The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  Sloane stepped into the shade so that Molia was not looking into the bright sun.

  “Rizek says that places like Fresh Start are only profitable if full,” Molia said.

  “So we have an incentive,” Sloane agreed.

  “And who has control over whether Fresh Start remains full?” Molia asked.

  “Judge Earl.”

  “And Judge Earl just so happens to be sentencing kids at an unusually high rate and for abnormally longer periods than any of his peers,” Molia said. “Not to mention rushing them through the system without legal counsel or parental input that might impede the process. Why? People rarely do something for nothing, David.”

  Sloane played devil’s advocate. “Ego. Remember what Barnes said? Judge Earl fancies himself after his lineage, the last of the hanging judges.”

  “Maybe, but in my thirty years I’ve never met anyone who valued ego more than cold, hard cash. Ego doesn’t pay the bills. Money does. And if Judge Earl is profiting from this, who’s his likely financier?”

  “Dillon,” Sloane agreed.

  Molia walked the rest of the distance to the parking lot. “So let’s see what Alex digs up on Earl’s finances. But as they say in Denmark, something is rotten in Winchester.”

  Sloane’s cell phone rang, a number he did not recognize.

  “Mr. Sloane? This is Lynne Buchman, the parent facilitator in the juvenile justice department in Winchester.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Buchman?”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she said.

  SIXTEEN

  OLD TOWN

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane felt as if he’d taken a blow to the stomach.

  “What is it?” Molia asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Sloane disconnected the call. “They’ve extended Jake’s sentence two months.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They said he tried to escape while on a supervised hike. The administrator at Fresh Start made the recommendation, and Boykin granted it. They’re punishing him for the motion,” Sloane said.

  “We don’t know that,” Molia said, but without much conviction.

  “Of course they are. It’s just like Rizek said. I’m just making it worse for him, and for T.J.”

  Molia seemed to consider the implications. “Listen, another couple months is irrelevant to what we’re trying to do,” he said. “We don’t intend for either of them to carry out their sentences any longer than it takes us to get them out.”

  “But until we can—”

  “Until we can we’ve just got to be smarter about what we’re doing.”

  Sloane’s phone rang again. He was relieved to see Alex’s name and number on the screen. “Are you someplace you can talk?” she asked.

  Sloane looked around the parking lot to ensure they were alone. “Let me put you on speaker so Tom can hear, too.” He pressed the button.

  “I think you might be on to something, Tom,” Alex said. “Judge Earl’s had an interesting past two years financially.”

  “Interesting how?” Sloane asked.

  “According to his income tax returns and judicial accounting records he borrowed eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars to remodel his house. Two months later he took out another one point five million to buy a commercial office building in downtown Winchester. Both loans came from a local bank, Winchester First Street.”

  “What’d he use for collateral?” Sloane asked.

  “I don’t know. The bank is stalling my request for further information.”

  Sloane felt a twinge of anxiety because of the prior phone call. “Who did you tell them you were?”

  “I found the name of Judge Earl’s accountant and personal financial adviser from his income taxes and said I worked in the office and needed the information to determine potential tax ramifications for the judge and his wife. The bank officer said he’d dig up the paperwork and send it over.”

  “What if he does? Where are you going to have him send it?”

  “Relax. I set up a fake e-mail account and used the financial adviser’s Web site to fashion a phony tag line. Pfishers on the Internet do it all the time.”

  “Fishers?” Molia asked.

  “Spelled wth a ‘P,’” she said. “It’s like copying a company’s stationery and putting your name on it. I copied the company’s e-mail format.”

  “What if he calls instead?” Sloane asked.

  “Same thing. I created a phone number with the proper area code that will ring through to my computer. What’s got you spooked, David? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “They’ve extended Jake’s sentence. I’m worried it could be punishment for us pushing too hard on this. We just met with a reporter who said Judge Earl’s sentences are harsher and longer than any of his contemporaries and the only way these mountain boot camps are profitable is to keep them full.”

