When Aucoin finished his presentation, the judge asked the court appointed attorney, Linda Blackman, if she had anything to add. Her attempt to defend the three was not terribly effective since she pointed out they were unemployed, or as she put it, “unable to find employment,” and that situation had resulted in this misguided effort to make money by the only means available to them. She had no doubt, she said, that after further investigation the matter would be resolved as a misunderstanding. In the meantime, she wasn’t going to ask for bail because, since the three were from another state, it was unlikely to be granted.
“Don’t you want to at least go on record asking for bail?” inquired the judge.
“No, your honor,” said Blackman, getting evil looks from her clients. She placed the case file in her brief case, shut it with a snap, and was out of the courtroom before the three alleged drug dealers were led away by the court officers to their temporary accommodations in the county jail.
“Wow,” said Portland Press Herald stringer Pete Withers as he and Lucy joined the throng leaving the courtroom. “Their lawyer didn’t want anything to do with them. That’s cold.”
“Well, they do sound like trouble,” said Lucy. “And it’s not as if they were local kids with families in the area.”
When she stepped outside she realized there was another dimension to the case. A group of demonstrators had gathered on a grassy area in front of the courthouse and were holding signs that read BUILD A WALL! DEPORT THE DRUG DEALERS! and AMERICA FOR AMERICANS! She paused on the steps and snapped a few photos of the protesters, which prompted one of them to confront her.
“Why did you do that?” demanded a middle-aged man wearing a Carhartt jacket and a red-and-black–plaid hunting cap.
“I’m a reporter for the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver newspaper,” said Lucy. “You’re part of the story I’m covering. And besides, if you’re standing out here in broad daylight demonstrating, I assume it’s because you want people to know how you feel.”
“I sure do want people to know how I feel,” said the man, changing his tune. “These scumbags come up here from Mexico and they get welfare and food stamps and free educations and Medicaid if they stub their toes, all on the backs of hardworking real Americans. That’s how I see it and it’s about time it ended.”
“Right!” yelled another protester. “You said it, George.”
“Do you mind giving me your name, George?” asked Lucy, who had written down every word.
“George Powers. I’m from Gilead and I’m fifty-three years old.”
“Thanks, George. I really appreciate your openness,” said Lucy. But as she made her way back to her car, she was troubled by the demonstrators’ sentiments. The three young men who had been arrested were most probably guilty, she thought, but that didn’t mean that everyone who had a Hispanic name was a criminal. And this was America, where everyone was presumed to be innocent until proven guilty. Wasn’t it?
She had just got settled in the car when Bill called her cell phone. “Did you forget your lunch?” she asked.
“Not my lunch,” he replied. “My flip book. You know, that loose-leaf with photos of my work. I think it’s in your car.”
Lucy twisted around in her seat and spotted the book lying on the back seat of her CR-V. “Yup, it’s here. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Olde Irish Pub. I’m meeting Rey Rodriguez to discuss some renovations.”
“I didn’t know you were involved with that,” said Lucy.
“Me, either,” said Bill. “He called this morning, asking if I’d be interested. I’ve got my laptop with photos, but he wants something he can keep for a few days, maybe show to his investors.” Bill paused, most likely answering a question from Rey. “So how soon can you get here?”
“Twenty minutes,” said Lucy. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
When she arrived at the harbor, she noticed several cars parked by the Olde Irish Pub. Bill’s truck was there, of course, but there was also one of the gray sedans used by town officials and a huge black Land Rover. She parked next to Bill’s pickup, grabbed the book he wanted, and went inside.
When the Olde Irish Pub opened more than a decade ago it had been a big improvement over its former incarnation as the Bilge, a dive frequented by local fishermen and known for cheap beer and frequent brawls. The Olde Irish Pub was welcomed by locals, who enjoyed the friendly atmosphere, good food, and harborside location. As time passed, however, the owners seemed to lose interest and the level of service declined, as did the quality of the food, and people stopped going there. It hadn’t been much of a surprise when the restaurant was closed and a FOR SALE sign appeared in the window. The property languished on the market for over a year before Rey Rodriguez expressed an interest in buying it.
“You can’t beat the location,” he was saying to Bill when Lucy arrived.
“I’d open up the windows to take advantage of the view,” replied Bill, giving Lucy a wave. “Here’s my wife with the book. Lucy, have you met Rey Rodriguez?”
“We haven’t met, but I saw him at the selectmen’s meeting. Welcome to Tinker’s Cove.”
“Lucy’s a reporter for the local paper,” said Bill with a smile, “so you better watch what you say or you might find yourself in print.”
“Never fear. We’re off the record,” joked Lucy. Hearing raised voices, she turned to see the town’s health agent, Jennifer Santos, and Ed Franklin emerging from the kitchen.
The two were arguing and Lucy wondered if she’d spoken too soon; this might be a situation worth a paragraph or two in the paper.
“I’m telling you, you can’t do this,” said Jennifer. “It’s not legal.”
She was an attractive woman about thirty years old, who
