Violation

by Sally Spencer

  I didn’t even know he was a member of the board, but now I think about it, that makes sense. He is the vanguard of Harrisburg’s industrial renaissance, the first man to be trapped by the town’s sticky web of boosterism. And so, before even one brick of his new factory has been laid, the Elders have fallen over themselves to co-opt him onto their august body.

  Porky doesn’t know how to react. Some people say that the Board of Elders is just like the mayor’s rubber stamp, but that’s not true – a rubber stamp can have some character. Now here is a man who says that Porky is wrong, and that I (his shithead son-in-law) am right – a man, furthermore who, because of his money, has the town by the balls.

  Harrisburg, c’est Craddock.

  And yet I get the feeling that if Craddock hadn’t been rich, he would still have had the mayor sweating, because even a low-down, dirt-scrapping politician like Porky can recognize when he is in the presence of a superior being who seems almost like a force of nature.

  Porky takes a purple silk handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the drops of perspiration off his sweating head.

  “Now look here, Thurston—” he begins.

  “If the town is ever to prosper,” Craddock continues, as if Porky had never spoken, “it must show that it is no mere backwater. You talk about a bad press. Imagine what kind of press you would get by overriding the law, just to get a conviction. It could well discourage new investment.”

  And, on top of that, Craddock Industries might well pull out, I add silently.

  Porky can’t afford to chew out Craddock, so he turns his frustration on me.

  “See the bastard gets a lawyer, Kaleta,” he orders, his eyes burning holes in my forehead. “Put a case together strong enough to charge him. An’ I mean today.”

  8

  We cross Jackson Square again, heading back for the Department. Several times, Williams opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but at the last moment she always bites it back.

  There’s going to be enough shit coming down on me already, without also having to deal with a partner who’s nursing a grievance, I tell myself. And so I stop dead, just in front of the dried-up wreckage of what was once the town’s floral clock, and swing round to face her.

  “Okay, Williams, let’s hear it,” I say.

  My reluctant partner looks guilty. No, not guilty – that’s not the right word at all – she looks embarrassed.

  “I … I want to apologize for this afternoon,” she says.

  She wants to do what?

  I suddenly find myself remembering this science fiction series I used to watch as a kid. It was called The Invaders, I think. It was all about aliens who took over human bodies as a first step to conquering the world. The thing about these aliens was that they mostly talked and acted like the people they’d replaced – and then they’d do or say something that would give them away. And now my sergeant’s alien has just blown his cover – because the real Williams would never apologize to me about anything!

  “You’re not making it easy for me,” says the little green man inside my partner’s head – referring, I suppose, to the fact that I have made no reply.

  “Okay, I’ll buy it,” I say, pushing the alien just a little closer towards fully revealing himself. “You want to apologize. So go ahead.”

  The real Williams would have stomped off at that moment, but the alien-occupied Williams says: “I shouldn’t have said what I did when you stopped me shooting Bobbie.”

  “You mean all that stuff about it being fine for me to screw up, because Porky is my father-in-law?” I ask.

  Williams nods. “Yeah, that stuff. I was way out of line. But I thought … I mean, everybody in the Department says …”

  She dries up. Her cheeks have turned a fetching red.

  “You thought that since Porky brought me in, Porky was going to keep me in?” I say helpfully.

  “Something like that,” Williams admits. “But seeing you together – Jesus, you really hate each other, don’t you?”

  “At the start, it was just mutually instinctive dislike,” I say. “But then we got to know each other a little better, and that gave us something to build on. And by the time I split up with my wife—”

  “I didn’t know that,” Williams interrupts. “I mean, about you splitting up.”

  “Yeah, well, it was fairly messy, and we didn’t exactly feel like taking out a full page ad in the Tribune to tell the whole town about it.”

  “No, of course not,” Williams says, nodding her head and looking like she wishes she could bite out her tongue.

