Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“How much?”

“I think it was like two hundred and fifty dollars a day per kid and about ninety thousand a year.”

“For two hundred and fifty a day, I could get them a good deal at the Taj.”

“Part of the cost involves schooling and rehabilitation.”

“Someone is getting rich.”

“Oh, hell, yes, it’s wrong. All of it’s wrong as hell. But so is this country’s entire prison system. You want me to run down some numbers of young black males stuck in prisons across this country?”

I nodded. I drank some more coffee. A guy named Mel walked into the diner. Everyone seemed to know Mel and wished him a good morning. The short-order cook rang the bell several times in his honor.

“What do you know about MCC?” I said.

“Not much,” she said. “It’s a Boston company that runs correctional facilities throughout the state. Corporate prisons are a thing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You know who owns it?”

“I have all that information back at the newsroom,” she said. “What are you getting at, Spenser?”

“I just would like to know who’s profiting from Scali banging his gavel,” I said. “Judge Price might have been onto something.”

“Jim Price was a sweet man,” she said. “But he was a weird old white man. He saw conspiracies everywhere. He hated Scali’s guts. He hated Callahan’s even more.”

“His wife said that’s what killed him,” I said. “The stress.”

“I think she’s right.”

The waitress brought out our breakfast. My omelet had spinach, tomatoes, and feta. The bacon on the side was a quarter-inch thick. Iris had some wheat toast and one scrambled egg. Heart healthy.

She pointed her fork at me to emphasize things as we spoke. “I can run down the board of directors and that sort of thing,” she said. “I think Scali is a hothead and a media hound. But it’s a long jump to corrupt. Profiting from sending kids off. You’d have to prove a lot.”

“What kind of man denies attorneys in his courtroom?”

“Is that proven?”

“Nine out of ten teens I’ve met say so.”

Iris nodded. She ate some toast and picked at the egg the way Susan would. Maybe they weren’t slow eaters, only trying to make the food go further. Up at the diner counter, Mel told a joke. When he hit the punch line, everyone laughed. Ol’ Mel. What a card.

“I’ll make copies of the audit,” I said. “And send them to your office.”

“So that’s what we’re doing here?” she said. “A little quid pro quo.”

“I only speak pig Latin.”

“Tit for tat.”

“More my speed.”

“Well, sure,” she said, taking the last bite of egg. “I’m in. Just let me know before something explodes. Will you?”

I crossed my heart before eating more bacon.

“Feels good,” she said. “Reminds me that I used to actually work for a real newspaper.”

“I feel bad for the kid.”

“Which one?” she said.

“Both of them,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me see Beth. She can’t make bail until tomorrow.”

“You know who arrested her?”

“Same cop who rousted me after I left the high school.”

“Hmm.”

“I know,” I said. “Small world.”

18

I met Megan Mullen at the Blackburn courthouse shortly after four o’clock.

I’d been waiting on a wooden bench on the first floor for the last hour, watching cops, plaintiffs, and legal eagles pass by. I liked courthouses. I’d spent a lot of time in them, both as a witness and as an investigator for the DA. This one was so old it still had a bank of phone booths by the restrooms. I half expected to see Clark Gable rush into one and tell his editor to go suck an egg.

Megan bounded down the marble steps. She carried a smart leather satchel. As she approached, she smiled, which I took to be a good sign.

“Your pal Beth will be out within the hour,” she said.

“I doubt she’s my pal anymore,” I said. “Being arrested puts a damper on one’s relationship.”

“ADA didn’t want to argue against the merits of keeping a first-time offender in school. I had to make some concessions, but ultimately they backed down.”

“Did you threaten them?” I said.

“Why not,” Megan said. “Never hurts.”

“When all else fails.”

“Kick ’em in the balls.”

“I take it the ADA was a man.”

“Was that a sexist remark?” she said.

“And appropriate.”

Megan looked at least six months older today in a two-button black wool blazer over a knee-length black dress. She wore black-framed glasses, her brown hair stylish and loose across her shoulders. She took a seat next to me, clutching her satchel and glancing down at her phone.

“To be honest,” she said, scrolling through messages, “it didn’t take much to argue Beth’s not a flight risk or a danger to others.”

“What were the charges?”

“Originally?” she said. “They had her with possession with intent to sell. I got the intent dropped. She will have to go before Scali, but she can be at home until her court date.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“You ever heard of molly?”

“As in ‘Good Golly’?”

“As in the club drug.”

“I’ve been off the club scene lately,” I said. “Since I quit the DJ gig.”

Megan eyed me with just a hint of suspicion. “Just what does Rita see in you?”

I offered her my biceps and flexed. Megan looked at me and widened her eyes behind her smart glasses. She declined to squeeze. “I don’t like these people, Spenser,” she said. “The clerk seemed completely ill-equipped to deal with a juvenile with counsel, as if having an attorney is unheard of.”

“You should meet the public defender,” I said. “He’s a real hoot after a few drinks.”

“From what you told me,” she said, “ick.”

“Yep, Mr. Ick. That’s him.”

Two Blackburn uniform cops passed and eyed me with a bit of suspicion. Maybe the word had gotten out. Or maybe I’d just grown paranoid. They might have very well been jealous of my Dodgers cap or my vintage leather bomber jacket. Maybe they wanted to sit down and join us. Talk a little about Duke Snider and the ’59 series.

“What sucks is how dismissive they are here,” she said. “A senior partner had to call and ream out the DA.”

“Yowzer,” I said.

There was talk and laughter up on the marble landing, and as we both looked up, a short man with thin black hair and purple-tinted glasses descended the staircase. He wore civilian garb, a gray suit with wide lapels and padded shoulders, set off with a wide and bright silver tie. The last time I’d seen a suit like that was right before Dynasty went off the air.

Joe Scali walked with two men who looked to be cops. They wore street clothes and each displayed a shield and a gun on their belts. Scali did not break stride as he passed our little wooden bench. But the talk and laughter stopped and there was a slight beat of hesitation, a slight turn of his head, eye contact, and then he moved on.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

“That’s him?” Megan said.

“I know,” I said. “I thought he’d be taller, too.”

“No, that’s not it,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d be so—”

“Sharply dressed?”

“Oily.”

The few people milling about the halls were called back into one of the courtrooms. The ancient twin doors opened onto the street and Scali and his pals left the building. A cold wind shot through the entrance and down through the halls. I sunk my hands into my jacket. “Thanks,” I said.

Megan smiled. “I only wish I could do more for Dillon Yates.”