“What about my pillow?”

“Not now,” the guard said.

“What?” the boy said.

“You got to earn your pillow.”

The boy nodded, not understanding any of it. The guard left and the boy went to making his bed. He stowed the change of clothes in a footlocker, trying not to pay attention to the other kids watching. Some kid was lying heavy on the top of the bunk, then swung upside down to look at the boy as he made the bed.

“What’s your name?” the kid said.

The boy told him.

“This place sucks balls.”

“No shit,” the boy said.

“You get any personal shit sent to you, keep it to yourself,” he said. “Lock it away. Doesn’t matter what it is. Someone will steal it. You stay here long enough and you get candy bars or dirty magazines, someone will kill you for it.”

“Come on.”

“Okay,” the kid said, and disappeared on the top bunk.

The windows had thick wire in the glass, bars covering every slot. The walls were white and the floors were gray. A toilet flushed in a bathroom way down the hall.

The kids in the television room yelled some more. A guard blew a whistle hard and told them to shut the hell up. The boy heard the wind coming across again and again like hard continuous slaps.

Out in the harbor, the winter wind was killer, blowing so hard he wondered if the little buildings could stand it. Like maybe all the buildings would crumble and fall into the harbor. When a real good gust would hit the windows, the lights would flicker on and off. For a moment, all the power went off and the boys from the MMA fight yelled and then started to laugh. Someone shot off an air horn. More yelling from the guards. A few flashlights scattered across the room. A generator kicked on.

The boy from the top bunk appeared again. “So maybe they won’t kill you,” the kid said. “But they’ll fight you for anything you got.”

“Great.”

“Can you fight?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t,” the kid said. “I’m screwed. I just make fun of them until they quit messing on me. The guards. The Roxbury crew. Maybe they’ll be too tired tomorrow. Tomorrow is a workday. That horn will blow at five a.m., rain, sleet, or snow. It’s kind of like sleep-away camp here. Except it sucks balls.”

“You said that already.”

“Thought you might need reminding,” the kid said.

The boy had his hands behind his head. He didn’t look at the kid anymore, just stared at the bunk over him, the weight of the kid shifting and sagging through the mattress. The wind beat the hell out of the building some more like it had nothing better to do.

“Where you from?” the kid said. The two could not see each other.

“Blackburn.”

“No shit,” the kid said. “Me, too. Wait. I don’t know you.”

“Whatever,” the boy said. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dillon,” the kid said. “Dillon Yates.”

16

I drove back to my apartment and made a fire. I had bought a bundle of apple wood on a recent visit to Concord and used some small sticks for kindling. The fire was sweet and pleasant-smelling as I started to read through the files, leaving my Red Wings on the hearth to dry. Susan was having dinner with friends and so I made do with a block of feta, a half-pint of olives, and some Syrian flatbread from the East Lamjun Bakery. I set the food out on the coffee table on good plates, turned the Bruins match on mute, and opened my first Beck’s of the evening. There was no rule that you couldn’t enjoy yourself while you worked.

I made notes on a yellow legal pad as I read the report. The entire audit was about two hundred pages, most pages noting the expenditures from the Blackburn District family courts. Although not needed, Blakeney had left a summary of his findings. His name was nowhere to be found.

I got up and helped myself to a second Beck’s. I stared out the window over my sink at Marlborough Street. It was sleeting a bit, needles passing through the yellow blossoms of streetlamps. The street was empty. Some of the parked cars had this afternoon’s snow hiding their windshields.

I sipped some beer. I returned to my legal pad, making a few more notes. I continued to read. The Bruins were up by two goals. One of the players hip-checked another, starting a brawl. As if skating backward and precision with a stick weren’t enough, you had to be able to use your fists.

I got back to reading and drinking beer. I was so talented at my job, I could do both at the same time. I could even digest what I’d been reading. If there was one continuous theme to the report, it was payments to a company called MCC. Massachusetts Child Care, as noted in the summary. Monies for juvenile transportation, meals, detention. A lot of money. I stopped counting after four million.

I knew from the Blackburn teens that Scali would send kids to either a reform camp in Haverhill or Fortune Island in the harbor. From the audit, I found out that Scali was definitely in favor of the island facility. Nearly the entire budget for boys was spent on Fortune Island. Girls were sent to the place in Haverhill. Both facilities were run by MCC. And after two seconds of detective work on my phone, I learned that MCC was not state-owned. It was a private prison run by a corporation.

I said “aha” out loud and helped myself to a bit of flatbread topped with a wedge of feta and an olive. I drank some Beck’s.

The folks at MCC would certainly want Scali to keep up his commitment to Zero Tolerance. The company was his go-to kids’ jail. I didn’t have a law degree, but I smelled the start of an ethics violation.

Sheila Yates thought something hinky was going on in Blackburn. She was right. I think we had more than enough evidence for the good folks at Cone, Oakes to win their appeal for her son. Scali had screwed up. He’d denied Dillon his right to an attorney for a ridiculous charge. From other parents and kids, I found out this wasn’t an anomaly but his way of doing business. His breach of ethics in denying their rights to attorneys had helped MCC make a pile of cash.

If Dillon was released, I would write up a report and we could make a big stink with the state bar association. My client would be happy. Scali would have a lot to explain. And those behind his success would wring their hands.

I sipped some more beer. I had other cases to handle. Jobs that promised an actual payment. It had been months since the Heywood kidnapping. A lot of that fee had gone to flying to Paris with Susan. It cost a lot of money to eat well in the City of Lights.

An hour later, my phone rang.

“Oh, thank God you answered,” a young woman said.

“Most women say that.”

“It’s Beth.”

“Oh,” I said. “Hello, Beth.”

“I’m in jail,” she said. “My mom won’t answer her phone. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What happened?”

“I got pulled over,” she said. “They found drugs in my car. It’s not mine. I swear to Christ, Spenser. I swear.”

“Of course it’s not,” I said. “You’re being punished.”

“For what?”

“For talking to me,” I said. “For introducing your friends.”

“What do I do?” she said. “Oh my God. My mom is going to completely freak the fuck out.”

“That sounds bad,” I said. “Where are you?”

She told me. I turned off the hockey game, grabbed my coat and hat, and laced up my slightly dry but much warmer boots. I left my feast on the table and closed the doors to the fire. It had smelled so sweet.