Alexandria, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 9:45 a.m.
“You look like you just ate a crap sandwich,” Erskine said.
From behind his desk, Erskine stared up at him over his half-moon glasses.
“Just did,” Cronin said. He tilted his head toward the chief’s glassed-in office.
“Let’s have it.”
Cronin flopped into Erskine’s visitor chair. Around them, the other desks were half-occupied by uniforms and investigators working leads and catching up on weekend paperwork. As usual, they had to talk over a steady din of chatter, chirping phones, and questions shouted and answered across the room.
“Read the latest Hunter article in the Inquirer yesterday?”
“Naw, I’m illiterate, Ed. Of course I did. He really laid it out, didn’t he?”
“Too well. He’s been pissing people off for weeks. People with clout. Judges, prosecutors, attorneys, prison officials. Now this MacLean guy, who’s politically connected and has boatloads of money. Going after him seems to have been the last straw. Chief got a call last night, he wouldn’t say who. He told me the Powers That Be want us to lean on Hunter and get him to shut up.”
Erskine’s mouth fell open. “Lean on a reporter? That’s nuts!”
“Of course it is. It shows how desperate they’re getting. They tried to talk to his bosses at the newspaper, but it didn’t work. So now they’re telling us to play hardball with him. They’re pretending it’s because he’s encouraging the vigilantes. ‘Every time he writes, somebody dies,’ is the official line. But it’s really because he’s embarrassing a lot of suits.”
“But why ask Alexandria PD to go after him? We’re small potatoes.”
“I asked. Chief says he owes a big favor to some guy, and now the guy’s calling it in. He was told they don’t want the whole task force to be implicated if it goes bad. So, guess who’s our department’s designated hitter?”
Erskine stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Chief told me, ‘Nose into his background a bit. Find something we can use to persuade him to back off.’”
“Jesus. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.
His eyes drifted around the room, watching his friends work. Most of their faces looked like he felt. Worn. Tired. He thought of his rookie days, when he showed up here every day full of piss and vinegar and pride and idealism. He hadn’t felt any of that for-hell, he couldn’t remember how long. And he knew why. Too many days like this one.
He faced his partner. “Dammit, Paul. I like the guy. I even told him the whole department was behind what he’s doing.”
“He’s saying all the things that need to be said.”
“And now I’m being ordered to go back on what I said to him.”
“I’m sorry, Ed… So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He moved a paperweight on Erskine’s desk in small circles. “I’ll start poking into his background this morning. Go through the motions, anyway. Just enough to keep the brass and the mayor from breathing down my neck. Hell, it’s not like I don’t have enough to do already.”
“Ed. You know I’ll cover for you, if you need me to.”
He met his partner’s eyes. “Thanks, Paul. But I’ll be okay.” He sighed and rose to his feet. “It’s just that, days like this, I wonder whose side we’re really on.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 10:35 a.m.
As always, the dozen men sat in a circle in the second-floor meeting room. As always, each of them spoke in turn, and to all appearances, spontaneously and sincerely.
As always, they’d rehearsed their lines together ahead of time.
Adrian Wulfe looked around at his fellow inmates. At all the jutting jaws, the bulging biceps, the scars, the tats, the dreads. At the feigned expressions of interest and contrition, masking boredom. He glanced at the clock for the third time in a minute, wishing the hands to move faster toward eleven.
Frankfurt’s group counseling sessions were scheduled twice a week. Almost all of them hated being here. Except for Preacher Jim, of course. The gaunt-faced old-timer with the stringy gray hair sat across from him, rocking back and forth in his chair, looking up at the ceiling periodically, like he was waiting for Jesus or something. Whenever anybody spoke, Preacher would mumble to himself, then say “Amen!” when they were done.
The others, though, were here for the same reasons he was. They volunteered for Group only to get good-behavior credits and knock some time off their prison terms. Occasionally, if you impressed The Hairball with your “progress,” he’d put in a good word and you’d get some perks, too. More free time in the music room or library, better jobs. And you made him feel important, like he was accomplishing something. A win-win situation. Sure, they all hated sucking up to him, but you did what you had to do.
His eyes followed The Hairball, who strolled in the center of the ring, like a lion tamer. He didn’t know who had come up with Frankfurt’s nickname, but it stuck. The shrink’s frizzy, unkempt hair and beard did kind of remind you of something a cat coughed up.
Wulfe was one of the few in the joint who had some college, so they all came to him when they needed something to be written, or for help in what to say in situations like this. He traded on his education and literacy for favors, cash, and contraband. For Group, he coached them to think of it like an acting class. You’re putting on a show, a performance. You have to seem credible. And if you can impress The Hairball, you could probably snow parole and probation people later, too.
They listened to him, not only because he was smart, but because he’d actually taken two semesters of drama in college. Mainly to get near the theater girls, because he’d been told that artsy bitches would do pretty much anything, in bed or out. So he took acting classes and learned some Stanislavsky bullshit, before the college tossed him out on his ass near the end of his sophomore year. But he could still cry on cue, if he wanted to. Not here, of course, or they’d think you were a pussy, which could be fatal. But outside, it came in handy, sometimes. Like if you wanted to get in some broad’s pants, and maybe there were people nearby, so you couldn’t just force her, and you had to do the Mr. Sensitivity act. Sure, it was better when you just forced them, but sometimes you had to make do.
Bo Weller, the Aryan Brotherhood enforcer, was into his routine, now. It was all Wulfe could do to keep from laughing. Here’s this three-hundred-pound dude with a broken nose and all those gang tats bullshitting Hairball about how his parents’ divorce when he was thirteen left a “hole in his emotions.” Wulfe had given Weller that line yesterday, in exchange for a couple of cigarettes. Weller was a moron, and Wulfe wasn’t sure if Hairball would see right through a line that lame; but he could tell that the shrink was eating it up. People believe what they want to believe. So, you feed them what they want to hear, and you own them.
