by Gerry Boyle
“Why doesn’t he do something about it?” I asked.
“Because you cross Tate and you’ll never get a conviction again. You get on her shit list, you’ re finished.”
“What kind of way is that to run a prosecutor’s office?”
“Tate’s way,” he said. “I heard the victim was really ripped about it. He had half his teeth knocked out or some such thing. You should talk to him.”
“I’d like to.”
“John DeSoto,” he said. “Go ask the clerk to give you a printout of his record here. They have to give it to you.”
Right then, a woman pleaded guilty to theft. She hadn’t returned a rented car. She looked as though she’d have trouble spelling rental, much less reading the fine print. It was her third offense and she got probation. My source followed her out the door.
When the court recessed for lunch I went to the clerk, an efficient prison-matronly woman.
I asked for a printout of DeSoto’s convictions and she looked put-upon, but printed it out for me anyway. Rapunzel could have reached the ground from the tower window with it. I stuffed the sheaf of paper in my pocket and waited for my probation buddy, who was helping the car-rental wizard fill out a form. When he’d given up, I walked over.
“I need a victim,” I said.
He smiled. “You gonna be here?”
“All day.”
“I’ll get you a name,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, and I walked out the door through the smokers and went in search of something to eat.
Lunch was from the pizza shop with the nasty video games. I ate in the truck and listened to the news on public radio. None of it was good, so I turned it off and sat and watched the trucks and cars lurch through the traffic light. I had enough bad news of my own.
I had Jeff, who would be putting a contract out on me from jail. Marcia, who hated my guts and wanted to be a mother. Donna, who didn’t hate my guts enough, and was a mother, but was mucking it up. And then there was Albert, who was already kicking himself for allowing a reporter to work at his newspaper. And old Miss Tate, who was going to be on the phone to the newspaper tomorrow morning, too. Whose idea was this anyway?
It was Roxanne’s, and she was gone, or going. Something to look forward to after a day in the trenches.
So I ate and went back and waited and, sure enough, the probation guy got me the name, slipping it to me in the courtroom early in the afternoon. I waited for a recess and went to the pay phone in the hall.
The name was Limington, first name Paul, and he lived in Kennebec’s south end. I called directory assistance and it went through, and in two minutes Limington’s phone was ringing and a man answered.
“Mr. Limington,” I said, pronouncing it like the citrus fruit.
“Limington,” he said, as in limb, the thing that the citrus fruit grows on. I asked him about this DeSoto guy and what had happened. An argument over a parking space outside their apartment house, Limington said. The result was seven lost teeth, a wired jaw, and thirty-three stitches in his mouth.
“So what did you think of the deal?” I said.
“I think it friggin’ sucks,” Limington said. He pronounced it shucks.
“Why’s that?” I prompted, the phone propped under my chin, pen on the pad.
“ ’Cause you couldn’t squeeze a nickel out of that son of a bitch with a vise. I got no insurance. Collection people on the phone all day. That’s who I thought you were.”
“No, just a reporter.”
“And you’re gonna write an article about this?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Well, put this in your article. The system sucks. The DA lady there, she sucks. Treated me like I was a friggin’ criminal, you know? Hey, did I hit myself in the face with a goddamn shovel? I’m the goddamn victim, you know?”
“I know,” I said.
“I gotta go,” Limington said. “My face hurts.”
His face. My head. This was quite a town.
So I spent the rest of the afternoon in the courtroom, where the defendants filed past like milk bottles on a conveyor belt. Big and imposing and dressed in an expensive blue suit, Tate looked at the defendants with distaste, like a queen eyeing her serfs. Sometimes Tate barely looked up as some guy in dirty jeans and boots with grease-mottled hands said that he understood the charges against him and his rights, too.
As if he had any.
I waited and finally the last defendant, a kid up for illegal possession of wine coolers, had held his hand out to be slapped. He left and it was just me and Tate and the judge. He left, hearing a scotch and water calling. That left me and Tate, who turned and gave me a long, cold stare.
She jerked her head toward the lobby.
“In my office,” Tate said.
She didn’t hold the door.
Her inner office door was closed when I walked in. I knocked twice, hard, and heard Tate say “Come in.”
I did.
She was sitting behind a big oak desk, smoking a cigarette. She had big hands and a wide mouth. The mouth blew smoke.
“I thought it was against the law to smoke in a public building,” I said.
“This isn’t a public building,” Tate said. “It’s my building. Sit down.”
I sat and did a quick scan of her desk. The usual pens and pencils. A big black volume of Maine statutes. Legal pads and manila folders. A framed photograph of an obese orange-and-white cat.
“Nice cat,” I said. “It must pack it away. Had it a long time?”
“I’m going to ask the questions. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Sitting here, trying to be polite.”
