John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“I notice from your file here that you seem to finish first in everything that you do. That’s quite an accomplishment. You should be proud.”

Harry shifted in his seat. The course of the conversation made him uneasy. He was expecting to get yelled at, not complimented. “I try, sir?’ he said.

“Sergeant Hackner told me a few weeks ago that you have your heart set on a gold shield?’ Warren went on. “Is that important to you as well?”

Uh-oh, here it comes, Harry thought. “Yes, sir, that’s very important. You might say that’s my career ambition.”

Michaels pondered the response for a long moment, gauging sincerity. “Did you cheat on your entrance exam into the Academy?”

“No, sir!” Harry’s response was instant and unequivocal.

“How about all the other tests and programs you’ve been involved with since you got your badge. How many of them have you cheated on?”

Harry’s control of his anger was slipping. “None at all, Lieutenant Michaels. And, frankly, sir, I resent…”

“Shut up, Patrolman Thompkins, before you say something you’ll regret. Resent things on your own time. On mine, I’ll thank you to answer my questions. Do we understand each other?”

Harry’s jaw locked tightly. “Yes, sir?’ he hissed.

“So you expect nee to believe that you’ve performed the way you have thus far in your career by working hard and following the rules?” Michaels continued. “No cheating, no shortcuts?”

Harry’s eyes now bore directly through the lieutenant’s forehead. “I can’t dictate what you’ll believe, sir, but I have in fact done it all by the book.”

Warren grew quiet again and drew in a deep breath through his nose. “I gather, then, from your responses that you think cheating is wrong?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Even when the rewards are great? Even when it makes the difference between getting into the Academy and washing out?”

“I was raised right, Lieutenant Michaels. I was always taught that if you can’t get what you want by working for it, then you shouldn’t have it at all.” He seemed to grow taller with pride as he made his response.

“Why, then, do you have a lesser standard for the collection of evidence?” As he spoke, Warren’s eyes narrowed and he leaned all the way forward until his chest was pressed against his desk.

Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then he got it. His shoulders sagged visibly, as though deflated.

Warren didn’t need a verbal response; the body language said what he wanted to hear. “You probably thought I was going to yell at you this afternoon for making a fool of yourself on the radio yesterday, didn’t you?”

Harry nodded. His demeanor was suddenly that of a schoolboy in the principal’s office.

“Well, take heart, Thompkins,” Warren went on. “This is America, and it’s your absolute, unalienable right to make a fool of yourself anytime you want, though next time I’d appreciate it if you’d go it alone, and leave the department out of it.

“The reason we’re having this little chat, Patrolman, is because you cheated yesterday, and you got caught. There is a right way and a wrong way to obtain evidence, and your actions tell me that you’re well aware that the right way almost always takes longer. You see this?” He held up the personnel folder.

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled. “That’s my jacket.”

“That’s right. And it’s your career. It’s the reason you’re not out on the street looking for a job. You’ve had a long string of successes, Harry, and one huge fuckup.”

Harry was startled to hear the lieutenant use his first name.

“I’ll cut to the chase. This department has a skewed memory. Fact is, one ‘oh shit’ wipes out a lifetime of (atta boys: You’ve had your oh shit, Harry. One more and I won’t be able to run interference for you, do you understand?” Warren’s phone rang.

“Yes, se Harry responded, wondering what had happened to the shouting, and how he could be made to feel this badly about himself without it.

As the phone rang a second time, Warren put his hand on it. “Next time I see your name in writing, I want it to be on a commendation or on the committee’s recommendation for the next detective’s slot, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry braved a smile, which Warren returned.

The phone rang a fourth time. “Now get out of here and go to work. And don’t ask Petrelli or the County Executive for any favors for a while:’

Harry exited and closed the door. The others were right, he concluded. Michaels was one of the good guys. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what kind of chewing out the big man himself had received after shooting his reflection in that mirror.

Michaels took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, cradling his flip-phone on his shoulder as he fitted his weapon into its holster. He could hear his heart racing. A few seconds passed, then Jed answered on the third ring.

“Nicholson residence, Detective Sergeant Hackner.”

“Jed, Warren. They’ve found the car in Pennsylvania, just north of Harrisburg. I’m on my way up there now.”

“Great,” Jed replied, amused by the sounds of exertion in his boss’s voice. “I’ll cover things here.”

Stephanie Buckman was running out of important-looking tasks to consume time. The big clock in the main corridor of the courthouse read 3:40, nearly two hours past the scheduled time for the hearing. Petrelli never showed up, and Stephanie knew from experience that his absence meant that she was stuck with a loser. Fuming as she paced the corridor, she mentally inventoried her bloated caseload. With thirty-three felonies and God only knew how many miscellaneous other matters pending, she had zero tolerance for tilting at Petrelli’s windmills. To make matters worse, her high-priced opponents from Omega Broadcasting sat smugly on the other side of the corridor, engrossed in quiet conversation, showing no signs at all of stress. But then, she guessed she’d be calm, too, if she were hauling down $250 an hour just for the wait. Finally, at ten minutes to four, word came that Judge Verone was ready to begin.

First appointed to the bench in 1955, Judge Clarence 0. Verone appeared old enough to be an original signer of the Constitution. He was notorious for running hours behind schedule, and forever refusing to explain the reasons for the delays. Theories abounded, but the simple truth was that his was an appointment for life, and he could be as punctual as he liked. That his whims destroyed the carefully balanced schedules of countless attorneys was irrelevant. “When you get your own courtroom,” he would tell his critics, “you have my permission to start on time.”

Now approaching his eightieth birthday, Judge Verone looked cadaverous, his dark eyes and sunken cheeks creating a visage of evil that had served well over the years to intimidate the crap out of many courtroom guests. As he climbed onto the dais, he had to pause for a moment to allow his arthritic knees to absorb the strain. The courtroom remained silent, all parties on their feet, secretly wondering how much longer the old codger could continue.

For all of his physical frailties, Judge Verone’s knowledge of the law was formidable. A fierce victim’s advocate, he had sent more than his share of capital felons to await their turn in Greensville’s electric chair. A staunch proponent of individual responsibility, he had watched countless plaintiffs and their attorneys limp from his courtroom with their wallets empty and their tails between their legs. The assignment of Judge Verone to the People’s petition to access Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records no doubt accounted for Petrelli’s conspicuous absence.