17

Early the next morning, I sat in a booth across from Iris Milford at The Owl diner.

“That’s pretty messed up,” Iris said.

“You bet.”

“Jamming up a kid for talking to you?” she said. “When will she go before Scali?”

“Sometimes it can take a week or longer,” I said. “That’s too long to be in holding. I got her an attorney. It’s my fault she’s in the bind.”

Iris looked dynamite early that morning. Too dynamite for Blackburn and for The Owl. She’d hung up a black overcoat on a hook attached to the booth. She had on a slim-fitting black dress and black boots. A necklace made of faux Roman coins hung from her neck.

“I met Judge Price’s wife.”

She asked me how that went. I told her.

“And this audit actually happened?” she said. “Because that would be public record.”

“Yes and no.”

“How can it be both?’

“It happened after the auditor was relocated to a different department,” I said. “He and Price had become friends. He wanted to see it through.”

“Did he file it?”

“No,” I said. “But I have it.”

“Can I see it?”

“On one condition.”

“That I don’t print anything until you’ve worked out all the details.”

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

Iris nodded. The waitress walked up to us and we ordered breakfast. I decided on the Greek omelet with wheat toast and an orange juice. The waitress refilled our coffees before she walked back to the kitchen.

“What did it say?”

“You ever heard of Massachusetts Child Care Inc.?”

“Of course,” she said. “They got the contract when the old Fourth Street center closed. We did a whole series of articles about it. The place was more than a hundred years old. It was the original city jail and then became the juvie facility in the seventies. It was pretty awful. Place was falling apart. It had roaches and rats running around. Not the kind of place you wanted to put kids.”

“Did you cover the bidding process?”

“I don’t know if there were other bids,” she said. “A lot of people campaigned to have Fourth Street shut down. The Star was part of all that. We supported the closing and the state contracting with a licensed provider.”

I nodded.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But you didn’t see this place. It was best for the community to find other options. This place was like something out of Dickens.”

I drank some coffee. The diner smelled of bacon cooking and coffee brewing. Silverware clattered, guys in coveralls told jokes, and old men talked about the weather.

“Do you know how much money the county has been paying MCC?”

“We were getting to that when Judge Price died,” she said. “He thought the facility was costing too much. But we ran the numbers and did some interviews. MCC offered a fair rate for what they do.”

“How much?”

“I think it was like two hundred and fifty dollars a day per kid and about ninety thousand a year.”

“For two hundred and fifty a day, I could get them a good deal at the Taj.”

“Part of the cost involves schooling and rehabilitation.”

“Someone is getting rich.”

“Oh, hell, yes, it’s wrong. All of it’s wrong as hell. But so is this country’s entire prison system. You want me to run down some numbers of young black males stuck in prisons across this country?”

I nodded. I drank some more coffee. A guy named Mel walked into the diner. Everyone seemed to know Mel and wished him a good morning. The short-order cook rang the bell several times in his honor.

“What do you know about MCC?” I said.

“Not much,” she said. “It’s a Boston company that runs correctional facilities throughout the state. Corporate prisons are a thing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You know who owns it?”

“I have all that information back at the newsroom,” she said. “What are you getting at, Spenser?”

“I just would like to know who’s profiting from Scali banging his gavel,” I said. “Judge Price might have been onto something.”

“Jim Price was a sweet man,” she said. “But he was a weird old white man. He saw conspiracies everywhere. He hated Scali’s guts. He hated Callahan’s even more.”

“His wife said that’s what killed him,” I said. “The stress.”

“I think she’s right.”

The waitress brought out our breakfast. My omelet had spinach, tomatoes, and feta. The bacon on the side was a quarter-inch thick. Iris had some wheat toast and one scrambled egg. Heart healthy.

She pointed her fork at me to emphasize things as we spoke. “I can run down the board of directors and that sort of thing,” she said. “I think Scali is a hothead and a media hound. But it’s a long jump to corrupt. Profiting from sending kids off. You’d have to prove a lot.”

“What kind of man denies attorneys in his courtroom?”

“Is that proven?”

“Nine out of ten teens I’ve met say so.”

Iris nodded. She ate some toast and picked at the egg the way Susan would. Maybe they weren’t slow eaters, only trying to make the food go further. Up at the diner counter, Mel told a joke. When he hit the punch line, everyone laughed. Ol’ Mel. What a card.

“I’ll make copies of the audit,” I said. “And send them to your office.”

“So that’s what we’re doing here?” she said. “A little quid pro quo.”

“I only speak pig Latin.”

“Tit for tat.”

“More my speed.”

“Well, sure,” she said, taking the last bite of egg. “I’m in. Just let me know before something explodes. Will you?”

I crossed my heart before eating more bacon.

“Feels good,” she said. “Reminds me that I used to actually work for a real newspaper.”

“I feel bad for the kid.”

“Which one?” she said.

“Both of them,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me see Beth. She can’t make bail until tomorrow.”

“You know who arrested her?”

“Same cop who rousted me after I left the high school.”

“Hmm.”

“I know,” I said. “Small world.”

18

I met Megan Mullen at the Blackburn courthouse shortly after four o’clock.

I’d been waiting on a wooden bench on the first floor for the last hour, watching cops, plaintiffs, and legal eagles pass by. I liked courthouses. I’d spent a lot of time in them, both as a witness and as an investigator for the DA. This one was so old it still had a bank of phone booths by the restrooms. I half expected to see Clark Gable rush into one and tell his editor to go suck an egg.

Megan bounded down the marble steps. She carried a smart leather satchel. As she approached, she smiled, which I took to be a good sign.

“Your pal Beth will be out within the hour,” she said.

“I doubt she’s my pal anymore,” I said. “Being arrested puts a damper on one’s relationship.”

“ADA didn’t want to argue against the merits of keeping a first-time offender in school. I had to make some concessions, but ultimately they backed down.”

“Did you threaten them?” I said.

“Why not,” Megan said. “Never hurts.”

“When all else fails.”

“Kick ’em in the balls.”

“I take it the ADA was a man.”

“Was that a sexist remark?” she said.

“And appropriate.”

Megan looked at least six months older today in a two-button black wool blazer over a knee-length black dress. She wore black-framed glasses, her brown hair stylish and loose across her shoulders. She took a seat next to me, clutching her satchel and glancing down at her phone.