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  “You don’t remember me,” she said. “Do you?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Should I?”

  “Don’t blame you,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a long time. But I sure as hell remember you, Spenser. You were looking for some fancy English book taken by some campus crazies about a million years ago.”

  My face flushed. “Iris?”

  “None other, baby,” she said. “Or you can call me the Last of the Mohicans. I wouldn’t take a buyout, so I was forced up here and promoted to ME. I’m also a third of my entire staff.”

  Some detective. A nameplate on her desk read IRIS MILFORD.

  “How long has it been?” she said.

  “Let’s not think about it,” I said. “Math makes my head hurt.”

  “Mine, too,” she said. “So tell me what you’re doing up here.”

  “A student was given jail time for pulling a prank at dear old Blackburn High,” I said. “Kid’s mother is my client. I’m being told this judge doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Joe Scali?” she said. “Shit. His face would fall off if he smiled.”

  “Mean?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tough?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fair?” I said.

  “Some folks aren’t so sure,” she said. “We wrote a four-part series last year on his record. He has sentenced more kids per capita than anywhere else in Mass.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “Would you believe another judge?” she said. “He didn’t like what he was hearing out of juvenile court and thought a little light needed to shine on the problem.”

  “And Judge Scali apologized to all the kids.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “You know it. Right after he dodged me for about two months. When I finally got him to sit down and talk, he spoke to me like I was some little girl who hadn’t covered cops and courts longer than he’s been on the bench. He said figures don’t tell the whole story. He says that probation or house arrest has been proved to be worthless. Scali says he believes the only way to get the attention of these kids is to send them to these juvenile jails.”

  “Even when they didn’t commit a serious crime.”

  “He blames the parents,” she said. “Said we have a whole generation that doesn’t know how to care for their kids. He said what he was doing was being father and judge.”

  “God bless him.”

  “Since he was put on the bench, kids doing jail time has gone up ten times in this county,” she said. “Although they don’t call it jail. What do they call it?”

  “Placement?’

  “Yeah, child-care placement.”

  “Still jail,” I said.

  She nodded. “I asked him that,” she said. “I asked if he ever thought about some of the kids he sentenced who hadn’t committed a serious crime. And you know what he did? He just kind of stared at me. He’s good at that shit, just staring, letting the question hang in the air like you shouldn’t have been asking that.”

  “I’m familiar with the type.”

  “He said for every parent who complains to the courts or the newspaper, there are five kids and their parents who come to him and thank him,” she said. “He says he turned a lot of lives around.”

  “Has he?” I said.

  “We found a few of those. Some petty criminals who got caught with drugs or shoplifting or whatever. We talked to them. Their parents say they changed their minds about Scali when their kids got home. But a year away from family and school isn’t an ideal plan. Kids don’t exactly flourish when separated from their parents.”

  “Why don’t the parents challenge the system?”

  “If you hadn’t noticed,” she said, “ain’t a lot of money in Blackburn. Lawyers cost money. And if you don’t speak English, you tend to not try and buck the system.”

  “How about that other judge, the one who tipped you. Can you give me an introduction?”

  Iris shook her head. “I wish I could,” she said. “But he died last year. He had a heart attack. His wife and I still talk. She believes he died because of the stress over dealing with Scali. Apparently he took some real heat from Scali’s buddies when he spoke up. The presiding judge demoted him.”

  “Maybe I could speak to his wife?”

  Iris nodded, reaching for a pen and her reporter’s notebook. She scrolled through her computer screen and then jotted down a name and number. “I don’t know if she’ll want to talk,” Iris said. “I tried about three months ago, wanting to know if he left some files. She wouldn’t even open the door.”

  “How could she resist me?”

  “Maybe she can’t,” Iris said. “But Scali sure as hell will. Closest you’ll get to his court is standing outside those two closed doors.”

  I stood and left my card.

  “Nice to see you, Spenser,” she said. “You gonna stick around Blackburn awhile?”

  “Why not.”

  “I have to say you’ll definitely make this place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

  “I doubt that would take much.”

  7

  Judge Price’s widow lived in a two-story Colonial in the toniest section of Blackburn, a neighborhood along the park called Belleview. I figured it was tony because all the houses were painted, driveways were shoveled, and two passing drivers eyed me with suspicion. The house was a flat gray, with white trim and a bright red door. There were two fireplaces, neither emitting smoke, and a garage stretching from the left side of the home. An iron streetlamp wrapped in plastic holly lit a gray day as I walked past. All the driving and sitting had not been kind to my knee.

  I stretched it as I walked to the door and knocked. And then knocked some more. A bundle of mail had been wedged under a brass door handle. I reached for my cell phone and tried the number. I heard the telephone ringing inside, but no one picked up. I made my way carefully along the walkway to the garage. A blue Honda was parked there alongside an empty space. Being a master detective, I figured no one was home.

