When you worked in central processing at the Suffolk County jail in downtown Boston, you saw a lot of shit. And some of it was the kind of thing that put you off your coffee and doughnuts.
Other kinds . . . were just frickin' bizarre.
Billy McCray had been a beat cop in Southie first, serving alongside his brothers and his cousins and his old man. After he'd been shot on duty about fifteen years ago, Sergeant had arranged for him to have this desk job--and it had turned out that not only did his wheelchair fit just fine under the lip of the counter, he was damn good at pushing paper. He'd started booking arrests and taking mug shots, but now he was in charge of everything.
Nobody so much as blew his nose in this place but that Billy didn't tell 'em it was okay to take a Kleenex.
And he loved what he did, even if it got wicked weird sometimes.
Like first thing this morning. Six a.m. He'd booked a white female who'd been wearing a pair of Coke cans as pasties, the two aluminum numbers glued at the bottoms to her boobs and sticking straight out. He had a feeling that mug shot was going to end up on The Smoking Gun.com and she was probably going to enjoy the exposure: Before he'd taken her picture, he'd offered to get her a shirt or something, but nah, she wanted to show off her . . . well, cans.
People. Honestly.
Turned out the rubber cement was easy to get off, but they were serving her drinks in a single paper cup just in case she got another bright idea--
As the steel door opened down at the end of the hall, Billy sat up a little straighter in his chair.
The woman who came in was a sight to see, all right, but not for the reason most of the freaks here were. She was about ten feet tall and had blond hair that was always up in a twist on her head. Wearing a perfectly fitted suit and a long, formal coat, he knew without asking that her purse and her briefcase were worth more than he had in his 401(k).
To say nothing about that huge gold rope around her neck.
As a couple of guards passed her, they also stretched up their spines and dropped their voices . . . and immediately looked over their shoulders to get a look-see at the back of her.
And when she came up to the Plexiglas partition in front of him, he was glad he'd already slid the thing back, because he got to smell her perfume.
God . . . it was always the same. The scent of rich and expensive.
"Hi, Billy, how's Tom doing at the police academy?"
Like a lot of Beacon Hill types, Grier Childe's intonation made a simple question seem better than something Shakespeare had written. But unlike those tight-asses, she wasn't a snot and her smile was genuine. She always asked about his son and his wife and she really looked at him, meeting his eyes like he was so much more than just a desk jockey.
"He's doin' great." Billy grinned and crossed his arms over his puffed-up chest. "Graduating in June. Working out of Southie. He's a marksman like his pops--kid could take out a tin can from a mile away."
Unfortunately, that reminded him of Coke Girl, but he pushed the image right out of the way. Much better to enjoy the view of Ms. Childe, Esq.
"It doesn't surprise me that Tommy's an ace." She signed into the log and braced a hip on the counter. "As you said, he takes after you."
Even after two years of this, he still couldn't believe she stopped to talk to him. Yeah, sure, the DA types and the regular public defenders chatted him up, but she came from one of those old-school, white-shoe firms--and usually that meant just the facts on where their clients were.
"So how's your Sara doing?" she asked.
As they talked, he typed her name into the system to pull up who she'd been assigned to. About every six months or so, she came up on rotation as a public defender. It was, of course, pro bono for her. Her hourly rates were undoubtedly so expensive, he was damn sure the clients she got here couldn't afford more than two words from her, much less a whole hour . . . or, Christ, even a case's worth of time.
When he saw the name that was next to hers, he frowned.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
Well, no, it wasn't. "Yeah. You're good."
Because he was going to make it his business for her to be.
He reached to the side for a stack of files. "Here's the paperwork on your client. If you go to number one, we'll bring him out to you."
"Thanks, Billy. You're the best."
After he buzzed her through the main door into the jail's receiving and processing unit, she walked off to the room he'd given her--which just happened to be right next to his office. Making a note in the computer, he picked up the phone and dialed down to holding.
When Shawn C. answered, he said, "Bring up number five-four-eight-nine-seventy, last name Rothe. For our Ms. Childe."
Little silence. "He's a big one."
"Yeah, and listen--could you have a talk with him? Maybe remind him how being polite to his counsel'll make things easier on him."
There was another pause. "And I'll just wait outside the door when he's in with her. Tony'll cover me down here."
"Good. Yeah, that's good. Thanks."
As Billy hung up, he wheeled himself around to face the security monitoring screens. In the lower left one, he watched as Ms. Childe sat down at a table, cracked open the file, and looked at the reports in it.
