Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“Sit down,” said an older man in a ball cap. “Shut up. Don’t start trouble for yourself before you even get here.”

The man looked to be in his forties and had a shaved head and a goatee. He wore a ski jacket and had a tattoo on his neck. The snow, sleet, and darkness made it hard to see past a few feet. The boy stared out the boat’s window at the snow catching and melting on the windows, listening to the steady hum of the motor until it revved hard and they left the dock. The men’s feet were hard and heavy around them. There was laughter and a lot of talk. Someone said something about those little fuckers. The man with the tattoo was at the wheel now, staring into nothing, the front of the boat lifting up and slamming back down.

The boy had never spent much time at sea. You could smell the cold salt air all around you.

He felt like he might puke.

He lifted his eyes, everything off-kilter. Pooky was across from him, shaking his head. “Don’t do it,” he said. “Don’t show you weak or it’s all over.”

The boy just breathed and looked out the window, looking for something. In the distance came the swinging arc of brightness from a lighthouse.

“How bad is it?” the boy said.

“It ain’t good.”

“What do they do to you?”

“Everything.”

10

A few days later, I sat across from Sheila Yates in a conference room at Cone, Oakes. We were very high up, and the view of the docks and the cold, breaking waves in the harbor was impressive. I almost wished I’d worn a tie, perhaps my J. Press blazer with gold buttons. Instead, I had on work clothes. Levi’s, button-down Ball and Buck shirt, Red Wings, and my A-2 bomber jacket. I kept on the A-2 to shield my Smith & Wesson.

“I’m about to go nuts,” Sheila said. “They take him out there. To that island, and there’s no way to see him? This is crazy.”

“We’ll get him out,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because we will,” I said. “Scali has grown cocky and sloppy. The law is on our side.”

“That doesn’t always mean jack.”

“Depends on who’s cracking the whip.”

Just then a young woman walked into the office carrying a tall cup of Starbucks. She was thin, with a dimpled chin and big, sleepy hazel eyes under a ski hat. She trundled out of an enormous gray coat while she held a batch of papers in her teeth. She sat down at the head of the conference table, still in the ski hat marked with two crossed arrows, and shuffled the papers. I didn’t want to be judgmental, but she looked all of twelve.

“Is Rita coming?” I said.

“Rita is in court today,” she said. “I’m Megan Mullen. I’ll be handling your case.”

“What are you, twelve?” Sheila said.

I stifled a smile. It was a good question.

“No, ma’am, I’m twenty-nine,” she said. “There’s no age discrimination at Harvard Law School. I passed the bar and everything.”

Sheila Yates raised her eyebrows at me. I smiled just a little. I didn’t want Megan Mullen to notice, as she seemed to have small but sharp teeth. She pulled off the ski hat, unveiling a neat bun at the back of her head and two respectable-sized diamond earrings. She pushed up the sleeves on a navy V-neck sweater and settled in to read the papers before her.

I tapped my fingers. “I’m Spenser, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” Megan said.

“Excellent.”

“Rita warned me.”

“Warned you?”

“She said you’re a solid investigator and have done a lot for the firm.”

“And?”

“She said you’d make jokes about me being young.”

“But I’ve refrained.”

Megan looked up from the papers and gave me a wait-and-see glance. I waved an empty palm across the very long desk. We were up so high that a dense fog shifted below us like low-hanging clouds.

“I don’t get this,” she said. “Your son made a joke on Twitter and they arrested him?”

“I know,” Sheila said. “Freakin’ crazy.”

“On what charges?” she said.

“Keep reading,” I said. “It gets freakin’ crazier.”

Megan flipped through the file Sheila Yates and I had put together. This wasn’t a murder case. The file was very thin. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

“So ridiculous my Dillon was hauled away in shackles and taken out into the harbor,” Sheila said. “For rehabilitation, as if he were some kind of criminal. He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t do drugs. He once stole a pack of Doublemint gum when he was four. I made him take it back and pay for it. He’s a great kid.”

“Some people can’t take a joke,” I said.

Megan pushed the papers away from her as if they were a rotten meal. She made an uggh sound and crossed her arms over her very small chest. I bet if she stood on a box, she might come up to my shoulders. She tilted her head at me, dropping those big, sleepy eyes like a hammer. “Oh, I can take a joke,” she said. “If it’s funny.”

“Two lawyers and a priest walk into a bar,” I said.

Megan held up her hand. “Just tell me what you learned in Blackburn.”

“You know Dillon’s grandfather signed a waiver giving up his right to an attorney?” I said.

“I do,” she said. “And we’ve filed an appeal. I just didn’t know the circumstances behind his arrest.”

“For the record, I don’t think the waiver even matters to them. The juvie judge doesn’t like lawyers in his courtroom. Not to mention the public defender in Blackburn didn’t seem too concerned. He said a lawyer wouldn’t have made a difference. And he’s got bigger problems than kiddie cases.”

“Like what?”

“Mainly draining a bottle of Old Crow.”

“So this isn’t isolated?” Megan said.

“I think it’s the Blackburn way.”

“They can’t do that,” she said. “A judge can’t just make up his own procedure and rules.”

“Aha,” I said. “You did go to Harvard Law.”

Megan dropped her chin at me and stared. I smiled. She waited for a moment and then smiled back. Friends after all. Any protégée of Rita Fiore’s couldn’t be immune to my charms. “Disgusting,” Megan said. “Completely disgusting.”

“How long will the appeal take?” Sheila said.

“We’re working as fast as possible,” she said. “Has no one complained about this judge before?”

“A fellow Blackburn judge,” I said. “He got the local newspaper involved and they were able to prove Joe Scali had off-the-charts incarceration rates. The highest in the Commonwealth, with their annual budget being looted for keeping kids in private prisons.”

“And?” Megan said.

“And nothing ever came of it,” I said. “The complaining judge died and Scali was able to explain things off as him being tough on juvie crime.”

“Surely there have been complaints to the Department of Youth Services and the bar?”

“One would think,” I said.

“Blackburn ain’t normal,” Sheila said. “People around there keep their heads down and mouths shut. They tell me that’s the way it’s always been.”

“I heard you’re not too good at shutting your mouth,” Megan said, standing and offering her thin, small hand. I tried to look modest as I shook it.

“Tell Rita I’ll win you over, too.”

“We’ll see about that,” Megan said.

“You know, I have socks older than you.”

“Then I suggest you go shopping, Mr. Spenser.”

I grinned and walked out of the law office with Sheila Yates. She clasped her hands together over her mouth, closing her eyes in prayer, the whole ride down to the first floor. “What do you think?” she said. “Is it going to work?”