Chapter 7

But first: back to the job. Mac felt butterflies, and this amused him. What was there to be nervous about? If anything, easing back in should be simpler, given that he was no longer section leader. Just one of the working stiffs, a role in which Mac was most comfortable. He'd had rank in his life, some of it serious, in the Navy and elsewhere. He had never been at ease with it, and was just as glad to come back to the Department as one of the troops, an anonymous face among many. Besides, to him the Department was as comfortable as an old threadbare tee-shirt. Institutions like that, if they changed at all it was at a glacial pace. Before his year away, Mac had put in 13 years, the last 11 of them full time. He knew the work, the brass, the judges, the cops, the colleagues, the offenders, the environs; the stresses, the heartaches (frequent), and the successes (occasional at best). He knew the office layout, the locations of the bathrooms, the daily routines, the best places for lunch. He was ready. Oh, yeah.

Just inside the revolving doors of the Francis Furrow Judicial Annex, known by its occupants as "Fannie Annie," came the first surprise: a security checkpoint. It was equipped with metal-detection gateway, hand-held wands, and a half dozen serious looking young men and women in unfamiliar white-on-black uniforms, wearing latex gloves and Nextels and spidery headsets and what looked like Glock nines on their hips. Many big signs were posted around, in angry dark letters warning this, threatening that, advising other things, such as the current terrorist threat level (yellow). A steel-and-glass barricade stretched across the expanse of the old building lobby, with three openings. One, to the right, just this side of the stairs to the upper level, was signed EXIT ONLY, and was watched over by two guards: no doubt, Mac thought, ex-bouncers. Another was just past the metal detection gateway. And the third, on the left, manned by a single guard, had a sign that said EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Mac made for that. The guard, a young black woman, stopped him. "I.D."

"Sure." Mac dug out his driver's license, remembering as he did so that it had expired on his birthday back in January. One more thing for the list. The guard, shaking her head, didn't even look at it. "County I.D. Or your neck-tag," she said impatiently.

"I'm sorry, what's that?"

Her expression tightened. "What department you say you work in?"

"D.P.P.," Mac replied, conscious that other guards were watching him, no doubt anxious to demonstrate their crisis-management training. "But I'm just back from leave of absence, and --"

"Step through the checkpoint then," the guard ordered.

Mac did so, among a line of others, submitting to all the indignities, which for him included a prodding poking look-see through his sack lunch, and a wand inspection of his person as he stood spread-legged and arms a-stretched, revealing nothing more lethal than Eddie Fant's Bronze Star in his pocket. Emerging from the checkpoint, Mac went to the first set of double doors and stopped short as he read the name stenciled in bold black letters across the glass:

HOMELAND SECURITY DESK

- authorized personnel only -

Well, then. Judge Wildern hadn't mentioned anything like this. Mac went back to the checkpoint. "Where's D.P.P. now?"

"Upstairs," one of them said, pointing at the massive stone staircase on the right side of the lobby.

Mac half trotted up the stairs. It was almost 8, and he did not want to be late. The stairs were crowded with two way traffic. Pretty amazing, they've rearranged the whole building, Mac thought. Last thing he expected; all this in just one year.

On the upper floor, and halfway down, where the Division of Drains used to be, Mac found another set of double glass doors:

DEPARTMENT OF PROBATION AND PAROLE

County of St. Marys

Mac stepped in. Now this felt more familiar. It was a foyer of sorts, about 20 by 15, plainly furnished in what looked like old motel lobby furniture, walled in '50s style fake wood veneer paneling. Old green carpet was smeared to the floor, showing ravels in many places. Several people – offenders, clearly – sat around silently, each with the typical offender aura: low-grade seething resentment mixed with resignation and an odd mix of indignation and impatience. By the archway at the far end was a steel desk, and behind the desk was a woman Mac did not know: young, perky, blond. Mac headed over there, on the way giving a cheery greeting to a man in twill who was operating a vacuum. "May I help you?" the desk lady asked.

Her demeanor told Mac two things. She'd been on the job long enough to be able to tell Mac was not an offender, but not so long as to lose her perkiness, which DP&P usually burned out of you by the time you hit your 90. "Mac McGladrey," he told her. "I'm, uh. . .I'm a PPO, coming off leave of absence. Guess I'm supposed to see Clare Epple?"