He was going to keep his eye on her until she was safely out of there.
The thing was, down at the jail, there were two kinds of people: insiders and outsiders. Outsiders got treated polite and all, but insiders . . . particularly nice, young insiders with beautiful smiles and a lot of class . . . they got taken care of.
And that meant Shawn C., the guard, would be parked out in the hall, looking through the chicken-wire window the entire time that that homicidal maniac who'd been arrested for cage fighting was in with their girl.
If that motherfucker so much as breathed wrong around her, well . . . suffice it to say that in Billy's shop, no one was above a little corrective action: All the guards and staff knew about the dark corner in the basement where there were no security cameras and no one could hear an asshole scream when payback turned into a bitch.
Billy leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Nice girl in there, real nice. Course, given what had happened to her brother . . . Hard lives had a way of making for nice, didn't they.
Grier Childe sat in front of a stainless-steel table on a cold stainless-steel chair that was across from another stainless-steel chair. All of the furniture was bolted to the floor and the only other fixtures were the security camera up in the corner and an overhead lightbulb that had a cage around it. The walls were concrete block that had been painted so many times it was nearly wallpaper smooth, and the air smelled like rotgut floor cleaner, the cologne of the last attorney who'd been in the room, and old cigarettes.
The place couldn't have been more different from where she usually worked. The Boston offices of Palmer, Lords, Childe, Stinston & Dodd looked like a museum of nineteenth-century furniture and artwork. PLCS&D had no armed guards, no metal detectors, and nothing was screwed into place so it couldn't be stolen or thrown at somebody.
There the uniforms came from Brooks Brothers and Burberry.
She'd been doing pro bono public defending for about two years, and it had taken her at least twelve months to get in good with the front desk and the staff and the guards. But now it was like old-home week whenever she came here, and she honestly loved the people.
Lot of good folks doing hard jobs in the system.
Opening up the file of her newest client, she reviewed the charges, intake form, and history: Isaac Rothe, age twenty-six, apartment down on Tremont Street. Unemployed. No priors. Arrested along with eight others as part of a bust the night before on an underground gambling and fighting ring. No warrant needed because the fighters were trespassing on private property. According to the police report, her client was in the ring at the time the police infiltrated. Apparently the guy he'd fought was getting treated at Mass General--
It's nine o'clock on a Saturday morning. . . . Do you know where your life is?
Keeping her head down, Grier squeezed her eyes shut. "Not now, Daniel."
in and out of her head from behind, the disembodied sound made her feel utterly crazy. two years old, and instead of cozying up to some hot boy toy, you're sitting here in the police station with sucky coffee--
"I don't have any coffee."
At that moment, the door swung wide and Billy rolled in. "Thought you might like some wake-up."
Bingo, her brother said. Shut. Up, she thought back at him.
"Billy, that's really kind of you." She took what the supervisor offered, the warmth of the paper cup bleeding into her palm.
"Well, you know, it's dishwater. We all hate it." Billy smiled. "But it's a tradition."
"It sure is." She frowned as he lingered. "Something wrong?"
Billy patted the vacant chair next to him. "Would you mind sitting here for me?"
Grier lowered the cup. "Of course not, but why--"
"Thanks, dear."
There was a beat. Clearly, Billy was waiting for her to shift around and was not inclined to explain himself.
Pushing the file across the way, she went to the other seat, her back now to the door.
"That's a girl." He gave her a squeeze on the arm and rolled out.
The change in position meant that she could see the filmy apparition of her younger, beloved brother. Daniel was lounging in the far corner of the room, feet crossed at the ankles, arms linked at the chest. His blond hair was fresh and clean, and he had on a coral-colored polo shirt and madras shorts.
He was like an undead model in a Ralph Lauren ad, nothing but all-American, sun-kissed privilege about to take a sail off Hyannis Port.
Except he wasn't smiling at her, as he usually did. They want him facing the door so the guard outside can keep an eye on him. And they don't want you boxed into the room. Easier to get you out this way if he goes aggressive.
Forgetting about the security camera, and the fact that to anybody else she was speaking into thin air, she leaned in. "Nobody is going to--"
You've got to quit this. Stop trying to save people and get a life.
"Right back at you. Stop haunting me and get an eternity."
I would. But you won't let me go.
On that note, the door behind her opened up and her brother disappeared.
Grier stiffened as she heard the tinkling sound of chains and the shuffling of feet.
And then she saw him.
Holy . . . Mary . . . mother . . . of . . .