  “You think he’s taking kickbacks?”

  “Seems the logical conclusion, doesn’t it? See if you can find whether the judge has any ties to Victor Dillon. Forget the press release stuff and look into Dillon’s background. I want to know how he came into his money. And take a closer look at this bank. Let’s find out who sits on the board of directors and when it was started. But keep this all as quiet as possible. Do as much as you can through back doors, just in case.”

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  The block wall prevented the sunlight from entering the bathhouse, and the small windows high above the shower stalls faced west, admitting only dull gray light. The contrast with the bright sunshine outside made the room appear dark as dusk as Jake stepped in.

  He did not see T.J. or Big Baby.

  The air remained sodden from the morning showers and smelled of the damp towels in the cloth bins, and urine. He checked the shower stalls, five vertical tiled coffins with opaque curtains that allowed the guards to maintain their constant vigilance.

  Not there.

  He stepped around the edge of the toilet stalls holding the rock at his side and stopped when he remembered the camera in the upper corner of the room. A towel had been draped over the machine, blocking the lens.

  “Suck it. Suck it or you’re going to drown.”

  Big Baby’s voice came from one of the stalls. Jake took a deep breath and peered around the edge, seeing a pair of red coveralls in a heap on the floor. Hunched over, Big Baby’s backside stuck out the last stall, a hideous patch of tufts of hair amid red welts and pimples that ran the length of his back and thighs and brought to mind the image of a warthog. What followed was a hideous cackle, Big Baby sounding like a child becoming more and more animated. “Suck it! Suck it!”

  “No!” T.J. spoke in between gasps for air, a drowning man struggling to breathe. “Leave… Leave me… alone.”

  Jake stepped closer and watched as Big Baby shoved T.J.’s head into the toilet, using his other hand to flush the handle. When the toilet emitted a gurgling rush of water Jake recognized his chance, using the sound to cover his attack. He raised the rock, but as he lowered it to strike, Big Baby turned and the rock struck him across the forehead, above the temple, a glancing blow. His legs buckled and he stumbled, but he did not fall and before Jake could strike again Big Baby lunged, grabbing Jake by the throat and shoving him backward against the block wall.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he said, spit hissing between the gaps in teeth too small for his mouth. A trickle of blood flowed down the side of his face. He pulled back his arm, as an archer might the bow of an arrow and balled his hand into a massive fist. Jake braced for the blow, but the arm did not shoot forward. It lingered, as if Big Baby was having second thoughts. Then it dropped. So too did the hand gripping Jake’s throat and Big Baby’s eyes rolled back in his head, two hideous white orbs. He teetered, pitched sideways, and dropped like a felled tree, the side of his head hitting the concrete floor with a sickening crack.

  THE SUTTE
R BUILDING

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  The address of Judge Boykin’s commercial office building was near the new Winchester business district, though the two-story stone structure would have blended nicely into Old Town. As Molia and Sloane approached the glass front doors they noticed a plaque on one of the stones indicating why the building had not been torn down to make way for the more modern glass-and-stucco buildings surrounding it. A historical landmark, the Sutter Building had been constructed in 1851 with rock from a local quarry and had served as the first supply store in Winchester, catering to miners seeking their fortunes.

  When Sloane pulled on the handle the glass doors rattled, which drew the attention of a security guard seated behind a desk in the small lobby. Molia waved and smiled.

  “Closed,” the guard said, loud enough to be heard but not bothering to get up from his desk or to put down the novel he’d been reading.

  Molia held up a finger to indicate he had a question while speaking to Sloane under his breath. “Put the book down, skippy. Three steps won’t kill you.”

