The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  “They don’t have to beat us all up,” Bee Dee had said. “They just have to catch one of us alone. And trust me, you don’t want to be the one.”

  FIFTEEN

  SHANGHAI ALE HOUSE

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Rizek continued to explain what she had learned from her research into private detention facilities. “Fresh Start is a good example,” she said. “It’s remote. That’s good in some respects but it also makes it expensive to operate. They have to truck in all the food and supplies.”

  “They need bodies,” Sloane said. “They need a certain number of kids paying a certain amount to make a profit each month.”

  Rizek nodded. “They get some state and government subsidies, but yeah, the more bodies, the more money.”

  “And the longer the sentences, the longer the income stream,” Sloane said.

  “The selling of youth offenders,” Rizek said, sliding her article beneath that headline back to Sloane.

  “Did you find anything that could explain Judge Earl’s sentences? Why he would do it?” Sloane asked.

  Rizek smiled. “You mean like was he taking kickbacks?” She shook her head. “But Boykin was the reason they built it.”

  “What do you mean, he was the reason?” Sloane recalled Lynch telling them Fresh Start’s construction was controversial.

  “Boykin convinced two of the three county supervisors that the existing juvenile facility was outdated and a potential source of lawsuits. He convinced them to approve a land grant gifting the land to Victor Dillon. The trustee for the estate objected and sued the bank that held the deed in trust to recover the land.”

  “What was the basis for the suit, a noncomforming use?” Sloane guessed.

  Rizek nodded. “The deed specified the land was to be used for a nonprofit camp for kids, you know, like a YMCA.”

  “How’d it come out?” Sloane asked.

  “Dillon settled it. Reportedly he paid the estate a million dollars.”

  “No small change,” Molia said.

  “Dillon can afford it. The county supervisors gave him a twenty-year, fifty-nine-million-dollar lease. Add in what parents pay for each child, state subsidies, and what other counties pay if their facilities are full, and juvenile offenders stop being a problem and start being fungible commodities.”

  “Why didn’t this cause more of a public outcry in the county?” Sloane asked.

  “Because the Winchester Recorder wouldn’t run the article. Boykin got word of my investigation and told the editor he would consider any insinuation that he was incarcerating kids for profit to be nothing short of slander. It was a mom and pop paper, they weren’t about to take on Boykin or Victor Dillon. The Sacramento Bee also declined.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Not completely. I brought it to one of my former editors at the Mercury. She loved it but wanted a more personal angle. She wanted me to get a family to open up and talk. That wasn’t going to happen in Winchester. Nobody would talk. The Mercury ran it, but severely edited.” She shrugged. “And I had another bun in the oven to keep me busy.”

  The mention of the baby caused Sloane to consider his watch. He knew Rizek needed to leave. “What can you tell me about Victor Dillon?” he asked.

  WILBER HOUSE

  BLACK OAK WINERY

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Victor Dillon called it a Kodak Moment. With his left arm draped around the boy’s shoulders and his right hand holding one end of the oversize check, the shot was worth more than gold, even at its current inflated prices.

  PAY TO THE ORDER OF Joshua Aceves $10,000

  Ten Thousand and 00/100 ________ DOLLARS.

  The boy and his mother stood on each side of Dillon, each holding the prop with two hands, as if it were the check itself. After the photographers finished they stepped to the side and another boy and his mother, Caucasian, stepped into place. The process would be repeated a third time, for an African American boy. Three scholarships to underprivileged kids. Thirty thousand dollars. It was not an inconsequential sum, but it was a tax write-off, thanks to how Dillon’s financial advisers had structured his nonprofit foundation, and it was a publicity bonanza. In addition to the local paper, which would run the article and photographs on the front page, the Sacramento Bee was also present, thanks to some well-placed phone calls, as were reporters from the local television stations, including the show Good Day Sacramento.

  When the last photo op finished, Dillon returned to the elevated platform and took his seat just to the right of the podium, the place reserved for the guest of honor at this breakfast to promote opportunity, his publicist’s idea. The president of the Wilber House stood at the microphone. “I would like now to say a few words about the man of the hour. Victor Dillon has been a generous supporter of our youth here in Winchester County. The list of all of his financial contributions would be too long for me to enumerate in the time we have allotted.”

  Which was why those contributions had been listed on the inside of the program. Direct them to the inside of the program, Dillon silently urged. But the woman did not. The crowd had gathered at the Wilber House on the spacious grounds of the Black Oak Winery, in which Dillon had a 35 percent stake, to pay him homage and to open their checkbooks.

  “Still, I would be remiss if I did not touch upon his extraordinary gifts to promote opportunity for youth through his sizable donations to the Winchester county school system, to fund the expansion of the Winchester County library, and to construct the Fresh Start Youth Training Facility.”

  Dillon gave a humble smile. Why was she leaving out the amounts of his generosity? And yet the woman continued to do just that, noting the contributions, but not the dollar amounts then abruptly concluding.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man of this hour and so many others here in Winchester County, Victor Dillon.”

