Her face turned hard. “You know exactly what I’m mad about.”
“No.” I held out my hands in surrender. “No, I don’t. I’ve been in bed for a week or so after being attacked by your cops, and then today I had the pleasure of seeing a whole lot of dead boys and telling the sister and mother of one of them that nobody has any idea what happened, except that the person who did it used plastic handcuffs and liked the solitude of nature.” Her expression didn’t change, and that fired some more anger in me. It was a spark that I hadn’t felt in some time. “That what you’re looking for?” I shook my head. “If not, I haven’t a clue, Madame Mayor. You’re the one who pretty much dropped out of my life the minute I suggested we might want to talk about—”
Annie held out her hand, cutting me off. “You’re running for Congress.”
Now I regretted not having another beer.
I should have known this mess of my brother’s and my father’s would get back to her.
“I was asked by my father to run for Congress.” I tried to minimize it, but that didn’t work.
“And you told him no, absolutely not?”
I wavered. “Not exactly, and please keep your voice down.” I looked up. “My daughter is up there.”
Annie shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said. “So Lincoln was right.” Her hand curled into a tight ball. “That’s a pretty big deal, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” I nodded. “But I’ve never told Lincoln or my father or anyone else that I’m running. My dad asked me, and I think it deserves consideration, out of respect.” I started to get more agitated. “I have a right to think about it. It’s something that I haven’t thought about for a long time, and I’m tired of you hacks pushing me around.”
“I’m a hack now.” Annie pursed her lips. “That’s what you think of me—that I’m a political hack.”
I waved it off. It wasn’t personal. “I think you’re all a bunch of political hacks—Lincoln, Buster, you—all of you.” OK, maybe it was personal.
She set her jaw. “Let’s stay on topic. Look me in the eye and tell me your father is not giving you his endorsement and you’re not going to run as some outsider with a famous name.”
“This is crazy.” I stood up a little too fast. A fresh shot of pain ripped up my side. “Maybe you should leave before you really do wake up my daughter.”
“I’m not leaving until we talk about this.”
“That’s the problem.” I folded my arms across my chest. “We ain’t talking. You’re just attacking me for some unknown reason.”
“Unknown reason?” Now Annie was on her feet. She put her beer down on the table. “You don’t think this affects me? You don’t think that a congressional campaign by you will impact me?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. It’s a family thing. Nothing to do with you.”
“Well,” Annie said. “Your brother doesn’t share your view. He says if you run, he’ll take me down. He says he’ll find another candidate, maybe he’d run against me himself.” She looked up at the ceiling, hands on her hips. “Our secret is not as big a secret as we think, Justin.” She looked back at me, tears pooling in her eyes. “People know, and your brother will make sure everybody knows about it when I’m running for reelection next year.”
“He said that?”
Annie blinked, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. “He and Buster.” She turned away from me, staring out the dark window. “Stop this,” she said. “Please.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day, I returned to the law factory. Despite my absence, it had remained in constant operation. Criminal charges were brought. Lawsuits were filed. Agreements were made. Nothing had changed upon my return, although I may have changed a little.
The hallway outside the courtroom was as crowded as ever, filled with people who were at some stage of “growing into their guilt.” This refers to a concept very similar to the five stages of grief developed by Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: First, a criminal defendant denies; he claims to be innocent. Second, he gets angry at the system, lashing out at the cops or the judge or his attorney. Third, he bargains, searching for a plea deal that will keep him out of jail or prison. Fourth and fifth come depression, and, ultimately, acceptance.
The system lurches forward. I could argue that some of them are actually innocent, which may be true, but the law factory doesn’t work like that. It isn’t about guilt or innocence. The system is about keeping things moving. It grinds a person down—innocent or guilty—until he or she submits.
With fresh cocktail of painkillers working through my body, I set my stack of files on the hallway bench without too much trouble. I took the first file off the top and then called out the name. The crowd quieted down. I called out the name again.
“That’s me.” A large white woman raised her hand. She was leaning against the wall about fifteen feet away from me. I waved her over, and we began our brief consultation.
A half hour later, I had worked through most of the stack. It really didn’t matter whether I needed more time. The judge wanted to get started, and so it began.
Judge Saul Polansky processed twenty-two cases in an hour and half, working out to a little more than four minutes per case. That’s an average of 240 seconds per file, which is not bad.
About half were plea agreements. Three were set for trial, and the remainder were no-shows triggering arrest warrants.
The final case of the morning was Cecil Bates, the client who was having trouble moving out of the first phase. Though absent this morning, he was still claiming his innocence and had left messages throughout my recuperation about various legal theories and constitutional violations associated with his arrest.
The clerk called his name. “File 65-MD-14-358217, State versus Cecil Bates.”
Judge Polansky nodded toward the prosecutor, and the prosecutor stepped forward.
“Yes, Your Honor. Since Mr. Bates had proper notice of this hearing and has failed to appear, I ask that a warrant be issued for his arrest and bail be set at five hundred dollars.”
The judge looked at me.
“I’d ask that another notice be issued for this hearing instead of a warrant. I’ve been in pretty regular contact with Mr. Bates, and I’m surprised he’s not here this morning.” I had to make the argument. I had to ask for it, even though everyone knew that the request would be denied.
It was frustrating.