Clean Slate

Chapter 57

Friday dawned warm and hazy. The air sat virtually motionless over the Sabbath River valley. Commuter traffic was somewhat lighter today, as befit a summer Friday. Earl Bucaro guided the big county-owned Caddy down the winding avenues of Mount Madison, half-listening to Judge Wildern blathering behind him on his mobile. Again he had the thought – could have done it now – could have pulled over, climbed in back with him, and been done with it. But as planned Earl had left the equipment in the County Pound loaner he'd scored earlier that morning. And on reflection the original concept was still the sounder one. The urgency he felt now was just nerves. Unusual.

But then, this was not a normal day.

The Judge hardly addressed him during the ride to the Court House. He worked the phone, read the Blade, while eating one of Ruth's poppy seed muffins and slurping coffee from a stainless steel mug. As Earl pulled the car up to the private entrance on the east side, he asked, "You going up the street today?"

"Probably," the Judge said brusquely. "But you'll pick me up here. Make it four, sharp. I'm taking Ruthie to Dave Fink's on the river tonight."

"Sure, your Honor. Have a good day."

Without a farewell the burly Judge lumbered into the Court House, a briefcase in each hand. Earl watched him go. It really was too bad. No matter how today came out, things would never be the same. But when the chips are down, you do what you must. The necessary adjustments would be made, and life would go on.

Earl swiftly ran the Caddy to the County parking garage across the street, left it in its assigned place with orders to the work program people that it be washed, waxed, and vacuumed out. Then he emerged onto the sidewalk, in a hurry to take up position in his County Pound loaner. But just up the sidewalk he found, to his surprise, someone waiting for him. That red-head bitch reporter. Lewis something.

"Superintendent!" she said, falling into step beside him. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Make an appointment," Earl said. "I've got business."

"I really think," she said, "you should take sixty seconds to hear what I've got to say."

Something in her tone made him stop. They were at the mouth of an alley, a half block up from Judiciary Square. Lewis squared up in front of him. Once again he was surprised at her height, at the angularity of her build, all woman, but with a touch of the greyhound. She wore a khaki two-button blazer over matching stretch pants cropped at her ankles. The open jacket displayed a black collarless pullover shirt and gold chains around her neck. She looked intent, determined, and – Earl could not help but notice – fearless. "I'd like to get your comment," she said, "on a story we're running this weekend."

"What story."

"We have a sworn affidavit," Lewis told him, "from a woman named Diana Privette. Remember her?"

"No."

"In her affidavit she describes in very specific detail how you coerced sex from her during her time in the work program."

After the call last night, Earl was not completely surprised, but hearing it straight from Lewis, in tones that left little room for doubt, made him edgy. "It's a lie," he said brusquely. "That's my comment."

"But it's certainly not going to help your career," she pointed out, "for this story to run."

"I can weather it."

"I don't think you can."

This discussion was veering off in what seemed to Earl as an unexpected direction. He waited for a trio of businessmen to pass by. "You have a suggestion?"

"Well," Lewis said, "what I am in, Superintendent, is the information business. Information varies in value. This business of your girls, it has a certain sleazy zing to it. But as a news story it has no legs. I think you have information of much higher value to me."

"Such as."

She stepped closer, lowered her voice. "The hooker papers. You were involved in destroying them. There was a lot about that whole episode that never came out. I have no doubt there's a lot you can tell me."

"And?"

"Talk to me," she said. "Name names. We'll go from there."

"What kind of names."

"Oh, please." Earl said nothing. He was, he was forced to admit to himself, surprised. Sure, he understood horse-trading. But this woman was. . .pushing it. He wondered if she had even an inkling of how much danger she could be in, trying to turn screws in on him. Watching him speculatively, she went on, "Listen, Earl, do you think I really care about those women? Do you think I really care who you fuck and how you fuck them? Like I said, it's really not much of a story. And for me you're too close to the bottom of the hill. I'm after fatter game. Help me get them, and I'll by-pass you. What do you say."

"Well," Earl said, pretending to consider, "there's a lot for me to think about. Let's meet later. Talk it through."

"Later today, you mean."

"Next week."

"Later today," she said definitively, "or I'm running the Privette story. It's in the can, locked and loaded, all I have to do is press SEND."

Earl felt itchy and angry, and it was an effort to remain impassive. "All right. Court House, main entrance, five o'clock."

Grim-faced, she nodded. "I'll be there. You be sure to do likewise."

