J. Jance: Trial By Fire

“They look like they’re having fun,” Ali said.

Nelda nodded. “You should hear them. Those two girls are on the phone every night, making plans, talking about what they’re going to do once they get to Tucson. And as you can see, Liam’s crazy about Marissa, too.”

“That’s clear enough,” Ali agreed with a laugh.

Shortly thereafter, she and Nelda were summoned both to take pictures and to pose in them as well. When the celebration was over, Ali went back home to Sedona to hit the books-or rather, to hit the book. Now that she and Sheriff Maxwell had come to terms about her salary arrangements, she was due to show up for her first staff meeting on Monday, where her temporary position with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department would be announced.

It was true that she would be receiving far less than she was accustomed to being paid in the California media world. But this is Arizona, she reminded herself. I’m doing this for my hometown.

On Monday morning she was up and out. She left the house at six, a good half hour earlier than she needed to depart in order to make the 8 a.m. briefing at the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department on East Gurley Street in Prescott. She was tempted to stop by the Sugarloaf so her mother could wish her luck but, concerned about the long, slow construction zone between Sedona and the Village of Oak Creek, she headed immediately in that direction.

Ali was on edge during the drive, but that was hardly surprising. She had always been nervous when it came time to start a new job. The trick was to overprepare and then not let anyone else know that she was anything other than ten feet tall and bulletproof.

Before getting on the freeway, she stopped long enough to shuffle through her music selections-including her Aunt Evie’s extensive collection of musicals. Then, singing along with “I Whistle a Happy Tune” from The King and I, Ali turned south toward Highway 169.

Part of Ali’s overpreparation plan, beyond studying the police procedure textbook, meant that she had also spent hours learning what she could about the Yavapai sheriff’s office. She knew, for example, that the eight-thousand-plus-square-mile county was divided into three command centers. The main office and jail complex were located in Prescott, but there were also substations scattered throughout the far-reaching jurisdiction that stretched from the outskirts of Peoria, near Phoenix, on the south; to Seligman, to the north; and to Wickenburg, on the west.

According to what she read, the Media Relations area came under the heading of Technical Services, where it was lumped in with Dispatch. That, too, was headquartered in Prescott. From what Ali read online, she wasn’t able to fathom why Sheriff Maxwell had wanted to bring in an outsider, someone with no law enforcement experience, even on a temporary basis. Ali somehow suspected that there was more behind the move than the purported reason she had been given-that she was being asked to pinch-hit while a long-term and possibly disgraced officer was off on paid administrative leave.

What’s really at work here? Ali wondered. Sheriff Maxwell was glad she was signing on, and so, evidently, was Dave Holman, but what about everyone else?

Once she reached Prescott, she parked outside the two-story, modern-looking sheriff’s office on East Gurley Street, then walked into the public lobby of the sheriff’s office.

“I’m Ali Reynolds,” she said to a clerk stationed behind a glass partition. “I believe Sheriff Maxwell is expecting me.”

“Just a minute, please. I’ll see if he can see you.”

The clerk’s words were polite enough, but they were accompanied by such a cold-eyed, dragon-lady stare that Ali found herself wondering if she had spilled coffee down the front of her blazer.

The one-minute wait turned into several. A full ten minutes later-and five minutes after Ali had been told to arrive-a young woman finally emerged through a door at the far end of the lobby.

“Hi,” she said, holding out her hand in greeting. “I’m Carol Hillyard, Sheriff Maxwell’s secretary. You must be Alison Reynolds. He asked me to come find you and bring you back to the staff meeting.”

That was what she called it-a staff meeting-but when Ali walked into the crowded conference room a few minutes later, the chilly reception made her think she had wandered into a refrigerator.

She walked into the room to find Sheriff Maxwell standing at a lectern in front of an assembled group of officers and other personnel. “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding in her direction. “Here she is. I’d like to introduce Ali Reynolds, the media consultant I was telling you about. I know some of you are less than thrilled by my decision to temporarily outsource our public information functions, but I think giving ourselves a complete break with the past is the best strategy to allow the department to move forward.”

“Yes,” an unidentified voice grumbled from the back of the room. “Let’s start by reinventing the wheel.”

If Sheriff Maxwell heard the sarcastic muttering, he chose to ignore it and continued. “Ms. Reynolds lives in Sedona. As I mentioned earlier, since this is a temporary assignment, I see no need for her to work out of this office on a daily basis, especially considering the ease of communications we have these days-teleconferencing, e-mail, cell phones, and the like. I’ve assigned her office space in the substation at the Village of Oak Creek.

“She’ll be spending the next few days traveling with me, seeing how we do things, and meeting all of you. Please be so kind as to introduce yourselves to her and let her know what part you play in the big picture. I’m going to expect your complete cooperation in all this. It’s one thing to do the job we do, but our constituents need to hear about it.

“Ali,” he added. “Would you care to add a few words?”

There was nothing Ali wanted less. Clearly the people in the room weren’t thrilled to see her, and she doubted they’d care to hear what she had to say, either. But since Sheriff Maxwell was motioning her to join him at the lectern, she did. Other than Sheriff Maxwell and Dave Holman, who was seated in the far back corner, none of the people seated in the conference room seemed familiar to her, but the general air of disapproval seemed to echo the reaction of the growling gatekeeper out in the front lobby. Ali didn’t think there was anything she could say that would bring these folks around, but she had to try.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily. “As Sheriff Maxwell said, I’m Ali Reynolds. I’m a Yavapai County native. I grew up in Sedona, where my parents still own and operate the Sugarloaf Cafe. I attended high school at Mingus Cottonwood and NAU in Flagstaff before spending several years working in television news both on the East Coast and in California.

“As you probably know, I have no background whatsoever in law enforcement. That means I’m coming to this job knowing a lot about the news broadcasting side of the street and very little about yours. And so I’m going to need your help. I’ll probably be asking plenty of questions as I learn the ropes, and I hope you’ll be patient with me. As Sheriff Maxwell said, my job will be to help get the word out about everything this department is doing to promote public safety. It’s your responsibility to do a good job, and it’s my responsibility to make sure the people in our various communities know about it.”

As Ali stepped away from the microphone someone started a halfhearted round of applause that followed her as she took a vacant seat in the front row next to Sheriff Maxwell, who stood up and returned to the lectern. Ali suspected that Dave Holman had started the polite clapping, but she couldn’t be sure. What was clear enough was that it sure as hell wasn’t a standing ovation. Most of the people in the room regarded her as an interloper and didn’t want her there.