I turned back and walked past Scali’s house. The curtains were closed and the Cadillac safely stowed away in his garage. The house was big, a three-story Colonial painted gray with white trim. A wrought-iron fence encircled the property. I gave up the idea of knocking on the door and singing carols and returned to my SUV. I plugged in the address to a realty website for an estimate of how much the good judge had paid for the house.

Being a master detective with a smartphone, I learned he’d bought the property only two years ago for $750,000. He paid about nine grand a year in property taxes. Ouch.

I didn’t know how much a juvenile court judge made, but I could easily find out.

I waited for a couple minutes for Scali to run from the house and confess his sins. When this didn’t happen, I started the Explorer and drove back to Boston. It was late, so I’d only cook one of the steaks and open a nice bottle of Cabernet.

I didn’t even slow down when I passed the IHOP.

20

The next morning, I had huevos rancheros with a side of fresh fruit, OJ, and black coffee at the Paramount before driving out to the office of Massachusetts Child Care. The day was sunny and bright, with a hard white glint off the Common and the tips of snowbanks lining Boylston. I cut up to Soldiers Field Road and followed the Charles before crossing over the river and into Watertown, where I found MCC’s offices on the entire third floor of a repurposed turn-of-the-century schoolhouse. The office had wide-plank wood floors, plaster walls, and transoms over the glass doors. There was soft light along a row of framed posters of happy children free of drugs, behavior problems, or crime. A sign on the door read MAKING A DIFFERENCE FOR TODAY’S YOUTH!

There were six glass doors along each side of the long corridor, old classrooms subdivided. A perky young black woman in a tailored suit asked if she might be of help.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Talos,” I said. After seeing Robert Talos Jr. share the hallowed booth at IHOP with Scali and running his license plate, I’d learned he was the big cheese at MCC. Putting two and two together, I’d come up with one.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said. “Mr. Talos is often out with business. May I ask what this is regarding?”

“You may,” I said. “I have questions about MCC and a teenager in your care.”

Less than thirty seconds later, I was being introduced to Jane Corbin, parental communication specialist. Since I wasn’t a parent, I worried we wouldn’t be able to talk. Would a translator be necessary? I thought maybe I could win over Jane and then maybe get a handoff to Talos. “My name is Knute Rockne. My son George is to be rehabilitated by MCC. I had a few questions.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Rockne,” she said. “Please. How might we be of help?”

Jane Corbin was short and plump, with a round face and reddish hair chopped to the shoulders. She wore a tweed skirt and a red V-neck cashmere sweater, a stylish scarf wrapped around her thick neck. I sat and tried to look worried. I screwed up my mouth and tried to imagine sitting through a movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. “I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Your son.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s a good kid who’s had a tough year.”

“It happens,” Jane said. She looked so sincere. So sincere that I thought she actually might be. She pursed her lips and nodded with great understanding.

“I guess I don’t know what to expect,” I said. “What exactly is it that you do here?”

She smiled. She’d answered this question many times before. She placed the flats of her hands together on the top of her desk. She licked her lips and said, “First off, we are not a prison.”

“But one gets sentenced to spend time at MCC?”

“Yes,” she said. “We are contracted by certain counties as alternatives to traditional juvenile jails.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thank God.”

“This isn’t just punishment,” she said. “We have classes at all MCC facilities. Your son. What is his name again?”

“George,” I said. “But we call him the Gipper.”

“Well, George can continue on with his schoolwork,” she said. “His education will continue. We have a full staff of teachers who will help him earn class credit. And if he’s looking toward college, we can even help him study for the ACT or SAT.”

I nodded. I tried to look interested and pleased. I thought of huevos rancheros with homemade salsa on top. I smiled. In my heart, my enthusiasm grew. Method acting.

“Most parents are worried about the stereotypes of juvie jails or work camps they’ve seen in movies,” she said. “That’s not the case here. We have classes and sports activities. Does your son play sports?”

“He’s very good at football.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “He’ll have plenty of time outdoors. We also have nature activities, like hiking.”

“Should be lovely this time of year,” I said. “It was almost twenty degrees yesterday.”

“The wind in the harbor isn’t as bad as they say,” she said before emitting a funny little laugh. “We make sure all the offenders—I mean teens—are well dressed for the nature walks.”

“Well, I know I’m feeling much better.”

She beamed. I tried to beam but wasn’t very good at it. I tried to think of a lobster roll for lunch, but it wasn’t working.

“Parents worry this is just punishment,” she said. “But the whole philosophy of MCC is based on balance and restorative justice principles.”

“Which are?”

“We provide programs of supervision, care, and rehabilitation, with balanced attention to competency development, victim awareness and restoration, and community protection. George will receive structured, individualized treatment from a supervisor with no less than a master’s degree. He will also receive individual counseling, group therapy, family therapy, and take part in psych educational groups, and life- and employability-skills groups.”

“Whoopee.”

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “I’m thrilled. George has been so upset, he’s bedridden. He might need a pep talk.”

“We have a multidisciplinary team approach to working with youth,” Jane said, smiling hard and tight. “We work closely with contracted medical services and licensed psychologists. Our employees who have direct and regular contact with your child receive eighty hours of training before they are in the dorms with him.”

I whistled with awe. The whistle was convincing as hell.

“And if George isn’t interested in college, we have life-skills classes, such as culinary arts, upholstery, Lego robotics, and lab volt work.”

“Lab volt?”

“Home electrical wiring and cable installation.”

“Wow.”

“So this isn’t at all a bad thing, Mr. Rockne,” she said. It’s a—”

“Win-win?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”

“When does George begin his time with us?” she said.

“Two weeks,” I said, taking a long breath and shaking my head. “I have to say he’s not thrilled. This fall was going to be his big year on the team.”

“He’ll be fine,” she said, standing up, signaling a close to our nice chat. “I assure you. The food is good. There is a nature club, a media club, and even a talent show in every season.”

“You make it sound almost like summer camp.”

“This isn’t the old days,” she said. “We’re a team here, too. That’s why what we do works better than anything the state can offer. We want to intervene with children before they turn eighteen. This is the crucial time to make it work for all of us.”