Clean Slate

Chapter 50

"Could be it's the work of our little Bailiff Bureau buddy," Mac said.

"Wouldn't put it past him," she said grimly.

"Me either."

"Wants to get you in all the hot water he can," she commented, "hoping you'll back off him."

"Could be."

"What're you going to do?"

"What else?" Mac shrugged. "Go to the hearing tomorrow. See what happens." Quite naturally, his brain raced back over the past weeks and months – to Cambodia and even France – in search of proximate cause. Of course there were plenty of things he wished he'd done differently. Things undone to do; things done to undo. But aside from the hallway episode with Garry Overbye, he couldn't think of any act he had committed that would justify a DI. He leaned back in his chair. The notice had taken all the vibrancy out of the morning. He knew, and Abigail too, that they were in for a fight. Which was okay with him. He never even considered postponing or canceling Privette's affidavit. "You know," he mused, "when I came back from overseas, all I could think about was. . .I just wanted to get myself a life of peace and quiet. The job and my books and the farm, and old friends and new ones. That kind of thing."

"And now?"

"It's turning out more like the old Bob Dylan line: I've been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down."

---

Diana Privette started out strong, but by the end of the hour she looked visibly tired. She lay in her hospital bed, its head raised almost vertical, with her husband to her right, holding her right hand in both of his and looking away most of the time. Mac sat to her left, just beyond the view of the remote-operated video camera he had set up on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Libby Lewis stood restlessly next to Mike Privette, scratching notes in her Palm Pilot, and obviously straining to honor Mac's request that she not butt in with questions. Mitzi Bickers, the stenographer, sat on her stool next to the camera like a dark-haired female Buddha, working her steno machine with virtually motionless, almost surreal speed. A notary public and longtime Recorder's Court employee who recently set up her own court reporting practice, Mitzi administered the oath and then handed the session over to Mac, who established the date and time, introduced the participants, and started Diana off with a couple of questions. She had obviously given it all much thought, because Mac hardly had to prompt her. She told her story using brisk clipped phrases and many damning specifics. The dates, times, places. The hints, pressure, coercion, confrontation – her feelings of hopeless despair – and her surrender. And then, in sickening detail, a recital of Bucaro's brutal use of her, with every imaginable callous and casual cruelty.

When they were done, the room hung thick with silence, broken only by stifled sniffles from Diana's husband. Mac, something other than dry-eyed himself, shook hands with Mike and bent to give Diana a hug. "Heroic thing you're doing," he told her. "I can't thank you enough."

"I hope it helps," she said faintly.

"It's powerful," he assured her. "Convincing. I wouldn't change a syllable."

"And I'll testify in court the same way, if it gets that far," Diana told him.

Aware of the double meaning, Mac patted her shoulder. "Then we'll see you in court."

Mike, working for a steady voice, said, "You are going to fix that rat bastard, aren't you?"

"That's the plan." He went to the foot of the bed, where Mitzi was packing up her steno gear. "How soon?" he asked her.

"I'll verify it when I get back to the office," she said. "I can email you the transcript, how's that? Then the official signed-and-sealed copy will be a day or two. What should I do with that?"

"Lock it up till further notice." Libby had wandered over as Mac went to work disassembling the video camera from its tripod. "This is," Mac said to Mitzi, "needless to say, highly confidential."

"Not to worry," she chirped. She was an energetic 40-something in blue pinstripes and page cut and heavy black-framed glasses. "I hear you and Suzanne are apart."

"Uh-huh."

"But he's seeing someone," Libby put in.

"Well," Mac said uncomfortably.

Mitzi looked at him, then at Libby, smiled, and said coolly, "Honey, I'm married to the love of my life. Okay? So don't get your panties in a twist."

Libby glowered down at her. She wore a butter colored one-button jacket over a snug matching sheath that went down to just below mid-thigh. Her attire, posture, flame-red hair – hell, her mere presence – made the other females seem to fade into the woodwork. "I'll need the transcript too," she told Mitzi, holding out a business card.

"Not so fast," Mac said, gently pushing her hand back. "I'll take care of whatever you need." To Mitzi he said, "All to me, please, and only me. Including the bill."

"The Blade will pay," Libby said.

"All to me," Mac repeated.

"You're the boss," Mitzi said cheerily, then hoisted her case and left.

Aware of the slow burn Libby was doing – after all those years with the mercurial Suzanne, Mac had developed a keen instinct for the moods of the females around him, and Libby was far less subtle than the ever-smoldering, offense-nurturing Suzanne – Mac packed up his gear, said his goodbyes to the Privettes, and exited. Libby walked alongside, pump heels clicking meaningfully on the gleaming tile hospital floor, in full scowl. She managed to keep a lid on it till they'd reached the outer lobby of Kindred Hospital. "What the hell, Mac," she said. "You're keeping me from doing my job."