  The applause was adequate but not thunderous. Frankly, Dillon had expected more, but the woman had no sense of timing or how to build up a crowd. He met the president at the podium, shaking hands while the photographers reassembled. When Dillon felt the woman’s hand pulling away he gripped it to allow the photographers adequate time to get their shots. He knew applause was contagious, and his publicist had ensured that several well-placed guests would stand. When they did, so did everyone else, and the applause increased in volume. Only when every butt had left its seat did Dillon let the president’s hand drop and take the podium for himself.

  “I want to thank President Andrzejewski for that very kind introduction. It is very humbling and I am deeply moved,” he said. “As many of you know this is not my forte, speaking in public, especially when the subject I am asked to speak about is, well, me.”

  The audience laughed. Dillon had been unsure of the line but was now glad he had not deleted it.

  “While some of you may consider these acts to be acts of charity, I consider them to be acts of necessity, a prudent investment in the future of Winchester County and a vote of confidence in our youth.”

  He paused, a cue for the applause. After it subsided, he continued.

  “Opportunity cannot be bought, but it can be provided. I learned this in my youth. A child without opportunity is a child without hope, and a child without hope is a desperate child, and desperate children do desperate things. I did. Born to a single mother in a poor neighborhood not far from here in Stockton, I spent my formative years between the ages of thirteen and eighteen incarcerated in the juvenile justice system. I was not a dumb kid. I don’t believe I was a bad kid. I was a kid without opportunity. I was a kid without hope. I was a desperate kid.” Dillon paused.

  “My crimes were borne of that desperation. The institutions in which I was placed did not offer me opportunity. They did not offer me hope, only despair. I was fortunate to have been given opportunity by someone who saw potential in me. Without that opportunity I would not be here today. I would likely be in jail. I used that opportunity to succeed, and when I ha
d, I turned to helping others, to giving them that same opportunity. I believe we can do better for our youth. The Fresh Start Youth Training Facility has proven that here in Winchester County we have done better.”

  The screen behind him filled with the smiling images of three young boys, white, black, and Hispanic. The next slide showed boys engaged in a game of basketball, another depicted students in a classroom, one boy with his hand raised, an eager look on his face. They’d used the photographs in the brochures.

  “Fresh Start offers our young people opportunity to improve their minds and their bodies so they can improve their self-esteem and, dare I say, begin to hope for a better future. They can turn desperation into innovation, and they can use their street skills to make something of their lives. But they cannot do this without hope, without the kind of opportunity each one of us in this room can provide. Their future is up to each of us.”

  The applause resounded, the room back on its feet. Dillon waved and nodded as the president retook her place at the podium. This time Dillon did not cede it. He remained standing by her side. He needed to close the deal. The president held up a small white envelope, like the kind found at the end of pews in houses of worship, just long enough to insert cash or a check, and printed with a place on the inside flap to provide a credit card number.

  “Your table captains have ten envelopes, one for each of you, and I would urge you to make a charitable donation to Victor Dillon’s nonprofit, Fresh Start,” she said. “I am going to ask you all to take a moment with me and fill out these envelopes, or to enclose your contributions and hand them to your table captains, as I am doing.” She slid a check into the envelope and licked the back flap, sealing it before handing it to Dillon.

  Between the amounts each table paid to attend the breakfast, and the amount to be collected in the envelopes, Victor Dillon had just made back his $30,000 charitable contribution several times over, proving once again that philanthropy was not a bad way to make a living.

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  Jake could barely keep from turning around and running for the bathroom; his mind imagining what horrors the man-child could inflict. But he knew if he turned again the guard would become suspicious and follow him. So he willed himself forward, one step after the next. When he reached the footpath leading to the horse stables he’d reached a point of no return. He turned. The guard had left.

  He started back to the bathhouse, staying along the path behind the dorms so he would be approaching from behind the block wall where T-Mac stood sentry. He had no idea what he would say to get past him, and while he liked his odds against T-Mac when healthy, he was less certain of his chances in his current weakened condition. Without time for further planning he took a deep breath and stepped around the corner.

  “Bathroom’s closed,” T-Mac said. “They’re cleaning it.”

  Jake didn’t stop. “I don’t see a sign.”

  T-Mac stepped between Jake and the entrance. “I’m the sign. And I say it’s closed.”

  They stood toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye, T-Mac thicker through the chest. Still, wrestling had given Jake certain skills, and he had taken down opponents bigger than T-Mac when he wrestled up in weight class.

  “I’m in no mood, T-Mac. I have to pee. Move or I’m going to piss on your shoes.”

  The shove to Jake’s chest was quick and violent. It knocked Jake on his back. Every muscle in his body cried out in pain, reminding him, again, that he was in no shape to fight. T-Mac stepped forward and delivered a kick intended for Jake’s side but that Jake partially blocked with his forearm. Then T-Mac reached for the zipper on his coveralls. “Maybe I’ll piss on you.”

  Jake slid backward. “Okay, fine. Fine.” He got to his feet. “I’ll find a tree.”

  He went around the back of the building and pressed against the block wall, thinking. Then he heard T.J.’s pleas.

