Judge Bryce looked at Nikolas and then turned to me. “My name’s in a lot of files.” His eyes shifted, another moment of doubt.
“But every single file?” I asked, even though I had no idea what I was talking about. “Improbable. What are there, five judges working down there, maybe six?”
“You know nothing.”
I was starting to get under his skin, so I pressed him some more. “Thought you loved those kids. You certainly enjoyed getting your awards and giving your little speeches.”
Judge Bryce stared at me, hard. “Mercy. I showed mercy on those boys. We both know where they were headed. I stopped the cycle.”
“You sound like Jimmy Poles.”
“Somebody has to make the tough calls.”
“And your legacy?” I thought about the Missouri Miracle. “These kids probably aren’t too good for your statistics.”
“They’re not worth the resources.”
“And you get to make that choice?” I forced a laugh. “You’re that smart?”
“If not me, then who?” Judge Bryce’s face turned up into a satisfied smirk, then he added, “And yes . . . I am that smart.” He turned his attention back to Nikolas.
“The investigation isn’t going to stop, you know?” I paused, waiting for a response that never came. “Killing us isn’t going to solve the problem. Others know about the videos.” I thought about the files, still trying to think of a connection that I could never find. Then I remembered when my grandfather recommended that I talk to Judge Bryce, early in the case. His name triggered something, but I couldn’t place where I had heard it and where I had seen it. At the time, I wondered whether it was because I had seen Judge Bryce on a panel or read about his work in the newspaper, but that wasn’t right.
I thought about Devon Walker. His pictures. His progression from a little chubby kid in elementary school to the young tattooed man running the streets.
Then it came together.
“You signed all the warrants,” I said.
Judge Bryce turned back, looking at me.
I continued the thought. “Even though the cases were spread out among all the different judges and probation officers, you were the one who had signed the arrest warrants. As the presiding judge, you were responsible for signing the warrants. You read their histories. You saw they had been given multiple chances. And then you decided to kill them.”
Judge Bryce took a step forward toward me. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I think I do,” I said as I looked past him. Nikolas turned and nodded. It was a sign, and I got ready. “So we’re supposed to thank you for killing these little kids.”
“They’re not little kids anymore.” Judge Bryce laughed at me. “I’m preventing hundreds—maybe thousands—of people from being harassed and hurt by these thugs. I’m saving the taxpayers a lot of money, too, millions wasted on treatments that are years too late.” Judge Bryce came closer. His eyes were filled with belief, righteousness. “It’s for their own good, to be put out of their misery. I weep for them, but I know that we are all—”
Nikolas spun his chair around and awkwardly threw his body into Judge Bryce’s backside.
The gun went off, exploding just over my head as I rolled to the side. On all fours, I crawled out the door and then tried to run toward the front of the shop. My legs were heavy. Still feeling the effects of the Taser, I tripped and fell.
Behind me, I heard Nikolas and Judge Bryce fighting in the office. Computer equipment crashed to the ground; glass shattered.
I kept going in the darkness.
Stumbling, I came through the curtain and into the front of the coffee shop. I sprinted to the counter and reached under the cash register where Hermes kept the gun.
Groping, I felt in the back. I grabbed it, and then the entire coffee shop flooded with blinding light.
My eyes adjusted enough to allow me to see Judge Bryce no more than six feet away from me, frozen. All color was gone. In the blaring white light, he was a ghost. An outline holding a gun.
His own eyes adjusting enough to find me, Judge Bryce pulled the trigger, and I shot back as we both fell to the ground.
I don’t know how many shots I fired. I just kept pulling the trigger.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Schmitty stood over the body. Judge Bryce’s chest was painted red. Thick blood seeped from underneath him, expanding into an irregular pool on the hardwood floor.
Schmitty didn’t say anything. There was no need to state the obvious.
He shook his head, took a final look, and turned to me. “Let’s get your friend and go have a chat someplace private.”
