“I want to thank President Andrzejewski for that very kind introduction. It is very humbling and I am deeply moved,” he said. “As many of you know this is not my forte, speaking in public, especially when the subject I am asked to speak about is, well, me.”
The audience laughed. Dillon had been unsure of the line but was now glad he had not deleted it.
“While some of you may consider these acts to be acts of charity, I consider them to be acts of necessity, a prudent investment in the future of Winchester County and a vote of confidence in our youth.”
He paused, a cue for the applause. After it subsided, he continued.
“Opportunity cannot be bought, but it can be provided. I learned this in my youth. A child without opportunity is a child without hope, and a child without hope is a desperate child, and desperate children do desperate things. I did. Born to a single mother in a poor neighborhood not far from here in Stockton,
I spent my formative years between the ages of thirteen and eighteen incarcerated in the juvenile justice system. I was not a dumb kid. I don’t believe I was a bad kid. I was a kid without opportunity. I was a kid without hope. I was a desperate kid.” Dillon paused.
“My crimes were borne of that desperation. The institutions in which I was placed did not offer me opportunity. They did not offer me hope, only despair. I was fortunate to have been given opportunity by someone who saw potential in me. Without that opportunity I would not be here today. I would likely be in jail. I used that opportunity to succeed, and when I had, I turned to helping others, to giving them that same opportunity. I believe we can do better for our youth. The Fresh Start Youth Training Facility has proven that here in Winchester County we have done better.”
The screen behind him filled with the smiling images of three young boys, white, black, and Hispanic. The next slide showed boys engaged in a game of basketball, another depicted students in a classroom, one boy with his hand raised, an eager look on his face. They’d used the photographs in the brochures.
“Fresh Start offers our young people opportunity to improve their minds and their bodies so they can improve their self-esteem and, dare I say, begin to hope for a better future. They can turn desperation into innovation, and they can use their street skills to make something of their lives. But they cannot do this without hope, without the kind of opportunity each one of us in this room can provide. Their future is up to each of us.”
The applause resounded, the room back on its feet. Dillon waved and nodded as the president retook her place at the podium. This time Dillon did not cede it. He remained standing by her side. He needed to close the deal. The president held up a small white envelope, like the kind found at the end of pews in houses of worship, just long enough to insert cash or a check, and printed with a place on the inside flap to provide a credit card number.
“Your table captains have ten envelopes, one for each of you, and I would urge you to make a charitable donation to Victor Dillon’s
nonprofit, Fresh Start,” she said. “I am going to ask you all to take a moment with me and fill out these envelopes, or to enclose your contributions and hand them to your table captains, as I am doing.” She slid a check into the envelope and licked the back flap, sealing it before handing it to Dillon.
Between the amounts each table paid to attend the breakfast, and the amount to be collected in the envelopes, Victor Dillon had just made back his $30,000 charitable contribution several times over, proving once again that philanthropy was not a bad way to make a living.
F
RESH
S
TART
Y
OUTH
T
RAINING
F
ACILITY
S
IERRA
N
EVADA
M
OUNTAINS
Jake could barely keep from turning around and running for the bathroom; his mind imagining what horrors the man-child could inflict. But he knew if he turned again the guard would become suspicious and follow him. So he willed himself forward, one step after the next. When he reached the footpath leading to the horse stables he’d reached a point of no return. He turned. The guard had left.
He started back to the bathhouse, staying along the path behind the dorms so he would be approaching from behind the block wall where T-Mac stood sentry. He had no idea what he would say to get past him, and while he liked his odds against T-Mac when healthy, he was less certain of his chances in his current weakened condition. Without time for further planning he took a deep breath and stepped around the corner.
“Bathroom’s closed,” T-Mac said. “They’re cleaning it.”
Jake didn’t stop. “I don’t see a sign.”
T-Mac stepped between Jake and the entrance. “I’m the sign. And I say it’s closed.”
They stood toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye, T-Mac thicker through the chest. Still, wrestling had given Jake certain skills, and he had taken down opponents bigger than T-Mac when he wrestled up in weight class.