  “But Joanna doesn’t really factor into this,” I say. “Even if we’d stayed together, there was no way that me and Porky were ever going to get on. He’s not my kind of mayor – I’m not his kind of cop. I should never have agreed to work for him.”

  “Then why did you?” Williams asks – not aggressive, but like she actually wants to know the answer.

  “I was in love with a woman who really wanted to come back to her hometown in the worst way,” I tell her. “I suppose I could have gotten another kind of job – teaching, maybe – but law enforcement’s what I do best. Anyway …”

  And here I stop, because the tone of this conversation has shifted so fast that I’m not sure I’m still comfortable with it.

  “Anyway …?” Williams says, and gives me a smile which I think is meant to suggest that she’s good at keeping secrets.

  Oh, what the hell – why not tell her the rest?

  “We both wanted kids,” I blurt out. “And we didn’t think New York City was the right place to raise them.”

  The confidential smile is gone, and Williams has turned all serious.

  “But you never did have any, did you?” she asks.

  “No,” I agree. “We never did. Time we were getting back to the Department.”

  I start walking again, and Williams falls into step beside me.

  *

  Malloy is sitting at his desk, looking like he’s having a real bad hair day.

  “Did you call Mrs Hopgood?” I ask him.

  “Yes, sir. I did it as soon as you’d left for City Hall.”

  Or as soon as Mayor Pine had called Captain Ringman, and Ringman had bawled out his khaki officer for not anticipating the way events would turn out.

  “And did Mrs Hopgood say she was going to get Bobbie a lawyer?” I ask.

  Malloy smirks discreetly, the first tentative step back on the confidence trail.

  “She didn’t sound interested in Bobbie,” he says. “She seemed more worried about the guy on the game show she was watching – he had a real good chance of winning the car.”

  “Bring Bobbie up to Interrogation,” I tell him. “And if he gets any more bruises on the way, Malloy, we’re going to step into the back alley, you and me – no ranks – and I’m going to beat the living shit out of you.”

  The smirk disappears. “I’ll take good care to see he doesn’t get hurt, sir,” Malloy says earnestly.

  Yeah, I’m sure he will. By this time tomorrow, I may be out on my ass, but until then Malloy’s not going to risk crossing me again.

  *

  Williams and I take up our positions in the Interrogation Room, me at the table, her standing by the door.

  “You got your troubles with the Mayor and the Department,” she says, “but at least you’re a man in a man’s world – and that’s one hell of an edge.”

  “Have you got a specific example in mind?” I ask.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Let’s say you did beat on Malloy, like you’ve just threatened to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some of the guys in the Department would approve and some would disapprove, but whichever it was, they’d all shake their heads and say: ‘That Kaleta! He never plays it by the rules.’ Isn’t that how it would be?”

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say, and for some reason I don’t yet understand, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘But if I
beat up on Malloy – and don’t think I couldn’t – then what they’d say would be: ‘That Williams! She couldn’t handle the job and turned hysterical. Just goes to show – women don’t belong in criminal investigation.’”

  “It could be worse,” I say.

  “Worse?”

  “Yeah. You might have been born black, as well.”

  For a second, anger flashes across Williams’ face. Then she grins, and says: “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

  Malloy has returned. He has his hands around Bobbie’s arm, but he is guiding, rather than gripping – in other words, handling his prisoner like Bobbie is a priceless porcelain vase he’s been ordered to deliver intact.

  “Sit down, Bobbie,” I say, pointing to the chair opposite me. “You can go, Malloy.”

  Bobbie walks hesitantly to the chair. There are no new bruises on his face, but the old ones have become darker and angrier.

  There have been other changes, too. His skin seems paler, his eyes more helpless. And when he touches the chair, he does so cautiously, like it is a totally alien, hostile object.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Bobbie,” I say encouragingly.

  He pulls out the chair and gingerly lowers himself into it. When it turns out not to be one of those booby-traps that life is always setting in his path, he relaxes – but only a little.

