Mattoon’s reassuring voice came from inside. “Don’t break your back, Robert, okay? Next Wednesday will be fine. Let me know if you need another extension.”
The tall boy paused in the doorway, looking back. His handsome face was solemn, his skin very black. “Thank you. I appreciate it very much. My family appreciates it. I will submit the paper by Wednesday without fail.” The kid had a lovely accent. Nigerian? Haitian?
When the student was down the hall and out of earshot, Patterson leaned into Mattoon’s office. The place had a cozy, in-control feeling, without being fussy. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves occupied the left- and right-hand walls, full but not overstuffed, and a large window looked out over the lawn behind Mattoon’s uncluttered desk. A computer table sat at a right angle to the desk, its monitor displaying some electronic document. Mattoon was looking over a sheaf of papers as Patterson entered.
“Excuse me. Professor Mattoon?”
“Yes? Hello? What can I … ?”
“I’m Mike Patterson. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if I could have two minutes of your time for a couple questions.” He held out his badge.
The guy’s reaction was calm. “The FBI? Goodness.” Mattoon bent his lips into a half frown—puzzled but not scared. “I can’t imagine how I could help you.” He hesitated. “I hope it’s not about Robert?” He reached over to close the screen on his computer. “Because if it is, I’m afraid …”
“Nothing to do with him. Immigration’s not my area.” Patterson guessed from the student’s accent that he probably had some battle going on with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A lot of the foreign students did, especially the Haitians. Mattoon’s relieved expression confirmed the nature of Robert’s predicament.
“I’m glad to hear that. He’s a terrific kid, very smart, and he’s in a very unfair, scary situation.”
“No, I’m following up on a couple details in the case involving a colleague of yours, Sidney Cranmer. As I said, I was in the—”
“Oh, God, not Sid. What’s he done now?”
“Do you know him?”
“Of course. It’s a small department. In fact, I’ve picked up one of his classes, now that he’s”—Mattoon raised his eyebrows—“otherwise occupied.”
“What’s Cranmer like?”
“He’s a crackpot.”
“Really. Is he—”
“No. Wait, wait.” Mattoon scrubbed a hand over his face and sniffed. “That was mean. What I should have said is that he’s most of the way over the hill and somewhat eccentric.”
“In other words, a crackpot?”
“Well, there’s this difference between connotation and denotation that I keep trying to teach my students. Sid’s okay. His scholarship is out of date, which does nothing to reduce his arrogance, and he can be a pill.” Mattoon shoved the papers he’d been reviewing to one side. “He has meltdowns during department meetings when he more or less tells everyone to go fuck themselves. People take it in stride—just Sid being Sid. I’m probably less patient with him than some people.”
“Had you ever, before he was charged, gotten the sense that he might have some sexual fixation on children or collect child pornography?”
“Well, to be honest, his problems were not entirely a shock to most people. The author he specializes in, Lewis Carroll, was what we’d probably call a pedophile nowadays. The guy enjoyed taking pictures of naked little girls, and I guess Sid liked keeping the pictures around.”
“Charles Dodgson.”
Mattoon raised his eyebrows and bestowed a smile on Patterson that was so condescending that it lifted the hair on the back of Patterson’s head.
“Very good. Very good. It’s an unusual specialty, but I have the impression that everyone just thought that he was a lovable, or at least mostly lovable, nut. I doubt anyone thought he had any, what you might call, repulsive proclivities.”
“Ever been in his house?”
“Nope, never invited.”
“How about his office?”
“A few times, mostly just to stick my head in.”
“Ever happen to see a flyer or advertisement, sitting on his desk or somewhere, inviting him to send off for any kind of pornographic DVDs?”
Mattoon laughed. “I doubt he’d leave something like that sitting around. The administration would have a purple cow. Not to mention our small army of feminists. No, never.”