“I’m in no mood, T-Mac. I have to pee. Move or I’m going to piss on your shoes.”
The shove to Jake’s chest was quick and violent. It knocked Jake on his back. Every muscle in his body cried out in pain, reminding him, again, that he was in no shape to fight. T-Mac stepped forward and delivered a kick intended for Jake’s side but that Jake partially blocked with his forearm. Then T-Mac reached for the zipper on his coveralls. “Maybe I’ll piss on you.”
Jake slid backward. “Okay, fine. Fine.” He got to his feet. “I’ll find a tree.”
He went around the back of the building and pressed against the block wall, thinking. Then he heard T.J.’s pleas.
“No. Stop. Stop.”
Jake turned and looked up. The voice filtered through open windows over Jake’s head, but the glimmering hope of climbing in one faded when he saw they were hinged at the bottom. The top flipped out only three to four inches. No way to climb in.
Big Baby’s girlish giggle and lisp followed T.J.’s plea. “You’re going to suck it,” he said. “Or you’re going to drown.”
“No. Hel…” T.J.’s voice faded. The toilet flushed.
Jake looked about and picked up a rock the size of his hand. The problem was he’d lost the element of surprise with T-Mac, and if T-Mac dodged the blow Jake would only be providing him a weapon. Still, he had to do something. About to step from the side of the building, Jake saw Bee Dee walking across the yard to the bathroom. Nearing, Bee Dee gave Jake a furtive glance, enough to let Jake know Bee Dee had somehow assessed the situation and had come to help. Unfortunately, Bee Dee was significantly smaller than T-Mac.
As Bee Dee stepped to the entrance Jake heard T-Mac issue his command.
“Bathroom’s closed for cleaning.”
“Get out of the way, T-Mac. I got to go.”
“Pick a fucking tree, Bee Dee.”
“I got to take a shit.”
“Then pick a log. Just don’t wipe your ass with poison oak.”
“You know, T-Mac, I used to think you were tough, but without Big Baby around I think you’re just a big pussy.”
“What did you call me?”
Jake watched Bee Dee step back, T-Mac following, and realized Bee Dee was luring T-Mac from the entrance.
Bee Dee retreated another step. “What are you, deaf and dumb? I said without Big Baby around you’re nothing but a big pussy.”
“I’m gonna kick your ass, nigger.”
Bee Dee scoffed. “That’s original, T-Mac. I’ve never heard that before. What’s the ‘T’ stand for anyway, ‘tiny’? Like the size of your dick?”
Bee Dee took two quick steps backward to evade T-Mac’s lunge. Sensing his opportunity, Jake stepped around the corner, but then T-Mac spun and grabbed Bee Dee and Jake had no choice but to veer his course and help. He struck T-Mac in the back of the head with the rock. The boy crumpled.
For a moment neither one of them moved, then Bee Dee bent and grabbed T-Mac under the arms. When Jake bent to grab T-Mac’s legs Bee Dee shook his head.
“Go!” he said.
W
INCHESTER
C
OUNTY
C
OURTHOUSE
W
INCHESTER
, C
ALIFORNIA
It was not unusual for Earl Boykin to work on a Saturday, usually after watching one or more of his granddaughter’s soccer games. What was unusual was for him to have a visitor in his office. He used his weekends to catch up on his work and had come to enjoy the serenity, when the phone wasn’t ringing and his court staff was not present. But his visitor this Saturday could not come to the courthouse during regular business hours, even using the back staircase into Boykin’s office. He couldn’t take the chance.
“David Sloane is digging into things he should not be digging into,” Boykin said. “And he seems intent on trying to challenge my authority.”
“Do you want me to pay him a visit?” Atkins asked.
Boykin shook his head. “I’m thinking of a more measured response. At the moment Sloane thinks he is playing with a full house. He thinks he has nothing to lose by pushing this.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I want him to consider how his actions may impact on others.”
“The kid?”
“I want him to understand there are consequences, but not anything so severe that it could serve instead as additional motivation.”
“A warning of some kind.”
