Clean Slate

Chapter 13

Ruth wore a pale blue apron that started at her throat and flowed snugly down her slim form to below her knees. Her short light-brown hair was freshly trimmed, and she wore little make-up. Large gold earrings decorated her lobes; irrelevantly, Earl recalled telling her he thought large earrings were sexy as hell on naked women. But Ruth was far from naked; the apron covered her like a smock, leaving bare just her arms and feet. She backed up from Earl, with a mischievous smile, as he followed her inside the kitchen, closing the door behind him. To Earl, she looked delicious. This high-tone respected public figure, patron of the arts, community pillar – his wicked sexual play-toy. He felt like flooring her, and throwing the apron over her head, and fucking her brains out, right here.

But that can't happen, he thought. She'd never in a million years. Not in their house.

"Just drop the envelope on the table," Ruth told him.

Earl, watching her, did so. The bright cheery kitchen was silent around them. Ruth had backed up to the butcher block in the center. Still facing Earl, she placed her hands on the block and, lightly, hiked herself backward up onto it, sitting on a white bath towel that had been placed there. Then she briskly reached behind her, untied the apron, slipped its loop off her head and tossed it over a chair.

Naked now, she eyed Earl, dimpling demurely. "You've got three seconds to lose those pants."

He needed just two.

Afterward, she unclutched her arms and legs and eased him back from her. Despite himself Earl felt stunned, at the suddenness of the event, and the quickness of it all – start to finish, entry to orgasm, elapsed time three minutes, tops. "You're amazing," he said to Ruth, a bit dismayed at the hoarse edge to his voice. He never wanted a broad to think he'd been gotten to, but Ruth was getting to him, no doubt about it. Bending down for his trousers, he added lamely, "You're just hot-hot-hot."

Ruth dropped down lightly from the butcher block. Gathering the towel, she bent and wiped herself with it, her eyes roaming the room, bright with pleasure and satisfaction. "I've always wanted to do that," she said.

---

Thursday morning was warm, airless, and humid. Mac, sweating under his white dress shirt, walked vigorously up Fourth Street amid thick bustling pedestrian traffic from the stadium parking lot toward Judiciary Square. As always he occupied his mind lining up the day's duties like a row of ducks. Finalize the furniture order, put in the mortgage application, order a laptop computer for home, decide on an Internet service provider. Overlaying that was the array of professional obligations: meetings with offenders (whose names were listed in bright lines in his mind), a couple of seven-day hearings, and myriads of paperwork.

And then, standing in the shadows of the day's activities, were the larger issues hanging fire. Nicholas, of course, ever-present. Suzanne -- what's next? The Detroit private detective: would he call? And Eddie Fant. As Mac strode along, he found himself thinking about the skinny probationer with the jury-rigged hand, talking so matter-of-fact of living in a crippled cab. That comment he made about an "income opportunity" made Mac uneasy. When confronted with a hundred good choices and a single lousy one, what you could depend on Eddie to do was to gravitate toward the latter. But, Mac lectured himself, is that really my problem? I can guide the open-minded. I can channel the willing. I'd give my shirt to the determined. But a offender hell-bent on driving off a cliff – him I can't stop. Still, Eddie was one of those rare probationers who, in Mac's view, not only needed saving – they all did – but had the potential.

Maybe that, Mac reflected, is why, out of the 28 clowns I've met so far this week, I'm thinking about Eddie so much. . . .

At Judiciary Square Mac encountered Joe Pipestone, puffing up the concrete Fannie Annie stairs from the employee parking lot. The rotund PPO was sweating also, his dark pony-tailed hair damp under the blue ball cap autographed by Martha Reeves. He carried a red football helmet. "Parking's getting ridiculous," Joe greeted Mac. "Pretty soon, to be sure of a space, I'll have to get here at midnight."

"That's why I park at the stadium," Mac replied.

Joe laughed. "Who can make that kind of walk from down there. Only a youthful fitness buff like you."

"Joe. Please. I'm five years older than you. And what's with the lid?"

"Driving my scooter."

"Hell's Angel, huh?" Mac grinned, "Native American division?"

They pushed through the glass doors into the lobby and went to the rear of the line that shuffled along toward the employee security checkpoint. "Homeland Security Desk closed half the parking lot," Joe said, "to keep truck bombers from getting too close to the building. So now there's not enough parking, even for my little wheels."

"Security requires sacrifice," Mac said, quoting the latest public service spot.

Joe snorted, but quietly; they were within earshot of the uniformed security people. "How's that old Ford of yours doing?"

"Parked it," Mac answered. "Bought a Suburban for every-day."

"Whoo," Joe commented. "Big beast."

"Used," Mac said. "I have to take it easy with money. I'm buying out my dad's interest in the farm."

"Wild Rose? Wow. Good for you. So you're really going to be a gentleman farmer," Joe observed.

"Well. . .wrong on both counts." Joe laughed. As the line slowly moved, Mac asked after Joe's kids, and Pipestone, glowing, bragged genially on them till they reached the guard. Mac showed his neck tag, and the guard, after inspecting it, waved him through.