  I’d come back later. The problem was how to while away the hours in Blackburn. I could see if Officer Lorenzo wanted to discuss crime-busting techniques over coffee. I could see if Vice Principal Waters wanted to go shopping for home electronics. Or maybe I could make my way over to the Blackburn Mill history museum to ponder the good old eighteen-hour workdays and the benefits of child labor.

  Instead, I called Sheila Yates at work and asked for names of other parents who had similar problems with Scali. She gave me five different names and three phone numbers.

  The first on the list was a woman named Trinh Tran who ran an Asian grocery about four miles away in the Hastings Corner district. The district was mainly a collection of one-level storefronts occupied by Asian businesses that branched off an old-fashioned tri-cornered building that sold liquor, cigarettes, and cell phones. There were a couple hair and nail salons, at least three Vietnamese restaurants, two bars, and another liquor store. I took note there was a sale on Boone’s Farm strawberry wine. Trinh Tran owned Saigon Le, a combination pho house and grocery. Besides selling rice in twenty-pound sacks, live carp, basil leaves, and bok choy, Saigon Le acquiesced to Massachusetts culture by also selling Lotto tickets, forty-ounce beers, and stale donuts.

  I found Trinh in a back office, cleaning up a storeroom. A back door hung loosely off the hinges and the cold wind shot hard into the room lined with shelves and stacks of boxes.

  “Are you the police?” she said. She had little, if any, accent.

  “When my hair grows out, I’m often confused with Jack Lord.”

  “You have a cop face.” The accent was a little more pronounced, somewhere between Saigon and the South Shore.

  “Weathered lines of integrity.”

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed big
sacks of rice had been cut open, spilling onto the stained concrete floor. Boxes had been slashed and emptied. “This fifth time I’ve been robbed this year,” she said. “They don’t even use what they take. They take because they want to show they own me. They own all this business.”

  “Gangs.”

  “Doesn’t everywhere have a gang?” she said. “I have two nephews in the gang who probably did this.”

  She got off her knees and looked to me. She was much smaller than I’d thought, in her black jeans with sparkly designs on the pockets and a very tight-fitting pink jacket. Her hair was very straight and very black and cut into a severe bob with sharp bangs above the brow.

  “What a mess,” she said.

  “Your son is Van?”

  She nodded. Her face turned serious and she placed two small fists to her mouth. “What’s wrong? What’d he do?”

  I told her about Sheila and Dillon Yates and meeting with the fun faculty at the high school, and all I knew about Judge Scali. All I knew about Scali could be written onto the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on the head of a pin.

  “This third time with him,” she said, holding up three fingers. “Third time. He gets out of that place and next time it will be real jail.”

  “What was he charged with?”

  “The first time?

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Not really. He got blamed for bringing marijuana cigarettes to school. Someone put it in his locker. He never did drugs. Not then.”

  “And the second?”

  “He left school early,” she said. “He wanted to get home and to help me. They say he broke the school door. They said he was a vandal. He broke the door. We offered to pay. It was an accident.”

  “I assume Scali wasn’t in a forgiving mood.”

  She shook her head. “He called him a gangbanger,” she said. “That’s a lie. He spoke down to my son as if he didn’t know English. Van was born here. English is his first language.”

  “What did your attorney say?”

  Trinh Tran stared at me, confused. She widened her eyes and shook her head. “No attorney.”

  “What about a public defender?” I said.

  “Man at the court told us that teenagers don’t need an attorney,” she said. “He told it us that was for adult court only.”

  “Everyone gets an attorney,” I said. “Even kids.”

  She shook her head. “Not in Blackburn.”

  I rubbed my jaw. I did this often while I was thinking. I’d seen detectives do this often in movies. It’s supposed to make you look smart and attentive. I repeated the gesture.

  “Did an officer of the court tell you that?” I said. “Were you told you could not have an attorney?”

  “I signed a paper,” she said. “They said everyone signed it.”

  “But were you told it wasn’t an option?”

  She thought on it for a moment and then nodded. A brisk wind shot into the storage room. I walked over to the door and asked her if she had a screwdriver and a hammer. I wasn’t exactly Bob Vila, and the job was ugly, but I helped get it back into the frame. It would close and she could lock it. I took a piece of scrap wood to replace part of the broken frame.

  “Thank you,” she said, after I had finished.

  We walked back through the market that smelled of exotic spices, ripe produce, and the pungent odor of the big fish tank. I contemplated buying an authentic wok for ten dollars. Trinh walked outside with me.

  “I don’t want trouble,” she said. “I want my son back in school.”

  “If Scali has denied lawyers for kids,” I said, “he could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Nobody will talk against that man,” she said. “No one knows what he does inside his court. How will you know?”

  “I have an obsessive personality,” I said. “Keep talking to enough people and the truth will shake out.”

  “You’re big,” she said. “Shake hard.”

