“I know you want to get out of here,” I said, “but my paralegal and your law clerk have been exchanging e-mails, trying to find a time for us to meet, so I decided that I’d do it the old-fashioned way and just introduce myself to you in person.” I held out my hand and we shook. “I’m Justin Glass. My dad is Congressman Glass, and my grandpa is Judge Calhoun.”
Judge Bryce nodded. “Of course. I should’ve known. Seen you in the newspaper.” He smiled. “And I also read in the paper that Congressman Glass announced that he’s calling it quits.” He took a step back and raised his eyebrows. “Lucky man.”
“He’d be the first one to call himself lucky, I’m sure, but I don’t think he’s actually retiring.”
“Politicians never do.” Judge Bryce subtly looked at his watch and then back at me. “What can I do for you?”
“Well you may have heard that I’m representing some of the families of those boys that have gone missing. It’s been in the newspaper.”
Judge Bryce nodded. “Oh I’ve seen it. I even recognized some of those kids from court.”
“My grandpa thought you’d be a good person to talk to about it. Nothing specific, just about the juvenile court and anything else you might know.”
“I’m always happy to talk to people about what I do . . . or don’t do . . . or, more likely, what I try to do with somewhat mixed results.”
“You’re being modest.”
“No”—Judge Bryce smiled and laughed—“I’m being honest.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder. “When I first got sworn in and put on that black dress, I was pretty naive. Then you start seeing the kids of the kids that you tried to save coming into the system. That’s when reality hits.”
Judge Bryce took a business card out of his pocket. He wrote his cell phone number on the back and handed it to me. “Pretty tired right now after all this. Call me and I’ll give you a grand tour of the juvenile courthouse, and we can maybe find someplace more private to talk.”
“I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
“I’m sure you’d love to hear some gossip, too.”
Like all middle-aged men who were about to have a romantic liaison in a fancy hotel, I called my mother first to ask for permission.
She told me that Sammy was reading a book in the library with the Judge. She’d tell her that I was working late and that she should sleep in the guest bedroom at the main house. We talked a little about when I might be home, keeping it vague. Then the conversation wound down, and my mother’s last words were, “Everything will be fine here.”
I can’t imagine that she approved, but at the same time, she also knew better than anyone where I’d been and what I’d gone through since Monica died. Perhaps any relationship was better than no relationship at all.
As weird as our exchange was, it set me at ease. I didn’t want Sammy waking up in the middle of the night only to find out that she was alone.
On the elevator to the eleventh floor, I thought about Annie and her marriage that wasn’t really a marriage, and about our relationship that wasn’t really a relationship. After a month of absence and avoidance, we were finally coming together, but I didn’t know why.
The doors slid open, and I walked down the hallway, figuring out how the rooms were numbered.
Our room was at the end.
I slid the key out of the envelope, stuck the card in the slot, and waited for the click of the lock as a small green light turned on.
I opened the door.
Light from the hallway cut into the room, but the rest was dark.
I stepped inside, the door closing behind me, and then I saw Annie on the bed. There was a single candle on the nightstand, burning behind her. It cast Annie in a silhouette. A sheet covered her, but I knew that she was naked underneath.
I took off my shoes and then my jacket. My tie was undone, and then I took off my dress shirt. Annie reached out to unbuckle my belt, and I bent forward to kiss her forehead and then her lips.
She didn’t say a word. It was silent, and everything seemed staged. Her movements were slower than normal, more deliberate and thoughtful. Nothing was rushed. Annie’s constantly buzzing phone was nowhere to be seen.
That’s when I understood what we were doing. I figured out why Annie had slid the hotel room key into my pocket, and why Annie offered an invitation after so much time and distance.
She was saying good-bye, once and for all.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I think I should’ve been more upset about the end. I wasn’t happy, but I wouldn’t exactly say that I felt sad, either. Part of me wondered whether Annie and I even had a relationship. Two lonely people who had found someone to lie next to at night, maybe that’s all we were. Perhaps I wasn’t upset that it ended because it had never started.
In any event, it was resolved.
Most men my age were either single by choice or divorced. I wondered whether a widowed man who still loved his deceased wife could ever really find love again, whether there were parts that would never be available because of the loss.
Those thoughts kicked around my head as I drove to the office the next morning after going home to shower and put on a fresh set of clothes.
When I walked in the door, Emma was already there. “Have a good night?” She smiled like she knew that I didn’t sleep in my own bed.
“It was OK.” I walked to the back but stopped in the doorway. “You happen to talk to the mayor yesterday about where I was going to be?”
She hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Well it wasn’t such a terrible breach of confidentiality, if you did.” I continued on into my office. “Quite enjoyed it, in fact.”
I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer. Then I pulled up my e-mails and calendar for the day.
Emma had scheduled me to attend the funeral for Devon Walker. She hadn’t previously mentioned it to me, and if she had, I would have come up with some excuse. But my mood had shifted.
Taking control of Sammy’s schooling, winning the Cecil Bates trial, and saying good-bye to Annie on good terms gave me a sense that I might be stepping out of the darkness. Fragmented pieces of my life had fallen away. I felt focused rather than overwhelmed.