“Something that will let him know his hand is not as good as he might think. That the longer he continues to play it, the greater the likelihood I’ll call his bluff. Has the kid done anything that might warrant a longer incarceration?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
O
LD
T
OWN
W
INCHESTER
, C
ALIFORNIA
Sloane and Molia walked back to their car in silence. Rizek provided more information than either had expected, and what she had offered was both informative and sobering. They already suspected Fresh Start was not the summer camp the parent liaison had portrayed, but Rizek had confirmed Jake and T.J. were in serious trouble. The problem was Sloane had no way to speed up the legal process, which only reminded him again of Father Allen’s admonition that helping Jake was not a problem he would be able to solve by outsmarting everyone in a courtroom. And Molia’s course of action, to dig into the lives of those involved and try to find some evidence of wrongdoing, would similarly take time; Rizek had spent six weeks digging and had been unable to find any hard evidence to confirm her suspicions that incarcerating kids at Fresh Start was making money for someone.
What Sloane needed was to find some way to bring the issue to a head sooner rather than later, and he expressed this to Tom Molia as they walked to the parking lot.
“What if we just tracked down Victor Dillon and asked him if
having kids sentenced to Fresh Start without trials and without the assistance of counsel is his idea of helping? Put his feet to the fire. Rizek says he’s meticulous about maintaining his image. What if we threaten to put a black mark on it?”
Molia stopped on the incline in the shade of several trees, shadows falling across half his face. “The problem with that idea is if Dillon and Judge Earl are in this together, we only alert them that we’re on target, and that gives them the chance to cover their tracks.”
“You really think that could be the case? Or are we just seeing what we want to see?”
“Okay, let’s put bias aside for a second and look at the evidence objectively. What do we have?” Molia asked.
Sloane stepped into the shade so that Molia was not looking into the bright sun.
“Rizek says that places like Fresh Start are only profitable if full,” Molia said.
“So we have an incentive,” Sloane agreed.
“And who has control over whether Fresh Start remains full?” Molia asked.
“Judge Earl.”
“And Judge Earl just so happens to be sentencing kids at an unusually high rate and for abnormally longer periods than any of his peers,” Molia said. “Not to mention rushing them through the system without legal counsel or parental input that might impede the process. Why? People rarely do something for nothing, David.”
Sloane played devil’s advocate. “Ego. Remember what Barnes said? Judge Earl fancies himself after his lineage, the last of the hanging judges.”
“Maybe, but in my thirty years I’ve never met anyone who valued ego more than cold, hard cash. Ego doesn’t pay the bills. Money does. And if Judge Earl is profiting from this, who’s his likely financier?”
“Dillon,” Sloane agreed.
Molia walked the rest of the distance to the parking lot. “So let’s see what Alex digs up on Earl’s finances. But as they say in Denmark, something is rotten in Winchester.”
Sloane’s cell phone rang, a number he did not recognize.
“Mr. Sloane? This is Lynne Buchman, the parent facilitator in the juvenile justice department in Winchester.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Buchman?”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she said.
SIXTEEN
O
LD
T
OWN
W
INCHESTER
, C
ALIFORNIA
S
loane felt as if he’d taken a blow to the stomach.
“What is it?” Molia asked. “What’s wrong?”
Sloane disconnected the call. “They’ve extended Jake’s sentence two months.”
“What? Why?”
“They said he tried to escape while on a supervised hike. The administrator at Fresh Start made the recommendation, and Boykin granted it. They’re punishing him for the motion,” Sloane said.
“We don’t know that,” Molia said, but without much conviction.
“Of course they are. It’s just like Rizek said. I’m just making it worse for him, and for T.J.”
Molia seemed to consider the implications. “Listen, another couple months is irrelevant to what we’re trying to do,” he said. “We don’t intend for either of them to carry out their sentences any longer than it takes us to get them out.”
“But until we can—”
“Until we can we’ve just got to be smarter about what we’re doing.”
Sloane’s phone rang again. He was relieved to see Alex’s name and number on the screen. “Are you someplace you can talk?” she asked.