“The Speaker’s empire. That’s apt. But they’re sophisticated people, so why the hell are they leaning on a reporter? That’s not the way to get somebody like me to shut up.”
“Are you the only reporter they’re leaning on? How about the Bangor Free Press, or any of the other Maine papers?”
“It’s the damnedest thing. The very experienced, award-winning Free Press reporter I expected to cover this trial is off covering something else. The rookie they sent in her place—Andrea Veloute—has shown her face inside the courtroom three times. At jury selection on Monday, opening statements on Tuesday, and one other time, briefly.”
“What’s she been writing?”
“Fluff. Focusing on the celebrity of the O’Rourke family, like she’s working for Entertainment Tonight. She’s admitted she’s never covered a trial before and complained about being bored. But as tedious as testimony in a murder trial may be at times, that’s where the story is.”
“Spoken like a Paulie Finnegan acolyte.”
“No kidding. I wonder what the old man would think about this bullshit.”
“What Would Paulie Finnegan Do?”
“The question that guides my life.”
“How about the other media outlets? What kind of coverage are they doing?”
“There aren’t any others covering, at least not regularly. A woman from the AP has popped in a couple of times. The Ellsworth weekly sent a stringer to cover the opening statements, but then he bailed out, saying he had to go sell ads. So he wasn’t even a real reporter, more like a jack of all trades.”
I went over to the coffeemaker and poured us both another cup. “Before I went to Machias, I pegged Frank as a lousy caseworker who got moved around whenever his supervisor got fed up. Then Cohen described him as a pompous ass with a mean streak. A day or so later that scrapper lady put it in my head that he was a sexual predator, and while that might be a wild allegation, she got me wondering about it.”
“My guess is the guy saw himself as God’s gift to women. Your email tipster probably was someone he sexually harassed. Maybe hearing him portrayed as a victim made her so mad she decided to smear him but good.”
“Whatever his failing, the O’Rourkes don’t want it to come out. They want this case to be about the fact that he was killed, not what might have led to his killing.”
“Do you think the Speaker leaned on other media outlets to downplay the trial?”
“I don’t know. He’s a powerful guy, but I doubt he’s able to intimidate assignment editors across Maine to the point that they wouldn’t send a reporter to cover this trial. The more likely explanation is that every news staff in the state has been cut to the bone. That includes the TV stations. It’s always been a tough call for them to send a crew, given that cameras aren’t allowed into the courtroom. Still, you’d think they’d send somebody. Even in January. Even in Machias. But the press corps has been pretty much one guy—me.”
“Puts a lot of weight on your shoulders.”
“It used to be that we battled each other out for a scoop. Now it’s like there’s a pool reporter, but nobody told me I’m it.”
“Any chance the harassment is coming from someone other than the O’Rourkes?”
“Doubtful, but possible. If Danny Boothby didn’t kill Frank, whoever did would have a motive to shut me up. But if Danny didn’t do it, the logical alternative suspect is his daughter Corrine, and she sure as hell wasn’t out there in a big black truck in last night’s blizzard, goosing me down the Black Woods Road.”
“Not a lot of logic to this story.”
“You’ve got that right.” I stifled a yawn. “Another weird thing. The DHHS caseworkers I’ve met in Machias wanted nothing to do with me. I get that they can’t talk on the record, but in my experience, once you promise a state worker confidentiality, you can’t shut them up. When a woman I met in the hallway looked like she might be willing to chat, her supervisor swooped in and pulled her from my nefarious clutches, then for good measure made a call to the Chronicle to complain about me.”
“Didn’t you used to date a caseworker?”
“Yeah, Alison Rutledge. I wouldn’t call it dating—we saw each other a few times maybe four years ago. She worked out of the Portland office at that time, and quit not too long later to go back to school. But you know, I should call her. Maybe she’ll help with some of the background stuff.”
Thinking about the case was making my head hurt. I was also feeling beat, no doubt paying for the previous day’s prolonged adrenaline rush. Picking up on my flagging energy, Christie pulled on her jacket, saying she needed to do some errands. We made a plan that she’d pick me up for dinner at seven thirty.
“Take a nap,” she said. “We’ve got lots more to talk about tonight.”
“Now you’re making me curious.”
“It’ll keep, for a little while at least.”
* * *
I flopped on the couch within seconds of the door shutting behind her. Lou wandered in and settled herself on the rug, within reach of my hand. We lay there together for a long while. At some point my mind stopped racing and I joined Lou in sleep.
When the doorbell tugged me awake I swore and stumbled to the front door. The ringer turned out to be Theo, shuffling his boots on my neatly shoveled porch, smiling a hesitant smile. I looked over his shoulder and saw he’d cleared the sidewalk as well.
“What is this bullshit? Are you like those guys who wash the windshields of people stuck in New York City traffic for ‘tips’?”
“Nah. Mom told me you had a wild ride getting home. Figured shoveling you out was the least I could do.”
I opened the door and waved him inside. “How come you’re not going to come eat pad thai with us tonight?”