There was also something else that was new: a little bit of confidence, threatening to grow.
After the church service, I was glad that the interment was going to be at Bellefontaine Cemetery, and it wasn’t just because of its proximity to the office. Devon Walker was a kid who probably never knew nature. He never had peace. He was never confronted by the larger picture or surrounded by beauty, but in this place, there would be no escaping it.
As the line of twenty-five cars drove through the main gate and onto the 314-acre property, the procession drove past the manicured gardens, mausoleums, fountains, small lakes, and brooks. Century-old trees provided shade and lined paths that wound through the tombs of the city’s famous and infamous.
We stopped at the far edge.
There was an elaborate gate that was no longer in use. In the past it had served those arriving at the cemetery by streetcar.
I turned off the engine, removed the key, and stepped out into the heat.
I waited a moment and watched the pallbearers remove the casket from the back of the hearse, then I followed them to the gravesite along with family members and friends. I hung back from the group, but I was still able to see and hear.
The pastor stepped forward.
I recognized his face from the billboards. Each advertisement had a picture of him and his wife with a website address for the Church of Everlasting Love, as well as a promise for a hot meal after every service.
“My name is Reverend Harold Battle, and I bless each and every one of you. I want to thank y’all for being here today.” He paused. “I ain’t gonna pretend that I knew Devon Walker. Truth is, I ain’t never met him. I also hadn’t ever met his mama or the rest of the family until they called me this week to help lead this service.” Reverend Bat
tle held up his hand. “But that’s OK. Never too late to call. Never too late to put a little God in your life.”
Reverend Battle took a moment to look at the family members that were gathered to his right. He smiled at the mother and nodded. His grace filled the space. All was forgiven.
I looked at Tanisha, dressed in her Sunday best. She had been crying but was now trying hard to be strong. Her siblings and cousins were also standing in the line, some fidgeting more than others. The toddler, Dice, had already wandered off to play by himself under a tree. That’s what he liked to do.
My initial instinct was to dismiss Reverend Battle as a huckster, but the more he talked, the more I liked him. It’d been a long time since I’d attended church or listened to a preacher. Maybe I needed to go again. Maybe Sammy needed to learn that there might be something more out there, even if she later went her own way, like most do.
I had become one of the growing number of people who claimed to be spiritual, not religious—whatever that meant. Whether I believed in God or not was an open question. It’s hard to maintain faith when life gives you such pain and organized religion seems to have been co-opted by the cruel and self-righteous.
But on this day, Reverend Battle’s words about redemption rang true.
“This is one of the biggest cemeteries in the country,” the pastor continued. “Eighty-seven thousand people are buried here. All races. All classes. All religions. Rich. Poor.” He paused. “It is truly sad that this is the most diverse neighborhood in Saint Louis. Truly sad that the most diverse neighborhood in our city is one for the dead and not the living.
“We have much work to do.” Reverend Battle looked at me. “You have work to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I found a quiet table in the back of the Beale Street BBQ after the funeral service. Beale’s always had a steady stream of customers, but there was never a long line like there was at Pappy’s Smokehouse. The food was just as good, but Beale’s was harder to find and located in a tougher part of town.
It was small, probably six tables, and served mostly take-out meals to the hardhats. They worked at the chemical plants between I-70 and the Mississippi River.
I opened my white Styrofoam container and the smell of sweet, acidic sauce burst up from a pile of pulled pork. I dumped the coleslaw that came with it on top of the pork, Memphis style, then took a long drink of sweet tea and got to work.
There were a dozen boys that were gone and a dozen families that deserved answers. I hadn’t sought the job, but it was mine. If the police weren’t going to follow all the leads, then I’d have to do it for them. I’d need to learn their files and their backgrounds for myself, not just rely on Emma and her spreadsheets. Their mothers needed to trust me, and I needed to trust myself with them.
I took a big bite of my sandwich, wiped my fingers clean, and pulled a notepad and pen from my briefcase. I took another drink of sweet tea, allowed the sugar to jolt up my brain, and made a list.
The first thing that I needed to do was personally interview all the family members of every identified Lost Boy, thoroughly. What we had wasn’t going to be enough. Second, I needed a copy of each boy’s file. I knew that we had some, but Schmitty needed to get me a copy of everything ever connected to the boys. Third, I needed to follow up with Judge Bryce. If I should be looking even closer at Jimmy Poles, he’d be the one to tell me where to look.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I had wanted Emma to shut down my law practice so that I could focus solely on the missing boys, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t just a street lawyer anymore, and my obligations went far beyond finding a paying client to fix a broken air conditioner.
Lawyers needed to bill. Emma needed to get paid, and I needed to take care of my daughter’s education. So I made a compromise with myself.
Each morning would be spent on the care and feeding of existing clients as well as nurturing more. When there weren’t any court appearances, the afternoons would be spent sifting through the boxes of documents, police reports, and court histories that Schmitty had sent over related to each victim. Then there was the second round of family interviews. In the evening, after Sammy went to bed, I’d have to evaluate whether to work on paying clients or the Lost Boys, but having a beer and watching television wasn’t going to be an option.