"Look, you were there," he pointed out. "You witnessed it all. You took lots of notes. You've got all you need for your story."

"I need the video and the transcript. And you know it."

"Yes."

"And I need comments from you, on the record."

"Indeed."

"You're withholding them to make sure I. . . ."

"Keep your word?" Mac suggested.

"I guess," she said bitterly. "I just don't understand why you don't trust me."

"I've got one shot at Bucaro," Mac said, "and one shot only. It's got to count. So I'm taking no chances. Get over it."

They walked in silence a second. "Just so you know," Libby said, "when you're ready to go, I'll need pics of Privette and Miller."

"Not in a million years are you going to run their pictures. That I can promise you." He stared at her. "You seem to forget what we're dealing with here. If you were raped, would you want your face all over the news?"

"Can I at least watch the video beforehand?" she asked. "To make more notes?"

They went through the double glass doors into the parking lot. The sun and the midsummer heat hit so hard it almost hurt. It was humid, as it had been for days, but still no rain. "Maybe," Mac said cautiously, "after we get Miller's statement in the can."

"Well then," Libby said, smiling, "why not bring them by my place tonight." When Mac did not answer, she rushed on, "The kids are with their dad."

Mac looked at her. So sexy, and that draw was there, more potent and powerful than ever. But the longer he was away from her, the more nuts he thought he had been ever to start up. Yet he could not just say No, could not make himself definitively slam the door. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "At the Frankfurt. After we do Jessica."

---

Abigail was away when Mac got back to his office. He sat at his desk, checking messages and emails, feeling reasonably satisfied. One down, he thought, one to go. With two independent sets of sworn testimony, Bucaro should be toast. Even if Mac were never able to prove that Bucaro had silenced Eddie Fant – which is what dragged Mac into this mess in the first place – he still felt the outcome would be sufficient justice for Eddie. Yet Mac's worries were not over. He had the Disciplinary Inquiry to get through. And there was the not insignificant question of Chief Judge Wayne Wildern, and his close ties to Earl Bucaro, and his involvement with Debby Brody – if any. Could Bucaro really have freelanced Brody's exit, the papers' destruction, and Eddie's demise, without support, protection, or support from someone higher up?

Did not seem likely.

Sorting through his email, Mac found one from a familiar Hotmail address. He clicked it open.

He was just clicking "send" to get his answer on the way when his desk phone rang. "McGladrey."

"What's this I hear?" came the gruff voice of Chief Judge Wayne Wildern.

"I don't know, your Honor," Mac answered, leaning back in his chair. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Harberts is an ADA," the Judge said. "Young, ambitious, fire in the belly. Wrong political party, of course, but he and they are in the ascendant."

"And the referee?"

"Stillman. Division 2 magistrate. Does probate, mostly. Small potatoes. I don't know him well. I hear he's a tough son of a bitch. Pig-headed. Which is why he's still only a magistrate." Wildern cleared his throat. "I recused myself from the draw, since you and I go back so far."

"And since we do?"

"Yes?" the Judge asked guardedly.

"I have a question, and I need your usual straight answer."

"Ask away."

"Actually," Mac fumbled, "on that hooker whose papers were all in the news? What I need, your Honor, with all respect, is for you to tell me straight out you never had anything to do with them or her."

An instant of silence, and then the Judge laughed. "And here I thought you were going to ask me something hard!" he boomed. "Mac, my boy, you have my word of honor as an officer of the court that I never, ever had anything to do with the, uh, person we're talking about."

"Very well. Thanks, Judge. Hated to have to ask."

"Why did you ask, then?"

"Back channel chatter," Mac managed. "Thanks for the time."

The Judge, as usual, hung up without goodbyes. Mac replaced the receiver in the cradle. Glancing up at his screen, he saw that his email to Brody had bounced back as undeliverable. But he hardly took notice. He was reflecting on the Judge's words, and tone, and something else indefinable. And an inner voice intoned, in a sour sad litany: he's lying, he's lying, the son of a bitch is lying.

Later, just before quitting time, Abigail came in to see him. She handed over a thin envelope. "Don't read it now," she said. "Take a look when you get home."

"What is it?"

Abigail looked profoundly uncomfortable, and seemed unable to meet Mac's eyes. "It's an email," she said. "When I started working on that CD, I went to Brody's web site, and I, uh. . . . I registered for a mailing list under a pseudonym. Thought it might come handy."

"And?"

She gestured at the envelope. "I just got that, it's an invitation. To one of her sex parties," Abigail plunged on. "In Chicago, I think. All the details are in there."

