Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

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Dagger Awards
Eager for physical action in the spirit-numbing wake of 9/11, VI Warshawski is glad to take on a routine stake-out for her most important client, Darraugh Graham. His ninety-one year-old mother has sold the family estate, but Geraldine Graham keeps a fretful eye on it from her retirement apartment across the road. When Geraldine sees lights there in the middle of the night, Darraugh sends V I out to investigate-and the detective finds a dead journalist in the ornamental pond. The man is an African-American; when the suburban cops seem to be treating him as a criminal who stumbled to a drunken death, his family hires V I to investigate.
As she retraces the dead reporter’s tracks, V I finds herself in the middle of a Gothic tale of sex, money, and power. The trail leads her back to the McCarthy era blacklists, and forward to the ominous police powers the American government has assumed today. V I finds herself penned into a smaller and smaller space by an array of business and political leaders who can call on the power of the Patriot Act to shut her up. Only her wits, and an unusual alliance she forges with Geraldine Graham and a sixteen year old girl save her.

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The four men weren’t pals-there was a lot of pushing and shoving in the entryway as they all tried to speak to me. The DuPage deputy said he had orders to deliver me to Wheaton, and since I had “fled the jurisdiction where a crime was committed,” he had first dibs. The Chicago cops said they had told him already his orders had been superseded, that I was to go to Thirtyfifth and Michigan with them as soon as the federal agent had finished with me.

“I am operating under orders to search your place of residence,” the federal agent announced.

That got my attention at once; I demanded to see his warrant. “Ma’am, under the Patriot Act, if we believe there is an emergency situation affecting national security, we are permitted to bypass the warrant process.” He had a flat nasal twang that made him sound like the quintessential bureaucrat.

“I’m not involved in any emergency situations. And nothing I do affects

national security.” I put my house keys into my back jeans pocket and leaned against the inner door.

“Ma’am, the United States attorney for the Northern District of Illinois is the judge of that, and he deems that the events of yesterday evening are sufficiently alarming to require us to examine your premises.,,

“The events of yesterday evening? Could you stop talking like a damned manual and tell me why you’re here?”

The Chicago cops exchanged grins at that, but the agent continued in his flat way. “Ma’am, you vacated a house where a known terrorist was in hiding. We need to make sure you are not involved in shielding him in some way.”

“Was there a known terrorist there?” I asked with polite interest. “I only knew that a DuPage County lieutenant thought he could lock me in an abandoned mansion all night.”

“Irregardless, I have orders to search your place of residence; if you do not cooperate, the Chicago police are ordered to break down your door.” He didn’t speak with the aggressive glee that some law officers show when they can overwhelm you with force-he had a job to do; he was going to do it.

“What happened to `the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures’?” My voice was husky with fury.

“Ma’am, if you want to challenge my orders in federal court you will be able to do so at some later point in time, but these officers”-indicating the Chicago cops, who stood stolidly behind him, dissociating themselves from the proceedings-“are here to ensure that I examine your place of residence.”

Before I could escalate the confrontation to a level where I’d spend the night as the taxpayers’ guest, Mr. Contreras erupted from his apartment with the dogs. Mitch took exception to seeing men in uniform in the entryway and hurled himself at the hall door. Peppy barked in support.

I opened the hall door wide enough to slip through and grabbed the dogs by their collars, panting at Mr. Contreras to get their leashes. When I had the dogs under control, I wanted to stay on the far side of the entryway, hurling abuse at the law with the dogs, but I knew that would not just postpone the inevitable, it would make the inevitable more intolerable. I told my neighbor to let the men in.

“What in heck do they want?” he asked.

“To search my home. According to that walking manual in the tan overcoat, they can go to any home in America, claim the owner is concealing Osama bin Laden, and enter without a warrant. And if you object, they bust down the door.”

We were collecting an audience. The medical resident who lives on the first floor across from Mr. Contreras stormed out, saying that if I didn’t stop making all that racket she was calling the cops. When she saw the uniformed men, she blinked a few times, then demanded that they write me a ticket or impound the dogs.

The four lawmen were knocked off balance, but the federal agent recovered first and began intoning the fact that he was not here as part of a canine complaint unit. Before he could finish his first paragraph, a pair of guys from the second floor leaned over the stairwell and hollered down at the resident to shut up and get a life-they had an ongoing feud with her because she’d sicced the law on their late-night parties several times.

“Those dogs are well trained, they never bother anyone,” they yelled. The Chicago cops were now uncomfortable. When neighbors start to gather, simple situations turn complex in a hurry. The cops shushed the Fed and hustled our party up the stairs, sped along by the pair on the second floor who were singing “God Bless America” loudly enough to bring out the young Korean family from the facing apartment. As I undid the dead bolts on my door, I could hear their four-year-old ask, “Is it a parade?”

It didn’t take the law long to hunt through my apartment for the obvious: you can’t hide a body in four rooms without it coming to light pretty fast. Mitch and Peppy helped: every time someone opened a cupboard or looked under something, they were on his heels. I kept the dogs on short leashes, made sure they never actually touched one of the men, but a hundred-twenty-pound half Lab can make even a federal agent turn a few hairs. Mitch was also pulling on my sore shoulder hard enough to make me wince, but I pretended not to feel it.

During the search, Mr. Contreras kept up a running commentary on

men who hid behind badges as an excuse for doing work no decent person would undertake: “Let me tell you, I saw plenty of that in Europe in ‘forty-four, never thought I’d watch it in my own country. I risked my life on the beaches at Anzio, I know what real fire feels like coming at you out of real artillery, I saw my buddies cut up in pieces around me. If I’d known I was doing that so you could break into any house in America because you felt like it, they couldn’t a got me on that landing boat.”

That did sting the Fed: no manly man likes to be reminded that searching a woman’s apartment for a runaway youth isn’t as dangerous as facing real fire. He kept breaking off his search to try to rebut Mr. Contreras, but the beat cops told the Fed they were under orders to get me to Thirtyfifth and Michigan pronto, and to finish up.

Thirtyfifth and Michigan is the new Chicago police headquarters; I couldn’t begin to guess what they wanted with me there. Whoever had set up the meeting was getting impatient: he-or she-kept calling the Chicago cops to move them along, and they kept complaining that the federal agent was taking his sweet time. When the Fed said he wanted to go through my papers, the Chicago cops dug in all four feet: they had orders to bring me in within the half hour.

“I don’t require her or your presence to examine the documents,” the Fed said in his flat voice.

“I’m not leaving you alone in my apartment,” I said firmly. “You could plant evidence. You could steal something.”

When he started to proclaim his essential honesty, I said brightly, “I know: Mr. Contreras and the dogs can stay with you. Make sure you get a detailed description of any document J. Edgar takes, Mr. Contreras. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him walk off with the utility bills unless he promises to pay them-1 can’t afford to have my electricity turned off.”

The thought of an evening alone with the dogs and my neighbor made the Fed decide my papers probably weren’t worth going through. Perhaps the array of mail and books in the living and dining rooms also daunted him. At any event, he left my “place of residence” with the other lawmen. I locked up and followed them downstairs with the dogs.

At the front door, Mr. Contreras told me gruffly to keep my chin up; if I wasn’t home by midnight he’d get Freeman to find me. I went out with

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