I knew the system was unsustainable in the long run. It’d eventually kill me if it went on too long, but in the meantime, it worked.
Over the next few weeks our spreadsheet of data grew. I got to know them all personally, but in truth, I was still no closer to finding the actual proof that Jimmy Poles was responsible or a link to anyone else. I felt myself losing some steam, so I decided to get out from behind my desk.
I grabbed my briefcase and walked into the main reception area. “I’m getting out of here.”
Emma said good-bye to whoever she was talking to and hung up the phone. “Where you going?”
“I need to talk to the Turner family.” Emma had scheduled them to come back for an interview with me four times. Two interviews were cancelled at the last minute by the mother, due to sick kids or transportation. The other two times they didn’t show up. “They’re the only ones who have something concrete, and I haven’t even heard the information myself. All secondhand. Should’ve talked to them right away, a month ago. You got the address for me?”
Emma pressed a few keys on her keyboard, pulled up a document, and wrote down the address on a Post-it Note. “Here you go.” She handed the little yellow square piece of paper to me. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I read the address and nodded. “If they’re not going to come to me, I’ll go to them.”
“Fair.” She turned her attention back to her computer screen. “Just don’t forget you’ve got court tomorrow morning and a meeting with Judge Bryce tomorrow afternoon.”
“I won’t forget.”
“Good,” she said. “Because you still have to pay my salary.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The boy kept looking at his mother. There were stutters and stops as he kept his head and eyes down. “Go on,” she encouraged him as I waited.
It took some time, but eventually Isaac Turner started to talk. It was circular, in the way that kids talk, but once it started it came in a flow that seemed beyond Isaac’s age.
“Was hanging out. Bored ’n’ all that. Gone down to Popeyes, see what’s going on—who there—and then TeeTee wanted to talk to these girls at the bus stop and these other kids were throwing, talking about staining somebody for some ganja.”
“TeeTee is your brother, Thomas Turner?”
“Yeah, and then these other kids were throwing and TeeTee wants to talk to the girls, you know, and I was getting tired and I wanted to go into Popeyes to get something to eat, you know? But we didn’t have no money, and so TeeTee just went ahead and talked to thems girls, and the other nig—”
“Don’t say that word,” I said. “We don’t say that word.”
“What?” He looked at me, and then he looked at his mother.
She told Isaac to continue, and Isaac’s eyes went back down to the floor as his flow of words started again. “So we gots to be hassled by them guys and one of them flashes his nine, you know?” Isaac made a quick movement with his hand, imitating someone pulling a gun. “So he flashes his gat, and I tell him we gotta go, because it’s getting real, and we walks away, and then TeeTee says he needs to chill and needs to hit some chronic for his glow, man, and so . . .” He looked over at his mother, and she nodded at Isaac to keep going, despite his repeated references to guns and marijuana. “So we decide to head back home to see if we can find somebody who’s gotta stash, ’cuz we ain’t got no money, and so we get on our street and we walking, and I say I gotta take a piss, and that’s when I duck by this building and TeeTee keeps walkin’ a bit. He’s not waitin’ ’cuz he’s wantin’ the chax, you know? So I come out and that’s when I sees it.”
I leaned closer
, and Isaac said, “Po-Po van, clear as day.”
“A police van?”
Isaac shook his head. “Naw, like the probation. They drives them blue vans. I see TeeTee talking to somebody through the window, and then he gets in the van and they drive off.”
“There are lots of blue vans.”
Isaac looked up, staring at me. “I know what I seen, man, and that’s what I seen. Blue van. Probation. They got him, man, and they the ones who killed him.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yeah.”
Then I looked at Isaac’s mother. “And you’re sure about the date?”
“Positive.” She looked at her son. “He be coming home and telling me TeeTee got arrested. That’s when I start calling the detention center, find out his court dates and all that, but they say he ain’t there.” The mother opened her purse, took out her cell phone, pressed a button, and handed the cell phone to me.
I looked down at it.
The mother, Naomi Turner, had pulled up the cell phone’s call history. “Thems numbers there.” She pointed.
When I checked the number, there were twelve calls to the Saint Louis Juvenile Justice Center. I wrote down the dates and times of the phone calls in my notebook, and then I looked at both of them.
“Ever hear of a probation officer named Jimmy Poles?”
Isaac Turner and his mother shook their heads. “Never heard of him.”
I called Schmitty on my drive back to the office. Adrenaline pumped. I was getting closer, and I had to work to keep my voice steady, staying professional.
“Hey, this is Glass.” I told him Isaac Turner’s story, trying to include every detail. “One of the few cases that we actually have with a solid date of disappearance. The other ones are a total guess. Might give you something to work on with Poles, see if you can figure out where he was on the date Isaac’s brother disappeared. See if he’s got an alibi.”
“Might be a break,” Schmitty said, then sighed. “Wish it wasn’t an inside job.”
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