Giving Mr. Bates and the other low-level offenders another opportunity to come to court voluntarily could potentially save the taxpayers money, because we wouldn’t have to pay for the arrest, transport, processing, and incarceration of somebody who wasn’t a real threat to public safety. But it was easy to issue a warrant, and, more importantly, it put the clock on hold.
All judges and judicial districts were measured by, and their performance evaluated solely upon, how quickly they processed cases. The State of Missouri required that 80 percent of all petty misdemeanor and misdemeanor cases be concluded within sixty days of charges being brought. While on warrant—as Cecil would be, should a warrant for his arrest be issued—the clock stopped. If Judge Polansky gave Cecil Bates another chance, the clock would continue to tick, and his own performance would be called into question.
So Judge Polansky denied my request and issued a warrant for Cecil Bates.
I nodded, turned back toward the table, and started to gather up my files. I heard Judge Polansky say my name and looked back. “Yes, Judge?”
“Moment to chat?”
I was a little stunned. Nobody ever wanted to chat with a criminal defense lawyer, especially a public defender.
I nodded. “Sure.”
The judge smiled. “Good. My clerk will lead you back to my chambers.” Judge Polansky then stood and walked out the back door.
He wanted to gossip.
My mother often talked about how isolated her father had felt after being appointed to the federal bench. His friends wouldn’t call him by his first name, and his drinking partners soon became very limited. Judge Polansky appeared to be no different.
“Please, have a seat.” Judge Polansky gestured for his law clerk to leave and close the door. “Read the paper this morning, and I couldn’t resist.”
“Resist what?”
“Asking if it’s true.” He blushed, a little embarrassed. “Whether you’re going to run for Congress.” I didn’t respond, so Judge Polansky filled the silence with a series of declarations. “Kiss Saint Louis good-bye. Guaranteed paycheck. Escape from this hell hole, and you’d be a million times better than your brother.”
I thought about Lincoln and then about Annie and the threat. “Not sure I’m cutthroat enough for Washington. Don’t really aspire to it.”
“But you’ve paid your dues.” Judge Polansky shook his head. “Working out there for nothing. You’ve more than earned it. Plus representing one of the Lost Boys doesn’t hurt.”
“Lost Boys?”
“That kid,” he said. “The one who was found in the park. They’re calling him that—all of them—the Lost Boys. Nobody really knows who they were and how long they’ve been gone.”
“I didn’t know they had a name.”
Judge Polansky shook his head. “You obviously don’t watch television.”
“Not really.” I checked my watch and then looked back up. “Try to avoid it if I can.”
“Or read the newspaper?” Judge Polansky picked up a copy of the current St. Louis Post-Dispatch from the top of his desk and handed it to me.
On its cover were pictures of Devon Walker and two other boys, as well as six boxes with large question marks. Across the top of the page, the headline read, MANY LOST BOYS REMAIN A MYSTERY.
I tried to play it cool, even though the whole thing made me feel uneasy.
I read the first few sensational sentences about the problem that the police were having in identifying the majority of victims and understanding why they were killed, then tried to hand the newspaper back to Judge Polansky. “Very subtle journalism.”
“You can keep it.” Judge Polansky smiled. “Read it all.” He pointed toward the bottom of the page. “Says you’re pretty much a saint, and the free plug for your congressional campaign was pretty nice, too.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The line outside my office was not welcome. If I sold shoes or televisions, a line of people waiting for my doors to open would’ve been a happy sight. For a lawyer, not so much.
I took my time driving by, taking in the scene. Most appeared to be mothers or grandmothers. Many of them holding photographs, several crying. A dozen young kids ran the street.
I circled the block to the alley and parked behind the Northside Roastery. Nobody answered when I knocked on the coffee shop’s back door, but it opened when I turned the knob so I went inside.
“Hermes?” I took a step into their back storage area. “Nikolas?” I took another few steps. The back door closed behind me. “Hey, Hermes. It’s me, Justin. Justin Glass.”
“The famous celebrity is here.” Hermes came around the corner with a big smile on his face. “You looking like rock star. Fans waiting to touch you.”
“I don’t feel like a rock star.”
“Come.” He grabbed my shoulder and guided me past the boxes and bags of green coffee beans to the front of the shop. “I get you something to drink.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You doing OK?”
Hermes hedged. “Doing OK. I had some bad feelings.”
“Another premonition?” I played along, but Hermes was serious.
He pointed to a little shelf underneath the cash register. “Got me a gun for protection now.” He tilted his head from side to side, considering whether he should elaborate. “Makes me feel a little better.”
I sat at a table near the window and watched the people coming and going. There was a mix of emotions, but mostly a realization that this wasn’t going to change. This was the new normal, and I was at the center of the storm.
Hermes knew I was overwhelmed, but he didn’t want to overstep. “Mind if I sit a moment?” He pointed at the chair across from me.
I nodded, still fixated on the crowd as Hermes sat down. He told me that he had a cousin who was going through a divorce and looking for work. She needed some money, and I clearly needed some help. I’d never met her. Didn’t know her qualifications, but Hermes dismissed my concerns. “She take care of everything. Very smart. Be here in thirty minutes.”
Who was I to argue?
It took her forty minutes, but I didn’t mind. I hoped that all the people standing outside my law office would give up and leave, but instead of shrinking, the crowd only grew.
Hermes went to go make another coffee drink for me, and then the bell above the coffee shop’s front door rang.
I looked over and saw a woman who had to be either Hermes’s cousin or seriously lost.
Her name was Emma Tadic. She was a compact woman with serious curves. Emma arrived in five-inch heels, large hoop earrings, and a black “business” suit. The suit consisted of a jacket and the tightest, shortest dress I’d ever seen. “You must be Mr. Justin Glass.” She walked over to me and held out her perfectly manicured hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” Her speech was clipped by her Eastern European accent.
We shook hands.
Hers were soft.
“You must be the cousin.”
She nodded. “Hermes told me you needed some help.” On first sight, it might’ve been easy to dismiss her as an airhead, some man’s mail-order trophy, but there was intelligence behind her eyes. Wheels were turning.
I nodded toward the street. “Probably saw the line.”