  The guard gave a noticeable sigh and reluctantly set down his book, fanned open to mark his location. He was not the stereotypical overweight security guard that walked the shopping malls with an oversize flashlight. The muscles of this guy’s arms pressed taut the short sleeves of his white shirt and his broad shoulders tapered to the utility belt at his waist. He used a key attached to a ring on his belt to unlock the dead bolt and pushed open the door just enough to talk.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Molia said. “I’m looking for West Coast Cutlery.”

  The guard scowled, annoyed. “Never heard of it.”

  Molia reached into his pocket and pulled out the receipt from the coffee at the Shanghai Ale House, as if to read the address of the building, which was stenciled above the glass doors. “Fifteen oh one Church Street.”

  “That’s this address,” the guard said. “But I’ve never heard of that business.”

  “Are you sure? The woman on the phone repeated it twice.”

  “I’m sure.” He started to close the door.

  “Is there another Church Street?”

  The guard sighed. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Molia rubbed the stubble of his chin. “Could I maybe come in and check the register of businesses?”

  “The building is closed.”

  “Maybe you could check it for me?”

  Becoming more frustrated and less friendly the man said, “No reason to. There’s only one name on the register, Trinity Investments. Like I said, I’ve never heard of West Coast Cutlery. It isn’t here. You got the wrong address. You sure she said Winchester?”

  “Boy, I thought so,” Molia said sounding less sure and already stepping away from the door. “But with my hearing who knows?” He flashed that disarming smile again, chuckling as he spoke. “I don’t imagine Trinity makes mail-order cooking utensils.”

  The guard did not return the smile. “I don’t imagine they do,” he said.

  “She’ll be upset when I don’t come home with those knives she ordered, but it won’t be the first time I disappointed her. Thanks for your time.”

  The guard closed the door without further comment and they walked off to the sound of the guard reapplying the dead bolt.

  “Nicely done,” Sloane said, already pulling out his cell phone to call Alex.

  “While she’s at it, ask her to look up ‘On-Guard Security.’”

  Sloane glanced at him. “Why?”

  “Does it strike you as odd that a closed and locked building in this town would require an armed security guard to sit in the lobby?”

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  T.J.’s coveralls were soaked to his waist. Beads of toilet water continued to drip down his face. He stared down at Big Baby with a distant, vacuous gaze, the rock still in his hand. The sound of shoes on concrete broke the silence. Bee Dee came to an abrupt halt where Big Baby lay facedown on the concrete floor, head twisted to the side, blood flowing from the wound. What Jake had thought to be acne scars on Big Baby’s grotesque backside he now realized were something far more horrific, burn marks, dozens of them. Big Baby had not always been the torturer.

  Bee Dee looked up at the camera covered by the towel then knelt and put two fingers to Big Baby’s neck.

  “Is he dead?” T.J. asked.

  Bee Dee stood. “No. He’s not dead. And neither is T-Mac.”

  “What do we do now?” Jake asked.

  “We get the hell out of here. Where are you supposed to be?” Bee Dee directed the question to T.J.

  “The garden.”

  “Then you go to the garden.” Bee Dee grabbed him by the collar. “You don’t say anything to anybody. You understand? You tell no one. They’ll ask everyone. Captain will hold an inquiry. You do not tell anyone no matter what. You understand? You don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t,” T.J. said.

  “This is just another day. Can you act like this is just another day?”

  “I will.”

  “Go.”

  T.J. bolted for the door.

  “Walk,” Bee Dee barked at him.

  T.J. slowed. At the door he turned back to Jake. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Go!” Bee Dee urged. He turned to Jake. “We need to get to the horse stables.” He picked up the bloodied rock, stepped to one of the metal sinks and rinsed it quickly, shaking off the water. “Anyone asks why we’re late we’ll say you twisted your ankle last night and now you’re having trouble walking. I’ll say I stayed back to help you.” He shoved the rock into one of the pockets of his coveralls, keeping his hand in place so the bulge would be less noticeable.

  Outside, they stepped around the back of the building where T-Mac lay unconscious, partially concealed in plants, and walked down the path leading to the amphitheater.

