Blossom

'Please tell James I'll be by to see him,' I said. Leaving the envelope in her hands.

People watched from their front stoops. Looked away when I watched them.

56

THE NEXT MORNING, I took Maintop Ninety-third, pulled in at the Lake County Juvenile Detention Center. Solid brick, cop cars parked in front. Parking lot half full. High chain link fence around the grounds, loops of razor wire across the top. They all look the same.

I showed the Consent Form to the woman on duty behind a glass wall. She asked for some ID, picked up the phone.

I read the signs while I was waiting. Visiting Hours. Rules and Regulations.

A slim, handsome black man came through a side door.

'Mr. Sloane?'

'Yes.'

'You're here to see Hightower, I understand. We're full up here, so we don't have a visiting room. We usually use the cafeteria, but the boys are eating now. Visiting hours aren't until ten. But we always try to accommodate attorneys here. You're working for Mr. Bostick?'

'That's right.'

'Didn't know he was handling Hightower's case. I'll have to make a couple of phone calls. Be with you in just a minute.'

He left me sitting there. A careful man.

Not ten minutes later, he was back. 'I'll let you use my office. You'll have complete privacy. Just open the door when you're done, give a call down the corridor.'

'Thank you.'

A guard brought Hightower in. I stood up, shook hands with him. He went along like he knew the play, took a seat. The guard left.

His head was elongated, forceps marks visible just past his temples, framing small eyes with a yellowish cast. They were bright and flat, like a lizard's. 'Who you?'

'My name is Sloane.'

'What you want?'

'I want to do something for you, Mr. Hightower. I heard you were a man who knew how to act.'

'What's that mean?'

I leaned forward, lighting a smoke, leaving the pack on the desk between us. 'You know how the new kids come in this joint. Scared and all? You being the top man, I guess you get to make your pick.'

'Maybe.'

'Now, some of these kids, you pick them to be your running buddies. And some you pick to play with, right? The weak ones.'

'I ain't into that shit, man.'

'Of course you're not. Anyone can see you don't play that way. But there's guys in here that do. And they don't do nothing without an okay from the Man, right?'

A quick smile. 'Right.'

'I wouldn't want you to make a mistake, Mr. Hightower. A man has to know who his friends are, right? Now, I'm a private investigator. And I'm looking for somebody.'

'Who?'

'I'm looking for the freak who sniper-snuffed those kids in lovers' lane.'

'So why you here?'

'Because he may be in here too. Maybe he's here for something else. And maybe he's got a big mouth, see?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I see.'

'So you hear something, you let me know. And it's worth some cash.'

'How much cash?'

'Ten large.'

'I make that in a week on the street, man.'

'You not on the street, pal. You're in the jailhouse. Way I hear it, you're going to be here for quite some time. I know how things work in here. You don't want the money, say so. But let me tell you something else too. Remember what I told you about knowing who your friends are? I'm your friend. A good friend. That's what I told your mother.'

'My mother? Man, if you…'

'I paid her a visit. A nice, respectful visit. And I left her five hundred bucks for you. A token of my respect. Because I'm your friend.'

He lit one of my cigarettes, cold as a seventeen-year-old life-taker, but not cool. Letting it show. I went on in the same quiet, soft tone, eyes on his.

'I got another friend in here, Mr. Hightower. His name is Lloyd. He was here before. Just came in again yesterday. They won't let him into population until tomorrow. White kid, about your height, a little bit shorter. Slim build, black hair.'

'I know him.'

'Yeah. Any friend of mine is a friend of yours, understand? I never let anything happen to my friends. I know what to do if something does.'

'You want me to look out for this white boy?' he sneered.

I leaned forward, close to his face. Dropped my voice to a whisper. 'I want you to look out for your self, okay? I went to see your mother— left her some cash. Anything happens to my friend, I figure maybe I made a mistake about you. Maybe you're not my friend like I thought. That happens, I'll go see your mother again.'

His eyes were unvarnished hate. I held them. Let him see the truth. Right down to the deep spot where the blood-spill starts.

57

BOSTICK WAS RELAXED in the courtroom. Wearing one of those slouchy Italian suits over highly polished black boots. Not lazy, staying within himself. Like a good host at a party. Virgil and Rebecca were in the front row, dressed in their church clothes. I sat next to Bostick at the counsel table.

The judge was a youngish man, light brown hair carefully combed to one side, face already starting to pudge from the rewards of honest living. The ADA was the kind of guy who spends his life going through the motions and never gets good at it. The kind of guy who screws something up so many times they call him experienced.

The kind of fight you don't waste your time fixing.

A reporter from the Post-Tribune flipped open his pad. I caught his eye. Whoever he was, he wasn't there to go through the motions.

'Your Honor,' Bostick began, voice low and controlled. Hounds in check. 'The purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant's presence at trial. The so-called evidence against my client does not aggregate to the weight of good gossip. The court knows full well that the totality of the prosecutor's case would not survive a probable-cause hearing. The crimes…they are horrible. Shocking to the conscience of the community. And the perpetrator surely deserves our worst condemnation. But, Your Honor, I respectfully suggest that the people of our community are ill served by illusion. The killer is not in this courtroom! As long as the press treats this case as solved, our people will sleep peacefully. But it will be the peaceful sleep of sheep who do not sense the presence of the wolf. Leads will dry up. People will not come forward and communicate with the police. If the court keeps Lloyd in jail, that time will be forever lost to him. When the killer is apprehended, all this court will be able to offer this boy is an apology. That is not the way we treat our citizens, Judge. We have been ready for the probable-cause hearing for weeks. Indeed, we are ready right at this moment. But the prosecutor's office has made no such attempt. If the police are satisfied with their investigation, let's have a trial. Let's have a trial, so my client can go home, to be with his family.'