Clean Slate

Chapter 51

A slight, elderly bailiff in a uniform too loose for him directed Mac to the left-hand table facing the raised hearing room dais. A younger man Mac did not know sat at the right-hand table, silently perusing notes on a yellow legal pad, but otherwise the small hearing room was empty. Behind the dais were a pair of flags – U. S. and state – and between them hung a large round seal of the County of St. Marys. Mac seated himself at the table and waited. He'd brought nothing with him, and dressed no differently than for any other work Wednesday. Of course he was nervous. He'd spent much time in many courtrooms over the years and the sights, sounds, smells were all familiar. But this was different. It reminded him of the time in the Navy, during boot camp, when he'd been hauled up before a Captain's Mast for breaking a petty officer's hand. The stakes had been much higher then. He had in fact broken the man's hand, and could have faced dishonorable discharge – or worse. This time the worst thing that could happen would be dismissal from his job.

But nervous though Mac was, he just could not figure out what this could be about. And so he'd resolutely come in here with a clear head and clean conscience, determined to answer all questions truthfully and let the chips fall.

Footsteps and murmurs came from behind him, and he glanced around to see a pair of uniformed Homeland Security Desk operatives seat themselves in the first pew to the right. On Mac's side, two rows back, sat Clare Epple, who acknowledged Mac's wave with a nod. Beside her was Ray Christopher, who gave Mac a thumb's up. Behind them sat Abigail Heartwell. She sat with arms folded, expression remote and tight. Mac smiled at her but she did not react.

No Libby.

At the stroke of 8:30 a man in a gray business suit bustled in, mounted the dais, and seated himself at the desk facing the hearing room. He was probably in his mid-fifties, with strong features, piercing eyes, and a thick mop of grayish white hair. The bailiff, at the rear, intoned in a reedy voice, "Referee Jolyon Stillman. This Disciplinary Inquiry is now in session."

"We're on the record," Stillman said crisply. "Introductions, please."

"Asa Harberts," said the thin man to Mac's right, half rising. "Advocate representing the office of the prosecutor."

Stillman looked at Mac expectantly. "McGladrey, E. H.," Mac said. "Respondent."

"Mr. McGladrey," Stillman said, "you're aware you're entitled to legal counsel."

"I am."

"I take it you're declining."

"Indeed."

Stillman nodded. "This is a Disciplinary Inquiry," he went on, reciting the boilerplate without referring to notes, "to examine certain allegations of misconduct by the Respondent as presented by the Advocate. Since this is not a judicial proceeding, the normal rules of evidence and procedure do not necessarily apply, and the burden of proof, while on the Advocate, is quite low. However, I, as referee, am empowered to guide the lines of inquiry, within reason, and have full authority to take into account all, some, or none of the information presented, in developing my conclusions. And, though this not in and of itself a judicial proceeding, such proceedings at a subsequent time are not necessarily precluded. The outcome of this hearing will be an Information filed by me with the Chief Judge, or, in this case, since Judge Wildern has recused himself, I am directed to file the Information with Judge William Washington of Division One. The Information will include my recommendation for one the following: warning, admonishment, or rebuke; I may recommend legal/judicial action as heretofore stated; or I may close the matter. Is that clear."

Mac nodded. He felt a tightness in his chest, a tingling in his hands. Stillman had a deadliness about him, a certitude, an open-eyed coldness that, Mac felt, would be impossible to fool and would not suffer fools gladly. Though tense, Mac did not feel threatened. Stay loose, he reminded himself. Don't think.

"Clare Epple," Harberts said.

Mac's boss strode stiffly to the witness chair on the dais. She wore a black V-neck top over a black skirt with small pink polka-dots, both hemmed in pink. As always she glittered from her ears and fingers, and her black hair was in its customary shag – more luminous than usual today; perhaps she'd applied mousse. Today she seemed even more tense than usual, her eyes remote as they cast about the room seemingly for a safe focal point. When Stillman asked her to raise her right hand, she looked startled, then submitted to the swearing-in with a murmur.

"Your position is what?" Harberts asked.

"Supervisor, Probation Section, Recorder's Court, County of St. Marys."

"And in that capacity you supervise Mr. McGladrey."

"Yes, he's in my Cluster A."