Joe started to follow, but the guard stopped him. "Display ID and be recognized," he intoned.

The PPO squinted at the guard. "Come on. You know me."

"Display ID," the guard repeated, "and be recognized."

"Give me a break!" Joe said. "How many 350-pound full blooded Kashinampo Indians in beads and ballcaps, carrying red football helmets, come through here every day?"

"Come on, Joe, give it up," Mac said.

"Display ID and be recognized."

"Oh, all right," Joe sighed. Pulling his neck tag out of his pocket, he showed it to the guard, who barely glanced at it and waved Joe through. Moments later the two PPOs entered the department waiting room. It smelled dank in there, as if the air conditioning had been shut off overnight. Clustered in the battered wood chairs were offenders of various flavors. They ranged from the professional types in business-casual attire, who sat worked-up, watchful, and annoyed; to the dead-end types in their scruffies-of-the-day, who sat sprawled, subdued, and annoyed. Mac waved at one that he remembered from before, scanned the rest for familiar faces, and followed Joe to the glass door, which the large man was able to unlatch with his ID tag. "Wait a minute, Mac?" the receptionist – Janie, Mac remembered – called, holding out a folder.

Mac took it. "What's this?"

"Your eight o'clock."

"Didn't think I had one," Mac said, knowing full well he did not.

"Clare set it up," Janie said. "New one."

Clare. "Okay." Mac read the folder tag, scanned the room. "Ms., uh, Heartwell?"

A young woman seated in the first row rose to her feet, getting taller as she went. Mac's impression was of a young business type who'd dressed her best, and flowing dark brown hair, and a face that was all eyes. "Right this way," Mac said, allowing her to precede him through the door.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Before peeling off for his office, Joe winked at Mac. Though happily married, he was keenly appreciative of female comeliness, which this new offender Heartwell – Abigail, Mac saw, checking the file tab again as they walked – had in full measure.

Swinging into his office, Mac hit the light, spun Heartwell's file onto his desk, and with a gesture invited her to sit. She did so, gathering herself demurely in one of the visitor chairs. Mac sized her up for thirty, maybe. She looked lean and athletic in her blue jacket and tan skirt: a woman of almost irrepressible vigor. There was about her an air of braininess, and probably a portion of party-girl too, perhaps past. Yet there was a contrary cast to her, too, something melancholy, Mac thought, maybe a little bit hunted, like she'd been shaken loose from her life and was having trouble finding her fit again. Mac could relate to that, in spades, but, at this point, relating was not the agenda. The agenda now was to get off on the right foot.

My first fresh one since being back! he thought. Oh, goody!

"My name's McGladrey," he said, easing himself into a casual seat on the edge of his desk. "First name Mister."

"Hello," Heartwell said. Unlike most offenders, her gaze at him was very direct, though not in the least confrontational. Spirited type, Mac assessed. Got her ass in a crack in some kind of jam-up – Mac's guess was one of the old stand-bys, unlawful blood alcohol level, or one of its more potent cousins – but is determined to work her way out of it. If so – and only time would tell – good for her. "It's nice to meet you," she added, and held out a slim hand. "I'm Abigail. Not ‘Abby,' never ‘Gail.'"

Without thinking Mac took and shook her hand. It was cool and correct. He found her assertiveness odd and a little disconcerting. Time to take control here, he thought. "Are you familiar with the term ‘asshole tax'?" he asked.

Her thin face registered nothing at that; remained solemn and thoughtful, though Heartwell's brows furrowed a bit. "No, 'fraid not."

"Well, it's something that we all pay once in a while. What it is is, the cost of not doing right. Or acting like a jerk. For example: If I go to a restaurant and I'm rude to the waitress, so she's slower to bring the food, doesn't refill drinks promptly, I'm paying the asshole tax. If I cheat on my wife, and her whole family finds out, so they're not nice to me and won't help me when I need it – I'm paying the asshole tax. Or if my buddy calls and asks to borrow a tool, but I'm rushed and not willing to take the time to get it to him, and then later he's never available to lend me a hand – I'm paying the asshole tax. You see?"

"Certainly," she nodded.

"Good. Now," Mac went on, warming to the subject, "what's always fascinated me are people who are pay enormous asshole taxes, every day and ongoing. And so their lives are not so good. They have all kinds of problems. They whine, bitch, complain. What they don't do is see the connection between how they act, and what they do, with the asshole taxes that result. They don't believe they have any responsibility for how things are going. When in fact they have almost complete responsibility. Still with me?"

"Absolutely," she murmured.

"Which leads us to the reason you're here," Mac continued. "Our judicial system is a classic example of cause and effect, action and result. A person does something that society finds repugnant, and society reacts with sanctions of various kinds. But sanctions don't happen by themselves. They happen as a result of the action the person took, the decision he or she made to do something repugnant to society. Sanctions include jail time, fines and costs. Which are forms of the asshole tax. Sanctions also include probation and parole. Which are just another form of the asshole tax. Nothing more than society's way of reminding the offender – you, Ms. Heartwell – that it finds repugnant what you did. Which was --" Pausing, Mac leaned to her file folder and flipped the cover open, to find her offense.

