by Ace Atkins
“You get any personal shit sent to you, keep it to yourself,” he said. “Lock it away. Doesn’t matter what it is. Someone will steal it. You stay here long enough and you get candy bars or dirty magazines, someone will kill you for it.”
“Come on.”
“Okay,” the kid said, and disappeared on the top bunk.
The windows had thick wire in the glass, bars covering every slot. The walls were white and the floors were gray. A toilet flushed in a bathroom way down the hall.
The kids in the television room yelled some more. A guard blew a whistle hard and told them to shut the hell up. The boy heard the wind coming across again and again like hard continuous slaps.
Out in the harbor, the winter wind was killer, blowing so hard he wondered if the little buildings could stand it. Like maybe all the buildings would crumble and fall into the harbor. When a real good gust would hit the windows, the lights would flicker on and off. For a moment, all the power went off and the boys from the MMA fight yelled and then started to laugh. Someone shot off an air horn. More yelling from the guards. A few flashlights scattered across the room. A generator kicked on.
The boy from the top bunk appeared again. “So maybe they won’t kill you,” the kid said. “But they’ll fight you for anything you got.”
“Great.”
“Can you fight?”
“Sure.”
“I can’t,” the kid said. “I’m screwed. I just make fun of them until they quit messing on me. The guards. The Roxbury crew. Maybe they’ll be too tired tomorrow. Tomorrow is a workday. That horn will blow at five a.m., rain, sleet, or snow. It’s kind of like sleep-away camp here. Except it sucks balls.”
“You said that already.”
“Thought you might need reminding,” the kid said.
The boy had his hands behind his head. He didn’t look at the kid anymore, just stared at the bunk over him, the weight of the kid shifting and sagging through the mattress. The wind beat the hell out of the building some more like it had nothing better to do.
“Where you from?” the kid said. The two could not see each other.
“Blackburn.”
“No shit,” the kid said. “Me, too. Wait. I don’t know you.”
“Whatever,” the boy said. “Who the hell are you?”
“Dillon,” the kid said. “Dillon Yates.”
16
I drove back to my apartment and made a fire. I had bought a bundle of apple wood on a recent visit to Concord and used some small sticks for kindling. The fire was sweet and pleasant-smelling as I started to read through the files, leaving my Red Wings on the hearth to dry. Susan was having dinner with friends and so I made do with a block of feta, a half-pint of olives, and some Syrian flatbread from the East Lamjun Bakery. I set the food out on the coffee table on good plates, turned the Bruins match on mute, and opened my first Beck’s of the evening. There was no rule that you couldn’t enjoy yourself while you worked.
I made notes on a yellow legal pad as I read the report. The entire audit was about two hundred pages, most pages noting the expenditures from the Blackburn District family courts. Although not needed, Blakeney had left a summary of his findings. His name was nowhere to be found.
I got up and helped myself to a second Beck’s. I stared out the window over my sink at Marlborough Street. It was sleeting a bit, needles passing through the yellow blossoms of streetlamps. The street was empty. Some of the parked cars had this afternoon’s snow hiding their windshields.
I sipped some beer. I returned to my legal pad, making a few more notes. I continued to read. The Bruins were up by two goals. One of the players hip-checked another, starting a brawl. As if skating backward and precision with a stick weren’t enough, you had to be able to use your fists.
I got back to reading and drinking beer. I was so talented at my job, I could do both at the same time. I could even digest what I’d been reading. If there was one continuous theme to the report, it was payments to a company called MCC. Massachusetts Child Care, as noted in the summary. Monies for juvenile transportation, meals, detention. A lot of money. I stopped counting after four million.
I knew from the Blackburn teens that Scali would send kids to either a reform camp in Haverhill or Fortune Island in the harbor. From the audit, I found out that Scali was definitely in favor of the island facility. Nearly the entire budget for boys was spent on Fortune Island. Girls were sent to the place in Haverhill. Both facilities were run by MCC. And after two seconds of detective work on my phone, I learned that MCC was not state-owned. It was a private prison run by a corporation.
I said “aha” out loud and helped myself to a bit of flatbread topped with a wedge of feta and an olive. I drank some Beck’s.
The folks at MCC would certainly want Scali to keep up his commitment to Zero Tolerance. The company was his go-to kids’ jail. I didn’t have a law degree, but I smelled the start of an ethics violation.
Sheila Yates thought something hinky was going on in Blackburn. She was right. I think we had more than enough evidence for the good folks at Cone, Oakes to win their appeal for her son. Scali had screwed up. He’d denied Dillon his right to an attorney for a ridiculous charge. From other parents and kids, I found out this wasn’t an anomaly but his way of doing business. His breach of ethics in denying their rights to attorneys had helped MCC make a pile of cash.
If Dillon was released, I would write up a report and we could make a big stink with the state bar association. My client would be happy. Scali would have a lot to explain. And those behind his success would wring their hands.
