Authors: Joe Clifford
“He has a driver’s license,” Donna said, still believing I held sway over the situation. “We can’t afford the premium. Brian has a chance to go to Europe.”
“I know, Mrs. Olisky. He told me. But I don’t know what you think I can do. I work for an insurance company. I’m not associated with the police. I don’t know any cops. Well, I know this one cop, Rob Turley. But he’s an Ashton cop—”
“I want to drop the claim. Officially. I thought maybe if I did that, they’d let him go.” More sobbing. I made myself remember this woman’s loss. I saw her dead son’s picture on the mantel, a shrine erected by a grieving mother. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t my problem. Except, of course, now it was.
“Mrs. Olisky,” I said. “I wouldn’t worry about anything. For one, your son is a minor. There’s not much they
can
do.”
“I want to drop the claim,” she repeated. “Rescind it. Officially. If you send over paperwork, I’ll sign it.”
“It doesn’t work that way—”
“Then can you call the Longmont County Courthouse? Tell them we changed our mind about filing a claim.”
“Courthouse? First of all, if the police have Brian, he wouldn’t be at the Longmont Courthouse.” I tried not to act glib over her unfamiliarity with police procedure. People watch way too much TV.
“They said he’s being arraigned this morning.”
“Who said that?”
“The police. When I called down the station.”
“They said he was being arraigned? Are you sure?”
“Yes! At the Longmont County Courthouse. This morning!”
I knew firsthand that the legal system didn’t move so fast. None of this was adding up.
“Please,” Donna Olisky said. “Can’t you halt the claim? My son can’t go to prison.”
“No one is going to prison.”
“He must be so scared. He’s just a boy. I can’t leave the store again. I’ll get fired. I need this job. Tell them he didn’t mean to do it. Tell them I put him up to it. He’s a good boy. This is all my fault.” The inconsolable sobbing returned.
“Please stop crying. Let me see what I can do.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Porter, Jay,” Donna said through choked-back snuffles. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I’m not making any promises. Listen. This is my cell. If you need to reach me, use this number. You’re going to have to give me a little time, though.”
Mrs. Olisky thanked me profusely. Not like I had any choice.
You’d have to be one heartless sonofabitch not to be moved by a mother’s crying.
I
RANG
L
IBBY
Brook PD, expecting to be shot down, or laughed at, because the scenario Donna Olisky proposed was ludicrous. Instead I got an extra-helpful receptionist, who confirmed the impossible: not only had Brian Olisky been arrested, he’d been whisked up to Longmont County Courthouse for arraignment this a.m. She didn’t know more than that. I called the courthouse. A robot answered, prompting me to push a bunch of buttons, which got me no closer to a live human being. After ten minutes of Michael Bolton musak and frustration, I decided to check this out in person and find out what the hell was going on.
I told DeSouza I had loose ends to tie up before I could turn in my final report. He didn’t ask what, which was good, because I wouldn’t have had an answer.
Centrally located south of the mountains, the Longmont Courthouse served as one-stop lowlife shopping, servicing most of northern New Hampshire. Every screw-up charged within a fifty-mile radius got hauled here. DUI, drug possession, domestic violence, whatever other hillbilly crimes had been committed over the weekend—this was where the damage got sorted out.
The Courthouse bustled with late-morning business as deputies jettisoned the last batch of scofflaws up the steep steps of Lady Justice; hardened criminals prepared to meet their fate. Except none of these inmates looked terribly hardened to me.
That’s one of the benefits of experiencing how the other half lives: you’re forced to go beyond stereotypes and prejudice. With a different past, I’d only see the tan jumpsuits and handcuffs, too. Like the rest of the wholesome folk tooling Main Street. Turn head in disgust, hit the auto-lock, drive away a little faster. Most of these convicts, with their bad posture and drippy noses, weren’t gangbangers or bank robbers; they were dope-sick addicts who’d attempted some penny-ante bullshit. Junkies will do anything to put off dealing with the reality of their pathetic lives another moment longer.
Watching the parade of drunks, dope fiends, and tweakers, I knew one thing: Brian Olisky didn’t belong with these people.
I checked the time. Almost twelve. Bad timing. State agencies take long lunches. Even with the lunch break and my boss’ good graces, I knew I had to hurry. And I didn’t know where to start.