We walked to the back. There were a half dozen cops standing around. Schmitty told them to get outside and help make sure there was a decent perimeter.
Nikolas stood near a pile of burlap sacks containing green coffee beans from around the world. I walked over to him and reached out, patted him on the shoulder. “You OK?”
Nikolas shrugged. “Beat up, but still standing.”
“You got nine lives, my friend.” I smiled, then gestured to the door.
Nikolas understood, and he followed me outside. Schmitty trailed behind.
Once we were in the back parking lot, I stopped. There were cops everywhere and a helicopter overhead. “I think we’re even now,” I said to Nikolas. “I saved you, and you saved me. All debts are paid.”
Nikolas nodded. “Fair enough.”
Then we walked around to the front to my law office. “This should work.” I took out the key and unlocked the door, and all three of us went inside. Then I locked the door behind us to make sure we weren’t disturbed.
Schmitty wanted to hear the whole story from our perspective. He didn’t let me ramble. He interrupted, when necessary, pressing me for more and more details. Why did I go to Judge Bryce in the first place?
I told him about the fund-raising dinner, the keynote address, and the tour of the Juvenile Justice Center. I told him about Cecil Bates and the security footage that captured his arrest, and then I told him about the traffic cameras I’d seen coming back from the court in Clayton, my decision to go back to the Juvenile Justice Center and take pictures, and, ultimately, being caught by Judge Bryce after tampering with his e-mail.
“That was what set him off,” Schmitty said. “We’ve been monitoring Judge Bryce for a few weeks, since we traced the leaks about Jimmy Poles back to him. The Twitter account, the images, some of that stuff was done with his court-issued laptop. He took precautions, deleting browser history and creating fake e-mail accounts, but not enough. You’d think he’d know it all leaves a record, but guess not.”
“You knew he was at the coffee shop the whole time?” I was angry. “We could’ve been killed.”
Schmitty held out his hands, defensive. “We didn’t know what was going on inside. We didn’t think he actually killed those kids, for God’s sake.” Schmitty looked at Nikolas for support, got none, and decided to explain. “You’re the one who told me that Judge Bryce wanted us to go public with it. Then when we found out he was the guy posting all that stuff, fanning the flames; some people thought you might be in on it. You know, telling the public about Poles.”
“Really? So you were actually monitoring me?”
“I told them that they were wrong,” Schmitty said, unconvincingly. “But it looked bad. Then there was that damn protest march, and it looked even worse when we watched Judge Bryce go into the coffee shop after hours.”
I was still angry. “So you had cops sitting there while I got tased and shot at?”
Schmitty shrugged. “Sort of.” He looked at Nikolas. “We had two cops staking it out, but we didn’t know what was going on until Nikolas sent me an e-mail. That’s when we mobilized. About to bust in when the shots rang out.”
After downloading encryption software, Nikolas used my work computer to access the part of the Internet without any pretty images and colors. It was all numbers and text.
Schmitty and I stood over his shoulder as he pulled up the video of Judge Bryce walking down from his chambers late at night. He was wearing the khaki pants and blue polo shirt usually worn by the juvenile probation officers. He also had a backpack slung over his shoulder, likely containing the plastic zip ties, his Taser, and other tools he’d need later in the evening.
We watched him walk through the parking garage, take one of the van keys off the rack, and drive the van out of the lot. He didn’t need permission to exit; the gate automatically opened.
Nikolas paused the video. “You see the card reader?” He pointed at a post outside the gate near the street. “I check and he didn’t use his own pass card to get back in.” Nikolas looked up at Schmitty. “Something to check. Maybe setting up Poles or somebody else.”
Nikolas turned his attention back to the computer screen, and we watched him work. Then Nikolas said, “When he came inside the shop, his plan was to get you to come. I’m not sure he knew what I was doing, but he saw the screens and put it together.” Nikolas kept typing, scrolling through lines of code and working through different programs. “Glad he did, because that’s what kept me alive. He was telling me to delete, so I faked that.”