I sipped some more beer. I had other cases to handle. Jobs that promised an actual payment. It had been months since the Heywood kidnapping. A lot of that fee had gone to flying to Paris with Susan. It cost a lot of money to eat well in the City of Lights.
An hour later, my phone rang.
“Oh, thank God you answered,” a young woman said.
“Most women say that.”
“It’s Beth.”
“Oh,” I said. “Hello, Beth.”
“I’m in jail,” she said. “My mom won’t answer her phone. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What happened?”
“I got pulled over,” she said. “They found drugs in my car. It’s not mine. I swear to Christ, Spenser. I swear.”
“Of course it’s not,” I said. “You’re being punished.”
“For what?”
“For talking to me,” I said. “For introducing your friends.”
“What do I do?” she said. “Oh my God. My mom is going to completely freak the fuck out.”
“That sounds bad,” I said. “Where are you?”
She told me. I turned off the hockey game, grabbed my coat and hat, and laced up my slightly dry but much warmer boots. I left my feast on the table and closed the doors to the fire. It had smelled so sweet.
17
Early the next morning, I sat in a booth across from Iris Milford at The Owl diner.
“That’s pretty messed up,” Iris said.
“You bet.”
“Jamming up a kid for talking to you?” she said. “When will she go before Scali?”
“Sometimes it can take a week or longer,” I said. “That’s too long to be in holding. I got her an attorney. It’s my fault she’s in the bind.”
Iris looked dynamite early that morning. Too dynamite for Blackburn and for The Owl. She’d hung up a black overcoat on a hook attached to the booth. She had on a slim-fitting black dress and black boots. A necklace made of faux Roman coins hung from her neck.
“I met Judge Price’s wife.”
She asked me how that went. I told her.
“And this audit actually happened?” she said. “Because that would be public record.”
“Yes and no.”
“How can i
t be both?’
“It happened after the auditor was relocated to a different department,” I said. “He and Price had become friends. He wanted to see it through.”
“Did he file it?”
“No,” I said. “But I have it.”
“Can I see it?”
“On one condition.”
“That I don’t print anything until you’ve worked out all the details.”
“Wow,” I said. “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”
Iris nodded. The waitress walked up to us and we ordered breakfast. I decided on the Greek omelet with wheat toast and an orange juice. The waitress refilled our coffees before she walked back to the kitchen.
“What did it say?”
“You ever heard of Massachusetts Child Care Inc.?”
“Of course,” she said. “They got the contract when the old Fourth Street center closed. We did a whole series of articles about it. The place was more than a hundred years old. It was the original city jail and then became the juvie facility in the seventies. It was pretty awful. Place was falling apart. It had roaches and rats running around. Not the kind of place you wanted to put kids.”
“Did you cover the bidding process?”
“I don’t know if there were other bids,” she said. “A lot of people campaigned to have Fourth Street shut down. The Star was part of all that. We supported the closing and the state contracting with a licensed provider.”
I nodded.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But you didn’t see this place. It was best for the community to find other options. This place was like something out of Dickens.”
I drank some coffee. The diner smelled of bacon cooking and coffee brewing. Silverware clattered, guys in coveralls told jokes, and old men talked about the weather.
“Do you know how much money the county has been paying MCC?”
“We were getting to that when Judge Price died,” she said. “He thought the facility was costing too much. But we ran the numbers and did some interviews. MCC offered a fair rate for what they do.”
“How much?”
“I think it was like two hundred and fifty dollars a day per kid and about ninety thousand a year.”
“For two hundred and fifty a day, I could get them a good deal at the Taj.”
“Part of the cost involves schooling and rehabilitation.”
“Someone is getting rich.”
“Oh, hell, yes, it’s wrong. All of it’s wrong as hell. But so is this country’s entire prison system. You want me to run down some numbers of young black males stuck in prisons across this country?”
I nodded. I drank some more coffee. A guy named Mel walked into the diner. Everyone seemed to know Mel and wished him a good morning. The short-order cook rang the bell several times in his honor.
“What do you know about MCC?” I said.
“Not much,” she said. “It’s a Boston company that runs correctional facilities throughout the state. Corporate prisons are a thing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You know who owns it?”
“I have all that information back at the newsroom,” she said. “What are you getting at, Spenser?”
“I just would like to know who’s profiting from Scali banging his gavel,” I said. “Judge Price might have been onto something.”
“Jim Price was a sweet man,” she said. “But he was a weird old white man. He saw conspiracies everywhere. He hated Scali’s guts. He hated Callahan’s even more.”
“His wife said that’s what killed him,” I said. “The stress.”
“I think she’s right.”
The waitress brought out our breakfast. My omelet had spinach, tomatoes, and feta. The bacon on the side was a quarter-inch thick. Iris had some wheat toast and one scrambled egg. Heart healthy.
She pointed her fork at me to emphasize things as we spoke. “I can run down the board of directors and that sort of thing,” she said. “I think Scali is a hothead and a media hound. But it’s a long jump to corrupt. Profiting from sending kids off. You’d have to prove a lot.”