  If Bobbie is guilty, then the DNA evidence will have him cold, I tell myself. But if he isn’t guilty, then someone has set him up – and whoever has done that is almost certain to be the man we are looking for.

  “What’s your name?” Bobbie asks.

  “Mike.”

  “Please help me, Mr Mike. I don’t like it here.”

  “I will help you, but you’ve got to help me, too, Bobbie. Will you do that?”

  He nods, and I slide a photograph of Jeannie across to him.

  “Do you know this little girl, Bobbie?”

  He holds the picture up carefully, like he’s afraid of damaging it, and his brow puckers as he tries to concentrate.

  “She’s nice,” he says finally.

  “But do you know her, Bobbie?”

  “I’d like to play with her,” he says. Then, suddenly, he looks completely miserable. “My mom won’t let me. My mom never let me play with the other kids. When they came calling, she locked me in my room. She told them I was sick.”

  “Was that because you once hurt one of the other kids, Bobbie?” I ask.

  “I never hurt them. I just wanted to play, but my mom said I couldn’t go out because I sha … sha …”

  “Shamed her?” I ask.

  He nods gratefully.

  “Shamed her,” he agrees. “Why did I shamed her? I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  “Dear God,” I hear Williams say, behind me.

  “You do have a good friend now though, don’t you, Bobbie?” I coax. “Your special friend?”

  He smiles. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I don’t sh … shamed him. He likes me a lot.”

  It’s possible, of course, that this special friend doesn’t actually exist – that Bobbie has used his limited imagination to create him, as a means of self-protection. But it’s also possible that the real rapist has befriended him in order to gain access to his room, so when he started to feel things getting too hot, he could plant the evidence on Bobbie.

  “Is your special friend the same age as you are?” I ask. “Or is he younger?”

  “He … I promised not to tell.”

  “But I’m a policeman, and I’m going to be your friend too,” I assure him.

  And that isn’t a lie – an attempt to trick him. I really mean it.

  “What’s your special friend’s name, Bobbie?” I ask.

  “Are you really my friend, Mr Mike?” he says, uncertainly.

  “I’m really your friend,” I promise.

  Bobbie gulps, and takes a decision.

  “Okay,” he says.

  The door clicks open and I swing around angrily, because an interruption is just what I do not need right now.

  Malloy is standing there, and just behind him I can see another man.

  “Prisoner’s lawyer’s here,” the khaki announces.

  He steps aside to let the attorney into the room. The man is maybe my age, but graying at the temples. He is wearing a dark blue suit that manages to look sharp and discreet at the same time.

  I know this man’s type immediately. I roomed with people just like him at Yale. Guys born to wear suits like his. Guys who, when all the rest of us were wondering whether we should be artists or activists, had already picked out their safe, steady careers. Guys who had not only calculated how much they’d be earning by the time they were 30, but also had an investment program worked out for their residual income.

  He is carrying a briefcase in one hand and an incongruous brown paper sack in the other. He sticks the sack under the arm holding the briefcase, and holds out the hand he has thus freed.

  “Maxwell Tait.”

  Maxwell! It would have to be something like that. People who look like Tait are almost never called Joe or Bill.

  “Mike Kaleta,” I say.

  He pumps my hand.

  Firm but brief.

  The confident handshake of a busy man.

  I glance down at his briefcase, and see a British Airways label attached to it.

  “I’ve just got in from Europe,” he explains. “I’ve been over there on a working holiday for the last few months.”

  Naturally! What else?

  “You don’t look much like a public defender,” I say.

  He grimaces, like I’ve just cut a fart.

  “I’m legal counsel for Craddock Industries.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card which is thick enough to be used as a doorstop. He hands it to me. On one side is printed the Boston address of Tait, Walsh and Fineberg, Attorneys-at-Law. On the other side, he – or maybe his secretary – has written his Harrisburg phone number.

