I grabbed a cab. The plastic pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror did little to disguise the smell of sausage and green peppers.
The jail was bleak. Outside, a prisoner in white coveralls was tending a tiny wilting garden. He gave me an obsequious smile.
Inside, I was ignored. I asked around til someone directed me to a large square woman. She ruled behind an elevated counter fronted by bulletproof glass. One look and she knew my type. The big-shot lawyer hired by someone’s daddy. I asked to see Jules FitzGibbon.
Jules FitzGibbon? Harry, you got a Jules FitzGibbon back there? she shouted over her shoulder in a heavy New Jersey accent. It came out ‘beck they-ah.’
I heard an indeterminate growl from the back.
Miss New Jersey turned back to me.
Nah, she said. They let him go.
Ah, I said. Well. I understand he was questioned here earlier. Is there someone I can talk to?
She gave me a withering look. Didn’t answer.
I had an idea.
Hey, I said, is Butch Hardiman on duty?
Butch? she said. Maybe.
I took that for a yes.
Would you do me a favor and call him? Tell him Rick Redman’s here?
She added a layer of skepticism to her cynicism. Picked up the intercom. Paged Butch.
When he came out, Butch had his big smile on for me. Butch was an old buddy. We’d been on opposite sides of a case or two. We understood each other. I asked him if he knew what was up with this Jules FitzGibbon. Told him I was the kid’s lawyer.
Don’t know much, he said. They brought him in on something. Not enough to hold him on it. Sent him home.
What’s the ‘something’?
Don’t know, he said. Wasn’t here when they brought him in.
You got an address for him?
I can get it for you. Ask around a bit.
Hey, I said. Appreciate it. We’ll catch up next time.
Sure thing, buddy, he said.
Butch always made me feel good.