Street Justice: Book 2 of the Justice Series

by Trevor Shand

  The GPS routed them toward the Little Red Hen. Adrian headed in the direction of the bar fuming in his head about the work that needed to be done and Steve's ability to ignore it. Shortly before pulling up to the front of the bar, Steve asked calmly, "You mad?"

  "No," Adrian said, pausing then replying, "Yes, yes I am. You seem so relaxed. But we just witnessed a major drug dealer destroying our city. Your response is to get drunk. How can you do that?"

  Steve sat up in his seat. Stretching, he looked over at Adrian and offered, "I think you're wrong."

  Adrian stopped in the middle of the road, not knowing what Steve was getting at. He glared at Steve waiting for Steve to expand. Steve looked lazily back at Adrian not saying a thing. The two men glared at each other for a moment. Adrian felt the stress of his impromptu stop in the middle of the road. Steve seemingly feeling nothing, staring back at Adrian with a wondering look, more questioning how he got there, than a response to Adrian's question.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that we have a known drug leader down the street? We need to be figuring out what to do about this, not drinking,” Adrian explained.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” Steve said, realizing why Adrian was upset, “Well, I’m getting drunk for two reasons. First, I don’t think drug dealers are all that bad. I don’t think our war on drugs is all that effective or righteous. Do I think drugs are bad, as in me not wanting to do them? Sure. I don’t not do drugs because I can’t find them, but because I don’t want to do them. I think this ineffective war on drugs has driven up the price, meaning there is more money in it, and that drives a lot of the secondary violence both between drug gangs and amongst innocent bystanders.” Steve paused.

  Adrian stared at him for a moment then said, “And the second thing?”

  Steve broke into a broad smile and said, “Well, I know you’ll worry about our next steps, so I don’t need to.” With that he hopped out of the car and headed into the Little Red Hen. Adrian sat unmoving for a moment, then a car horn honked behind him. Adrian straighten up, looked in the rear view mirror and gave the driver of the car he was blocking a small wave. Putting the Camry in drive Adrian headed home, wrestling more with Steve’s response that he would do all the planning than his social commentary on the war on drugs. Adrian sighed and resigned himself to knowing that in the end Steve was right, he would do the planning.

  Chapter 3

  Russ adjusted his tie, and looked in the rear view mirror of the truck, tilting the mirror down to see more of his body. The suit was not a perfect fit, as he had been carrying more weight before he left for Afghanistan. Running hard ops in a desolate country had forged his body into a leaner, yet stronger version of himself. But it was the best suit he had and couldn’t afford to go buy another at this point, so he took one last look at himself, put on his sunglasses, grabbed his personal binder, which held a note pad, two pens and two printed copies of his resume, and exited his quad-cabbed, red Dodge Ram 1500.

  Russ headed toward the large Seattle Justice Center. He had been trying for weeks to get an interview anywhere, and when he got the opportunity to interview with the Seattle Police Department, he was ecstatic. He felt energized as he strode toward the building. The damp, gray wind whipped around in the narrow confines of the streets and plaza. His scalp bristled at the chill let through by his short hair, but the chill only made him feel more alive.

  Russ entered the glass fronted building. The multi-storied lobby was open and airy. The bustle of people hustling across the painted concrete floor rattled around the space. Steve looked across to see a reception desk and strode over, trying to channel his energy to look purposeful rather than excited or nervous. He reached the reception desk, broke out in a big smile and said, “Hi, I’m Russ Evenhuis, and I’m here for an interview with the police department as an IT administrator.”

  The receptionist was a rail-thin, young lady dressed in a red blazer over a white shirt. Her hair was pulled back tightly. She did not smile as she looked at Russ and replied in a nasally, monotone voice, “Who with?”

  Russ crinkled his brow and replied, “Uh, the police force.”

  The receptionist let out a large exasperated exhale and spat back, “No, what person on the police force are you here to interview with.” Pointing at her screen with a boney finger she continued, “Who do I message to tell you’re here?”