  “The reason I’m here is that Thurston wanted the prisoner to have an attorney as soon as possible – and I just happened to be on the spot,” Tait explains.

  I notice – as I’m supposed to – that he is on first name terms with Craddock.

  Bobbie is watching us, but his face shows about as much comprehension as if we were two cavemen communicating by squeaks and grunts.

  “Would it be possible to confer with my client now?” Tait asks.

  I gesture to the chair I’ve been using. Tait looks at it disdainfully. I guess this is just not the sort of environment in which he is used to conducting his business.

  “Sorry about the room,” I say, “but the Penthouse Suite has been assigned to Grand Theft-Auto this week.”

  He smiles – like he is genuinely amused.

  The hell he is!

  He sits down on the chair, places his briefcase on the floor and puts the brown paper sack on the table.

  “Hello Bobbie,” he says.

  “Hi,” Bobbie replies uncertainly.

  “I’ve brought something of his,” Tait says to me. “Can I give it to him?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  Tait opens the sack carefully, so that I can see what is inside, but Bobbie can’t.

  Black and white fur, cloth ears.

  “All right,” I say.

  He twists the bag round so that the prisoner can look in, too.

  Bobbie’s face light up. “Pooky! You’ve brought me Pooky.”

  I am impressed – and not a little humiliated. Tait is only an unimaginative, money-grabbing attorney, whereas I am an artist, a creative writer – or at least, I used to be. I saw the toys before he did. I should have had the idea of bringing one with me, to help break down the barriers.

  Bobbie is so excited that he has difficulty extracting Pooky, and in the end he just rips open the paper sack.

  The panda is maybe one and a half feet tall. Bobbie hugs it tightly
to him. And then he does something weird. He moves his free hand up between its legs to where, on a more progressive toy, the genitalia would be. He extends one finger and starts to rub – slowly, caressingly. And now I can see that, although the rest of the panda shows the signs of the wear and tear normal on a favorite toy, the space between the panda’s legs is almost devoid of fur.

  Bobbie’s actions seem both to have taken Tait by surprise, and to have alarmed him.

  “I’d like to be left alone with my client,” he snaps, all smoothness gone from his voice.

  I wish that I’d had five more minutes with Bobbie before Tait arrived. I wish that I could stay now, and watch Bobbie and his panda. But Tait is Bobbie’s lawyer and has the right to ask me to go.

  I make a reluctant turn, and head for the door.

  9

  Washington Height just used to be called The Hill until a mayor back in the early Seventies figured he could pull in the moderate black vote by renaming the spot after the famous Negro reformer. The ploy didn’t work – next election the mayor was out – but the name stuck. Now you’ll only find a few old coots who still refer to it as The Hill, though most people who call it Washington Height think it was named after George Washington, the first President, rather than Booker T., the author of Up From Slavery.

  The Height stands towards the western edge of town. At the very top is the cemetery which Nat Harris founded so that he could look down on his empire even when he was dead. Below that are the houses which used to belong to the tobacco executives – but were picked up for a song by the town’s doctors and lawyers once Mustang closed down. And just one step down from this circle of professional affluence is the Wesley Thorpe Special School – Bobbie Hopgood’s Alma Mater.

  It is not quite ten o’clock when I park my LeBaron in front of the school, but already it is sticky-hot.

  “You want to get air-conditioning installed in this vehicle,” Williams says – which is real helpful.

  We get out of the car and look at the school, which is surrounded by a chain link fence. It is a double-fronted clapboard house. It looks old, maybe even 19th century, but I’m no expert, and people around Harrisburg are so conservative in their taste that it’s possible the place went up in the last fifty years. But however young or old it is, the building looks neglected. The paint is peeling, and even from a distance I can see that some of the roof shingles are missing. And this neglect, I decide, is not the neglect of an eroding tax base – of the city having its balls caught in the mangle. This is the neglect of a Council of Elders who didn’t give a shit about special education even back in the days when we were all smoking ourselves to death.