What had been brought out of holding by Shawn C. was about six feet, four inches of solid muscle. Her client was "dressed in," which meant he had his prison garb on, and his hands and feet were shackled together and linked with a steel chain that ran up the front of his legs and went around his waist. His hard face had the kind of hollow cheeks that came with zero body fat, and his dark hair was cut short like a military man's. Fading bruises were clustered around his eyes, a bright white bandage sat close to his hairline . . . and there was a red flush around his neck, as if he'd very, very recently been manhandled.
Her first thought was . . . she was glad good old Billy McCray had made her switch seats. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she had the sense that if her client chose to, he could have taken Shawn C. down in the blink of an eye--in spite of the cuffs and the fact that the guard was built like a bulldog and had years of experience handling big, volatile men.
Her client's eyes didn't meet hers, but stayed locked on the floor as the guard shoved him into the tight space between the vacant chair and the table.
Shawn C. bent down to the man's ear and whispered something.
Growled something, was more like it.
Then the guard glanced over at Grier and smiled tightly, as if he didn't like the whole thing but was going to be professional about it. "Hey, I'll be right outside the door. You need anything? You just holler and I'm in here." In a lower voice, he said, "I'm watching you, boy."
Somehow she wasn't surprised at the precautions. Merely sitting across from her client made her wary. She couldn't imagine moving him around the jailhouse.
God, he was big.
"Thanks, Shawn," she said quietly.
"No problem, Ms. Childe."
And then she was alone with Mr. Isaac Rothe.
Measuring the tremendous girth of his shoulders, she noted that he wasn't twitching or fidgeting, which she took as a good sign--no meth or coke in his system, hopefully. And he didn't stare at her inappropriately or check out the front of her suit or lick his lips.
Actually, he didn't look at her at all, his eyes remaining on the table in front of him.
"I'm Grier Childe--I've been assigned your case." When he didn't raise his eyes or nod, she continued. "Anything that you say to me is privileged, which means that within the bounds of the law, I will not reveal it to anyone. Further, that security camera over there has no audio feed, so no one else can hear what you tell me."
She waited . . . and still he didn't reply. He just sat there, breathing evenly, all coiled power with his cuffed hands set on the tabletop and his huge body crammed into the chair.
On the first meeting, most of the clients she'd had here either slouched and did the sullen routine, or they played all indignant and offended, with a lot of exculpatory talk. He did neither. His spine was straight as an arrow, and he was totally alert, but he didn't say a word.
She cleared her throat. "The charges against you are serious. The guy you were fighting with was sent to the hospital with a brain hemorrhage. Right now you're up for second-degree assault and attempted murder, but if he dies, that's murder two or manslaughter."
Nothing.
"Mr. Rothe, I'd like to ask you some questions, if I may?"
No reply.
Grier sat back. "Can you even hear me?"
Just as she was wondering whether he had an undisclosed disability, he spoke. "Yes, ma'am."
His voice was so deep and arresting, she stopped breathing. Those two words were uttered with a softness that was at total odds with the size of his body and the harshness of his face. And his accent . . . vaguely Southern, she decided.
"I'm here to help you, Mr. Rothe. You understand that, right?"
"No disrespect, ma'am, but I don't believe you can."
Definitely Southern. Beautifully Southern, as a matter of fact.
Shaking her head clear, she said, "Before you dismiss me, I'd suggest you consider two things. Right now, there's no bail set for you, so you're going to be stuck in here as your case moves forward. And that could be months. Also, anyone who represents himself truly does have a fool for a client--that's not just a saying. I'm not the enemy. I'm here to--"
He finally looked at her.
His eyes were the color of frost on window glass, and filled with the shadows of deeds that stained the soul. And as that grim, exhausted stare bored through the back of her head, it froze her heart: She knew instantly that he wasn't just some street thug.
He was a soldier, she thought. He had to be--her father got the same look in his eyes during quiet nights.
War did that to people.
"Iraq?" she asked quietly. "Or Afghanistan?"
His brows flared a little, but that was the only reply she got.
Grier tapped his file. "Let me get you bail. Let's just start there, okay? You don't have to tell me anything about why you were arrested or what happened. I just need to know your ties to the community and a little more about where you live. With no prior arrests, I think we've got a shot at . . ."
She stopped as she realized he'd closed his eyes.
Okay. First time she'd ever had a client take a snooze in the middle of a meeting. Maybe Billy and Shawn C. had less to worry about than they thought.
"Am I boring you, Mr. Rothe?" she demanded after a moment.