"Oh sure," she said, as her phone started to ring. "Down the hall there, to the end, on your right."

"Thanks." Mac pushed through the glass door and went down the hall, grateful that he had not been made to wait in the lobby. Several dark cubes opened doorless to his left and right. An open space with a wood high-walled carrel, coffee maker, and soda machine came along next. A brightly lighted office, this one with a door standing open, came next on the right. As Mac passed, a voice boomed from inside and a man hurried out. "Mac!" he said, beaming, "welcome back! It's good to see you!"

Ray Christopher was director of probation and parole. He was a svelte early-40-something, a few years older than Mac, and shorter, dressed as always more formally than most: white shirt, red tie neatly knotted at the neckline, gray trousers, darkish hair in a military cut. Ray had the jaunty seen-it-all air of the sheriff's deputy that he had once been, and the glad-handing bonhomie of the politician it was long expected he would, in due course, come out of the closet to become.

"Thanks, Ray, great to be here," Mac said. He liked Ray. The man was honest and fair and plain-spoken – unusual qualities for a veteran of Court House and Fannie Annie politics. Mac was grateful to him, too; just one year ago, at what seemed to be Mac's lowest point, Ray and the Judge had ram-rodded Mac's leave of absence through the bureaucracy in record time. One thing that helped was that Ray had children, for whom he wore his love on his sleeve. "You're looking well."

"And you," Ray said. "Still wearing the uniform, I see."

Mac grinned. It was a long-standing office joke. To work Mac always wore an open-neck white button-up shirt – short-sleeve in summer – with light blue trousers and black running shoes. His 10 sets of this outfit made it unnecessary for him to decide what to wear each morning. "And let me tell you, buddy," the director said, lowering his voice, "we sure need you around here. Jail, Stockade, and prisons are nuts-to-butts overcrowded. It's so bad, we're shipping folks to paid space in Traverse County, out to Sheffield, even. Still, lots of perps are getting kicked early. Nonviolent offenders, lot of felony drunk drivings."

"That's nonviolent?" Mac asked.

"I know, I know. Thing is, all this has stressed the parole side like you would not believe. Now that you're back, I can move some talent from probation over to parole."

"Whatever I can do," Mac said easily.

"What you can do for me, and this is way important," Ray said, even more quietly, and dead-serious now, "is get along with Clare."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, from what she's said, you two didn't bring out the best in each other."

Mac spread his hands and shrugged. "News to me. I never had a problem with her." Mac was indeed puzzled. Was it possible that he'd done things back then to make her think he didn't like her? He had to admit that it was possible.

"And now that she's section leader --"

"Judge told me. It's cool."

"So I've been. . .you know."

Mac cocked his head. "Do I get the impression that not everyone on the team gets along with Clare?"

"Just work with her," Ray said. "After you've settled in a while, maybe I'll let you float between sections. Trouble-shoot, handle some of the more interesting cases." Meaning tougher, Mac thought. "Then you'll report directly to me instead of --"

"I'm all right with Clare," Mac assured him. "She da man."

Despite himself, Ray laughed. "Thanks, buddy."

And Mac continued down the hall to be reintroduced to his new boss.

---

Earl Bucaro always arrived at work at the Bureau of the Bailiff by 6. So it was an easy matter for him to stroll over to the County Vehicle Pound kitty-corner from the Court House, pick up the Judge's Cadillac (like Earl's Corvette, gleaming clean, thanks to daily ministrations by work program jerk-offs), and drive up the winding slopes of Mount Madison to collect Judge Wildern at 8.

The unvarying routine went by the book this Monday. Earl left the Caddy purring on the driveway, went inside the Judge's big Second Empire house, and in the breakfast nook had an excellent cup of coffee served by the silent, remotely smiling Ruth as the beefy voluble Judge, still tieless, finished his cereal and declaimed in loud tones at everything Charlie Gibson dared to say on Good Morning America. Coffee and Cheerios consumed, go-cups charged, the men made for the door, where Ruth gave the Judge his tie and briefcase and a somewhat formal kiss, to which Wildern responded with a hearty pat on her ass and a brusque "Be good, Ruthie." Earl briskly preceded the Judge to the car and held the back door for him as the Judge slid into the spacious back seat, on which Earl had earlier placed today's Wall Street Journal, Legal News, and St. Marys Blade with the fold positioned strategically to show a headline that read "HOOKER PAPERS ‘A TICKING TIME BOMB' -- SOURCE."