“Got plans.” Five ten and wiry, Theo had his mother’s dark eyes and hair. He wasn’t shaving every day yet, but would be soon.
“How ’bout tomorrow. Up for a little race?”
“In two feet of fresh snow? Sure. Name the place.”
I thought a minute. “Mill Stream Golf Course.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Skis?”
“Snowshoes. Poles allowed.”
“Poles are for old guys.”
“Then don’t use ’em, hotshot.”
“Winner gets?”
“Choice of pizza, choice of movie.”
“Otto and Lone Survivor.”
“Pretty sure of yourself.”
“I’m the one running hurdles and the 800 on the indoor track team. You’ll be buying the pizza.”
“Pick me up at ten,” I said.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, January 9, 2015
The scent of curry and coconut grounded by the tang of fish sauce flooded my senses when Christie and I basked in the warmth of Riverside’s best Asian restaurant, House of Siam. We settled in our favorite booth with two cold Singhas on their way.
I was taking my first sip of beer when Christie dropped her bomb.
“Here’s to getting out of a rut.” She held up her glass, a smile on her face but tears in her eyes.
I clinked my beer bottle against it. “My life isn’t in a rut. Just my car. And it was more like a ditch.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, and her eyes still were wet. “We aren’t talking about you, Joe. While you were away, I made a big decision.” She took a sip of her beer. “I’m breaking up with Arn.”
“What?”
“Pulling the plug. Calling it quits. Telling him to take his toothbrush and be on his way.”
I don’t like Arn. Never did. He’s a pretentious bore, a self-absorbed jerk who doesn’t deserve Christie. Inside my body, happy fireworks were going off. But I knew enough not to show my feelings in that moment. She
hadn’t broken up with him yet, and even if you’re the one who’s planning to do the breaking, nothing’s done till it’s done.
“Tell me more.”
The waiter approached our table.
“Let’s order first,” she said.
Over shrimp curry and phad ba mee I heard about the growing discontent Christie had kept to herself for months. Her frustration with Arn’s workaholic ways. Her irritation at his sarcastic sense of humor. And her deep sadness at his lack of effort to connect with her son.
“I can’t pretend anymore that he’ll take an interest in Theo someday. And I’m sick of apologizing for Arn everywhere I go. I walk into the market and Terry behind the counter says ‘Your guy sure is grumpy today,’ like I made him grumpy or should be able to do something about it. When we went to dinner at Mary Lou and Jim’s a few weeks back, he was bored by the conversation and all but picked up a magazine to read while we were schmoozing before dinner.”
“Did you have a big fight while I was gone?”
“Yeah, we did in fact have words the other day. A stupid fight. Not about anything big. But it underlined for me the simple fact that Arn hasn’t made me feel happy for a long time, and, you know, life is short.”
“Have you told him yet?”
“No, but I’m absolutely going to make the break this week. Tomorrow night we’re going to his sister’s for dinner, so that’s out. Maybe Sunday night, or Monday. Whenever he pulls his attention away from his computer long enough to spend an hour with me.”
Again, I watched her eyes fill with tears. In the years I knew Christie, I’d seen her cry maybe twice. Today the waterworks were running big time. I reached across the table and took her hand.
“Ending something you once believed had great potential is sad,” she said. “Even if you can’t remember what it was that seemed so promising.”
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Theo won our snowshoe race by at least a hundred yards. Even with ski poles for balance I was clumsy in the fresh snowdrifts that blanketed the fairways. Five-nine to my six-one, 140 pounds to my 185, Theo seemed to float over the surface, leading from start to finish. Despite the fact it was fifteen degrees and a bitter wind was blasting from the north, every shred of my polypropylene clothing was soaked by the time I hauled myself back to the parking lot.
Theo smirked and patted his stomach. “Time for pizza.”
“Don’t you want to clean up first?”
“I’m good,” he said. “I’ll hang with Lou while you wash the shame away.”
He tuned the truck’s radio to a rap station and drove us to my house, where I found no new phone messages before taking a hot shower. On our way into Portland we talked about his track season and my adventure the previous afternoon. We settled into a booth at Otto Pizza, where the dazzling scent of garlic and tomato sauce met us at the door.
Theo didn’t need a menu. He ordered us a large mashed potato, bacon and scallion pizza, telling the heavily pierced server that would get us started. As soon as our drinks were delivered I tended to my real agenda for the afternoon.
“So how are you? Really.” I looked him in the eye and leaned back in my seat.
“Stressed.” He looked down at the table, took a deep breath. “I want to go away for February break, and Mom’s going to hate the idea.”
“Skiing?”
He shook his head. “To Florida. To see my father.”
Keeping my face neutral is a reporter skill I mastered long ago, but I had to work at it in that moment. From the bits and pieces Christie has told me over the years, I knew Theo’s father was a loser named Steve Swain. He lived in a dinky town on the Florida panhandle when he wasn’t following the tattered remains of the Grateful Dead around the country. He claimed to be a carpenter, but in fact supported his minimalist lifestyle selling dope and its associated paraphernalia.