Mac tossed the envelope on his desk. "You're forgetting the red-head," he said. "I don't need parties like this. But thanks anyway."

She could not help smiling. "What I thought was, if you actually are serious about talking to Brody, maybe that's the way to get to her."

"All the way to Chicago."

She shrugged. "I'm not saying it's a great idea."

"And I shouldn't be ragging you," Mac conceded. "I'm sorry. I'm in a bit of a state, just now."

"I understand."

"Thanks, Abigail. For the hard work."

"I'll be so glad when this is all over," she said, and returned to her office.

---

Mac clicked his phone shut and put it in his pocket. "Well," he said, "I guess that's it."

He sat on one side of a cluttered conference sized table in one of the Frankfurt Inn meeting rooms. Beside him sat Libby, across from him Mitzi Bickers, both dressed as they'd been at the hospital earlier. The camcorder sat on its tripod at the foot of the table, pointing toward the head, focused in on and framing. . .an empty chair.

"It's only been an hour," Libby said. "Maybe we should --"

"No. It's over," Mac said. "She left work at three and hasn't been heard from. There's no answer at her house. We're an hour past time and she's not here. She's skedaddled." Though he'd had his doubts before, he could not help feel bitter at the actuality of Jessica's about-face. He got to his feet and said to Mitzi, "Sorry for the false alarm here. Add this to your bill."

Briskly she packed up her steno machine. "Not to worry," she said cheerily. "Nobody else was clamoring for the time."

Libby seemed withdrawn and thoughtful as she and Mac secured the camcorder and tripod in their case. They left the room, passed from the hotel hallway into the deserted lobby. Bill Wedeking, the manager, scurried out from behind the desk to meet Mac. "Was it okay?" he asked anxiously. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to clean it up from the day session."

"It was fine, Bill, thanks for your help." He led the women through the revolving doors and into the narrow parking lot by the towering Lee Highway overpass. "Ex-probationer of mine," he commented to Libby. "Good guy."

Mitzi said her goodbyes and left. Mac was anxious to get going also. But Libby paused on the sidewalk and gave Mac the speculative look he'd seen several times before. "Dinner maybe?"

"Better not. Things to do at home."

"Uh-huh. Okay." She threw him a glance of serious intent. "So what I think is, I'm filing on Privette. Tonight."

Irked, Mac said, "Why do we have to keep coming back to this?"

"Because it's a hot story, and it needs to be out there!"

"It'll be a better story when you can sidebar it to a shot of Bucaro doing the perp walk!"

She was bristling and not trying particularly hard to hide it. "You know, if you were a little nicer to me, I might be more sympathetic to what you want."

"What is this? A negotiation now?"

"Why not?" she shot back defiantly. "At first we were a team. But all of a sudden you're sure not acting like it. What the hell happened to you, Mac? We're in each other's pants for the better part of a week, and then boom you go all cold. You won't come to my house, you won't go out with me, you hardly make eye contact with me. And on this story, which is only about my livelihood, you throw one road block after another!"

Mac, waiting her out, felt his heart hammering. He hated these kinds of scenes, but it's what he had coming, for having jumped into bed with her. "The problem," he said, trying to sound reasonable, "is our goals differ. My goal is to make sure the bad guy gets good and put away. Obviously you don't particularly care if he gets put down. All you want is a page-one above-the-fold sensation with your by-line on it."

"That's not true --"

"It matters not to you," Mac pressed, "if Bucaro stays on the street hurting people. In fact my guess is you'd prefer it, because it would make a better story!"

"That is so not true!" she said sharply. "You son of a bitch. You make me sound so awful."

"You do that on yourself. You need no help from me!"

Her color was high, freckles standing out. With an effort she kept control. "All right. All right! I'll just sit on it. For now. But one way or the other, we're going to have to move soon."

"Define ‘soon.'"

"Friday latest."

Mac thought a second. "All right. If we don't have Jessica's statement in the can by close of business Friday, you go ahead and run."

"All right. Okay." She sounded as grumpy as Mac felt. Neither felt good about the deal, which, he thought, probably meant they had struck as equitable a compromise as was possible. Slinging the camcorder case over his shoulder, he led her toward her Spyder. She reached out tentatively, touched his arm. "So," she said, tone softer, "what're you doing at home?"

"Mainly pout."

"Why?" She hit the remote unlock button and the silver Spyder's doors clicked audibly.

"I've been summoned to a disciplinary inquiry tomorrow at the Court House," he told her.

"Get out!"

"Damned if I know why."

"What time does it happen?" she asked, opening her door. He told her. "I'll be there."

"You don't have to do that."

"Moral support," she said, smiling, and leaned up for a brief brushing kiss. "I'm on your side, Mac. Always," she added, dropping into her car.