“What planet did you drop off of?” Tate said. “You’re here one day and you’re making trouble. What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have one. I’m just doing my job.”
“And you’re gonna make it harder for me to do mine.”
“Which is what?” I said.
“Keeping these scroats moving.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup,” Tate said. “Shovel ’em in. Shovel ’em out.”
“How do you keep your idealism?”
“I don’t have time for wisecracks, McMorrow.”
“Why? Mittens waiting for supper?”
“Listen, chump,” Tate said, pointing her finger and cigarette in the direction of my face. “This is my courtroom, and I don’t want some reporter getting it all fouled up.”
“Running pretty smooth, huh?”
“Better than anything you saw in New York.”
“Dante’s Inferno ran better than New York courts,” I said. “What’s your excuse?”
“What do you care?”
“I just think people should be treated with a little respect.”
“You haven’t been dealing with this scum for fifteen years.”
“If you think of them that way, what are you doing here?”
Tate didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away. I didn’t look away either. Finally, Tate stubbed out her cigarette and blinked.
“Listen, McMorrow. I want the news from this court reported the way it’s always been.”
“It hasn’t been reported.”
“It’s been reported fine.”
“So why did the story about Donna Marchant get you so pissed off?” I asked.
“Because it was sensational and it cast this office in an unfavorable light.”
“What’s that mean in English?”
“It made me look bad. The next thing you know, I’ll have some goddamn rape group out there with signs.”
“They should be out there. They should be in the courtroom when you make somebody like Donna Marchant feel like some slut. Today you wouldn’t even see her.”
“What? You in her pants too, McMorrow?”
“Nope. But I was in the courtroom. You thought it was some joke.”
“I’ve seen a thousand Donna Marchants over the years. They bat t
heir big eyes and wiggle their little butts and then when the guy sobers up and tosses them out of bed, they come here crying.”
“That’s why her boyfriend was arrested today for threatening to kill her, and me?”
“You are screwing her,” Tate said. “Is that what got you tossed out of New York? Bedding your sources?”
“Yeah, right.”
I looked around. The place had as much personality as a thirty-five-dollar motel room.
“You have court twice a week, right?”
Tate nodded.
“What do you do the rest of the time?”
“Prepare cases.”
I smiled.
“Not bad for government work,” I said.
“And I intend to keep it that way,” Tate said.
“Don’t blame you.”
“I give you two weeks, McMorrow.”
“I’ll see that two weeks and raise you six months,” I said. “And while I have you here, I’ve got a couple questions. The plea bargain for John DeSoto. Do you think there’s any chance that DeSoto will come up with the money to pay Mr. Limington’s medical bills? Were you aware that Mr. Limington didn’t approve of this plea bargain? Did you even consult him about this? Do you ever consult victims before proposing a sentence some victims might consider lenient?”
I took out my pad and pen and waited.
“One week, McMorrow,” Tate said.
“Is that a no comment?”
“You got it.”
I got up from my chair and put my pad in my back pants pocket, my pen in my shirt. I went to the door and opened it.
“Say hi to Mittens for me,” I said. “I think I can hear his stomach growling.”
“One week tops,” Tate said.
The story was written in the truck again, this time in the alley behind the Observer office. I parked opposite the back door, behind a Dumpster. When the story was done, read, and reread, I sat behind the wheel and waited. I watched pigeons rustle to their roosts under the black brick eaves. Said hello to two guys on bicycles who dove headfirst into the Dumpster, looking for bottles. Listened to the news and the Cleveland Symphony. The symphony was playing Schubert. When Albert came out the back door, I turned Schubert off and went upstairs.
For the Observer, things were hopping. There had been a bad car accident north of town. Three people had been killed. The wrecked truck was filled with beer bottles, most of them empty.
David Archambault was doing the story. Catherine Plante was on the desk. They were arguing. Following David’s example, I sent my story into the system, then went to Plante’s desk and stood with my computer under my arm and watched.
“I’ve got to get more families,” Archambault was saying.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Plante said from her chair. “You’ve got one. The sister-in-law. We don’t want to seem like we’re harassing these people.”
“It’s not harassing,” Archambault said, jumping up from his terminal. “It makes the story more human. You know. That these guys were more than statistics.”
“Yeah. They were drunks. The good news is that they didn’t hit anybody else. When do we get the blood alcohol on the driver?”
“Too late for tonight,” Archambault said. “But don’t change the subject, Catherine. I want another hour to try to get some more family stuff. Give me ’til nine o’clock.”
“I don’t know,” Plante said. “I’ve got late meetings up the wazoo. I’d like to get this one in the can.”
She looked up at me.
“What would you do, McMorrow?”
I shrugged. They both were waiting.
“Is this your strongest story?” I said.
“Hell, yes,” Plante said. “Leading the page.”
“Which page?” I asked.