  “Oh, um,” Russ dug through his binder, finally finding the name of the man interviewing him, “Yeah, it is Michael Haines.” Russ looked up from his binder and smiled at the receptionist. She already had her head down and was typing on the computer. Russ held his smile for a few moments, then realizing she was not going to look up, let it slip away.

  The receptionist's fingers tapped on the keyboard, then paused for several seconds, then typed again, then paused again. Russ realized she was having an IM conversation, letting Michael know he was here. He realized how long it had been since he was in the “real” world. Before the army, he had a few jobs, but ones you got by talking directly to the manager when you walked in and applied. In the army, phone calls and paper still ruled. Now the receptionist did not even make a call to talk to people in the building.

  It was a new world, and for a brief moment, Russ thought maybe it had passed him by. He quickly shook the thoughts from his head. He knew he needed confidence if he was going to do well in this interview. He refocused on his skills as a leader and the skills the army had taught him for systems administrations. He was good at both of those; the skills had been tested and honed in the toughest environment imaginable. He let a smile drift back to his face, this time not to make friends with the receptionist but because he was actually feeling more confident. He guessed no one else applying for this role had been through what he had been through. Besides, he thought back to a phrase he had learned in basic: “Fake it until you make it.” Looking confident was as important as feeling confident.

  Finally, the receptionist stopped her stuttered typing and looked up as Russ' beaming face. Her stolid face showed no response to Russ' smile. But Russ did not care. She droned to Russ, “He'll be right down. You can wait over there.” She glanced at three chairs circling a squat table.

  “Thank you,” Russ replied to the top of the receptionists head, as she had already turned her gaze from Russ and back to her desk. He strode over to the grouping of chairs. They had obviously been picked more for their design than their function. They were several shades of bright reds and oranges. They were close to the ground and had short backs that curved backward. Their mounded seat cushions seemed about ready to split the fabric.

  Russ sat down and immediately regretted the decision. The overstuffed seating surface was stuffed so tight that it was over firm and unyielding. Rather than sink in, he teetered on the crest of the seat. The seat was so close to the ground that Russ' quads sloped upward, nearly putting his knees in his chest. He leaned back but the seat back arced away from him, until he was nearly supine when he finally made contact. Mentally picturing how ridiculous he probably looked, Russ quickly extricated himself from the chair and stood next to them.

  Russ laughed to himself as he stared down at the furniture. In the army, he was used to function with no thought even given to form. These chairs were the other side of the spectrum. Created to look good, but nearly useless for what they should be used for. In the army, they would have the chairs on the next burn pile, as they would be more helpful keeping them warm on the freezing night in an arid, desert, than they would be for furniture.

  “Russ?” a male voice said from over Russ left shoulder. Russ swung and saw a balding, gray haired man, with a quizzical look on his face.

  “Yes, sir,” Russ replied, looking down to the man who was eight inches shorter than he was.

  “I'm Mike, how are you?” Mike offered his hand. He was dressed in kakis and a light blue collar shirt. Large round glasses adorned his face.

  Instinctually, Russ hand made a slight move up, toward a salute, before he recovered and too
k the offered hand, “Hi, I'm Russ Evenhuis.”

  “Good to meet you,” Mike continued with a broad smile, “Please, follow me.” Mike turned and wandered toward the thick glass doors leading to the offices and cubicles on the ground floor.

  “Yes, sir,” Russ quickly straightened his suit jacket, squaring it on his shoulders, where the looseness had allowed it to fall. He took two large strides to catch up to Mike then shortened his stride to match the smaller man's gate. Scanning a badge on a badge reader, then, jerking on the heavy glass doors, Mike led the way in. They walked through corridors defined by cubical collections. Russ looked over the edges and saw a scurry of activity, imagining himself working alongside these people. Several small hallways lit by fluorescent lights later, Mike finally turned into a small office.

