Michael Connelly: The Scarecrow

“Well, I want to look into Zo’s case,” I said. “If he’s innocent like you said, then I’ll be able to get him out.”

I kept that if working. Kept selling the car. I made sure I didn’t promise anything I wasn’t going to deliver.

“Jus’ like that you get him out, huh? When Mr. Meyer can’t even get him his day in court?”

“Is Mr. Meyer his lawyer?”

“That’s right. Public defender. He a Jew lawyer.”

She said it without a trace of enmity or bias. It was said as almost a point of pride that her grandson had graduated to the level of having a Jewish lawyer.

“Well, I’ll be talking to Mr. Meyer about all of this. Sometimes, Mrs. Sessums, the newspaper can do what nobody else can do. If I tell the world that Alonzo Winslow is innocent, then the world pays attention. With lawyers that’s not always the case, because they’re always saying their clients are innocent-whether they really think it or not. Like the boy who cried wolf. They say it so much that when they actually do have a client who’s innocent, nobody believes them.”

She looked at me quizzically and I thought she either was confused or thought she was being conned. I tried to keep things moving so her mind wouldn’t settle on any given thing I had said.

“Mrs. Sessums, if I’m going to investigate this I am going to need you to call Mr. Meyer and ask him to cooperate with me. I’ll need to look at the court file and all the discovery.”

“He ain’t discovered nothin’ so far. He just go roun’ tellin’ everybody to sit tight, is all.”

“By ‘discovery’ I mean the legal term. The state-that’s the prosecutor-has to turn all their paperwork and evidence over to the defense for viewing. I’ll need to see it all if I’m going to work on getting Alonzo out.”

Now she appeared not to be paying attention to what I had said. From the clothes basket she slowly raised her hand. She was holding a tiny pair of bright red panties. She held them away from her body like she was holding the tail of a dead rat.

“Look at this stupid girl. She don’ know who she playin’ with. Hidin’ her red underneath. She a fool an’ a half she think she get away wi’ that.”

She walked over to the corner of the room, used her foot to press a pedal that opened a trash can and dropped the dead rat inside. I nodded as though I approved and tried to get back on track.

“Mrs. Sessums, did you understand what I said about the discovery? I’m going to-”

“But how you going to say my Zo’s innocent when all yo facts come from the po-po and they lie like the serpent in the tree?”

It took me a moment to respond as I considered her use of language and the juxtaposition of common street slang and religious reference.

“I’m going to gather all the facts for myself and make my own judgment,” I said. “When I wrote that story last week, I was saying what the police said. Now I am going to find out for myself. If your Zo’s innocent I will know it. And I’ll write it. When I write it, the story will get him out.”

“Okay, then. Good. The Lord will help you bring my boy home.”

“But I’m going to need your help, too, Wanda.”

I dropped into first-name mode now. It was time to let her think she was going to be part of this.

“When it comes to my Zo, I’m always ready to help,” she said. “Good,” I said.

“Let me tell you what I want you to do.”

Carver was in his office with the door closed. He was humming to himself and intently watching the cameras, his screens set in multiplex mode-thirty-six views on each. He was able to scan all of the cameras, even the angles nobody knew about. With a flick of his finger on the heat pad, he drew one camera angle into full screen on the middle plasma.

Geneva was behind the counter, reading a paperback novel. He tightened the focus, attempting to see what she was reading. He couldn’t see the title but he could make out the author’s name at the top of the page. Janet Evanovich. He knew she had read several books by this writer. He often saw her smiling to herself as she read.

This was good information to know. He would go to a bookstore and pick up a copy of an Evanovich book. He would make sure Geneva saw it in his bag when he walked through reception. It could be an ice-breaker that could lead to conversation and maybe more.

He remotely moved the lens and saw that Geneva ’s purse was open on the floor next to her chair. He pulled in tight and saw cigarettes and gum and two tampons along with keys and matches and wallet. It was that time of the month. Maybe that was why Geneva had been so curt with him when he had come in. She had barely said hello.

Carver checked his watch. It was past time for her afternoon break. Yolanda Chavez from administration was due to walk through the door and let Geneva go. Fifteen minutes. Carver planned to follow her with the cameras. Out for a smoke, to the restroom for a squat, it didn’t matter. He would be able to follow. He had cameras everywhere. He would see whatever she did.

Just as Yolanda walked through the door into reception, there was a knock on his own door. Carver immediately hit the escape command and the three screens returned to data flowcharts for three different server towers. He hadn’t heard the mantrap buzzer out in the control room but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had been concentrating so hard on Geneva that he had missed it.

“Yes?”

The door opened. It was only Stone. Carver became annoyed that he had killed his screens and that he was going to miss out on following Geneva.

“What is it, Freddy?” he asked impatiently.

“I wanted to ask you about vacation time,” Stone said loudly.

He entered and closed the door. He moved to the chair on the other side of the worktable from Carver and sat down without permission.

“Actually, fuck vacation time,” he said. “That was for the benefit of the guys out there. I want to talk about iron maidens. Over the weekend I think I found our next girl.”

Freddy Stone was twenty years younger than Carver. Carver had first noticed him while lurking under a different identity in an iron maiden chat room. He tried to trail him but Stone was too good for that. He disappeared into the digital mist.

Undaunted and only more intrigued, Carver set up a catch site called www.motherinirons.com, and sure enough, Stone eventually came through. This time Carver made direct contact and the dance began. Shocked by his young age, Carver nevertheless recruited him, changed his looks and identity, and mentored him.

Carver had saved him, but after four years Stone was too close for comfort, and at times Carver could not stand him. Freddy assumed too much. Like just coming in and sitting down without permission.

“Really,” Carver said, a note of disbelief placed intentionally in the word.

“You promised I could pick the next one, remember?” Stone responded.

Carver had made the promise, but it had come in the fervor of the moment. As they were on the 10 Freeway leaving the beach in Santa Monica, the windows open and the sea air blowing in their faces. He was still riding the high and he foolishly told his young disciple that he could pick the next one.

Now he would have to change that. He wished he could just go back to watching Geneva, maybe catch her changing that tampon in the restroom, and leave this inconvenience for later.

“Don’t you ever get tired of that song?” Stone asked.

“What?”

Carver realized he had started to hum again while thinking about Geneva. Embarrassed, he tried to move on.

“Who did you find?” he asked.

Stone smiled broadly and shook his head like he could hardly believe his good luck.