“Did he or anyone else ever mention anything about such a flyer or advertisement to you?” Now the guy was tightening up, drawing out the smile left over from the cow joke, which wasn’t all that funny. Patterson disliked Mattoon, but that didn’t mean the man had done anything wrong. Even if he was lying, who knew what about, or why?
“Well, I … An advertisement? What kind of advertisement?”
“Yeah, I know, this is kind of a long shot, but I’m asking everyone. One of the pieces of evidence against Professor Cranmer is a DVD with some very graphic child pornography. It was ordered in response to a flyer that advertised a bunch of DVDs all with this same sort of contraband material. Professor Cranmer sent it in, and that’s part of the case against him. I was just wondering if you ever heard anything about it.”
“About the flyer?”
“Right. I’m asking a lot of people about this.”
“What other people?”
“I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. My supervisor would kill me.”
“Well, I can tell you, Agent Peterson …”
“Patterson.”
“Sorry. I can tell you that I never saw any advertisement, never heard anything about any flyer. Don’t know a thing about it. Afraid I can’t help you with that. It came to his house, you say?”
“Well, I didn’t say because, to tell the truth, I can’t remember. It came to his house or his office or got to him somehow.”
“Don’t know a thing about it.” Patterson’s catch about the flyer at the house had Mattoon tightening up more. His face had gone plastic.
“Well, thanks. Here’s my card. Would you give me a call if you remember anything related to the charges, particularly anything you might hear about underage material? It might help us a lot.”
“Sure. I can give you my cell number in case you have any follow-up.”
“It’s okay.” Patterson threw Mattoon a fastball under the chin. “I already have it.”
“Oh.”
Patterson allowed himself to leave Mattoon’s office entirely before he did his Columbo-style return. He stuck his head back in. “Forgot one thing. Do you know a student named Ryan Jaworski?”
“I do, yes. He took one of my classes.”
“Do you know of any reason Jaworski might have a problem with Cranmer?”
“No idea.”
“Well, we’re doing a handwriting analysis on the flyer. It may help us out.”
Mattoon smiled, turned, and flipped the text back up onto his computer, letting Patterson know he was done with him. “Well, good luck!”
Patterson knew very well that the FBI expert’s attempt to break down the handwriting on the flyer had gone nowhere. But Mattoon wouldn’t know that. It never hurt to give the tree a shake now and then. You never knew what might come tumbling out of the branches.
28
The Friday before the Columbus Day weekend, David filled his briefcase with work and caught a plane down for another weekend in Washington. His first stop was a rehabilitation center in Arlington, Virginia, where Ray, finally back, was gathering strength and learning to walk again. During their Skype calls, David had been disturbed to notice how the skin grafts were giving Ray a leathery, frozen look that erased any element of charm from his face. Ray had also lost most of his hair. David did not look forward to seeing his brother in person. How would he conceal his dismay? Only six months ago, Ray
had been a handsome man.
During the long cab ride from the airport to Arlington, David had a conversation with himself, basically trying to stop feeling what he was feeling. The closer he got to Ray, the more he found himself dreading the meeting, and the guiltier he felt about it. His emotions weren’t generous—they didn’t reflect the sort of person he wanted to be—but they would not go away.
When David walked into Ray’s room, Ray was sitting propped up, reading the latest edition of The Economist. The room was small but sunny, with a large window on the far side of the bed looking over a park. The only furniture was a table, a chrome visitor’s chair, and a large television screen high up on the wall. It was tuned to CNN, muted. A big bouquet of flowers sat on the table.
“Hey, brother. What’s up?”
“Hello, David.” Ray tossed the magazine aside. David stood inside the door, not knowing what to do. Ray’s face was bad, but not as bad as he’d feared it would be. His forehead and cheeks were stiff, like leather that had been wet and overdried. Ray’s attempt at a smile looked painful, as though it might crack his skin.
“It’s been a while.”
“I know,” Ray said, still holding the smile. “Aren’t you supposed to hug me or something?”