  The office was small and over lit with fake light. The door nearly opened into the back of two wooden framed chairs, with seat and back cushions of a mauve, tan and teal splash pattern that Russ thought had to be from the 1980s. The chairs nearly butted against an institutional looking desk, the kind which was obviously pressboard covered in plastic with a fake wooden design. The desk backed nearly to an unimaginative rectangular credenza which looked to be the exact width of the room. In the corner was a standing lamp and on the desk a small desk lamp. These gave off a warm, orange glow which combined and contrasted with the cool white light of the fluorescents. The combined lumens were much more than the tight room needed.

  Mike left the door open and squeezed through the small gap between the desk and the wall. Behind his desk, he had to turn his chair toward him, sit then spin to fit behind his desk looking at Russ. “Take a seat, close the door,” Mike offered and asked.

  Russ closed the door then looked at the chairs. They were vastly more functional than the chairs in the lobby downstairs, and would have been fine, except for the lack of staging room. He moved the chair closest to him as far back against the wall, then, in a motion similar to Mike's, sat and turned himself into place. Russ' knees rubbed the front of the desk, but he tried to look as comfortable as possible.

  As Russ sat, patiently waiting for Mike to talk, his eyes started bothering him. He could not quite place the issue. He wanted to squint while opening his eyes wider to see better. Suddenly it dawned on him, because of how he was sitting, one eye was mainly getting the light from the fluorescent while the other eye caught the warmer light of the incandescent bulbs. He laughed a bit to himself. While the searing light of the Afghan desert could be shockingly bright, at least it was consistent. Dark sunglasses were all you needed to fix the issue. This was like standing right on the edge of a shadow, one eye blinded by the glare and one searching for illumination.

  Russ shifted in his chair, trying to find a way to fix the issue. He tried to subtly shift his head from side to side, hoping it would help. When that proved futile, he turned his head. This helped but only once his head was turned about thirty degrees, an angle Russ did not think would be conducive to have an effective interview. Glancing over at the other seat, he thought that might be better. But thinking through the move, and what he would need to do to get his bulk heaved over into the corner, he thought better of it. Finally he decided this was no worse than boot camp. He told himself he could deal with the annoying but harmless light. He relaxed, forced it from his mind and refocused on his interview.

  Mike sat hunched over his desk looking down at Russ' resume. After a half minute or so he smiled and looked up. “Wow, three tours in Afghanistan,” Mike said, clearly impressed. Russ smiled internally, having a hiring manager impressed with your accomplishments was a good sign. Mike did not immediately continue to talk. Russ did not know how to answer. This was a statement of fact, not a question. He looked at Mike, Mike back at him

  Finally he stammered, “Um, thank...thank you, sir.” This seemed to be an acceptable answer as Mike looked back to his resume.

  “It says here you led a detachment of three HUMVEEs,” again Mike looked up.

  Again this was a statement, but Russ jumped in sooner this time, “Yes, sir.”

  Mike looked back at the resume. Without looking up, he said, “...and your admin training...” Mike flipped over Russ' resume, even though there was nothing on the back.

  Russ quickly reached for the resume, then immediately pulled back his hands. He did not figure reaching over the table toward his prospective boss would be a good idea. They had told him in his one and only exit interview from the Army, that civilians often took soldiers touching them as a sign of aggression. Russ figured this was mainly meant to warn guys about touching people in bars and social situations but he was not going to take any chances.

  Quickly, as if he was pulling out the well used maps they had used in the war, he pulled out a second copy of his resume from the binder he carried. Laying it upside down, from his perspective, on Mike's desk he pointed to the education part, “See here sir, I am a 53A Information Systems Manager.”

  Mike looked at the corresponding on his copy of the resume. Then he picked up the pick of paper and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the paper, Russ stared at him. Finally putting the resume back on the desk he looked at Russ and said, “This role is designed to be the head administrator for this group.” Mike went silent, continuing to look at Russ.