---

Route 27 turned six-lane as it crested the peak of the last ridge and hurtled down the Big Cut through Belle Terre toward the Suspension Bridge and into the heart of downtown St. Marys. Mac pushed the Suburban as hard as he dared, exceeding the speed limit by at least 20 mph, swinging from lane to lane. After lying stone cold awake for an hour last night, he'd tumbled into a sleep so deep that he emerged undisturbed by those fearful chasing-Nicholas dreams – into a hazy morning and the blaring of his alarm clock that, according to the read-out, had started its honking fifteen minutes before. Mornings were always problematic for him. Today was more so. He had interviews at Fannie Annie, starting at nine, and he wanted to get the Judge over with first. And the way things were going, he wouldn't get to the Court House till well after eight.

He knew what he would say. He'd planned it all out last night. He wondered how Judge Wildern would react. Would he simply swat Mac away like an annoying fly? Try to deny it all? Concede the facts but deny the wrong? Adroitly surround a tacitly admitted truth with a network of provisos and justifications? Admit everything and ask for forgiveness? Mac had no idea. And in the end it mattered not. This wasn't a reclamation project. Nor was it, for Mac, an attempt to punish. He simply wanted the Judge to know that he was all out in the open now. Perhaps he was complicit with Bucaro in the covering-up, and in what happened to Eddie Fant; maybe he wasn't. But Bucaro was going down. Hard, fast, and soon. And Mac wanted the Judge to know that, too. Let the sweating begin.

Oh yeah, he was angry. It had him tight and brittle. As the years of his life passed by, his heroes had fallen one by one, and each time he'd felt wounded. In his better moments Mac understood and accepted what a fact of life it is that everyone you love, without exception, will disappoint you at one time or another. He could look back at these events, and though the pain was still there, see them as part of the natural order of things. He could also see, at least in theory, what folly it was to keep anyone on a pedestal. But even in his adulthood he continued to do that, and when a person such as the Judge took a topple – well – Mac could not help but take it hard.

The traffic jammed up on the Suspension Bridge. Sitting there, feeling the slight swaying of the deck under the wheels of his vehicle, Mac snapped open his mobile, called Fannie Annie, and got through to Abigail. "Gonna be late," he said.

"You've got a nine, don't you?"

At first Mac was started, then realized she was not talking about his sidearm. "Stopping at the Court House first. If my errand drags on, can you hold the fort for a bit?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. "But you are coming here then, right?"

"Yep."

"Okay," she said, sounding relieved for some reason.

---

Of course the big question was this: From which exit would he emerge? For all the security measures slapped on the Court House since 9/11, it was, Earl knew, still quite porous. But habit dies hard, and Earl was pretty sure he knew where the Judge would come out, and he was right.

The surprising thing was how quick it happened. Earl had settled in for a long wait behind the wheel of the battered Ford Focus he'd "borrowed" from the County Pound, when the double-door on the east side opened –and here came Judge Wildern himself, still decked out in his dark suit, briefcase in hand, strutting north in his shiny wing-tips across the parking lot. Earl doubted he'd walk it, certain he would not take the MetroTrain. Wheeling the Focus with precision, Earl motored out of the lot onto Central, past Judiciary Square, then pulled at the curb to wait, watching his rear-view. Sure enough, the Judge came walking along, brisk and unseeing, up Central, past Earl, and on to McPherson Circle, where he caught a cab.

Now this made sense. Earl was pretty sure he knew the Judge's destination, but he took no chances. Easily he guided the underpowered Focus into a surveillance position three or four car lengths back from the white-on-black cab, and then they paraded north, taking some intersections on green or yellow but stopping at most of them. Earl had been tense, even nervous, earlier. The head-butt with the reporter had not helped. Now, though, he was calm. It really seemed pretty easy. The Judge would be shocked, of course. That was the idea. No build-up, no warning, just a full broadside right at him, and then, while the emotions ran highest, seal the deal. Earl wondered if the Judge would, after the dust had settled, try somehow to retaliate. He had his ways and means. But Earl's position as Superintendent was secured by the unstinting support of the County Commission. With the erasure of Erkfitz's investigation, Earl would enjoy the full support of the Commander once again. He'd probably lose his position of favor as the Judge's driver and confidant. But oh well. He could use the extra sleep, in the mornings.

