Clean Slate

Chapter 53

The woman led Mac to a small room on the third floor of the Court House, on a hallway of judge's chambers, that said ATTORNEY-CLIENT CONFERENCE ROOM on the rippled-glass door. There was no one inside. Mac seated himself at the old rectangular oak table. The walls were bare. Mac wished they could talk – the stories they could tell! He wondered what was up. He still felt jangled and bruised from Harberts's stinging summation. He thought that this might be more of the same. He could just leave, tell Stillman to take a hike. But on balance he thought he'd might as well hear what the man had to say.

Twenty long minutes dragged by before the door opened and Jolyon Stillman stepped in. "Oh, hi," he said casually, as if not expecting to see Mac there, and closed the door behind him. "Glad you could stop by."

Mac said, "I hope this is quick. I've got a logjam waiting for me over at Fannie Annie."

Stillman came over to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down opposite Mac. He was not a big man. Average build, a bit paunchy, pale. The strong features of his clean-shaven face were highlighted by heavy black brows and that whitish gray mop of hair that shrouded his ears and the collar of his white dress shirt. His blue tie was neatly knotted at his throat, and overall his affect was of a precise man who saw things in precise terms, blessedly unburdened by emotion. His hands were strong and knuckly, adorned only with a gold wedding band, and he was carrying a plain white envelope. "You probably noticed," he said to Mac, "if you looked carefully around this room, that this is not my office."

Mac blinked. "And?"

"Meaning," Stillman went on, "I was never here, and we did not have this talk."

Mac leaned back. "I was wondering. Isn't this what you lawyer types call an ex parte communication?"

"A D.I. isn't a legal proceeding, strictly speaking," Stillman said. "But yes, I suppose, if someone wanted to make an issue, I could catch a little heat."

The words so what? hung in the air. Mac, feeling guardedly heartened at this indication that perhaps Jolyon Stillman was more than just a Court House robot, asked, "What's on your mind?"

"When I drew the lucky lot to referee your hearing, I did two things. One thing I usually do, and one thing I almost never do." Stillman leaned forward, folded his hands over the envelope on the table. "As usual, I pulled your employment record, ran your name through NCIC and so forth. And everything I found as a result – well – I just could not imagine how a man with your kind of record with us could just up and do something warranting a D.I. That's when I did the thing I almost never do."

"Which was?"

"Asked around about you." Stillman's eyes were as gray as his suit pants, and as sharp and engaged as any Mac had ever seen. "Of course I'm not supposed to do that. I'm supposed to take into account only what I see and hear in the D.I. But I did it anyway. And what comes back is. . . . very interesting."

Mac snorted. "I can't imagine how. I'm about as boring a foot soldier as we've got around here."

"Not so fast," Stillman said. "That's part of your routine, the hanging-back, avoiding attention, declining authority. But what I get is – for an under-the-radar-screen kind of guy, you've got quite a rep in this town. People look to you, listen to you. And most have nothing but good things to say. About you and your family, too."

"Well," Mac allowed, "it has been, like, four generations since any of us was hanged."

"And I do know about your son," Stillman said steadily, "about which I'm terribly sorry. And I know that the leave of absence you're newly back from was engineered for you by Judge Wildern. With whom, I discern, you are close."

"He's kind of been my Court House rabbi," Mac said, "ever since I first showed up here."

"And that's the most intriguing aspect of this whole episode," Stillman said thoughtfully. He pushed his chair back, slung one ankle over his opposite knee, clasped hands behind his neck, stared up into the bug-stained lamp hanging from the ceiling. The envelope sat lonely on the table. "The players today. Besides you, there's Asa Harberts, who talks a good game but is in fact a pathetic little mommy-may-I mouse. And then. . .who walks into the hearing room. . .but Earl Bucaro. Bailiff Bureau superintendent. And known to be, among many other things, a steady sidekick – and strong-arm – for Judge Wildern."

"His chief hey-boy," Mac agreed.

Stillman's sharp gray eyes fixed on Mac. "So the question is: Why did Wildern not pinch off this whole business today? He could have done it with a ten second phone call."

"He's honorable," Mac retorted. "He's not about to bring undue influence to --"

"Oh please," Stillman said. "You know better than that. Influence, due or otherwise, is the coin of the realm you and I toil in, my friend. Oh, no. No, no, no. This thing today happened because the Judge allowed it to happen, maybe wanted it to happen. My guess is, you've stirred up in something potentially dangerous or embarrassing to him. He's colluded with Bucaro in an effort to make you stand down. So what is it, Mac? What's all this about?"

Mac smiled. "You don't really think I'm going to blab out of turn, do you?"

"This is totally, completely off the record."

"And in return for my telling you," Mac supposed, "in your findings you'll clear me?"

"That would be a sleazy quid pro quo. I don't work that way."

"I would hope not."

"And I've already written the Information," Stillman said, "and filed it with Judge Washington. Your copy is right there," he added, gesturing at the envelope.