  “You think he’ll say anything?” Bee Dee asked.

  “T.J.?” Jake shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, though in truth he didn’t know. “I think he’s pretty scared though.”

  “That makes two of us.” Bee Dee removed the rock and tossed it toward underbrush but it hit the ground with a thud and tumbled short of the foliage. Before either of them could kick it farther they heard footsteps coming up the path. A guard rounded the corner.

  “Where are you two headed?”

  “Horse stables,” Bee Dee said without hesitation.

  “You’re late. Where have you been?”

  “He twisted his ankle; he’s having trouble walking.”

  The guard, one Jake had not yet seen, glared at them. “Well, boo-fucking-hoo. Who are you, Florence Nightingale?”

  “No, sir, I’m Bee Dee Wells. This is—”

  “What do you think, you’re funny? I don’t give a shit who you are. What I care about is where you are. Get your ass to the horse stables before I think of something else for the two of you to do. And you, if you can’t work, I’ll find something else for you. Atkins told me to keep a close eye on you.”

  “No, sir, I can work,” Jake said.

  The guard leaned into them. “Then move.”

  Henry looked up as Jake and Bee Dee approached. He held a pitchfork. Sweat dripped down his face.

  “What’s the deal? I’ve been here by myself.”

  “Jake twisted his ankle,” Bee Dee said.

  “Hey.” A stocky Hispanic man emerged from the barn leading a white mare. He handed the rope to Henry, who dropped his pitchfork, which made the horse snap back its head and neck, mane quivering in protest.

  “You’re late,” the man said, voice heavily accented. “You want for me to call the guards?”

  “He hurt his ankle.”

  The man made clucking and clicking noises with his tongue and slapped the horse’s back end to get it to move out of the way. Henry led it to where another horse and a mule had been tied to a zip line strung between two trees.

&n
bsp; The man turned his attention to Jake. “Who’re you?”

  “Jake.”

  “Okay, Yake, you come with me.”

  “No, it’s Jake.”

  “That’s what I say, Yake.”

  “Jake,” he said, emphasizing the “J.”

  “You make the fun of De la Cruz? You want for me to call the guards?”

  “No, sir.”

  Jake followed the man into the barn. The stalls were empty but for one containing a donkey. As they passed the animal stuck its head over its stall door and brayed, causing Jake to jump backward. He turned and looked out the barn door, half expecting to see guards thundering down the footpath like an angry mob.

  “Hey? What’s with the standing around?” De la Cruz waited by an open door just past the last stall on the left. Stepping inside the room Jake saw pitchforks and shovels neatly arranged on the wall along with ropes and halters. Saddles straddled sawhorses and two wheelbarrows were leaned up against the wall. Each showed patches of rust.

  “You ever clean horseshit, Yake?”

  “No, sir.”

  De la Cruz rolled his eyes and gave a dramatic sigh, speaking in Spanish. Jake couldn’t understand the words, but the gestures were clear enough. “Come on. Come on,” he said. “You grab a pitchfork.”

  Jake took one from the wall, grimacing when the wooden handle pressed against his palm.

  De la Cruz noticed. “Aqui, aqui,” he said indicating he wanted to see the palms of Jake’s hands.

  Jake shook his head, not wanting the man to send him back to the Administration Building. “It’s all right.”

  But De la Cruz insisted, and when Jake opened his fingers the man grimaced and shook his head. This resulted in another flurry of gestures and a string of Spanish and ended with De la Cruz motioning for Jake to follow him. At the back of the room the man lifted the lid on a green tin and scooped out a gob of copper-colored gel with his index and middle fingers.

  “Give me your hands.” Jake resisted. “Give me your hands, Yake.”

  Jake reluctantly held out his left hand and De la Cruz slathered the goo across his palm. Whatever it was, it had an antiseptic smell and accompanying burn that made Jake grimace in pain. De la Cruz had no sympathy for him, scooping out another gob.