by Andrew Grant
I passed through a metal detector, retrieved my wallet and keys, and headed down a short dark corridor that led into the basement of the main hexagonal section of the building. The circular central core was walled off, but I could see through a door that it was used as a filing room. A woman was sitting at a desk near the entrance, nimbly sliding her computer mouse across a copy of last month’s New Yorker. Behind her, the space was filled with row after row of gray metal shelves. All but one were crammed with white cardboard files, their pink edges showing varying degrees of fade.
I turned right at the end of the corridor and followed around two faces of the hexagon until I found the Janitorial Services room. It smelled of dust and disinfectant. Metal shelves ran down the whole right-hand side, holding rolls of paper, mop heads, spray bottles, plastic garbage bags, towels, and all kinds of other supplies. A section at the far end was fenced off and locked with a padlock on a chain. Straight ahead, in the center of the room, there were four round tables like the kind you’d expect to find in a staff canteen. These were surrounded by two dozen chairs. They were of varying styles, and several looked like they’d been rescued from a Dumpster. Beyond the tables were two couches, which weren’t quite lined up. They were covered with a threadbare, furry material, with green and yellow stripes that were garish even in the room’s patchy artificial light.
The cleaning carts were stored on the left-hand side. They were lined up between stripes on the floor like cars in a garage. There was a number painted on the wall by each one, which I assumed referred to individual janitors. It reminded me of a parking structure I’d once seen in Chicago. It was underground, beneath Millennium Park. The FBI and the Secret Service had taken the place over for the duration of an international economics conference. I was there to make contact with a potential defector. He’d nominated the garage for our rendezvous, but I struggled to find the guy because the whole space was filled with lines of shiny black Suburbans. Only those were all parked facing out, ready for quick getaways if needed, not shoved in haphazardly like the carts at the end of a shift. And the SUVs had been identical. On closer inspection, I realized the carts were all set up differently. They’d been customized to varying degrees. Someone had strung plaited black trash bags between the handles of the two bins on the cart closest to me, to hold longer items like mops and brooms. The next in line had a yellow cloth bib strung around one bin, with pockets for spray bottles and aerosols. It looked homemade, but effective.
The door opened behind me and a guy came into the room. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He was wearing gray coveralls, and had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a scruffy goatee. I could see the tips of several multicolored tattoos peeking out from his collar and the ends of his sleeves.
“Can I help you?” The guy sounded suspicious.
“I hope so.” I took a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket and studied it for a moment. I could remember the name that was written on it perfectly well, but I’ve found people are always faster to trust you if you seem a little disorganized. “I’m looking for someone. Frank Carrodus.”
“That’s me.” His voice relaxed a notch. “Are you McMahon? If so, you’re early.”
“Sorry about that.” I held out my hand. “I’m keen to get started. And please, call me Paul.”
When ADA Dixon’s version of events had borne out Detective Atkinson’s story, I’d decided that I would spend some time at the courthouse to see what I could find out about Pardew’s missing file. But why stay on the outside, picking up scraps of hearsay, when you could be on the inside, seeing things for yourself? And if a janitor had found a box of lost evidence recently, as Atkinson had told me, I figured a janitor was the thing to be. Faking the credentials for the job application was new—I was used to having that done for me—but it still took less than an afternoon with the public computers at the central library. I wasn’t planning on being there long—it wasn’t going to be my second career—so I didn’t have to worry about blowback from the IRS or anything like that. And I could have used my own name, but old habits die hard. I stuck to the usual formula. You use your real first name, so you’ll reply if someone calls to you. And you pick a different second name. I always liked something else Irish. There was no good reason, but I’d done it so long it had become a superstition.
Carrodus looked me up and down, then crossed to the shelves, took down a new coverall—still in its cellophane wrapper—and handed it to me.
“The locker room’s through there.” He pointed to the back of the room. “Go get changed. Then we can start the tour.”
* * *
—
Carrodus had a cart waiting for me when I came back out in my new uniform. He ran through the basics with the equipment, then led the way to the door.
“Have you had much experience with this kind of work?” Carrodus paused before pushing the handle. “Be honest. You wouldn’t be the first to exaggerate on your application form. And if you need extra training, I need to know, ’cause it’s down to me to get it set up.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I know what I’m doing. I worked at an army base before this. Over in Germany, actually. You wouldn’t believe the kind of messes I had to clean up in Europe and other places over the years.”
“Yeah?” His voice relaxed a little. “Why don’t you tell me about it sometime?”
“I’d be happy to.” I nodded. “We could swap war stories. I bet there’s plenty going on around here that people don’t know.”
“Too right.” Carrodus winked. “Let’s get a beer sometime.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“What brought you back to the States?” Carrodus opened the door and held it for me. “And why New York? It’s not the most affordable place to live. Not if you do an honest day’s work. If you were a banker or something, that would be different.”
“The short answer?” I wheeled the cart out carefully, not wanting to cause any damage on my first day with my boss watching. “My father. We’d been on the outs for a while—years, to tell you the truth—and then he got sick. All of a sudden. Anyway, I came back hoping to patch things up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’s it going?”