Last time I’d been here, my brother had been popped for panhandling outside the Price Chopper. Vagrancy. Had to be at least two years ago. I’d come to bail him out. They’d refurbished the place since then, adding another wing of courtrooms. There used to be a help desk right when you walked in. I didn’t see any help desk.
I emptied my keys in the bucket and crossed the threshold.
A steady flow of suits, lawyers on both sides of the equation, exited in the other direction, prosecutors and public defenders yammering out last-minute plea bargains on their way to grab an expensive sandwich. Two years suspended after four, credit for time served, yuk-yuk. An hour earlier, they’d been at each other’s throats. Now they were laughing, joking, friendly as hell. It’s all a show.
Those prisoners lucky enough to get their charges dropped or released on their own recognizance scurried off into the shadows,
free to plot their next fuckup, the rest of the chattel refitted with chains and packed in the jailhouse van, whisked back to county, or somewhere far worse.
The clock tower struck noon. The hectic scene of ten minutes ago vanished. Doors locking, gates rolling shut. A bailiff with a large metal key ring dangling from his hip scowled in my direction, took a corner, and was gone, the echo of footsteps swallowed by cavernous halls. I stood in silence.
I didn’t know where to find Brian Olisky. I couldn’t believe the police would pick up a boy like him. Even if they did, processing took time, arraignments took time. This wasn’t any of the state’s business until NEI chose to file charges. DeSouza was a jerk, but I couldn’t see him clamoring for the arrest of a sixteen-year-old. Even if corporate made the call, no one goes before the judge this fast. Had the woman at Libby Brook PD been mistaken? Had Brian even been here at all?
I poked my head in a couple of deserted courtrooms. Still plenty of good seats left for the two o’clock showing.
Standing in the middle of the hall, I spun three-sixty, scanning surroundings until my eyes settled on a little hole in the wall. At the far end, inside a tiny box not much bigger than a tollbooth, a young woman sat watching me. She didn’t hide her amusement over my confusion.
She waved me closer. Nose ring. Pierced lip. Sunburst tattoo curling out collar, orange flame licking slender neckline. Young. Pretty. White Mountain Community College, I figured, probably interning for class credit. Brushing the black hair from her eyes, she ran a tongue over her lip ring.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“I bet you are.”
“A friend of mine.”
She patted the stack of court documents piled high next to her. “When was your friend picked up?”
“This morning.”
She giggled. “Then he’s still in county. Longmont moves fast. But not that fast.”
I wanted to say nothing moved fast in Longmont. On the way in, I’d gotten stuck behind a jalopy flatbed with a “Can’t Beet a Farmer” bumper sticker.
I pointed at her paperwork. “You mind checking anyway?”
“Not supposed to give out that information. Except to family.” She wrinkled her nose, as if she were one to play by the rules. Before I could respond, she smiled and said, “What’s your
brother’s
name?”
“Brian Olisky.”
She flipped through pages, running a finger down, twirling hair, gnawing her lip. She wasn’t exactly subtle. I’d always considered myself a good-looking guy. Mostly because other women had told me so. But I wasn’t good-looking enough to warrant this kind of attention, not from a girl who looked like that. Which told me one thing: she must be really bored inside that little box, or she was playing me for some reason. Beat me why.
“I don’t think he’s going to be listed,” she said. “If he was arrested this morning, they’d book him in whatever township, then petition to get on tomorrow’s docket, even expedited, and then—oh, wait. That’s weird. Here he is. Brian Olisky.”
“Great. Can you tell me where I can find him? Or who his public defender is?”
“Everyone’s at lunch. If he hasn’t seen the judge yet, he’d be on the afternoon docket. Could be with a sheriff in one of the
holding cells in the basement? They feed prisoners hamburgers for lunch. But you can’t go down there.”
“Can you?”
“Can’t leave my station.”
“But you don’t know if he’s down there?”
She shook her head. “Could be back in county,” she said. “Don’t see a PD assigned yet. I can find out and call you.” There was that grin again.
I’d thought maybe I was being egotistical, a thirty-something dad mistaking friendly with flirting. I didn’t know how girls that age acted. In a couple years I’d be put out to demographic pasture. I already didn’t understand new music or techy gadgets. But when she asked for my number, she made sure to lean forward over the counter, pressing her arms against her tits so I could see down her shirt and the black lace bra. A blind man could see she was hitting on me.
