C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

So many things Harris had said and done that night came flooding back:

“creeping fascism of the politically correct”

“There aren’t bureaucrats looking over your shoulder as you live your life, telling you how to speak and think and whom to associate with-taking your freedom away.”

“I’ve seen enough for to night.”

His outright joy in the way the restaurant tenderized the veal…

Jones was staring at me.

“Hold it,” I said. “You don’t think I knew about this in any way, do you?”

“Did you?” Jones asked, again with the eyebrows.

“For God’s sake, no!” I was nauseated by the thought. “I have a nine-month-old daughter, Tab.” It seemed ridiculous to have to defend myself to a forty-seven-year-old man called “Tab.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Doogan said, “but we have a problem.”

I shook my head, not getting it. Linda looked away.

“We-you-have been courting this guy,” Doogan said. “The mayor himself has announced this new business coming to town. Channel 9, which is no friend of the administration, as you know, called for a statement. They’re all over it. Even though it’s unfair, this ain’t beanbag we’re playing. Imagine a headline that reads: MAYOR HALLADAY AND DENVER CVB COURTED INTERNATIONAL PEDO PHILE.”

“Jack,” Jones said, “we’re going to restructure the bureau. This international stuff is just too hot right now. The mayor’s enemies and the press are always pointing to it as an extravagance we can’t afford, and now we’ve got this. That’s what we’ve been talking about in here. Linda’s being moved over to conventions. We’ve got a position open there, and she’s got seniority.”

“Meaning I’m out?” I said.

Jones pursed his lips and nodded yes.

Doogan said, “The best way to deal with an issue like this is to get out in front of it. If Channel 9 presses the story, we’ll respond by saying we’ve restructured our efforts and cut staff to avoid embarrassments like this in the future. Your name isn’t likely to come up in any way.”

“I’m sorry I can’t take you with me,” Linda said. “Maybe if something opens up down the road.”

I sat back. Too much, too fast.

“Sorry it worked out this way,” Doogan said.

“You don’t know how much I need this job,” I said. “You have no idea.”

“You’ll need to get with HR,” Jones said. “We’ll work out a generous severance package, and I believe you’ve got vacation and sick time coming.”

Looks of strained sympathy all around. Linda, especially.

CISSY WAS SUDDENLY IMMERSED in what ever she was reading on her desk and kept her head down as I opened the door. Pete, who had been loitering in the break room the whole time, tried to thinly disguise his relief.

I went into my office and bent over my desk, my head spinning. How would I tell Melissa?

AS DOOGAN WALKED past my office, I said, “Jim!”

He came in. I said, “You might want to shut the door.” This was the first time I’d ever seen him look ill at ease. I said, “How much of this has to do with Malcolm Harris and how much has to do with Judge Moreland? He knows I was in on the complaint the other night when the police went to talk to his son about Brian Eastman’s murder. I wonder if this Malcolm Harris thing isn’t just the excuse he was looking for.”

He shrugged unconvincingly.

“You’re not talking?”

He looked at my ceiling, my desk, his shoes, everywhere but at me. “Sometimes,” he said, “I do things that keep me up at night. I just try and convince myself that running a big city can be messy at times. Sometimes things are done for the greater good, and they aren’t necessarily fair or fun.”

“I guess that answers my question.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“One more thing,” I said. “I’ve got another problem for you, and this one’s much bigger than me. I’ve been thinking about some of the things Malcolm Harris said to me. He’s got connections here, Jim. That’s why he was going to relocate. In fact, at one point he told me he would be bulletproof. Bulletproof . Any idea why he’d say that?”

Doogan looked puzzled. “No idea at all,” he said.

“The mayor may have a much bigger problem than me.”

Doogan shrugged. “Then we’ll deal with it when it happens.”

WITH THE PERSONAL ITEMS from my office in a box in the backseat of the Jeep, I roared out of the dark parking garage into a cold but sun-drenched day. I should have been devastated, but I wasn’t. Instead, it was as if another burden had been lifted. I was charged up, filled with a full and dangerous kind of energy. I felt manic.

I called Melissa and told her what happened.

“Oh, Jack,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get another job. You’re good at what you do.”

“Yes,” I said sarcastically, “there are openings for international tourism marketers all over town. I just need to snatch one up.”

“We’ll get by,” she said. “I could go back to work after…”

“Don’t say it,” I said, cutting her off.

“Why us, Jack?” There was a catch in her voice.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s like we’re being tested. And I, for one, am getting damned sick of it.”

“So does this mean you’ll be home for lunch?”

We both found ourselves laughing at that one, the same kind of uncomfortable laugh one produces to a joke’s punch line like, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

“So does it?” she asked.

“I’m going to go see Judge Moreland first,” I said. “We need to have a talk.”

She paused. “Is that a good idea?”

“What can it hurt?” I said. “What can happen? The mayor finds out and fires me?”

I FELT GUILTY for not feeling guilty. But in a strange way, my path had been cleared.

I parked on the street in front of the federal court house and took the steps two at a time. I would have charged through the lobby except for the guard who told me to slow down, empty my pockets, and walk slowly through the metal detector.

“Write down your name and who you’re here to see so I can check you against the preapproved list,” he said, handing me a clipboard.

I wrote, “Judge Moreland.”

He took it back and asked if the judge was expecting me. “I don’t see your name on the approved list.”

I said, “Tell him Jack McGuane is here to see him.”

I waited impatiently while the guard called upstairs, gave my name. Then shook his head while he listened and hung up. “They say he’s not expecting you.”

“I need to see him.”

The guard narrowed his eyes and looked me over. This was one of those situations where my jacket and tie helped. “Are you a lawyer?”

“No. Judge Moreland is trying to take my child away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said warily. “You need to leave.”

While I was putting my keys and change back into my pocket I looked up to see the man himself, Judge John Moreland, entering the building through a secure entrance accessed by a side street. He wore a suit and carried a briefcase, a long camel-hair coat draped over his arm. A vestibule of thick glass separated us.

“There he is,” I said.

Just as the guard reached for his radio to call for help if necessary to get me out of there, Moreland looked up. I startled him. Our eyes locked.

I gestured, pointing to him and back to me. I mouthed, I need to talk to you.

Smoothly, oh so smoothly, he turned away and continued on to his private elevator. He stood there with his back to me, waiting for the elevator car to arrive.

“Sir,” the guard said, rising to come around the counter. The public elevator on my side of the glass whooshed open and two more uniformed guards stepped out.