“Page one,” she said. “What do you think this is? The New York Times?”
I smiled. Archambault looked up at me expectantly.
“I’d give the accident story your best shot. I don’t know, but one sister-in-law for three people dead doesn’t sound like enough. Were the dead people from the same family?”
“No,” Archambault said. “Old friends. Drinking buddies.”
“You go to their bar?”
“No.”
“Their neighborhood?”
He shook his head no.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
Plante scanned the screen.
“Eleven thirty-three this morning.”
“Got off to a slow start, didn’t you?” I said.
“This goddamn paper’s in a coma,” Archambault snapped. “I could have done that. I could have gone to the bar. Albert says to stay by the phone and get the cop’s report. I could have done all kinds of things at a real newspaper.”
Plante looked at the screen, then at her watch.
“You’ve got an hour,” she said.
Archambault was stuffing a notebook in his pocket, pumped up like a rookie coming off the bench in a championship game. Nothing like a nice tragedy to get the adrenaline pumping.
“Thanks, Jack,” he said on the way by me. “Hey, that story about the woman in court was dynamite. Excellent stuff. I gotta buy you a beer.”
And he was gone.
Plante looked up at me. “If I’m late to press, it’s your ass,” she said.
“Take a chunk. Everybody else has.”
She scrolled up.
“Court. McMorrow. Here it is. You know your first contribution almost got me fired?”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“I hope this one’s a little easier on Albert and his ulcer.”
She punched a couple of buttons and her eyes narrowed as she read.
“Oh, Jesus,” Plante said. “How long are you gonna keep this up, McMorrow?”
“Depends on who you ask,” I said.
“Oh, baby,” she said, still eyeing the screen. “The shit’s gonna hit the fan.”
11
Roxanne’s Subaru wagon was parked by the shed. She was inside, standing by the stove. When I came through the door, she turned and the sight of her took me aback. I walked over and put my arms around her.
She pressed against me.
“Hi, baby,” Roxanne whispered. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
We kissed gently and I leaned back and looked at her, then hugged her again.
“I brought you a present,” she said.
“You are a present,” I said.
Roxanne peeled off me and went to the refrigerator. She opened the door and reached in and came out with a bottle of Samuel Smith’s Nut Brown Ale.
“Your brew. In moderation,” she said.
“As long as I can have you to excess.”
“You’ll end up in a twelve-step program.”
“Twelve steps up the ladder to the loft,” I said.
“You’re slipping,” Roxanne said. “There are only eleven.”
I went to the drawer and got an opener for the ale. I’d taken one sip, standing at the counter, when I felt Roxanne’s arms slip around me. She kissed my neck and my ear, and her forearm brushed my bumps and I winced.
“What’s that?” Roxanne said, feeling a lump.
“Nothing,” I said. “I bumped myself shaving.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “And I don’t want to tell it now.”
And then I turned around and she kissed some more of me.
“You smell like smoke, too,” she murmured.
“The original Marlboro man. Pretty sexy, huh?”
“Pretty gross,” Roxanne said. “I think you’re going to need a shower.”
“Too bad.”
“Terribly inconvenient,” she said.
“And I had my heart set on watching a little tube,” I said.
“Watch all you want. Tomorrow.”
So we took a shower, with the beer by the sink and a glass of Bordeaux by the beer, part of Roxanne�
�s red phase. The shower lasted until the water got cold, which was mercifully soon. I took my Sam Smith’s and Roxanne took her Bordeaux and we went up the stairs, counting them as we went.
She was right. There were eleven.
We made love fiercely, not talking, just breathing. The bed slammed and banged and the sheets and comforter flew off and I think we would have flown off, too, if we hadn’t gripped each other so tightly. And then we were still, collapsed on our backs like marathoners across the finish line.
“You got the bed all sweaty,” Roxanne said.
“You did.”
“No way.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s on your side.”
“Wait a minute. You’re on my side.”
“While you were gone, I switched. I like this side better now.”
“But I was only gone one night,” Roxanne said.
“It seemed like an eternity.”
We were quiet and it was cooler and I leaned down and found the comforter on the floor and pulled it over us. I lay back and could feel Roxanne’s breasts, hips, and legs against me. She’d be beautiful to a blind man, I thought.
“So,” I said. “Was that hello or good-bye?”
“I don’t know. Depends on how you look at it.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I thought maybe you’d help me move tomorrow.”
“So this was a bribe?”
“A kickback,” Roxanne said, and laughed to herself.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“That’s because you’re so thick. Or at least you were.”
“That’s awful, Rox. You should be ashamed.”
“Does that mean you won’t move me?”
“I thought I had,” I said.
“I felt the earth move,” Roxanne mugged, reaching for her wine. “Of course, the way this house is built, it doesn’t take much.”
“Okay, Miss Fancy Pants. What kind of house did you get?”
