thirty in the morning on Saturday to allow enough time for reporters to write their stories for the Sunday newspaper and television stations to edit the video for their midday and evening newscasts.
Theoretically.
But Lincoln understood the current disarray of modern journalism. He wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. For community newspapers operating with either volunteers or somebody making less than minimum wage per story, he e-mailed an electronic draft of a story about his announcement for Congress. It was all in the package—quotes, photos, and headline. They didn’t even need to send a reporter, just cut and paste.
He did the same for the political reporters at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Associated Press. They’d probably get their own quotes, but the draft saved them time and made them happy.
For the television stations, Lincoln hired his own videographer. If no cameraman or reporter made it to the announcement, that wasn’t a problem. His communications director sent the raw footage as well as edited versions to all the stations. Then, for the bloggers, thirty-second clips were posted on YouTube and Vimeo so that they could be embedded into their websites.
It was orchestrated perfectly.
My father spoke to the small room of fifty people, announcing his retirement. He got choked up a few times, and I swore that I saw him glance my way. He wanted me to be taking his place, but he understood my choice was final.
I stood next to Annie in front of a large GLASS FOR CONGRESS sign, and we watched my father introduce my brother. He gave Lincoln a hug and then receded into the background.
Lincoln smiled as family members, campaign workers, and some folks from the community whooped and hollered in the back of the room.
“I want to thank my dad for being a wonderful father, mentor, and example to me and my brother.” He turned back, looked at our father, and nodded. “Thank you.” Then he continued. “I also want to thank my brother and Mayor Angela Montgomery. They are my campaign cochairs, and some of my closest advisors.”
That was the plan that Lincoln had devised for us. To the extent there were rumors about my relationship with Annie, we now had a legitimate and simple reason for our late-night dinners and meetings. We could say that we had been planning and coordinating his future campaign.
Neither of us liked it, but the move was smart. The direct connection to Lincoln gave Annie some assurance that her crumbling marriage and rocky personal life wouldn’t come to light because of him. For Lincoln, saving Annie helped neutralize the one person who could’ve prevented him from achieving the next step in his career: me.
Standing on stage, I was a pawn. My brother, Lincoln, was the chess master.
He played us beautifully, Annie and me.
The Glass and Montgomery machines were now connected.
My heart sank a little as I exited the highway onto McKnight Road and then drove into a neighborhood with huge trees, large lots, and no sidewalks. This was no longer the city proper.
The Nathan Baxter School was on the left, set far back from the street. Beautiful buildings rose up from a distance on the school’s fifty-acre wooded campus. They were all light tans and beiges. The campus could easily be confused with a small liberal arts college.
The small parking lot was dominated by fancy cars that cost more than I earned in a year. I parked my rusted Honda Civic next to an Audi, then I walked up the path. Ahead of me, I saw the Judge waiting on a bench near the entrance. He stood when I got closer. “How’d it go?�
��
I shrugged. “As expected.” I stopped at the front door. “The torch was officially passed this morning.”
“Surprises?”
“Nope, everybody stuck to the script.” I opened the door, allowing the Judge to enter the school first. “At the end, some reporters asked questions. You could tell Dan Dooley is going to rant about dynasties and nepotism in his next column, but Lincoln knew it was coming. Jane Mix from the Dispatch asked Lincoln whether he knew who was going to run for his state Senate seat. She was looking at me the whole time she was asking.”
“Bet she was.” The Judge laughed as we walked through the bright and clean foyer toward the administrative offices and the director of admissions.
“Lincoln saw we were about to go off-message, so he simply smiled and told her that”—I paused for dramatic effect, transitioning into my best Lincoln Glass impersonation—“‘Today we’re all focused on everything that our father has accomplished during his many years of service and ensuring that his legacy continues for this district. I am honored to carry on that legacy.’ Then one of Lincoln’s lackeys ended the press conference before anybody could ask about the state Senate seat again.”
“Still thinking about it?”
“Yes.”
The Judge pressed for more. “Leaning toward it?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Time,” I said. After weeks of hedging and indecision, it felt odd to just come out and admit the truth. “The job might be interesting. I might be able to do some good.” Then I gestured at the immaculate building that surrounded us. “And the extra money might be enough to pay for tuition at this school . . . or part.”
The Judge smiled. “The prodigal son returns.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After visiting the school with the Judge and enjoying the rest of the weekend, I spent Monday morning hanging out at the Northside Roastery. In the past it may have been considered to be hiding, but today it was for the sake of productivity. There were too many things happening at my office.
I sat at a table near the front window, watching a steady stream of people coming and going. They were the mothers of the Lost Boys. Some of them were alone, but most had an auntie or grandmother with them. A small kid or two often trailed behind.
Hermes kept my cup of coffee filled as I switched back and forth between watching and working on my laptop. There were over a dozen e-mails from Emma, some related to routine office management, but also summaries of potential cases: an aggravated robbery, a divorce, and a domestic assault.
They didn’t excite me, but it didn’t matter whether or not they excited me. Where once I’d have let them slip away, now I didn’t have that luxury. Emma needed to get paid, and if I really didn’t want the Judge to pay for most—if not all—of Sammy’s tuition, I needed to make some real money.
I took a sip of coffee, leaned back in my chair, and watched as an older man shuffled by on the other side of the street. He had two plastic grocery bags from Dollar Time. I knew what he’d think of a private school that cost three times what he probably had to live on in a year.
I slumped a little bit in my chair. Then I scrolled back through the e-mails describing the potential cases and, for each one, pressed “Reply” and instructed Emma to sign them up. I’d meet with them when they paid the retainer.
Emma came into the coffee shop a little after four and sat down across the table from me. “Working from here now?”