Nikolas stopped and looked up at Schmitty. “See this? You cops are familiar with this.” He turned his attention back to the computer. “This is his cell phone record. You get the cell tower data and it’ll show when he went to that park to dispose of the bodies. It’s all here.”
Schmitty looked at me and nodded. “Don’t send it to me,” he said. “We have to play this carefully. I want warrants. I want it official, just like the warrants we got on Poles.”
The plan was straightforward. Everything told to the public would be true, except some facts and events would be omitted.
Schmitty would state that they had traced the leaks about Jimmy Poles to Judge Bryce and had him under surveillance. He’d establish that he’d been in contact with me throughout the investigation, and that they became concerned when Judge Bryce went to the Northside Roastery late in the evening. When officers heard a gunshot, they entered the coffee shop, but Judge Bryce was already dead.
Judge Bryce would be named the prime suspect in the Lost Boys investigation, warrants would be obtained, and Schmitty would express confidence that further evidence linking Judge Bryce to the disappearance of a dozen Northside juveniles would be unearthed.
Discussion of Nikolas would be kept to a minimum. He’d be referred to as a private contractor that the police department had hired to help me with the Lost Boys investigation as well as the leak of confidential documents. Schmitty would state that Judge Bryce had learned that Nikolas was the contractor hired for the investigation and had gone there to stop him. If any reporter pressed for more information, Schmitty would politely decline to answer because there was an ongoing internal investigation.
My job was simply to go home and not say a word. It was a job that I fully embraced.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
We are, whether by nature or nurture, episodic. We find a problem and then we fix it. We want there to be a beginning and an end. Everyone wanted the death of Judge Bryce to be the end, but life isn’t that simple.
We are in a constant relationship with one another, a series of communications sent and received through word and action. An unrelenting feedback loop that either gets louder or softer, but never goes away.
The death of Judge Bryce was not the end. It was a disruption of the cycle.
The fires may have stopped. The tension that had erupted with the protest in front of Jimmy Poles’s house may have sunk back beneath the surface, allowing the systems to lurch forward. But the tension wasn’t gone. The relationship wasn’t over. Post-racial America did not emerge. The long history of violence and control continues to be unresolved. It only waits for another moment in the future to remind us of our sins, even as we all do our best to just live our lives.
Jimmy Poles quietly resigned and moved out of state. A severance package in an undisclosed amount was approved by the Saint Louis Board of Aldermen in a closed session. It wasn’t reported in any newspaper or on television.
Sammy continued classes at the Clement City Day School, and she seemed genuinely happy. The bullies were gone, and she was no longer considered a rich kid. There were plenty of others at her new school competing for that title.
I settled back into my law practice, hustling clients and making court appearances. Emma made it all routine. She managed the office with ease, and I talked to her about the possibility of her going back to law school to get licensed in the United States.
I just had one more loose end to take care of.
Lincoln picked Sammy and me up sharply at eight o’clock. We sat in the backseat while Buster drove us downtown. It was a beautiful morning. The humidity had blown through. The temperature had dropped, and seemingly overnight the tips of trees had started to change from green to bright-yellow, orange, and red. Fall had arrived. It was late, but it had finally arrived.
We cut over to Broadway, and Buster drove us to the Fox Recreation Center. The Glass machine had done its advance work. By the time we arrived, the stage was built; the microphones and speakers had been tested; red, white, and blue balloons decorated the stage; and GLASS FOR STATE SENATE signs were everywhere.
“Lincoln,” I said, “can you give us a second?”
He looked back at me and Sammy and smiled; then he opened the door and got out of the car. Buster did the same, leaving us alone.
I watched my daughter staring out the window at the crowd and the signs. She looked a lot like I did at her age, watching my dad at his meetings and rallies, fascinated by the process.
“What do you think?”