Sitting far in front of the Judge, Earl sighed the Caddy down the driveway and into the winding narrow streets descending Mount Madison. He drove the big car with calm precision, and kept his silence as the Judge leafed through the papers. He was determined not to open the topic. To do so could have forced the Judge onto his high horse, and when he was in that mode nothing would get accomplished. He was beginning to think he'd have to force the issue, even so, when the Judge made a sound of profound annoyance. "Damn," he muttered. "Do you believe this."

"What's that, Judge?" Earl asked.

"The Blade, they've filed a Freedom of Information Act request for the hooker papers."

"Can they prevail in that?"

"Hard to tell," the Judge grumbled. He had his reading glasses down on his large nose, the paper spread like an apron across his substantial lap. "Libby Lewis. Who the hell is this woman."

"Reporter?"

"Yes, yes," the Judge said impatiently, "she's written all these stories. Quite the trouble-maker. Do you know her, Earl?"

"No." At the bottom of Mount Madison Earl decided on the tunnel route rather than Thomas Jefferson Way. It would take more time, and that was the point. "But it sounds like this Lewis woman is making quite a name for herself with this," Earl said carefully.

"Damn right," the Judge sputtered. "What's this all about, really. Stirring up this hornet's nest. And over what. To sell papers. That's the whole point. And to jack up her reputation," he shot on, slapping the paper, "so she can land herself a job at the New York Times or somewhere."

"Way of the world," Earl observed, in his own way egging the Judge on.

"True enough," the Judge conceded sourly. "But this thing is snowballing by the hour. It's distracting people. It needs management."

Earl glanced into the rear view mirror. Just then the Judge gave him one quick glance over the reading glasses. In the many years of their association, the dance steps had become time-worn, and Earl knew this was the signal. Still, he had to be careful. "One way to pinch this off, " he began, "is to do a quick plea-bargain."

"In what manner, Earl?"

The superintendent shrugged as he wheeled the car into the tunnel. "Just talking out loud here, she pleads no-contest, gets a minimal fine, maybe 90 days unsupervised probation. In return she releases custody of the papers to the Court, which orders their immediate destruction."

In the darkness of the two-lane tunnel, sound reverberated off the stone walls and guide lights flickered by, creating a strobe-light atmosphere in the Caddy. The Judge's voice, when it came, was subdued. "Why would Brody buy that? Why would the A.D.A. buy it, in fact?"

"Harberts?" Earl replied genially. "Oh, he's reasonable."

The Judge paused, absorbing that information. The term reasonable had a very special meaning in their lexicon. "And Brody?" the Judge went on, clearly wanting to hear no more about Earl's knowledge of Harberts.

"She's the least of our problems," Earl said. "Girl like her, she knows the ways of the world. Give her a chance to avoid doing time at the Stockade, she'll grab it."

"I think you're right," Wildern said.

"Only one flaw in the ointment," Earl said, guiding the car up the slope toward the bright tunnel mouth. "The judge has to sign off on the deal."

"Scott," Judge Wildern murmured.

"Yes, sir."

They burst out of the tunnel into the sunshine. Around them teemed St. Marys, downtown-proper rising before them, the gold Court House dome visible in the distance. "I think in the interest of public amity," the Judge said finally, "that my old friend would let such a deal go through. He has no ambition," the Judge added.

"All right, sir," Earl said quietly.

"Papers will howl," the Judge said, off-hand.

"For a day or two," Earl agreed. "That's why we get it done swift and quick, so it's done before they even know it's happening. They'll scream for a week, then they'll find a fresh target."

And that was it. All that had to be said. Earl was satisfied. He knew he could deliver his end, and the Judge had committed to do his part. It's all about pieces, Earl reflected, and not for the first time. The more pieces you owned, and the bigger they were, the smoother your way through the world. Wildern owned a piece of Judge Scott. Earl owned a piece of ADA Harberts. And though Wildern did not yet know it, Earl owned a piece of him now, too. A big, plump, juicy piece.