Mac hesitated, picked up the envelope, stuck it unopened in his pants pocket.

"Well then?" Stillman prodded. "What about the Judge."

Mac considered, but there really was nothing to consider. "He's my friend," he said. "I owe him. He's always stood up for me, and I stand up for him. I hear what you're saying," he went on, overriding Stillman's attempt to interrupt, "but I can't help you. Today."

Stillman was annoyed and did not bother to hide it. "State secret of some kind? Like your overseas activities?"

"No, not the same thing," Mac said easily. "And in fact, now that you've filed your report, if you want to know what I was doing over there, I'll tell you. If you promise to keep it to yourself."

"Long as it isn't. . .Okay, fine," Stillman interrupted himself.

"I was helping clear mine fields."

The magistrate squinted. "In France? You're kidding."

"Well, there I worked as a démineur, helping disarm unexploded ordnance from the battlefields."

"You mean to tell me, you're cleaning up bombs from sixty years ago?"

"Artillery rounds, mainly. There's something like 12 million of them still in the ground just around Verdun," Mac said. "Some goes back to the Franco-Prussian War, in fact. Then I heard about the Halo Trust, and volunteered, and they sent me to Cambodia to help clear mine fields."

"Dangerous work," Stillman said, looking unexpectedly impressed.

Mac shrugged. "I did a dozen a day, six days a week." And yes, Mac thought, it was dangerous, but that was the whole point. Suicide occurs in many guises. And until that moment of accidental on-purpose error – which, for reasons Mac would never understand, never came – he could busy himself, and distract himself, and put his darker skills to better use, each day seeing the fruit of his labor in the form of the children of the villages still alive, still whole, still living their lives for another day; while each night fighting for sleep alone on his cot accompanied by the visions of the child he would never see again.

Stillman looked pensive. "I'm glad to know that about you," he said. "But I'd still like to know what you know about the Judge. If you'd care to tell me."

Mac thought, and this was the moment he realized what he had to do. Tomorrow. "Let me get the last few ducks in a row. Then if need be we'll talk again."

Stillman examined Mac for a long minute, then straightened in the chair, leaned forward. Here comes the strong-arm, Mac thought. So he was surprised when Stillman said, "I respect your loyalty to the Judge. It's consistent with all I've heard about you. But here's a head's up, my friend. The Judge – and his, uh, coterie – they're about done in this town. You were gone a whole year. In a year, a lot can happen in county politics. Judge has gone blind, his ear has turned tin, his instincts have numbed up. He's reliving his glory days in his head, and he's so distracted with that – and, from what I hear, back-channel nooky – that he has no idea of the hangmen with long sharp knives slowly circling him, getting ready to cut him out of the picture. It's going to happen, and you can't stop it."

Mac stood. "Judge has been around a while. Other people thought they could make a run at him, put him down. When they came to, found themselves face-up in a ditch."

"Oh, it'll all be civil," Stillman said, smiling. "He'll announce he's taking retirement, and he'll get a big testimonial dinner and a commemorative plaque, name something after him, like a municipal pool or truck garage. But he's done, Mac. And those who hang too close to him, they may go down and out with him."

Mac ambled toward the door. "Oh well. I can always go back to dispatching trucks."

"I hope that doesn't happen," Stillman said calmly. "I hope you stick around. Because we need good people. There's a big mess to clean up."

Unwillingly, Mac asked, "What do you mean?"

Stillman looked cold and implacable. "It would seem there is a small informal group of Court House and Department of Sheriff people who run rackets. Feather their nests. Terrorize citizens. They protect each other. The media are cowed. The top-siders look the other way. Well, my friend, they're being taken on. Very soon now."

Mac studied him. "Bucaro?"

Stillman just spread his hands, watching him.

Mac said lightly, "Well sir, could be the fight's starting sooner than you think." He opened the door, looked back at the still-seated Stillman, pushed the door to again, keeping his hand on the knob. "Just out of curiosity," he said. "Can a person go straight from magistrate to chief judge?"

"Strangely enough, you're about the fourth person to ask me that this month," Stillman said, smiling. "Answer is yes. With the right support."

"Had a feeling," Mac said, and left. The short walk from the Court House to Fannie Annie went by in a blur. On the way Mac greeted people he knew, and bought himself a sandwich to eat at his desk. But mostly he was lost in thought: about the hearing, Harberts, and Bucaro; Abigail and the revelation about Mac's action on Overbye; the Judge, the hooker, and the trip Mac knew he had to take; and then Jolyon Stillman.

A straight shooter, he seemed to Mac; the bounce he got back was healthy. Even so, Stillman had his ambitious political side. He was lining up allies and was shrewd enough to want Mac on his team. Mac had always stayed resolutely clear of alliances. He strove to be even-handed in all his dealings, on at least civil terms with everyone, even those he did not like. What set Stillman apart, Mac reasoned, was that he seemed to be a serious cut above the influence-trading log-rollers who abounded at the Court House. He had not, after all, not offered Mac a sleazy quid pro quo deal on the disciplinary hearing.