---

The office suite of the Recorder's Court Chief Judge was at the end of a long wide hallway on the third floor of the Court House. Mac strode along past large oval portraits of long dead judges, threading his way among other Court House functionaries walking solo or standing in chatting groups, greeting a few that he knew with quick nods or waves. The tall double wood doors stood open. Mac stepped in onto the sumptuous red carpet and stood under a huge crystal chandelier in front of the massive mahogany desk of Katie Killeen, who was on the phone.

Over the years, Mac had been here many times. The Judge had his stamp on every square foot. His own oil portrait was displayed in an alcove to the right. An array of plaques, presentations, and diplomas, spilling over from the ego wall in the Judge's private office, covered the wall to the left. Shelves built into the walls behind displayed artifacts from the War Between the States. This included no weaponry (Homeland Security Desk would never stand for that), and nothing really exceptional; the really special items were reserved for the Judge's private museum at home. Interspersed with the artifacts were statuettes and mini-trophies presented by civic groups such as Elks, Eagles, and other animal organizations. Comfortable waiting chairs flanked Katie's work area, and Mac was surprised to see no one in them. Fridays were slow, but –

"Good morning, Mac," Katie said as she hung up. She was birdlike and withered with a cap of suspiciously dark black hair combed close to her narrow face, and heavy black-frame glasses hanging like windshields in front of kind watchful eyes. Her attire seemed intended to fade into the woodwork: white blouse, gray skirt, no jewelry, short unadorned nails. "He's not here, dear."

"He coming in?"

"Been and gone. But he'll be back."

"Where can I find him?"

His peremptory tone caught her short. With her Mac was usually easy going, joking, the soul of deference. "I can't really say."

"Look, Katie," Mac said, bending slightly toward her, "it's urgent that I talk to him soonest."

"I can give him the message."

"If you know where he is," Mac pressed, "can you call him and ask him to call me?"

Katie remained professionally placid, having spent the better part of 30 years being pestered by people with all-too-urgent errands. "When I hear from him," she said reassuringly, "I'll let him know."

"I'll be at Fannie Annie. Or he can call me on my mobile."

"I understand."

"Thanks, Katie."

"Have a nice day, Mac," she said, and turned to field the ringing phone.

Mac trudged back up the hall. This was becoming more complicated than he'd expected. He wanted the talk with the Judge over with early, not just to get it behind him, but also to clear the way for his move on Bucaro. Well, he thought, nothing to do but get back to work.

And wait.

---

The DVD player was shiny brushed aluminum, about the size of a notebook computer, but just an inch thick and weighing less than four pounds. Sitting behind the wheel of the Focus, which was parked across the street from the ornate white facade of the Flatiron Building, Earl flipped up the 10-inch screen, hit the "on" button, then "play," to make sure it was working right and cued up. Everything checked out. Quickly Earl shut it down. Though the battery was rated at two hours plus – more than plenty – Earl was taking no chances.

The Judge had arrived ten minutes before. Earl bided his time, waiting for the Judge to get settled in his hideaway office. Finally the Superintendent exited his "loaner," waited on traffic, crossed the street, and, DVD player under arm, stepped into the white tile lobby of the building. One could see that serious money had once been at play here. Several large publishing firms had occupied the ground floors during the 1920s and 30s. Then in the late 90s several dot-coms had, with great splashy fanfare, taken over entire floors of the venerable building, only to crash and burn with the turn of the century. The lobby had a damp, echoing, ignored feel to it, the only going business being a nail salon staffed by Chinese. A man in rags slept on the floor in a side hall. Earl checked the glass encased building directory. Many of its spaces were blank, and other entries were for firms unknown to him: BeMe.com, The Industry Standard, Beenz.com. Nothing about Judge Wayne F. Wildern.

Well, it was supposed to be a hideaway office. Not likely to be listed on the directory.

So all Earl could do was search. He covered the ground floor quickly, then took a staircase to Floor 2. Two suites were occupied by a lawyer and an insurance agent. Otherwise the place was empty. Third floor: two smaller offices were apparently in use, by an import-export agent and a scrap broker. The rest of the rooms sat silent and empty, doors ajar. Earl was tiring of this. Judge had to be close by; he was too fat and too old and too lazy ever to walk a long way. Earl climbed to the fourth. The hallways were dim and empty. Abandoned offices sat open around him. He rounded a corner and saw light coming into the hall from the right. A door stood open there. Earl went to it. No name on the door, no ID of any kind, but a familiar vocal rumble emerged from inside, and Earl knew he was in business.

He paused, took a deep breath, then marched in.