"Your what?"

"Cluster. My section is organized by clusters. He's in Cluster A."

Harberts gave a squint, shook his head, checked his notes. Up on the dais, Stillman looked impassive, but Mac thought he saw a brief twinkle in the referee's dark eyes. "When McGladrey joined your dep– your, uh, cluster," Harberts said, "you issued a firearm to him, per Recorder's Court regulations, did you not."

"I did."

"But the matter was not followed through in accordance with the regulations, was it."

"It was not."

"Tell us about that."

Speaking in her clench-jawed tones, Clare's eyes surveyed the hearing room, never once focusing on Mac. "The required acknowledgment form for the weapon was never executed and filed."

"And why was that?"

"I failed to give it to Mac."

Harberts hesitated. "Excuse me, Miss Epple. You seem to have misspoken. The lapse was in fact McGladrey's, was it not."

"No, it was my mistake."

"Isn't it a fact that you gave McGladrey the document, and he, through indifference or incompetence or some other motivation, delinquently failed to follow through?"

"No," Clare said. "I forgot to give him the form."

Harberts looked at his notes, shifted his feet. "Isn't it a fact that you told Homeland Security Desk that McGladrey was responsible for the unfiled form?"

"No. I did not tell them that. Mac told them that."

Harberts gave her a hard look, briskly flipped a page. "Let's move on."

"Not so fast," Stillman said. "Why would the Respondent tell Homeland Security that he screwed up on the form, when in fact you were responsible for the error, Ms. Epple?"

"He was covering for me," Clare said, and glanced at Mac for the first time. "He's a good guy."

Stillman nodded, and looked at Asa Harberts, who seemed to be engrossed in his notes. "Hole deep enough for you, Mr. Advocate, or would care to dig some more?"

"That's all I have for this witness, Referee," Harberts said briskly. "Subject of course to recall."

Stillman's stare was brief and, Mac thought, unfriendly. "Before I'll allow you to inconvenience Ms. Epple with a recall, you'll have to show me a much more fruitful line of inquiry, Advocate."

"Understood."

Stillman looked at Mac. "Questions for Ms. Epple?"

"No, sir."

"You're excused."

Clare stepped down from the witness chair and strode out of the hearing room without looking at Mac. Though still tense -- God only knew what other nonsense Harberts had in store for him -- Mac felt warm toward his boss. She was a stand-up guy after all. He was trying to suppress a smile when he realized that another person had entered the hearing room and taken a seat on a pew toward the back, on Harberts's side. Earl Bucaro.

Interesting.

"Louis Lipschitz," Harberts said.

One of the Homeland Security Desk men rose and came forward to the witness chair. Mac honestly did not recognize him from their previous encounter; that's how anonymous he looked in his white on black uniform. Stillman swore him in, and then said, "Lose the headset, witness. In my courtroom your full attention is required."

"That could imperil our ability to respond in the event of --"

"Your services, I'm sure, can be dispensed with for the next ten minutes. Even if Osama himself is spotted in Judiciary Square."

"Joking about security, sir, trifles with state and federal regulations, I must warn --"

"What part of ‘lose it' are you unable to understand." Lipschitz stared up at Stillman, then unhooked the light headset from his ears and left it draped over his shoulder. The referee looked at Harberts. "Proceed."

"Mr. Lipschitz, I direct your attention to the afternoon of Wednesday, July 2. Where were you stationed at that time?"

"Security checkpoint at the entrance to the Francis Furrow Judicial Annex."

"And did it come to pass that you heard a disturbance emanating from the second floor of the building?"

"It did."

"Tell us about that."

"I heard a man shout," Lipschitz intoned, reciting as if from a script. "Loud footfalls, as if someone was running. And then what sounded like the impact of a body hitting the floor."

"What did you do?"

"As directed by our standing orders, we initiated Response Zero Three W."

"Which, decoded, means what?" Stillman asked dryly.

"The three of us on soft-station went up the stairs to investigate."

"What did you see?" Harberts asked.

"A citizen, male, mid-thirties, was on the floor near the stairs," Lipschitz replied. "A man was looming over him."

"‘Looming'?" Stillman cut in.

"That is my testimony."

"Would ‘standing' be an acceptable alternative?"