Sammy nodded. “It’s cool.”
I laughed.
Then she asked, “What do you think Mom would have thought?”
I pictured Monica, beautiful Monica, standing in the kitchen of our old house as I told her that I’m finally going to run for office. I could see a gorgeous smile spread across her face. “She’d be proud,” I said. “She’d tell me that she loved me. She’d support me, but she’d make sure that I wouldn’t go and get a big ego or nothing, keep me grounded.”
Sammy nodded. “That can be my job now. Keep you humble.”
“Well,” I said, “you’ve already got a lot of experience at that.”
Sammy rolled her eyes. Then she turned away from the car window and looked at me. “I am proud of you, though, just like Mom would’ve been.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re ready to do this?”
“Totally.”
“Then let’s do it.”
I opened the door, and as we emerged from the car, hundreds of people erupted in applause. They cheered and shook my hand and gave Sammy hugs as we pushed forward down the middle of the assembled crowd.
When we finally made it to the front, I was escorted up the steps, onto the stage, and toward the podium. Sammy was led to the side next to my mother and my father. All three of them smiled at me. The cheers swelled as I approached the microphone. Sammy cheered the loudest.
At the podium, I looked down at all the cameras and out at the crowd. My grandfather, Judge Michael M. Calhoun, stood off to the side. He felt his status as a retired federal judge barred him from endorsing candidates or attending political functions, but he couldn’t stay away. I also saw the mayor, Annie Montgomery, and Schmitty among the friendly faces in the crowd.
I pulled a sheet of paper out of my front jacket pocket. I looked down at the words that I had spent hours writing, and then my vision blurred.
I had a knot in my stomach, and I started to tear up.
I closed my eyes. Then I opened them, deciding to forego my prepared remarks.
“My first decision as a candidate is to not give a long speech.” I folded my paper up and put it back in my pocket as a few people in the crowd clapped and others laughed. “My second decision is to try not to be like my br
other or my dad.” I looked over at my father and then at Lincoln, who had now joined us on the stage. “I can’t be them. They’re each one of a kind. But I can be me. And I care very deeply about our community. I’ve been through tough times. When my wife—Sammy’s mom—died, I wasn’t sure I was gonna make it. Sometimes I still don’t know. I’m just like all those people out there right now who aren’t so sure they’re gonna make it. Whether they’re gonna make the rent, whether they’re gonna be able to buy the groceries, whether they’re gonna be able to keep their head up above the water.
“We have problems.” I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, letting my voice grow and my confidence build. “But there is hope. As bleak as things seem today, they’re certainly better than fifty years ago or a hundred. We can’t lose our sense of community. We can’t give up; we just have to think smaller and make incremental changes. We can work to make things a little better here in our neighborhood—and they can get better. One piece at a time. We start with our neighbors, and we work out from there. Ignoring the kids who are too easy to forget is not the answer. Ignoring the city is not the answer. Bashing the suburbs is not the answer. We’re in this together, you and me. All we have to do is try, and keep on trying.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Thomas & Mercer and Jacquelyn Ben-Zekry for making the development of this book a great experience; not too many writers get to say that. I also want to thank the readers who contact me with encouragement, advice, and enthusiasm. Don’t stop! You can visit my website at www.JDTrafford.com and send me a note.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Gwen Kosiak
Award-winning author J.D. Trafford, described as a “writer of merit” by Mystery Scene magazine, has topped numerous Amazon bestseller lists, including reaching #1 on the Legal Thrillers list. IndieReader selected his debut novel, No Time to Run, as a bestselling pick. Trafford graduated with honors from a top-twenty law school and has worked as a civil and criminal prosecutor, as an associate at a large national law firm, and as a nonprofit attorney. He’s handled issues of housing, education, and poverty in communities of color. Prior to law school, he worked in Washington, DC, and lived in Saint Louis, Missouri. He now lives with his wife and children in the Midwest, and bikes whenever possible.
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