When Christie found out she was pregnant, ol’ Steve had rabbited out of town like a man trying to escape the mob. Sixteen years later, Theo wanted to meet his father.
It didn’t surprise me. Having been raised by a single parent myself, I know what it is to wonder about the absent one. But unlike my situation, Theo’s other parent was alive, offering a tantalizing opportunity to fill in the picture he’d been drawing in his imagination since he was a kid.
“Have you talked to him?”
Theo nodded. “I called and introduced myself a couple days after Christmas.”
“How’d you know where to reach him?”
A smile—half cocky, half sheepish—danced across his face.
“Mom maintains a wicked cone of silence about him, but I’ve known his name for years, and that he lives in Florida. It was simple to track him down online.”
Christie is, in fact, reluctant to talk about Swain. When she does, it’s in an artificial, controlled voice, like she’s afraid she’ll start screaming if she doesn’t keep a tight grip on her words. He was a total jerk when they were twenty-two, and he’s stayed that way. He’s never paid a dime in child support and never made any effort to meet his son. The trade-off suited Christie. She put aside a hoped-for career in music in favor of working her ass off running a popular diner in a blue-collar town, all to keep Swain out of Theo’s life.
“So you called him?”
Theo grinned. “He was surprised, but kind of happy to hear from me. We’ve talked twice since then. He’s a builder. Works for himself. Not married but lives with a woman. No kids.” His face reddened. “I mean, no other kids.”
“How’d the plan about you going to visit come about?”
“It’s not exactly a plan yet. The last time we talked I said how cool his place sounds. It’s totally green—he generates his electricity with solar panels, pumps water by hand from a well. I kind of asked if I could visit on school break. He said he’d think about it.”
“Does he realize your mother’s in the dark about this?”
“I didn’t tell him that exactly.”
Didn’t tell him exactly. I remember that teenaged concept.
“What are you looking for from your dad?”
“I dunno. To see what he’s like. To let him see what I’m like.”
“What happens if you don’t like what you find?”
“Then I’ll at least know for myself why Mom never talks about him.”
The unspoken question of what Theo would expect if he did like Swain flit through my mind but didn’t cross my lips. “If he comes through with an invite, you’re pretty set on going?”
He nodded.
“Your mom is going to have a fit.”
“Can you help?” he said.
* * *
I was distracted by thoughts about Theo during the movie, even though it was an action flick that should have riveted my attention. I understood why he was determined to meet his father. It’s the weirdest feeling in the world to be in the dark about a parent. To never have felt their touch, heard their voice, studied their face close up, looking for traces of yourself. If there’s sadness or anger surrounding the missing parent’s absence, it becomes a lonely curiosity, an itch scratched in secret. As a boy I spent hours trying to will the vivacious woman in my father’s hidden stash of photographs to come to life and spend a few hours—even a few minutes—with me. I ached with the wish to know her, despaired that I never would.
Theo had mumbled a few worrisome comments as he warmed to the discussion of his scheme to go to Florida, his initial attempt at nonchalance giving way to glee. He’d been secretly pining to meet his father for years, and no degree of warning about the potential for disappointment would keep him from being flattened like a kid’s toy in the path of an eighteen-wheeler if his dad lived up to his jerky reputation.
Christie wasn’t the grudge-holding type, but when the subject of Swain came up her fa
ce got red and her voice turned shrill. Embarrassed by that, she didn’t talk about him often, but I suspected she’d spent years dreading this exact scenario. There would be no protecting her son. All she’d be able to do was hope Theo would recognize bullshit when he heard it and come home in one piece, physically and emotionally.
I told Theo that if Swain agreed to the visit, I’d try to help Christie understand the import of him making a trip to Florida. He promised to hold off talking to her until the trial was over and I was home from Machias, and to stop slinking around the house as though he had something to hide. I didn’t tell Theo his mother was on the verge of breaking up with Arn, but that was the reason for my conditions. Christie was more or less unflappable, but dumping her longtime lover and finding out her son wanted to meet his father would be a two-fer even she wouldn’t be able to handle without backup.
When I got home I made a pot of coffee, fired up my laptop at the kitchen counter and wrote my story for the Sunday paper. I eventually found the balance I’d hoped to achieve, weighing Mansfield’s determined case against the holes poked by Cohen, reporting all the verifiable stuff I’d heard both inside and outside the courtroom. I sent it off to Leah an hour before my deadline.
A machine answered when I called the Subaru dealership in Ellsworth so I had no idea whether my car would be salvageable. Christie was having dinner with Arn at his sister’s house. My buddy Rufe had plans, but they didn’t involve his brand spanking new Dodge Ram pickup, so I had wheels to get myself to Portland, where Alison Rutledge had sounded rather excited at the prospect of meeting for a drink.
* * *
I’d forgotten how oblivious Alison was about her beauty. It was a pleasure to watch her enter the warm bar, pull off her hat, smooth her blond-streaked hair and tuck it behind her ears. It was a familiar, unselfconscious gesture, undertaken while her brown eyes swept the room in search of me. Several heads turned and appreciated her walk across the room. For a couple of drinks at least, she was mine.
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