“Let’s just say I don’t expect us to be getting much closer any time soon. Unless things take a radical change, of course.”
“Well, if you’ve got family issues, this is a good place to work. You’re pretty much free to come and go as you please. You’ll have your own allocated area—I’ll show you yours on the plan of the building—and as long as you clean it thoroughly every day, including the restrooms, how you plan your time’s up to you.”
“Sounds good.”
Carrodus stopped next to a bank of bronze-colored doors. “OK. First thing to learn. See these elevators? They’re not elevators. They’re closets. It’s only every other set that’s real. They made it that way to look balanced or something, with the building being symmetrical. Anyway, remember which is which. You don’t want to be stuck standing outside the wrong ones, looking stupid.”
We continued to the next bank. The shiny brass door opened the moment Carrodus hit Up, and after he helped me steer the cart inside he pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator started moving with a bump, but stopped again almost straightaway. The door opened, and I saw we were on the first floor. A woman with a gigantic stroller started to come in, but she quickly reversed away when she saw my cart.
“Look at that asshole.” Carrodus pointed at a guy who was standing on the blue-gray marble disc in the center of the floor. He was taking pictures of the mural that covered the inside of the rotunda’s domed ceiling, which depicts the evolution of justice from Assyrian times to the foundation of the United States. “Photography’s not allowed in here. You’re supposed to check your camera at the desk, over there.”
“Should we do something about it?” I
took hold of the cart, ready to wheel out onto the shiny floor. The guy had moved to the outer circle of the floor design now, and was standing on one of the signs of the zodiac. Taurus. My sign.
“Leave it.” Carrodus put his hand on my arm. “He’s not our problem. Just a jackass with a camera. Not worth losing your job by starting an unnecessary ruckus. Security will deal with him. Eventually.”
The third floor was hexagonal, like the basement, only instead of a solid central core there was a wall lined with tall, old-fashioned leaded windows. They faced the hollow center of the building and overlooked the domed roof of the rotunda. I stopped to scope it out, but Carrodus grabbed the front of my cart and pulled it toward one of the spoke-like corridors that led toward the main part of the building.
The courtroom on the left at the end of the corridor was in use when we arrived, so we turned our attention to the one on the opposite side.
“Brace yourself.” Carrodus pushed the heavy wooden doors and held them open until I’d wheeled the cart inside. “You won’t believe the kind of crap people leave behind. They treat this place worse than a movie theater.”
* * *
—
Back in the janitors’ room four hours later, Carrodus slapped me on the shoulder. “Good job so far today, Paul. I think you’re going to be a good fit here.”
“Thanks.” I lined my cart up in its bay. I’d been given #12. “I enjoyed myself. I hope I’m going to find what I’m looking for.”
“Working here’s not just a job.” Carrodus moved to the door and casually leaned against it, arms crossed. “It’s like being part of a family, too. Which leads me to something they might not have told you at your interview. We look after one another on this job. Kind of like an informal union. To help out, where needed.”
“Sounds interesting.” I pursed my lips as if I was carefully weighing his words. “That’s something I could maybe get behind.”
“It’s not a voluntary situation.” His voice had gained what he probably thought was a harder edge. “I’m the treasurer. Ten percent of your take home kicks back to me. Also, you’ll volunteer to cover extra shifts as needed. Any questions?”
“No, Frank.” I flashed him the friendliest smile I could muster. “That’s OK. It’s perfectly clear what I need to do.”
Chapter Seven
I waited for Carrodus to leave, letting him think he had a new recruit for his union, then pulled my cart back out of its bay and headed for the elevator. I wanted to take a look at room 432. That was the room where Alex Pardew’s trial had taken place.
I could set my own pace, without Carrodus breathing down my neck. I swept my way slowly around the inner hexagon of the fourth floor until I reached a corridor leading to the main building. There were glass-fronted booths on both sides, where the passageways joined. I guessed they originally housed pay phones. I could see an ancient wire poking out from a heavily overpainted junction box near the skirting board in one of them. I could picture manic reporters in striped suits and trilby hats racing from the nearby courtrooms to phone in juicy details from the most scandalous trials of the day. Now they’d use their cellphones. Or just email their stories directly to their editors. There were Wi-Fi repeaters at regular intervals along the ceiling. Though strangely no CCTV cameras. That was a shame. It was a pain in the ass to sift through hours of footage, but it was sometimes the easiest way to catch someone who was up to no good.
Room 432 was on the right at the end of the corridor. It was square, maybe thirty feet by thirty, with a knee-high fence that divided it sideways across the center. The area closer to the door was for spectators, with six solid wooden benches for them to sit on. The jury box was beyond the fence, to the right. Tables for the lawyers were in the center. On the far wall, below the flag, the witness stand was tucked in at the side of the judge’s bench. Next to that was the door to the judge’s chambers. And in the far corner, the clerk’s desk and a couple of low filing cabinets.