"It's not as descriptive. It fails to connote the sense of the situation, the --"

"Was the man standing over the citizen," Stillman pressed, "or not?"

"He was standing over him, yes, Referee."

"Proceed."

Harberts resumed, "Is the man who was looming, in the courtroom today."

"It was the respondent."

"Did he have an explanation."

"No. The citizen advised us that he tripped and fell," Lipschitz said. "We found this advice to be highly noncredible. McGladrey appeared enraged. The citizen seemed terrified. From all the evidence, it was clear to us that McGladrey had knocked the man down."

"What happened then?"

"The apparent threat having been neutralized, we closed the incident."

"So you think," Harberts said, "that McGladrey knocked the citizen down."

"Yes sir."

"Committed violence upon him," Harberts continued, "on county property."

"Yes, sir."

"No evidence of provocation or cause."

"None."

Harberts paused. Stillman peered over at the witness. "But you didn't see what happened, actually, did you."

"No sir. We are, of course, highly trained to --"

"Did you see it," Stillman repeated.

"Not exactly."

Stillman seemed to redden. Making a hand-gesture from his own eyes straight ahead, he said, very slowly, "Did you, personally, SEE the citizen fall down?"

"No."

Stillman glanced at Mac. "Questions?"

"No, sir."

"You're excused." Lipschitz elaborately returned his headset to position at ear and mouth, then rose and went back to his pew where his compatriot sat. Stillman said, "Mr. Lipschitz, I said you're excused from this proceeding. I would not want you further detained from protecting us from terrorists."

Lipschitz looked briefly surprised, then, with his partner, left the hearing room.

Mac glanced at the pews. Clare had left. Abigail remained, alone and looking very small. Mac wondered if she'd figured out that the "assault victim" was Overbye. He wished with all his heart that he had told Abigail what he'd done, right after it happened. Things always come out, there's no helping it, he thought. Across the aisle from her sat the tanned Bucaro, smooth and impassive in his blue twill trousers and white shortsleeve banlon shirt. His face looked painted-on, as expressionless as a corpse. Mac thought he saw brief eye contact between him and Harberts. Mac was unsurprised. It took no Sherlock Holmes to figure this out. Still, Mac was feeling reasonably optimistic. They could not even find Overbye, or, if they did, he had declined to testify against him.

"E. H. McGladrey," Harberts said.

Mac rose, went to the witness chair, faced Stillman, raised his right hand, swore to be truthful, and sat. Now, up on the stand facing out, the hearing room seemed to him vast. This Mac was not used to. The room seemed bigger from here; the judge's desk to his right seemed to tower over him. Most surprising was Harberts. This was Mac's first head-on look at him, his first look into the tall skinny young man's eyes, and what Mac saw there was not determination, resolution, zeal, commitment. What he saw was – no other word for it – fear. He's being forced to do this, Mac thought. He wondered if Stillman saw it, too. It was almost enough to make Mac pity Harberts. Almost.

"You're just back from a leave of absence," Harberts began.

"Correct."

"A year."

"Right."

"For what reason?"

"Personal matter."

"The nature of it being?"

"Personal."

"Would you be more specific."

"I'd rather not."

"But you must, Mr. McGladrey."

"Sorry." Mac was not about to dignify this farce, and soil his son's name, by bringing Nicholas into this. "Can't help you."

"Referee?" Harberts said.

Mac felt Stillman's glance pass over him. The referee said, "What's the relevance, Advocate?"

"It's linked to other activities that we find to be highly questionable, Referee."

"Well," Stillman said, "if you can fill in a few more blanks, and give me cause to believe there's something here, I might ask Mr. McGladrey to respond. But not until then."

"Thank you, Referee," Harberts said, sounding anything but grateful. "Mr. McGladrey, you heard the testimony of the Homeland Security Desk operative about the incident on the second floor of the judicial annex on 2 July."

"Yes."

"He was correct in identifying you as a participant in that incident?"

"Yes."

"So it was you he saw, looming over a citizen who was lying on the floor?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose," Harberts said sarcastically, "you're about to confirm the citizen's apparent and highly noncredible statement that he simply tripped and fell?"

"No."

Harberts froze, stared. "Well, then. How did the man happen to fall?"

"I knocked him down."