But the page that appeared was not the expected Offender Face Sheet.

Its heading was PPO ORIENTATION RECORD. Below it, handwritten, was the name Angela M. Heartwell. Level 5 PPO. And beneath that was a checklist.

Oh, shit. Mac, wordless, glanced up at Heartwell. Smiling, she said, "Ms. Epple assigned you to train me."

"Oh," Mac managed.

"She told me she'd send you an email about it."

"I don't think she did," Mac sputtered. "Did she?" Going around behind his deck, he looked at his screen. Sure enough, the email window showed an unopened one, dated Tuesday afternoon, from Clare, subject line OJT. "Oh man," Mac said, "this is so embarrassing. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Heartwell said. "You've got a good first-appointment spiel there. I was enjoying it."

"So you've done this work before?"

"Court intern, at Sheffield."

"Your major?" Mac asked, as filler.

"Criminal justice. I've been away from it for a while," Heartwell added, crossing one leg over the other.

"What were you doing?"

"Ad agency."

Mac grinned. "Quite a career swerve."

Her expression was clouded, remote, as she let out a long breath. "Yes."

"Okay, well," Mac said, "needless to say, I'm sorry about my sloppiness there. I --"

"It's all right," Heartwell said, waving a hand. "No harm done. I'm just glad to --"

"Well!" chirped Clare Epple, popping in the doorway. "You two are hooked up. Good!"

"Morning, Clare," Mac said. Heartwell smiled and nodded up at the boss. "What brings you down here?" Mac asked.

"Making sure you're rolling along," Clare said through her tight jaws. Today she wore a green dress with black splashes, and sandals at the bottom of her stockingless legs. She wore little if any makeup on her pale face, and Mac would swear her ears sported new hardware. "You're going to soft-land this young lady for me, right, Mac?"

"As you say."

"We're off to a good start," Heartwell said.

"Good!" Clare boomed down at her. "You're in good hands here, Abby. Mac is one of my very best people. Just back from a year's sabbatical, but he's getting back into the flow nicely."

"Good to know," Heartwell said, looking at Mac.

"And Abby's a whiz kid," Clare told Mac. "Especially with computers. She leaves us all in the dust."

"Handy trait to have around here," Mac replied, "these days."

"She'll sit right next door," Clare told Mac, gesturing at the archway in the wall to his left. "It should be all set. All righty?"

"Thanks, Clare," Mac said to his boss's briskly departing back. In the silence he eyed Abigail Heartwell, who sat composed. Such amazing eyes she has, he thought. Large, deep, and a blue that was closer to cornflower than any Mac had seen before. This woman is never content with the surfaces of things. She sees beyond and beneath. Could trait for a PPO. "Thanks," Mac said to her quietly, "for not ratting me out."

"Oh," Heartwell smiled, waving a slender hand, "I'd never do that." She rose, once again surprising Mac with her height: five eight or nine, at least. "Care to show me my quarters, Mr. McGladrey?"

Mac gestured her toward the arch. "Please call me Mac," he said as they went through.

"But not your real name?" she asked, amused.

"Never," he answered, hitting the light switch.

"Okay," she said, glancing over her desk, computer, chairs. "You can call me Abigail."

"But not Abby?"

"And never Gail. Good memory," she added, slinging her purse onto her desk.

"I try." As she got settled, Mac went over the orientation regimen with her. She asked a few well thought out questions, absorbed information quickly, seemed fine with it all, as far as Mac could tell. Wrapping up, Mac drifted back toward the archway to his office. "So come on in at 9:30. We'll work a few interviews together."

"Thanks, Mac." She seemed about to sit, but straightened. Lines appeared on the smooth skin of her forehead, and her expression went very far away, though her eyes, which seemed to fill her face, were still on him. "Are you all right?"

Mac blinked. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"Really?" She focused on him, making Mac feel probed. "I don't think so," she murmured. "I think. . . ."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm sorry. I'm so stupid."

"No, really," Mac pressed. "What were you going to say?"

She took a breath, as if quietly gathering courage. "I think you're. . .like, walking wounded? Damaged," she added, putting her hand on her heart, "right here?" When he didn't reply, she murmured, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't get so personal."

Dry-mouthed, Mac felt his fences rise. But he did not feel attacked or offended. With Abigail Heartwell, he discerned, you could never feel that way. "I'm okay," he said, "but thanks for your concern."

Her expression cleared, and she smiled, and actually blushed. "Never mind," she said. "I'm so stupid sometimes."

"Not at all. It's fine," Mac said. "And --"

A pause, and then she asked, "What?"

"Never mind. See you in an hour."

Back in his office, he took refuge in paperwork, his thoughts unwillingly echoing the unspoken words: I could say the same about you, Abigail.