Brazil would be twenty-three next May, and the urges had not lessened with time. He had been faithful to Dr. Rush, who, according to local gossip, was not faithful to his wife and never had been. Brazil thought about his sexuality as he ran a few sprints before trotting home. It seemed to him that love and sex were connected but maybe shouldn't be. Love made him sweet and thoughtful. Love prompted him to notice flowers and want to pick them. Love crafted his finest poetry, while sex throbbed in powerful, earthy pentameters he would never show to anyone or submit for publication.
He hurried home and took a longer than usual shower. At five past eight, he was moving through the cafeteria line in the Knight-Ridder building. He was in jeans, pager on his belt, people staring curiously at the boy wonder reporter who played police and always seemed alone.
Brazil selected Raisin Bran and blueberries as the intercom piped in WBT's wildly popular and irreverent Don't Go Into Morning show, with Dave and Dave.
"In a fast-breaking story last night," Dave was saying in his deep radio voice, 'it was revealed that even our city's mayor won't go downtown at night right now. "
"Question is, why would he anyway?" quipped Dave.
"Same thing Senator Butler should have asked."
"Just checking on his constituents, Dave.
Trying to be of service. "
"And the eensy weensy spider crawled up his water spout..."
"Whoa, Dave. This is getting out of control."
"Hey, we're supposed to be able to say anything on this show. That's in the contract." Dave was his usual witty self, better than Howard Stern, really.
"Seriously. Mayor Search is asking everybody to help catch the Black Widow Killer," Dave said.
"And next up is Madonna, Amy Grant, and Rod Stewart ..."
Brazil had stopped in the middle of the line, frozen as the radio played on and people made their way around him. Packer was walking in, heading straight towards him. Brazil's world was Humpty Dumpty off the wall, cracks happening everywhere at once. He paid for his breakfast, and turned around to face his ruination.
"What's going on?" he said before his grim editor could tell him.
"Upstairs now," Packer said.
"We got a problem."
Brazil did not run up the escalator. He did not speak to Packer, who had nothing more to say. Packer wanted no part of this. He wasn't going to insert his foot in his mouth. The great Richard Panesa could fix this one. That's why Knight-Ridder paid Panesa those big bucks.
Brazil had been marched to the principal's office only twice during his early school years. In neither case had he really done anything wrong. The first time he had poked his finger into the hamster cage and had gotten bitten. The second time of trouble occurred when he inserted his finger into the hole at the top of his clipboard and had gotten stuck.
Mr. Kenny used wire cutters to free young Brazil, who had been humiliated and heartbroken. The blue Formica clipboard with its map of the United States was destroyed. Mr. Kenny threw it into the trash while Brazil stood bravely by, refusing to cry, knowing his mother could not afford to buy him another one. Brazil had meekly asked if he could stay after school for a week, dusting erasers on back steps, to earn enough to buy something new to hold notebook paper and write on. That had been okay with all.
Brazil wondered what he could offer to Panesa to make up for whatever he had done to cause such a problem. When he walked into the publisher's intimidating glass office, Panesa was sitting behind his mahogany desk, in his fine Italian suit and leather chair. Panesa didn't get up or acknowledge Brazil directly, but continued reading a printout of the editorial for the Sunday paper, which slammed Mayor Search for his glib, albeit true, comment about his reluctance to travel downtown these nights.
"You might want to shut the door," Panesa quietly said to his young reporter.
Brazil did and took a seat across from his boss.
"Andy," he said, 'do you watch television? " His confusion grew.
"I rarely have time ..."
"Then you may not know that you are being scooped right and left."
The dragon inside Brazil woke up.
"Meaning?" Panesa saw fire in his eyes. Good. The only way this sensitive, brilliant young talent was going to last in this criminal world was if he were a fighter, like Panesa was. Panesa wasn't going to give him a breath of comfort. Andy Brazil, welcome to Hell School, the publisher thought as he picked up a remote control from his mighty desk.
"Meaning' - Panesa hit a button, and a screen unrolled from the ceiling 'that the last four or five major stories you've done have been aired on television the night before they ran in the paper, usually on the eleven o'clock news." He pressed another button, and the overhead projector turned on.
"Then the radio stations pick them up first thing in the morning. Before most people get a chance to read what we've plastered on the front page of our paper."
Brazil shot up from his chair, horrified and homicidal.
"That can't be! No one's even around when I'm out there!" he exclaimed, fists balled by his sides.
Panesa pointed the remote control, pressed another but ton, and instantly Webb's face was huge in the room.
'. in a Channel Three exclusive interview said she returns to the scene of the crash late at night and sits in her car and weeps.
Johnson, who turned in her badge this morning, said she wishes she had been killed, too . "
Panesa looked at Brazil. Brazil was speechless, his fury toward Webb coalescing into hatred for all. Moments passed before the young police reporter could gather his wits.