I smiled. “Thinking about it.” I shut down my laptop, closed it, and pushed it aside. “Quieter here.”
Emma nodded. “That’s good for you.” She looked around the empty space. “Not so good for my cousin’s bottom line.”
“Looked like you were busy today.”
“Interviews and DNA swabs.” She shook her head. “Sad stories.”
“Sorry I missed it.”
I’d tried to sound empathetic, but Emma saw through it. “Yes,” she said. “I bet you are very, very sorry to have missed the honor of sticking a Q-tip inside a stranger’s mouth and swabbing their cheek.”
“Buy you something?”
“Would be nice.” She checked the chalkboard behind the register, then turned back to me. “A latte, skim milk.”
“Done.” I stood up and walked to the back of the shop in search of Hermes. “Anybody home?” I called finally.
“Yes, yes.” Hermes emerged from the back.
“Emma wants a fancy, girlie drink.” I got out my wallet and put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Skinny latte.”
“Very good.” He rang up the order. He had started to make change when I stopped him.
“Keep it,” I said. “I owe you.”
I could tell he wanted to decline the overpayment, but couldn’t find a polite way to do it. “OK,” he said, shutting the drawer. “I bring it out to you.” He looked past me at Emma and waved to her. “Nikolas wants to see her,” he said. “I send him.”
Back at the table, I told Emma that Nikolas was coming out. “What’s he working on?”
“Probably best if you don’t know.” Emma looked down and removed a file from her briefcase.
She wanted the conversation about Nikolas to be done, but I pushed. “About Poles? You’re working on finding more stuff on Poles?”
“Really, no worries. Do not worry about it.” Then she changed the subject. “I thought this was an interesting interview.” She removed her typed summary as well as a few pages of handwritten notes. “Look at this.” She pointed.
I did as directed. “A witness?”
“Perhaps.”
I read her summary from the beginning.
It had been an interview with a mother and one of her sons—an eleven-year-old whose eldest brother, Thomas, had been gone for nine months. Emma had been careful to take down every word that the boy had said.
I looked away, thinking out loud. “Says he didn’t see who did it.”
“True,” said Emma. “But he saw his brother get stopped, have a conversation with somebody driving a van, and then his brother got inside. Didn’t ever see the driver, but his brother was never seen again.”
“No plate. No make or model.”
“Says it was dark blue.”
I paused, thinking. “It’s something,” I said. “Don’t know what, but it might be something.”
After we left the coffee shop, I went to my office to read mail and prepare for the next day. We were both ready to go home, when there was a knock on the outer door.
I heard Emma talking to whoever was there, and then she ducked her head into my interior office and told me it was Cecil, and that she’d been able to smell the alcohol on him through the closed door. “Do you still want to meet with him?” We had had an appointment in the early afternoon, but he hadn’t shown up.
I sighed, not really wanting to consult with a drunk client, but decided to go ahead. “I’d still rather meet and maybe talk him into settling now rather than going to trial.”
Emma unlocked the door and let him inside. “Mr. Bates.” She pointed toward my office. “Mr. Glass has been waiting for you.”
“Oh.” Cecil nodded and then looked around. “Suppose I may have lost track of the time.”
“Well he’s very busy, and we may need to cut our meeting short.”
Cecil wobbled, looking from Emma to me and then back again. His eyes narrowed. “Well it ain’t gonna take long.” Cecil’s voice faded and then came back strong. “’Cuz we got ourselves a slam-dunk defense.”
The small, soft-spoken Cecil that I had met at the courthouse was now gone. The alcohol had transformed him. He sauntered into my office, removed his large backpack from his shoulder, and put it on my desk.
After a few seconds of searching the backpack’s many pockets, Cecil removed a folded and slightly torn piece of paper. “Proof.” He smacked it down in front of me. “Check it out, bro.”
I picked it up and started reading. I took my time, hoping Ceci
l would sit down and calm himself. He didn’t. Then I looked up at him. “Looks like a Freedom of Information Act request you’ve filled out—and, I presume, submitted?”
He gave a decisive nod.
I set the request down and then gestured to the chair. “Please.” I pointed again at the chair. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Cecil looked back at Emma, who had been standing in the doorway, then at me. “OK.” He seemed a little confused, as though he’d either been expecting me to applaud his initiative with a round of celebratory drinks or kick him out of my office. My request to talk quietly appeared to have come as a surprise.
He sat down and tried to find a comfortable position.
“When did you send this in?”
“The other day.” Cecil pointed at the piece of paper. “Told that woman about it, too.” His head rolled back in the general direction of Emma and then rolled back to me. “Lady knows all about it. Gave her a copy when I sent it. We got ’em.”
“So no plea agreement?”
“Hell no.” Cecil looked up to the heavens and then back at me. “When we get this”—he pointed at the FOIA request—“we got the proof.”
“Proof of what?”
Cecil folded his arms across his chest. “Proof of my in-no-cence.” He smiled. “Did it all on my own. Went to the library. Told them ladies there what I wants to do, and they helped me get the stuff, make the copies, and send it in.”
I looked over at Emma and then back at Cecil. “And what are we looking for?”
“Video. Video of me in that park. Video of my arrest.” Cecil grinned. “Once you see the video, you see I wasn’t drinking in no public place.”
I refrained from reminding Cecil that he had approximately thirty prior citations for drinking in public and was, in fact, now drunk in my office. “So what if we get it back and it shows that you were drinking?”
Cecil laughed. “Ain’t gonna show that.” He shook his head confidently. “I was not drinking that day. Had no money. End of the month. Check didn’t come yet. I can’t drink when I’m broke.”
“And how do you know there’s video?”
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