Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“So this is punishment?” I said. “Beating up a kid and then giving him hypothermia?”

“One less,” he said. “Who gives a shit?”

I got to my feet, dusted off my knee, and punched the guard very hard in the stomach. He crumpled like a paper tiger. I reached down and felt into his pockets, pulling out a small ring of keys. I found three handcuff keys. The second worked.

I helped the kid to his feet. “You took a weapon off this guy?” I said.

The boy nodded. We looked down at the man and the boy summoned enough energy to spit on him.

Long already had out his cell phone, punching up numbers and talking to someone in Boston. “Gee,” Long said. “What do you know? The reception is excellent.”

“What do you think?” I said.

“I think I’ve seen all I need to,” Long said. “Kid gonna be okay?”

“He needs medical attention,” I said. “And this place needs to be fumigated.”

Sergeant Long nodded at me. I took off my peacoat and helped the boy inside it. I put my arm around him and walked him toward the front office. The fat woman at the desk had seen everything that happened outside. She would not look me in the eye. Everyone in the front office tried in vain to look busy until the cops arrived and many reports were written.

54

By mid-May, the weather in Boston had improved greatly. Winter was all but a bad memory, and I’d switched out the flannel for a cotton button-down. I did wear a light sport coat, as I’d agreed to drive Dillon Yates to the federal courthouse that morning. Good to her word, Sheila had moved out of Blackburn to Framingham. She’d taken a job with a small law firm and Dillon had enrolled in the local high school. The Yateses didn’t need Blackburn anymore. Blackburn had come to them.

Dozens of angry parents had amassed on the brick plaza, holding hand-painted signs with some not-so-nice things to say about Joe Scali. Thanks to stories in The Star , they knew almost eighty percent of the kids in Scali’s courtroom appeared without a lawyer. A juvenile justice group investigated further, finding parents had signed waivers outside courtroom doors. Never realizing they’d given away their kids’ right to an attorney.

Scali was in the third day of his federal trial, the venue moving north to Massachusetts, where most of the crimes were committed. Gavin Callahan had already cut a deal and pled guilty to corruption and bribery. I was pretty sure that Jamal Whitehead was waiting for the right moment to connect Callahan to the DeMarcos. I wondered what would ever become of their boat.

The new digs of U.S. District Court were in a shiny new mirrored building just south over the Channel on Seaport Boulevard. As expected, there were news crews, onlookers, and weirdoes mixed in with the families. Making our way into the plaza, I spotted Jake Cotner and Ryan Bell. They walked over to Dillon and began to talk. Dillon was wearing a navy blazer and tie. He was expected to testify that morning.

My old friend Beth Golnick was nowhere to be seen. Jake and Ryan said she’d moved out of state.

“What do you think?” Sheila Yates said.

“I think Scali better watch out for flying tomatoes.”

“The prick.”

“And to think,” I said. “This all started with a sandwich.”

“It was worth it.”

“It was a terrific sandwich.”

“I’ll make good,” Sheila said. “I’ll pay you every last nickel for what you did. You and Miss Mullen.”

“Miss Mullen and I have agreed this one is on the house.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I would’ve paid you to take this on.”

Sheila Yates pulled me in and hugged me. She could squeeze very tight, and by now I’d grown accustomed to her perfume. As she held on, I spotted Iris Milford walking through the crowd and giving me a devilish smile. “Am I interrupting something?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “We plan on doing this all day.”

Sheila Yates wiped her eyes and stepped away. She then turned to Iris and started hugging her. Iris was caught off guard. And then caught on to the spirit and patted Sheila’s back a few times before Sheila joined Dillon and the two boys.

“All the news that’s fit to print,” she said. “And some of the shit left over for The Star .”

“How’s the reaction in Blackburn?”

“Ran a story yesterday with Judge Price’s wife and family,” she said. “They still believe Scali killed him.”

“He did,” I said. “In a way.”

“And there are some, although a minority, who believe he’s been framed.”

“Thick heads.”

“Have you been to Blackburn?”

“Unfortunately.”

“People come from generations of millworkers,” she said. “You do what the foreman says and ask no questions.”

Iris wore a stylish black wrap dress and carried a faux-cheetah purse. I guessed it to be faux, as I was pretty sure it was illegal to kill cheetahs these days. We walked over to a low brick wall and sat until it was time for court to start. We both knew it’d be a long day, and we enjoyed the sunshine and nice breeze off the water. Way out in the harbor, the Feds had shut down the facility. The kids had been sent elsewhere. Parents, lawyers, and advocates wanted every kid tried by Scali to have their records expunged.

It was very likely to happen.

“You read where Bobby Talos is saying he’s a victim?”

“I did.”

“He might get a wrist slapped.”

“The law isn’t justice,” I said. “It’s a very imperfect mechanism.”

“You can say that again.”

“The law isn’t—”

Iris held up her hand. We laughed and sat in silence for now, watching the boats out in the harbor. A woman passed us with a big sign that read BAD JUDGES BURN IN HELL. A teenager held up another reading GIVE ME BACK MY LIFE.

“Mmm,” Iris said.

“When they break, can I take you to lunch?”

“You can.”

“And we can discuss more imperfections of the world?”

“How much time do you have?”

“I’m here until the show is over.”

“What if he goes free?”

“It could happen,” I said. “Both you and I know that.”

“But not likely.”

I shrugged. We watched the small sailboats catch a stiff spring breeze and skate across the calm harbor. The whole motion was smooth and effortless. I thought about the boy I’d met out on Fortune Island and I wondered what had become of him. He’d gone back to Blackburn and returned to school. There was talk of a lawsuit.

“More than a thousand kids,” she said. “And nobody gave a shit.”

As I nodded, the crowd started to gather and yell. Scali walked in tow with his two lawyers as signs were raised and angry parents and kids pelted him with insults.

The judge wore a funeral black suit and tie, looking bemused and diminutive behind his purple-tinted glasses. The wind off the harbor knocking his comb-over up off his bald head. One woman screamed at him that he wasn’t a god. An angry teenage girl called him a liar and a cheat. Behind him, the courthouse’s mirrored windows shined in a giant reflection of the calm harbor.

As he walked inside, Scali was still smiling.

55

The night of Scali’s sentencing, I took Susan to dinner at Grill 23.

It wasn’t a celebration. Although he’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from Massachusetts Child Care, Scali skated on kids for cash. He told the court he never took a nickel to send a child to jail. The kickbacks, he and his attorney argued, were misconstrued finder’s fees. The jury bought it.

“What a repulsive little man,” Susan said.

“Are you going to eat that?” I said, pointing to a scallop with my fork.