But he could tell that Hairball was sulking today. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the guys were saying. He had a grim expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes while he paced in the middle of the circle.
Wulfe knew it was the article in yesterday’s paper by that smart-mouthed prick Hunter. He was pissed off when he read it, so he could only imagine how pissed The Hairball was. It was bringing all sorts of unwanted attention to the shrink’s programs, including this one.
That could screw his own chances to get out early. He had to try and move the ball down the field now, if he could.
“Excuse me, Bo,” he said, “I’m sorry for interrupting. But I wanted to ask Dr. Frankfurt something.”
The dude blinked. “Ah…okay.”
The shrink frowned at him. “Mr. Wulfe?”
“I hope I’m not being out of line, doctor-and please tell me to mind my own business if I am. But you seem-I don’t know, a bit distracted today. I just wonder if there’s a problem?”
Frankfurt blinked in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth began to work before he finally spoke. “Yes. As a matter of fact, there is a problem.”
It was as if Wulfe had lanced a boil. The shrink started to pace more rapidly around the middle of the circle, his words pouring out in a torrent.
“Perhaps some of you saw the Inquirer yesterday. That horrible article about the MacLean Foundation and its inmate rehabilitation programs?” The guys looked at each other and some nodded. “Well, as you may know, I head the Psychological Services Program for the foundation. And this outrageous attack cuts at the heart of everything we’re trying to do. Including this counseling program.”
Everybody made the appropriate faces and angry noises.
“The author, some hack writer named Dylan Hunter, who must think of himself as the Lone Ranger, has been riding his ‘crime-fighter’ hobby horse for months. He’s doing tremendous damage to years of work serving clients like you, undermining our public and political support. I just spoke to Kenneth MacLean himself about an hour ago, and he’s extremely worried that some key backing we’ve had for the sentencing reform bill in Congress might now be in jeopardy. In fact, immediately after this session, I have to drive to Washington for a press conference with him. We’re going to set the record straight.”
Wulfe nodded sympathetically at the jerk. “I’m truly sorry, doctor. Your work has been such a big help to all of us, and I’m sure to many others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe. I appreciate that more than you could know.”
Oh, I’m sure of that, Hairball.
“It’s really an either-or choice for society,” the pompous ass continued. “We can dwell in the bitter past, looking behind us down the path of retribution and recrimination. Or we can look forward and take a new path to personal rehabilitation and restoration.”
“What he’s writing, if you ask me, it’s downright un-Christian,” Wulfe interjected. “It’s contrary to the virtues of forgiveness and trust as rewards for sincere repentance.”
“Amen, brother!” Preacher Jim chimed in.
“Precisely!” The Hairball said, nodding enthusiastically.
Encouraged, Wulfe stood and kept going, taking care to keep his voice restrained. “I think it all comes down to this: How do the American people want to see themselves when they look in the mirror? As cold-blooded, Old-Testament, eye-for-an-eye savages? As an angry lynch mob looking for revenge for every slight against them? Or do they want to look into that mirror and see a reflection of the New Testament virtues of mercy and compassion and human salvation?”
He nodded as he said it, looking around the room at the others. They caught on and nodded in agreement, and Preacher “amened” him twice more.
“What I’ve learned here from you, Dr. Frankfurt,” he concluded, “is that the lessons of psychology are really the same lessons that we can find in the Sermon on the Mount. And I’m grateful to you for teaching me that.”
The Hairball stared at him, blinking rapidly. For a minute, he thought crazily that the idiot was going to rush across the room and hug him; it seemed all he could do to contain himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe!” he said at last. “As I mentioned, I have to go to Washington now, so I’m going to cut this session short today. I hope we’ve all learned something from Mr. Wulfe’s heartfelt words. I want us to ponder them until we meet again on Thursday. That will be all for now.”
The men looked at each other and got up to leave.
“Adrian, if I could have a word with you for a moment.”
So it’s Adrian now. Wulfe sat back down as the room cleared.
“Let me tell you how much I was moved by your eloquent statement just now. I want to thank you for that, and also share with you how impressed I am by your progress.”
“I certainly couldn’t have gotten this far without your help, doctor.”
“You’ve already demonstrated your maturity in so many ways over these many months. I’ve shared with my colleagues the story of your enormous restraint, compassion, and dignity during your meeting with Mrs. Copeland two months ago. You’ve also taken a leadership role here in Group, and your behavioral record in Claibourne has been spotless. Adrian, I want to say that I consider you to be an exemplary client.”
“Dr. Frankfurt…I just don’t know what to say to that.”
“I know that it’s highly unusual, given the crime for which you were convicted, but there’s no question in my mind, none at all, that you’ve earned placement in the Accelerated Community Reintegration Track.”
Yes. Wulfe’s heart was pounding. He did his best to push his face into a humble expression of speechless gratitude.
“Given the current circumstances,” The Hairball went on, “with all this media sensationalism and vigilante rubbish, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll even have enlightened programs such as this one. So I want to make sure that I initiate your transition right away. And as a first step in your reintegration, Adrian, I’m recommending you for your initial community furlough this coming Christmas.”
Nobody else was in the room, so it was time for Stanislavsky. The first tears began to flow as he reached out and clutched the shrink’s hand.
“Dr. Frankfurt, you can’t begin to imagine how important this opportunity is to me. And let me assure you, I know how to take full advantage of it.”