David stepped forward quickly, starting to hold his arms out, but Ray waved him back. “I’m joking.” He shrugged. “We’ve never been huggy types, have we?” He nodded down at the chair. “Have a seat.”
Ray was wearing a light-gray warm-up suit, which must have been for his physical therapy. He was in stocking feet, with his walking shoes sitting next to the bed. There was a ragged hole in the heel of one of his white sweat socks. The sheets and blanket were kicked back in a heap at the foot of the bed. All this was, for some reason, very depressing. The room had a medicinal aroma mixed with a smell from the bathroom that evidenced recent use.
“Sorry to drag you back down here again. I know how busy you are.” Ray hesitated, squinting at David as though he’d just thought of something. “This must be a real pain for you.”
“A little bit, but I’m lucky.” David took the chair next to the bed. “In my job, nothing can happen until I show up.” He leaned forward and put his hand on the bed, a kind of bearable version of touching Ray himself. “I’m really glad to see you, Ray. It’s great to have you back.”
“Yeah, well, thanks.”
“And I’m, you know, like I said, so sorry about Sheila.”
“It’s been rough.” Ray peered out the window. “Really rough.” He turned back to David. “Don’t ever, ever take your sweetheart for granted, David.” He sniffed and raised his eyebrows as though he were disapproving of himself. “Remember that if you don’t remember anything else.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Let’s move on.”
“I’m— I’m really glad you’re back. I mean it. All this has made me realize, I guess, how important you are to me.”
Ray sighed again and cleared his throat. “Well, that’s fortunate, because …” He dropped his head back on the pillow. His voice went shaky. “Listen, we might as well get right to this. Fact is, I … I need a big favor.”
“Anything.”
“Well, wait to hear what it is first, little brother.” Ray was suddenly seized by a coughing fit that threw him forward and bent him over. When he pulled his knees up, the magazine slid off onto the floor. The hacking went on for so long that David finally stood up, wondering whether he should pound Ray on the back, call for help, or get him some water. Ray’s face had gone almost scarlet. As David turned to step into the hall and look for a nurse, the attack subsided, Ray fell back, breathed in, and gathered himself, exhausted. He smiled grimly. “You can only inhale so much vaporized plastic before it does some damage.” He turned again to gaze out the window, his chest rising and falling, apparently thinking of something. The crash? Sheila? After a while, he seemed to remember himself and looked back at David. “Here’s the thing, Dave. I need you to take the girls.”
David hesitated just a second too long before answering. His voice slipped into a slightly higher octave. “Okay?” The second syllable of the word curled up as though it were a question.
David couldn’t control it, but he didn’t like himself for it very much.
“Not forever, of course.” Ray spoke quickly. “Just for the rest of this fall semester. Things are up and down, and I …” David was sickened to hear Ray’s voice breaking, see him starting to tear up again. “I just can’t manage it. The Stephensons are being posted to Dubai in ten days. I was hoping to get it postponed, but I guess I don’t have the clout I used to. The girls have nowhere to go. I know it’s a hell of a thing to drop in your lap, but my staff tells me Amherst has good schools, and I honestly don’t know what else …”
“Ray. Ray, of course. I’d be glad to do it. The girls are great. We have a terrific time together. I’m happy to do it.”
“I honestly … You don’t know. I could handle it physically, maybe, with some help, after a couple more months in rehab, but I’m just … I’m just not up to it yet, without Sheila. I think maybe by … They tell me maybe by New Year’s. Just for the semester. I don’t want them to fall behind. I feel so …” The words were tumbling out.
David broke in, holding up a hand. “Ray, really. They’re wonderful kids. I’d be happy to do it. It’s no problem.”