I wasn’t blind—or a saint—but when I brought up my cell I made sure she saw my wedding ring.
I caught her glance at it, heeding its warning as much as you do a mattress tag before you rip it off. She reached for my hand, soft fingers lingering over calloused knuckles. A year spent working white-collar hadn’t erased a lifetime’s worth of manual labor’s scars. She relieved me of my phone, scrolled through my contacts and added her information, typing in a flurry of thumbs and digits. Anytime I had to add a new name and number, I needed half a week to hunt and peck. She flipped my cell over, passing it back like a loaded gun.
“Better yet,” she said, “I get off work at four. There’s a bar around the corner, the Chop Shop. Come back and I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
I winced goodbye. Like I was doing that. I knew damn well
she’d seen the ring; I didn’t feel any need to reiterate the obvious. Walking away, I felt self-conscious, face flushed, gut twisting, wondering how pretty girls still held that power over me.
My cell buzzed. I glanced down at my new friend’s contact.
Nicki. Spelled with an “i.” Of course it was.
* * *
Longmont proper was about forty minutes south of Plasterville, not far from the 302, which put Burlington little more than an hour away. I realized that was half the reason I’d gone up to the courthouse, even if I hadn’t acknowledged it consciously at the time. Now I could see Jenny and my son. So much for altruism.
I called DeSouza and said I’d eaten something bad at lunch.
“Gas station sushi will do that to you,” DeSouza joked. “No worries, Jay. Go home. Rest up. You deserve it. See you tomorrow.”
The tortuous drive along 302’s ice-slicked roadways made the trip seem a lot longer than it should have. I didn’t bother calling Jenny first because I was worried she’d tell me to turn around. I hadn’t been to Lynne’s new place in Burlington. Whenever Jenny made the trip, I begged off. I had to look up the address on my cell.
My mother-in-law and I didn’t get on too well. No surprise. How many bad comedians cut their teeth with mother-in-law jokes? It’s Humor 101. My situation was worse than that. The woman flat out hated me. She made no secret she thought her daughter could do better, a point of view she started voicing back in high school. I remembered Lynne once telling Jenny how Derek Riggs, Ashton High’s QB, would make a great boyfriend. I was standing right there in the kitchen when she’d said it.
Lynne attended our marriage ceremony at City Hall last year,
and she’d said all the right things, calling me son, welcoming me to the family. Even though her daughter and I had a child together, Lynne couldn’t hide her contempt for me. Jenny fleeing in the middle of the night, bashing her “emotionally unavailable” husband, wouldn’t improve my standing.
The whole drive up I’d been gnashing my jaw, sucking down cigarettes. By the time I reached the shores of Lake Champlain, I realized those feelings had less to do with my mother-in-law and more to do with the guilt I felt. I hadn’t done anything wrong with that Nicki girl, but I’d still enjoyed the attention. Regardless of our current situation, I loved my wife. I hadn’t flirted back. Had I? No, that was all on her. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing and she
was
just being nice. That made more sense. I had to be at least ten years older than she was, and why did I care anyway?
Chomping mints, I tried to clear my mind as I knocked on Lynne’s door. Seeing my wife and son would fix everything.
“Oh, hello, Jay,” my mother-in-law chirped with phony cheer, standing in the doorway, not bothering to invite me in.
I peered around her. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Burlington is over two hours away.”
“Yeah. Took me over two hours to get into the neighborhood . . . Is my wife here?”
Lynne laughed and stepped aside. “She should be back any minute. Come in. Sit down.”
“How about my son?” I saw a corner of the living room had been designated a play area, all toys contained neatly within its borders. Nothing else in the apartment was out of order. Even the magazines on the glass end table were fanned perfectly. My mother-in-law was nothing if not meticulous.
“He went with her,” she said.
“Where did they go?”
“To lunch,” Lynne said. “She’s made friends with another tenant in the complex. Same age. Have a lot in common. You know how outgoing and personable Jenny is. It’s not easy for her out there where you live now. Nobody to talk to. She’s going a little stir crazy. They went to grab a bite to eat.” Lynne walked ahead of me into the living room, peeking back over her shoulder. “I don’t think Jenny is a big fan of my cooking.”