Which reminded him. Mac pushed aside his sandwich, pulled Stillman's envelope out of his pocket, opened it. There was a single sheet:

Mac felt grateful – not so much for the finding; he'd figured he'd squeak through somehow – but because Stillman had acted so promptly. And Mac was grateful to him also for his tip, cryptic though it was, about the "informal group" corrupting the system. To Mac this rang true; it explain how Bucaro had gotten by, down through the years. And Mac appreciated Stillman's effort to force him to think further on the Judge, to see with clarity the abounding signs that the Judge was careening toward the lip of a cliff. Mac did not want to go to Chicago. But before he could act, he had to get all the facts. And when he had them – if he got them – he'd have the painful duty of dealing with the Judge. No third party would do; he'd deal with it personally. He owed the man that much. And himself, too.

---

Later that afternoon Mac tapped on Clare Epple's office door and pushed it open. She was behind her desk, hands poised over her keyboard, dressed as she'd been at the hearing that morning, looking surprised. "Yes? What is it? Oh! It's you."

"Hi," Mac said amiably. "Wanted to thank you for what you did this morning."

"Just told the truth," Clare said crisply, and if she was smiling, it was hard to tell with those clenched jaws. "It's what we insist of our offenders; the least we can do is follow suit."

"We're to walk the talk? You serious?"

"I am serious," she said seriously.

"Indeed. Now, separate issue. I need to take some personal time tomorrow."

"Oh?" Clare asked, easing back from her keyboard. "For what reason?"

"Making a quick trip. Personal matter."

"How much time have you accrued?"

"Well, none."

"Then --"

"Excused-without-pay is fine."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not sure. Most of tomorrow, probably. I'll be back Friday."

"First thing?"

"Yes, Clare. First thing."

"What about --"

"Abigail and Joe are covering for me. The hearing on Maldonado has already been adjourned, again, so there's nothing next door. None of my seven-days pop till next week. Mary Kay is catching. All I've got on the tickler is the pre-sentencings, and I'll finish those tonight at home and email them to you."

"They must not be late."

"They're not due till Friday anyway."

"Just so I have them." Clare considered. "All right. Send me the A-EWP and I'll initial it. But Mac, please don't make a habit of this. Absences can disrupt the delicate harmony of your cluster, and we wouldn't want that."

"Indeed." Mac held up his fists. "All hands on the oars."

She squinted. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Hell no, boss."

"Very well, then."

---

The afternoon, walled solid with probationer interviews, flew by. Mac worked his offenders hard, dismissing each early so he could take the free time in between to do the reports. In this way he hoped to prevent a big paperwork backlog. Abigail kept to herself on her side of the arch, and for a couple of hours the phones stayed blessedly silent: nothing from Perkins, no calls from Suzanne. He never heard back from Jessica Miller, despite Mac's having reached out again that morning. And – troublesome – not a peep from Libby Lewis.

Mac wondered what she was up to. Probably, he reflected, running "WFO," as usual.

Finally, as he was hustling his last offender out the door, his cell rang. Checking the caller ID, Mac popped the lid and returned to his desk: "Hey, whaddya got?"

"Okay, here you go," said Wendy Victor, his longtime travel agent, sounding cheery as always. "You need to know, it'd be easier to get you to Paris or Pnomh Penh, than from here to Chicago on such short notice."

"Well, this is the deal this time."

"Paris would be cheaper, too. What is so urgent in Chicago, of all places?"

Oh sweetheart, Mac thought, you definitely do not want to know. "So what are my options?"

"Well, you have a choice. To get you there mid-afternoon, you can connect through Detroit or Pittsburgh."

"Forget Detroit. Not going to happen."

"It's the quickest, Mac. Best fare, too. And they've got this fabulous brand-new airport --"

"Pittsburgh it is."

"All righty."

"Which means," Mac said crabbily, "I'm flying way northeast, to end up at a place that's way northwest of here."

"These are the options, Mac! Sorry!"

"Okay okay, I'm sorry," Mac amended. "Give me the times."

Wendy recited flight numbers, arrival and departure times, going and returning. Mac scribbled them down. "This motel you asked about, the Lodge Inn – it's off 55th about four miles from the airport."

"Got a car reserved for me?"

"Yes. I hope this is for something fun?"

"I wish," Mac replied, and they said their goodbyes.

---

To keep from falling hopelessly behind during his time away, Mac worked a bit late that evening. Most everyone had left by the time he emerged into the OPP waiting room. So he was surprised to find Libby Lewis sitting by the door. She got up as he came in, her expression cloudy and troubled, and seemed to want to kiss him, but Mac held his hands out and she gripped them hard. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I figured you hadn't heard," she said. "Wanted to tell you in person."

"What?"

"Diana Privette." Libby looked grim. "She died this afternoon."