There was nothing wrong with the place, exactly. Everything about it was perfectly adequate. Yet as I stood there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. Of betrayal, almost. The building’s extravagant exterior drew you in with a promise of elegance and ceremony. The central rotunda seduced you with its sumptuous marble and gilt. The paintings of Moses and Hammurabi, literally elevated above you, implied that you were in the presence of age-served wisdom. Even the entrance to the courtroom spoke of old-world grandeur with its foot-wide, gray-veined marble frame and brass-studded mahogany doors. But inside, everything was worn. Every surface was dusty. Every fixture, every fitting was dulled with the patina of bureaucratic routine. If that was the reality of practical, institutional jurisprudence, then it was deeply unsatisfying. If I’d been there to experience the defining moment of my life—as a defendant, or a plaintiff, or even a spectator in the trial of the man accused of killing my father—I’d have wanted more. Regardless of the verdict, the surroundings didn’t live up to the proceedings they hosted. They should have been more profound. More magnificent. More dignified.
Given the workman-like mood that had descended on me, I figured I may as well take advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself and take a look in the judge’s chambers. Maybe I’d get lucky and find the missing papers on my first try. I was about to stow my broom and make my way through the gap in the center of the fence when I saw that I wasn’t alone after all. There was someone else in the room, at the far end of the last spectators’ bench. An old guy. I recognized him. From the sidewalk outside the courthouse, that morning. Now he was completely still. He was slumped slightly forward with his cane resting against the arm of the bench to his side. For a moment I thought he might be dead. Then I stepped closer and saw he was breathing. Very shallowly. His eyes were open. They were staring, though unfocused. He was obviously unaware I was there. I could have gone ahead, through the door and into the chambers, but old habits die hard. The guy could wake up at any time. He could see me come back out. Why invite some stranger to be a witness? I decided it would be better to wait until no one was there.
I started to sweep the wide, black-paned floor tiles between the benches, to pass the time as much as anything, when the old guy suddenly coughed and sat bolt upright. He struggled to his feet and took a couple of unsteady steps toward the door, then noticed me. He nodded a vague greeting with an expression on his face that lay somewhere between confused and heartbroken.
“Sir?” I stopped sweeping and leaned on my broom. “How’s it going? Is everything OK?”
The old guy seemed to stare in my direction, but his watery eyes were struggling to focus. His mouth opened and closed, but his words wouldn’t come. Instead, he shook his head.
“We met outside, earlier. Do you remember?” I took a step toward him. “We talked about the statues on the roof. I was wearing regular clothes then. My name’s Paul, by the way.”
“Bob.” The old guy held out his hand, which was bony and cold. “Bob Mason. Paul? How can I explain this to her? What just happened? I don’t understand.”
I gestured to the nearest bench. “Want to sit for a minute, Bob? Talk me through it? Maybe we can figure things out between us.”
He looked me slowly up and down as if he was noticing my coveralls for the first time. He seemed hesitant, but he did sit. I leaned my broom against my cart, then joined him.
“I don’t know where to start.” He slumped forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I’m guessing you came to watch a trial?”
He nodded slowly. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. I knew there was no point.”
“What was the case about?”
“The asshole who hurt my wife. Who left her in a wheelchair. He was supposed to get thrown in jail. The cops said there was no doubt. They promised us. They said he was going down for a long, long time, after what he did.”
“B
ut that didn’t happen?”
“No.” Mason straightened up and turned to look at me, with a hint of fire appearing in his eyes. “They let him go. Just…let him go.” He clicked his fingers. “Just like that. The guy’s free as a bird. It doesn’t matter what he did.”
“What did he do? Was it an auto accident? A DUI? A hit and run?”
“No.” Mason looked down at the floor. “The guy’s an animal. He beat her. With a wrench. He hit her head. Her back. All over.”
I paused for a moment, then kept my voice as soft as I could. “Where did this happen? On the street somewhere?”
Mason shook his head again. “In our apartment.”
“Was it a home invasion?”
“The guy said he was there to do some repairs.” Mason scowled at me. “He was wearing an outfit like yours. He had a box of tools. Lydia was so happy when he arrived. We’d almost given up hope of getting the pipes fixed. We haven’t had any hot water for nine months. The super quit on Christmas Eve. He hasn’t been replaced, so we’ve been calling the landlord ourselves every day. Or trying to. We can’t get past his secretary.”
“What are you thinking? That the landlord sent this guy to do the repair, but for some reason he went crazy and beat your wife instead?”
“Our landlord sent him.” Mason nodded. “I’m sure of that. But not to do any repairs. To shut us up. And get us out of the building. All the other tenants are having problems, as well. After the super quit, Lydia started making a list. She started calling on everyone’s behalf. She thought it would be easier if there was just one list of issues. I guess, instead, the landlord thought it would be easier to shut one person up.”
“You’re sure the landlord’s behind this?”
“He denies it. Through his secretary, of course. But I’m sure. If something looks like a turd, and stinks like a turd…Here’s the thing, Paul. We live in a rent-controlled apartment. It’s a small building. Most other units in it are rent controlled, too. And the area? New buildings are springing up all over the place. If he could get rid of us and redevelop, or sell the land, he’d make a fortune. That’s why there were problems in the first place, if you ask me. The asshole doesn’t want to spend money on a building he wants to demolish. And he sure doesn’t want old folks like us in the way of his gold mine.”