  Russ looked back and, nodding his head, said, “Yes sir.”

  “Do you think you could do this?” Mike asked.

  Continuing to nod his head he said, “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Mike started nodding his head as well, “This is not an entry level role, meaning we are not looking for someone we have to train on the job.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” Russ said. A small alarm bell in the back of his head started to ring, though he did not yet know why.

  Mike looked back at the paper, shifted forward in his seat. He looked up again, but did not meet Russ’ eyes. “Russ, let me be honest, we are looking for someone who is MSE certified and who has at least three years of hands on experience…”

  Russ saw where the interview was headed and interrupted, with a slight panic in his voice he interjected, “But I do have experience. I got my 53A certification four years ago and have been using it ever since--”

  Now Mike interrupted Russ, still not looking him in the eyes, “Yes, you have a certification, but the Army’s certification is not the same as the MSE certification and while your experience has been impressive, I thank you for your service, it wasn’t focused on systems administration, which I completely understand why, but that is what we are looking for.” Mike’s face flushed slightly with emotion.

  Russ sat quietly for a moment digesting what Mike had just said. Slowly he asked, “So there is nothing I can say that will convince you that I can do this job?”

  Mike finally looked up and met Russ’ eyes again, “No, I’m sorry, there isn’t.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact.

  Russ took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt like he had just been punched in the gut. He had pictured himself getting this job, coming to work, being productive, being part of a team again. He had thought about how great it was going to be to have that feeling of being wanted - needed again. He had let himself dream about where he would move, new clothes for the job and starting a new life, a normal life, a life outside the institution of the military.

  “Sorry, sir, I'm confused, it seems everything you wanted or needed, you could have looked at my resume and realized I didn't have any of that. Why did you ask for an interview?”

  Mike looked genuinely lost for a moment before quietly replying, “I don't know, I just knew you had been in the army and wanted to talk to you.” Adding quickly a bit louder, “To thank you.”

  Russ leered back, “While I appreciate your words, a real thank you would be to give me a job. Listen, I know this isn't all you, but the lip service thank-yous from yourself and everyone else doesn't get me anywhere. I need a job, I need a break, I need actions. Making me come down here to talk to you, to let me get my
hopes up, when there was no way I was going to get the job - well that doesn't help much.” Russ stood, Mike quickly followed suit.

  Russ' face was red. He was taking deep controlled breaths, his large chest rising and lowering in long, deep cycles. His hands shook slightly. Russ scolded himself for losing his temper. He knew it was unprofessional but the chorus of hollow appreciation was getting to him. Everyone thanked him for service but none of it translated to anything that could tangibly improve his life.

  “Sorry,” Mike mumbled. He offered Russ his hand. Russ looked down at his hand and gave it a cursory shake. Mike scrambled around his desk and opened the door. Without looking back he scooted out of the door. Russ closed his binder and followed closely behind Mike. Mike led Russ down the halls in a brisk walk, as fast as etiquette would allow him to move. The hallways that seemed so full of promise on the way in, now seemed gray and depressing on the way out.

  Mike finally opened the large glass door that let Russ out to the lobby. Holding the door open with one arm, Mike turned to shake Russ' hand again. Russ walked past him without shaking his hand or even looking at him. He strode purposefully, picking up speed as his strides were no longer restricted to the span of Mike's steps. As he passed the receptionist desk, the receptionist croaked, “Good bye, sir” at Russ' back. He did not slow down or even acknowledge she said anything.

  Once back at his truck, Russ let his emotions really flow. He opened the driver's side of his bright red Ram 1500 and threw his binder into the cab as hard as he could. He slammed the door, cracking the driver's side window. He grabbed the side of the bed and shook the truck. The raised truck shook on its springs as Russ yelled. A man and woman walking through the parking lot looked at Russ, then changed their path to walk around the parking lot rather than cutting through it.