He was painfully aware that he was speaking with a tone of certainty now that should have rolled off his tongue as soon as Ray asked. At this point, no verbiage could camouflage his real feeling: Having Jordan and Lindsay under his roof for three or four months was his absolute worst nightmare. Even through his distress, Ray was clearly taking this in, seeing to the essence the way he always did. He knew that David did not relish taking the girls, but he also knew that David couldn’t decline. He’d do it. Even through tears, the glint David knew so well shone in his big brother’s alert, penetrating eyes: Ray had him. David would do what he’d asked, and that’s what mattered.
Ray quickly pulled himself together, and the conversation veered off into the practical arrangements, things like Lindsay’s Advanced Placement classes and Jordan’s asthma medication.
As he was leaving, David finally managed to touch on the aspect of the situation that had been bothering him the most.
“I don’t … I’m not sure the girls actually want to come to Amherst.”
“Afraid they won’t have a choice.” Ray shrugged. “I’ll have a talk with them.” He pointed at the floor. “Would you hand me the … ?”
David passed Ray The Economist, and Ray flipped back to the article he’d been reading when David arrived. His face had relaxed into another look David knew well—a man who’d put a difficult task behind him and was moving on to other things.
29
It was a good thing Campanella’s news arrived by telephone. Linda Ames would never have been able to maintain her cool in person.
After their hellos, Campanella went right to the point. “Okay, Linda, Christmas comes early this year. Here’s the offer, straight from Boston. We dismiss the indictment for receipt, and your guy pleads to simple possession. He takes two years’ custody of the Bureau of Prisons, with three years of supervised release.”
Ames tossed her pen up to the ceiling, threw her head back, and broke into a huge, silent grin.
“Hmmm.” She had to say something.
“You win. We all go home.”
“I’ll need to talk to my client.”
“Right. You do that.”
“I’ll need to …”
“Couple conditions. He’s got to take the two years. It’s a binding agreement on both sides, with a full waiver of any appeal. And he’s got to admit he ordered the DVD. We want that on the record. No fooling around.”
“Well, like I say …”
“And if you want to do this, we need a quick turnaround, okay?
So we can set the plea up for some time in the next month. Boston wants this one out of the newspapers. It’s now or never.”
“We have the Columbus Day weekend here, Paul. I’m not sure Sid’s available. I’ll need until Tuesday.”
“He better be available. He’s on home confinement, for crying out loud.”
“Well …”
“It’s an exploding offer, Linda, understand? I’ll give you until Tuesday, but then it’s gone. This is not up to me. I’m just the messenger. It’s a one-time-only deal.”
“I hear you.” Ames flipped another pen into the air. It fell into her wastebasket with a clang like an exclamation mark. “I’ll get back to you.”
This was, simply and truly, unbelievable. Ames had never heard of anyone getting a deal in a child pornography case like this, where the evidence was this strong, in any federal court anywhere in the country.
The ironic side to it, of course, was that Campanella’s largesse demonstrated just how completely the government controlled child porn cases. Prosecutors could, at their discretion, charge someone either with receipt of child pornography, which carried a five-year minimum mandatory sentence, or with possession of child pornography, which had no minimum mandatory. In a receipt case, the defense attorney was powerless—even the judge was powerless—to avoid the five years. Sid’s record of risking his life for his country was irrelevant. The fact that he’d never improperly touched a child, and never would, was irrelevant. He’d get the five years, period. And maybe more.
On the other hand, also at their discretion, prosecutors could charge these defendants with simple possession—not receipt—of exactly the same material, in which case there was no minimum mandatory sentence. The judge could consider the particulars of the charged criminal conduct and the background of the defendant. He would have the power, in appropriate cases, to hand down a prison term above or below the five years, or impose a term in a halfway house, in home confinement, or on probation. In other words, the judge could judge.
As a practical matter, of course, no difference existed between receipt and possession of child pornography—it was hard to possess something without somehow receiving it—but the statutes gave the U.S. attorney’s office free rein to determine the sentence simply by choosing which interchangeable statutory provision to invoke.
The One-Eyed Judge Page 22