"Was this after my story?" Brazil asked, though he knew better.
"Before," Panesa replied, watching him carefully, and assessing.
"The night before it ran. Like every other one that's followed. Then this bit with the mayor. Well, that clinched it. We know that was a slip on Search's part and not something Webb could know unless he's got the mayor's office bugged."
"This can't be!" Brazil boiled over.
"It's not my fault!"
"This is not about fault." Panesa was stern with him.
"Get to the bottom of it. Now. We're really being hurt."
Panesa watched Brazil storm out. The publisher had a meeting, but sat at his desk, going through memos, dictating to his secretary while he observed Brazil through glass. Brazil was angrily opening desk drawers, digging in the box under it, throwing notepads and other personal effects into his briefcase. He ran out of the newsroom as if he did not plan on coming back. Panesa picked up the phone.
"Get Virginia West on the line," the publisher said.
tw Tommy Axel was staring after Brazil's wake, wondering what the hell was going on, and at the same time suspicious. He knew about Webb, and had heard about the leaks, and didn't blame Brazil for being out of his mind. Axel couldn't imagine the same thing happening to him, someone stealing brilliant thoughts and analyses from his music columns. God. Poor guy.
W Brenda Bond also was alert to the uproar as she worked on a computer that had gone down three days in a row because the idiot garden columnist had a knack for striking combinations of keys that somehow locked him out or translated his files into pi signs. Bond had a strange sensation as she went into System Manager. She found it hard to concentrate.
tw West was standing behind her desk, struggling to pack up her briefcase, and snap the lid back on her coffee, and wrap up the biscuit she didn't have time to eat. She looked worried and frantic as Panesa talked to her on the phone.
"You have any idea where he went?" West inquired.
"Home, maybe?" Panesa said over the line.
"He lives with his mother."
West looked hopelessly at the clock. She was supposed to be in Hammer's office in ninety seconds, and there was no such thing as putting the chief on hold, or being late, or not showing up, or forgetting. West shut her briefcase, and slid her radio into the case on her belt. She was at a loss.
"I'll do what I can," she promis
ed Panesa.
"Unfortunately, I've got court this morning. My guess is he's just blowing off steam. As soon as he cools down, he'll be back. Andy's not a quitter."
"I hope you're right."
"If he hasn't shown up by the time I get back, I'll start looking," West said.
"Good idea."
West hoped that Johnny Martino would plead guilty. Hammer didn't. She was in a mood to cause trouble. Dr. Cabel had done her a favor, really.
He had ignited a few sparks of anger, and the brighter they got, the more the mist of depression and malaise burned off. She was walking the fastest West had ever seen her, a zip-up briefcase under an arm, sunglasses on. Hammer and West made their way through the sweltering piedmont morning to the Criminal Court Building, constructed of granite in 1987, and therefore older than most buildings in Charlotte.
Hammer and West waited in line with everyone else at the X-ray machine.
"Quit worrying." West tried to reassure her boss as they inched forward behind some of the city's finer citizens.
"He'll plead." She glanced at her watch.
"I'm not worried," said Hammer.
West was. There were a hundred cases on the docket today. In truth, this was a bigger problem than whether Martino pled guilty versus taking his chances before a jury of his peers. Deputy Octavius Able eyed the two women getting closer in line and was suddenly alert and interested in his job. West had not passed through his X-ray machine since it resided in the old courthouse. Never had Able so much as laid eyes on Hammer in person. He had never had complete control over her.
West was in uniform, and walked around the door frame that was beeping every other second as pagers, change, keys, good luck charms, and pocket knives, went into a cup.
Hammer walked around, too, assuming the privilege of her position.
"Excuse me, ma'am!" Deputy Able said for all to hear.
"Ma'am! Please step through."
"She's the chief of police," West quietly told him, and she knew damn well it went without saying.
"Need some identification," the powerful deputy said to Hammer.
A long line of restless feet stopped, all eyes on the well-dressed lady with the familiar face. Who was that? They'd seen her somewhere, Maybe she was on TV, the news, a talk show? Oh heck. Then Tinsley Owens, six deep in line, here for reckless driving, got it. This lady in pearls was the wife of someone famous, maybe Billy Graham. Hammer was nonplussed as she dug through her pocketbook, and this made Deputy Abie's assertion of self not quite as rewarding. She smiled at him, holding up her badge.
"Thanks for checking." She could have knocked him over when she said that.
"In case anybody had any doubts about the security of our courthouse." She leaned close to read his nameplate.
"O.T. Able," she repeated, committing it to memory.
Now the deputy was dead. She was going to complain.
"Just doing my job," he weakly said as the line got longer, winding around the world, the entire human race witnessing his destruction.
"You most certainly were," Hammer agreed.