“What kind of man denies attorneys in his courtroom?”
“Is that proven?”
“Nine out of ten teens I’ve met say so.”
Iris nodded. She ate some toast and picked at the egg the way Susan would. Maybe they weren’t slow eaters, only trying to make the food go further. Up at the diner counter, Mel told a joke. When he hit the punch line, everyone laughed. Ol’ Mel. What a card.
“I’ll make copies of the audit,” I said. “And send them to your office.”
“So that’s what we’re doing here?” she said. “A little quid pro quo.”
“I only speak pig Latin.”
“Tit for tat.”
“More my speed.”
“Well, sure,” she said, taking the last bite of egg. “I’m in. Just let me know before something explodes. Will you?”
I crossed my heart before eating more bacon.
“Feels good,” she said. “Reminds me that I used to actually work for a real newspaper.”
“I feel bad for the kid.”
“Which one?” she said.
“Both of them,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me see Beth. She can’t make bail until tomorrow.”
“You know who arrested her?”
“Same cop who rousted me after I left the high school.”
“Hmm.”
“I know,” I said. “Small world.”
18
I met Megan Mullen at the Blackburn courthouse shortly after four o’clock.
I’d been waiting on a wooden bench on the first floor for the last hour, watching cops, plaintiffs, and legal eagles pass by. I liked courthouses. I’d spent a lot of time in them, both as a witness and as an investigator for the DA. This one was so old it still had a bank of phone booths by the restrooms. I half expected to see Clark Gable rush into one and tell his editor to go suck an egg.
Megan bounded down the marble steps. She carried a smart leather satchel. As she approached, she smiled, which I took to be a good sign.
“Your pal Beth will be out within the hour,” she said.
“I doubt she’s my pal anymore,” I said. “Being arrested puts a damper on one’s relationship.”
“ADA didn’t want to argue against the merits of keeping a first-time offender in school. I had to make some concessions, but ultimately they backed down.”
“Did you threaten them?” I said.
“Why not,” Megan said. “Never hurts.”
“When all else fails.”
“Kick ’em in the balls.”
“I take it the ADA was a man.”
“Was that a sexist remark?” she said.
“And appropriate.”
Megan looked at least six months older today in a two-button black wool blazer over a knee-length black dress. She wore black-framed glasses, her brown hair stylish and loose across her shoulders. She took a seat next to me, clutching her satchel and glancing down at her phone.
“To be honest,” she said, scrolling through messages, “it didn’t take much to argue Beth’s not a flight risk or a danger to others.”
“What were the charges?”
“Originally?” she said. “They had her with possession with intent to sell. I got the intent dropped. She will have to go before Scali, but she can be at home until her court date.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“You ever heard of molly?”
“As in ‘Good Golly’?”
“As in the club drug.”
“I’ve been off the club scene lately,” I said. “Since I quit the DJ gig.”
Megan eyed me with just a hint of suspicion. “Just what does Rita see in you?”
I offered her
my biceps and flexed. Megan looked at me and widened her eyes behind her smart glasses. She declined to squeeze. “I don’t like these people, Spenser,” she said. “The clerk seemed completely ill-equipped to deal with a juvenile with counsel, as if having an attorney is unheard of.”
“You should meet the public defender,” I said. “He’s a real hoot after a few drinks.”
“From what you told me,” she said, “ick.”
“Yep, Mr. Ick. That’s him.”
Two Blackburn uniform cops passed and eyed me with a bit of suspicion. Maybe the word had gotten out. Or maybe I’d just grown paranoid. They might have very well been jealous of my Dodgers cap or my vintage leather bomber jacket. Maybe they wanted to sit down and join us. Talk a little about Duke Snider and the ’59 series.
“What sucks is how dismissive they are here,” she said. “A senior partner had to call and ream out the DA.”
“Yowzer,” I said.
There was talk and laughter up on the marble landing, and as we both looked up, a short man with thin black hair and purple-tinted glasses descended the staircase. He wore civilian garb, a gray suit with wide lapels and padded shoulders, set off with a wide and bright silver tie. The last time I’d seen a suit like that was right before Dynasty went off the air.
Joe Scali walked with two men who looked to be cops. They wore street clothes and each displayed a shield and a gun on their belts. Scali did not break stride as he passed our little wooden bench. But the talk and laughter stopped and there was a slight beat of hesitation, a slight turn of his head, eye contact, and then he moved on.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
“That’s him?” Megan said.
“I know,” I said. “I thought he’d be taller, too.”
“No, that’s not it,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d be so—”
“Sharply dressed?”
“Oily.”
The few people milling about the halls were called back into one of the courtrooms. The ancient twin doors opened onto the street and Scali and his pals left the building. A cold wind shot through the entrance and down through the halls. I sunk my hands into my jacket. “Thanks,” I said.