  8

  I spent the afternoon waiting out Blackburn’s chief public defender. He didn’t return to his office until nearly six o’clock, and by that time I’d gone through every issue of American Lawyer, Entertainment Weekly, and Cape Cod from the last three years. The pictures of sunsets, lobsters, and picket fences were stunning. The latest news on Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt amazing. I was about to start from the top when a shabby man clutching a scuffed leather briefcase walked through the door.

  Felix Bukowski wasn’t pleased to have a visitor. He looked to have had a long day in court, but the closer I got, it smelled as if he’d had a long day at the tavern. He was short and thick, with an enormous head. He looked like one of those guys who needed everything custom made, from hats to pants. He looked to be a twenty-eight inseam with a thirty-eight waist. His hair was long and slick and matched his sparse gray beard. I couldn’t tell if he was trying for the stubble look or just had forgotten to shave.

  I followed him into his office, where he dumped his briefcase in a leather chair. He loosened an ugly flowered tie, took off his coat, and plumped down in a high-backed chair. “Yeah?” he said, massaging his temples. “How can I help you?”

  I walked up close to his desk. “You want to stick around here or can I buy you another drink?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I offered my hand and introduced myself.

  “Private eye?” he said, making a gun from his thumb and forefinger. “No shit.”

  I was annoyed he’d stolen my patented gesture but let it go. “How about a beer?”

  “After today,” he said, “how about a double Old Crow on the rocks?”

  “I knew it,” I said. “A true connoisseur. Let’s go.”

  We walked around the corner from the three-story brick office to a place called Jimmy’s Pub. Jimmy’s Pub looked the way a spot called Jimmy’s Pub should look. It had beer signs in oval windows and a couple taps filled with the latest flavors of Sam Adams. The liquor selection was somewhat limited, ranging from bottom-shelf to under-the-counter. But we were in luck. They had Old Crow. I had a feeling Bukowski knew this.

  I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager.

  The attorney upended the whiskey and swallowed down half before lowering the glass and wiping his lips. A corner jukebox was playing the best of Sinatra. Felix tapped his fingers as he listened to “Fly Me to the Moon.” I hoped on the next round he wouldn’t be standing on the bar and belting out “My Way.” I suffer enough for my clients.

  “So are you going to tell me your case or not?”

  “I work for the family of Dillon Yates.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Not surprised,” I said. “You didn’t represent him.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  A haggard woman missing two front teeth got up to slow-dance with a man in a flannel shirt and unlaced work boots. They could’ve taken a lesson or two from Arthur Murray.

  Felix wistfully watched them.

  “Trouble,” he said. “I got four ex-wives.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Last one wouldn’t shut up,” he said, motioning with his scruffy chin. “I want something like that.”

  “Missing teeth?”

  “Magic,” he said. “Ain’t no magic left.”

  I ordered another round for Felix Bukowski. He wore a big tan parka over his suit. The hood lay loose around his big head, making him look like Nanook of the North. I drank the Sam Adams Winter Lager, which was my favorite and almost made up for the company.

  An old Asian man sat at the end of the bar watching television with the sound turned off. It was an infomercial about growing hair from a can.

  “You do much work in juvenile courts?”

  “Kiddie court ain’t my thing.”

  “But you do assign attorneys there
?”

  “If that’s what they want.”

  He sipped on the drink. The bartender leaned against the cash register and lit a cigarette. Christmas lights blinked on and off from over the jukebox. They looked like they went up a few Christmases ago and just kept blinking on forever. The two lovebirds had disappeared.

  “I understand Judge Scali doesn’t want attorneys in his courtroom.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From parents who got it from his bailiffs.”

  Felix shuffled in his chair. His mouth twitched a little and he rubbed a fat finger under his nose. He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Have you heard about kids being denied counsel?”

  “No.”

  “But on average, do kids want some help from your office?”

  “I mean, they get their own, and sometimes they ask for assistance,” he said. “But if you’re trying to say we’re banned or something, that’s nuts.”

  I sipped my beer. The old Asian man was entranced by the full head of hair on the test subject. He was drinking a lime-green-colored liquid. I was betting they didn’t serve absinthe at Jimmy’s.

  “I understand there’s a waiver.”

  “I thought you were a private eye on a case,” he said. “Not a troublemaker.”

  “I multitask.”

  “Hmm,” he said as he hiccupped. “I’ve been running this office for eleven years.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I know people like to shit on public defenders,” he said. “But I help the people. I do for people who can’t hire hotshits from Boston.”

  “Hotshits can sometimes be overrated.”

  “You bet. But it doesn’t really matter who you are or what firm you’re from,” Felix said, making a considerable effort to turn on the bar stool and look me in the eye. “You could have F. Lee Fucking Bailey in Scali’s courtroom and still get time.”

  “F. Lee Bailey is dead.”

  “You know what I goddamn mean.”