"And I'm going to make sure the sheriff knows how much he should appreciate you."
The deputy realized the chief meant every word of it, and Able was suddenly taller and slimmer. His khaki uniform fit perfectly. He was handsome and not nearly as old as he had been when he was at the BP pumping gas this morning and a carload of juveniles yelled, calling him Deputy Dawg, Hawaii Five-0, Tuna Breath, and other racial slurs. Deputy Octavius Able was ashamed of himself for throwing his weight around with this woman chief. He never used to be that way, and did not know what had happened to him over the years.
Chapter Twenty-one.
Hammer and West signed in at the Court Liaison Office and punched time cards. On the second floor, they followed a long corridor crowded with people looking for a pay phone or the bathroom. Some were sleeping on maple benches, or reading the Observer to see if their cases might be mentioned. When West opened the door to 2107, her anxiety increased.
The courtroom was packed with defendants waiting for punishment, and with cops whose fault it was. Hammer led the way to the very front, sitting on the side for lawyers and police. Assistant District Attorney Melvin Pond spotted the two powerful women instantly and got excited. He had been waiting for them. This was his chance.
Fourth Circuit Judge Tyler Bovine, of the Twenty-fifth Prosecutorial District, had been waiting, too, as had the media from far and near.
Batman and Robin, she. Judge Bovine, thought with intense pleasure as she departed from her chambers. She'd see about that when she reigned on high in the long black robe that covered her massive body of law.
West felt increasingly troubled for a number of reasons. She was worried about Brazil and afraid she'd never get out of here to check on him. Tyler Bovine, as was true of the rest of the judicial herd, was a traveling judge. She resided on the other side of the Catawba River, and despised Charlotte and all that was good about it, including its citizens. The judge was confident that it was only a matter of time before Charlotte annexed her home town of Gastonia, and all else Cornwallis had failed to seize.
"All rise for the judge."
All got around to it, and Judge Bovine smiled to herself as she entered the courtroom and spotted Hammer and West. The judge knew that the press had been tipped not to waste their time hanging around here this day. Batman and Robin would be back on Monday. Oh yes they would.
The judge sat and put on her glasses, looking important and godlike.
ADA Pond stared at the docket as if he had never seen one before this morning. He knew he had a battle on his hands, but was determined he would prevail.
"The court calls the case of the State of North Carolina versus Johnny Martino," he said with confidence he did not feel.
"I'm not ready to hear that now." Judge Bovine sounded bored.
West nudged Hammer, who was thinking about Seth and not sure what she would do if he died. It did not matter how much they fought or drove each other crazy or proved irrefutably that men and women could not be soulmates or friends. Hammer had a tragic look on her face, and ADA Pond took it as a slight to his knighthood and professional future. He had failed this wonderful, heroic woman whose husband was shot and in the hospital. Chief Hammer did not need to be sitting here with all these cretins. Judge Bovine saw the look on Hammer's face, too, and also misinterpreted, and was further aroused. Hammer had not supported Bovine in the last election. Bovine would see how big and important Hammer was now.
"When I call out your name, please stand. Maury Anthony," announced ADA Pond.
Pond scanned despondent faces. He searched people slumped back, pissed off and sleeping. Maury Anthony and his public defender rose near the rear. They came forward and stood before the ada's table.
"Mr. Anthony, how do you plead to possession with the intent to sell cocaine?" the ADA asked.
"Guilty," Mr. Anthony spoke.
Judge Bovine stared out at the defendant who was no different than all others.
"Mr. Anthony. You realize that by pleading guilty you have no right to appeal," she stated rather than asked.
Mr. Anthony looked at his public defender, who nodded. Mr. Anthony returned his attention to the judge.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Laughter was scattered among those awake and alert. Mr. Anthony realized his egregious error and grinned sheepishly.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. My eyes ain't what they once was."
More laughter.
Judge Bovine's big flat face turned to concrete.
"What says the state," she ordered as she sipped from a two-liter bottle of Evian.
ADA Pond looked over his notes. He glanced at Hammer and West, hoping they were attentive and impressed. This was his opportunity to be eloquent, no matter what a dog of a case it was.
"Your Honor," the ADA began as he always did, 'on the night of July twenty-second, at approximately eleven- thirty, Mr. Anthony was drinking and soc
ializing in an establishment on Fourth Street near Graham . "
"The court requires the exact address," Judge Bovine interrupted.
"Well, Your Honor, the problem is, there's not one."
"There has to be one," said the judge.
"This is an area where a building was razed in nineteen- ninety-five, Your Honor. The defendant and his associates were back in weeds .."
"What was the address of the building that was razed?"
"I don't know," said the ADA, after a pause.
Mr. Anthony smiled. His public defender looked smug. West was getting a headache. Hammer had drifted farther off. The judge drank from her bottle of water.