  “No. Stop. Stop.”

  Jake turned and looked up. The voice filtered through open windows over Jake’s head, but the glimmering hope of climbing in one faded when he saw they were hinged at the bottom. The top flipped out only three to four inches. No way to climb in.

  Big Baby’s girlish giggle and lisp followed T.J.’s plea. “You’re going to suck it,” he said. “Or you’re going to drown.”

  “No. Hel…” T.J.’s voice faded. The toilet flushed.

  Jake looked about and picked up a rock the size of his hand. The problem was he’d lost the element of surprise with T-Mac, and if T-Mac dodged the blow Jake would only be providing him a weapon. Still, he had to do something. About to step from the side of the building, Jake saw Bee Dee walking across the yard to the bathroom. Nearing, Bee Dee gave Jake a furtive glance, enough to let Jake know Bee Dee had somehow assessed the situation and had come to help. Unfortunately, Bee Dee was significantly smaller than T-Mac.

  As Bee Dee stepped to the entrance Jake heard T-Mac issue his command.

  “Bathroom’s closed for cleaning.”

  “Get out of the way, T-Mac. I got to go.”

  “Pick a fucking tree, Bee Dee.”

  “I got to take a shit.”

  “Then pick a log. Just don’t wipe your ass with poison oak.”

  “You know, T-Mac, I used to think you were tough, but without Big Baby around I think you’re just a big pussy.”

  “What did you call me?”

  Jake watched Bee Dee step back, T-Mac following, and realized Bee Dee was luring T-Mac from the entrance.

  Bee Dee retreated another step. “What are you, deaf and dumb? I said without Big Baby around you’re nothing but a big pussy.”

  “I’m gonna kick your ass, nigger.”

  Bee Dee scoffed. “That’s original, T-Mac. I’ve never heard that before. What’s the ‘T’ stand for anyway, ‘tiny’? Like the size of your dick?”

  Bee Dee took two quick steps backward to evade T-Mac’s lunge. Sensing his opportunity, Jake stepped around the corner, but then T-Mac spun and grabbed Bee Dee and Jake had no choice but to veer his course and help. He struck T-Mac in the back of the head with the rock. The boy crumpled.

  For a moment neither one of them moved, then Bee Dee bent and grabbed T-Mac under the arms. When Jake bent to grab T-Mac’s legs Bee Dee shook his head.

  “Go!” he said.

  WINCHESTER COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  It was not unusual for Earl Boykin to work on a Saturday, usually after watching one or more of his granddaughter’s soccer games. What was unusual was for him to have a visitor in his office. He used his weekends to catch up on his work and had come to enjoy the serenity, when the phone wasn’t ringing and his court staff was not present. But his visitor this Saturday could not come to the courthouse during regular business hours, even using the back staircase into Boykin’s office. He couldn’t take the chance.

  “David Sloane is digging into things he should not be digging into,” Boykin said. “And he seems intent on trying to challenge my authority.”

  “Do you want me to pay him a visit?” Atkins asked.

  Boykin shook his head. “I’m thinking of a more measured response. At the moment Sloane thinks he is playing with a full house. He thinks he has nothing to lose by pushing this.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I want him to consider how his actions may impact on others.”

  “The kid?”

  “I want him to understand there are consequences, but not anything so severe that it could serve instead as additional motivation.”

  “A warning of some kind.”

  “Something that will let him know his hand is not as good as he might think. That the longer he continues to play it, the greater the likelihood I’ll call his bluff. Has the kid done anything that might warrant a longer incarceration?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  OLD TOWN

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane and M
olia walked back to their car in silence. Rizek provided more information than either had expected, and what she had offered was both informative and sobering. They already suspected Fresh Start was not the summer camp the parent liaison had portrayed, but Rizek had confirmed Jake and T.J. were in serious trouble. The problem was Sloane had no way to speed up the legal process, which only reminded him again of Father Allen’s admonition that helping Jake was not a problem he would be able to solve by outsmarting everyone in a courtroom. And Molia’s course of action, to dig into the lives of those involved and try to find some evidence of wrongdoing, would similarly take time; Rizek had spent six weeks digging and had been unable to find any hard evidence to confirm her suspicions that incarcerating kids at Fresh Start was making money for someone.

  What Sloane needed was to find some way to bring the issue to a head sooner rather than later, and he expressed this to Tom Molia as they walked to the parking lot.

  “What if we just tracked down Victor Dillon and asked him if having kids sentenced to Fresh Start without trials and without the assistance of counsel is his idea of helping? Put his feet to the fire. Rizek says he’s meticulous about maintaining his image. What if we threaten to put a black mark on it?”

  Molia stopped on the incline in the shade of several trees, shadows falling across half his face. “The problem with that idea is if Dillon and Judge Earl are in this together, we only alert them that we’re on target, and that gives them the chance to cover their tracks.”

  “You really think that could be the case? Or are we just seeing what we want to see?”

  “Okay, let’s put bias aside for a second and look at the evidence objectively. What do we have?” Molia asked.