'What for? There were no witnesses. I couldn't ID the guy or the car. Besides, I wouldn't expect to get a sympathetic response. The cops are more likely to look for a cat stranded in a tree than for someone who kicked my ass. And I don't want to read about that in tomorrow's paper. I'll figure some other way to get to Fiora. I don't think he'll respond well to being accused in the paper of ordering someone to assault me.'
'My editor would be even less interested in getting sued. Did you have any luck with the mayor or Beth Harrell?'
'Nope. I figure the mayor is the most likely to respond to bad press. I think Beth Harrell will see me because I was an irresistible student.'
'Don't sit by the phone. You'll grow old. Listen, the mayor is speaking at the Salvation Army Christmas luncheon at the Hyatt today. I understand that the baked chicken is to die for.'
'Any chance you'll be stalking the mayor along with me?'
'You can bet on it.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mason's first stop was the Jackson County Jail, a redbrick building on the east side of police headquarters. The exterior was perforated by longitudinal rows of rectangular windows big enough to satisfy court-mandated quality-of-incarceration living standards and small enough to make certain the inmates stayed there to enjoy them.
The receptionist was a civilian employee who wore olive slacks and a pale blue shirt with epaulets on the shoulders to give the ensemble an official appearance. Her bleached blond hair was pulled back tight enough to raise her chin to her lower lip, freezing her mouth in a scowl, though she might have just made an awful face as a child and it froze that way.
According to the tag on her blouse, her name was Margaret. He rejected the likelihood of a conspiracy by the World Federation of Margarets to make his life miserable but clenched his smart-ass impulse just in case.
'Good morning,' he told Margaret. 'I'm Lou Mason and I'm here to see my client, Wilson Bluestone.'
He handed her his driver's license, his Missouri Bar Association membership card, and one of his business cards.
Margaret scanned Mason's card collection like a bouncer checking for fake IDs. 'You didn't sign the back of your bar card. I can't accept it without a signature,' she said, handing the bar card back to Mason.
Mason felt the first wave of intemperance ripple through his back and neck. He resisted the urge to vault the counter separating them and smiled instead.
'Of course. Sorry about that,' he said as he signed his name and handed the card back to her.
Margaret held the bar card alongside Mason's driver's license, comparing the two signatures like a Treasury agent looking for counterfeit twenties.
'Bar card is expired. Can't take an expired bar card. You should have paid your dues.'
She handed the bar card back to Mason. He gripped the counter with both hands to keep them from her throat and decided to appeal to her sense of reason.
'Margaret, consider what you're saying. The bar card only means that I'm a member of the Missouri bar. It's a form of identification. There's nothing in the law that requires me to belong to the bar association or even be a lawyer to visit an inmate. Now, it happens that I am a lawyer and I have a client who's locked in a cell upstairs who is entitled to the effective representation of his chosen counsel. If he's deprived of that representation because you won't let me see him, the judge will have to dismiss the charges. My client happens to have been charged with murder, which most people think is a pretty serious deal. So why don't you call the prosecuting attorney and tell him that his case is going to get dismissed because you, Margaret, are refusing to let me see my client because my bar card has expired?'
'Jeez. Are you a tight-ass or what? I'm just doing my job here. Pay your damn dues like everybody else.'
'Trust me, Margaret. I've paid my dues. Now, open up.'
Mason passed through a series of security checks that fell one pat down short of a body-cavity search and was ushered into a cramped room divided by a narrow countertop that served as a table. A reinforced double pane of glass cut the room completely in two. A circular metal screen was mounted in the glass, which allowed conversation to be heard on both sides.
Mason stood, pacing in the small room until Blues entered through a door on the inmates' side. They looked at each other for a full minute. Mason saw a defiant man, ramrod straight, ragged coal black hair hanging over his tawny brow, piercing eyes searching Mason for good news. Blues touched his closed fist to the glass, holding it there, Mason returning the gesture.
'They're going to offer you a deal.'
'I won't take it.'
'I know that.'
'How do you know they're going to offer me a deal?'
Mason couldn't tell Blues what had happened in the parking lot. If Blues knew that taking a deal would protect Mason, he might agree. Mason assumed that whoever had sent him the message was counting on his relationship with Blues as one more source of pressure that would bring this case to a quick conclusion.
'Patrick Ortiz invited me to his office to talk about it. I turned down the invitation. Are you ready to ride this thing out?'
'All the way. I'm innocent and I'm not going to let somebody railroad me. Besides, no matter how many of them there are, you and me got them outnumbered.'
Mason smiled at the vote of confidence. 'This case is hot and it's going to get hotter. You watch yourself in there.'
Blues chuckled. 'Man, you forget one thing. All those brothers and white-trash crackers in there are afraid this crazy Indian will scalp 'em in their sleep. No one is going to fuck with me. Not more than once.'
'Be cool, Blues. The case they've got against you isn't worth a shit. Don't give them one they can make.'
'I hear that.'
They touched their fists against the glass again, and Mason pushed a button signaling the guard that they had finished their meeting.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When Mason got back to his office, he listened to a message from his aunt Claire telling him to meet her for lunch at the Summit Street Cafe at noon. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order. She wasn't much for protocol.
Mason assumed that she wanted to talk about Blues's case. If he was caught in the middle between Harry and Blues, she was caught between him and Harry. Though she wouldn't see it that way. She was one of the few people Mason knew who meant it when she said, 'Let the chips fall where they may.'
He had time until lunch so he searched the Kansas City Star's Web site for Rachel Firestone's articles about Jack Cullan's murder, noting that there had been three other murders during the same span, none of them getting the same coverage and none of them generating any fanfare or outrage. Mason knew why.
Kansas City knows murder. Any town that began as a river trading post called Old Possum Trot knows killing. Any town that claims Jesse James as a wayward son and commemorates the Union Station Massacre knows how to let the lead fly. Any town that has convulsed with riots and raised a generation of hopeless hard cases who expect to die before they're twenty-five knows the sweet agony of death.
Put a million and a half people-white, black, brown, yellow, rich, poor, faithful, faithless, doped, dependent, and demanding-in the rolling river country of the heart of America and they'll find endless ways to kill. Put it in the papers and on the news with candlelight vigils for the funerals of infants. Watch as TV reporters stick microphones in mourners' faces asking how does it feel and the people will search themselves for shock while keeping a head
