Nick took Jesse’s elbow. “That publicist you found, Fran, she’s good.” He watched Abe, outside now, looking around. “No, she’s perfect. Thank you,” he said to Jesse, eyes still on Abe. Nick saw smoke pluming from a trash can on the patio. He had to smile. The doofus had tossed his match into the trash and started a fire.
“Can you imagine what it’s been like for him? He’s been on his own—in foster homes where they didn’t want him, in juvie—for two years. He’s gone to three different schools.”
Abe sat behind his dark oak table listening to Corey talk about her son. It was Monday morning, and she was his first appointment. The brown leather chair was kitty corner from his desk chair, and she had grown confident enough to look at him. He saw how her blue-gray eyes brightened when she talked about Billy.
“The judge had no right to do that,” she added.
“Was there another choice?”
“My friend Jamie.”
“And?”
“She did time. For little stuff, years ago. She’s a good friend and a good person, though. She took care of my boat. Billy wanted to live with her.” She put a knuckle in her mouth. “He had a better chance with her.”
“The judge had no choice.”
“That’s stupid.”
He waited but she was done. “Perhaps,” he said. The way she said it, though, he would bet she was right. “Tell me how it was to see Billy.”
“About the best day of my life so far.”
“Was he okay?”
“He’s healthy, if that’s what you mean. But no, he’s not okay. Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” There was an edge to her voice.
“You’re quick to anger.”
“I guess.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t you be, too, if they framed you, took your child, then made you go to some guy who doesn’t know you at all to decide if you’re fit to be your own son’s mother?”
He looked at her. “If I was framed, I’d be angry, and I’d tell someone what happened.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
Abe made a note. If they framed her, why didn’t she have any idea who? Or why? Why did she plead guilty? And if she was lying about that, was she lying about other things? He went back over the call from Dick Jensen, her PO. Jensen was mistaken. She wasn’t a pathological liar, he was sure of that. Suppose she wasn’t lying, just not saying? She’s an evaluee, not a patient, he reminded himself. His job now was to confirm that she was a fit mother—she certainly seemed to be—then help her with her son. He looked up from his desk. “What did Billy say that makes you think he’s not okay?”
“He said ‘trouble follows you’.” She pointed at herself. “And what must it be like for him when my trouble turns his life into a nightmare? Excuse me, but that’s what happened.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
“How can you know that?” she asked.
“It’s an opinion, not a fact.”
“I know what happened to Billy. And you don’t know anything about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Why are you angry now?”
“That’s not anger, that’s frustration or something.”
“What’s frustrating you?”
“You sure you want to hear this?”
“I’m sure.”
She hesitated. “I dunno.”
“Off the record then.”
“The truth?”
“Please.”
“Okay.” She sat up straight. “You really don’t know anything about Billy and me, or we would have been done here long ago.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m a really good mom to him. The best thing for both of us is to be together. Anyone who knows us would see that. There it is. I know I shouldn’t be saying it. But it’s true.”
Abe laughed out loud. “You could have saved us a lot of time.”
“Not likely. From what I’ve seen, you guys bet on the tortoise not the hare.”
“We do, don’t we?”
She found his eyes. “You aren’t mad I said it, or anything?”
“No.” Her anger, he could see, was not directed toward her child. “I think you’re a fit mother, Corey. I’ll try to help you get your son back.”
“That’s good. That’s great.” Her smile, when it finally came, was open and warm. “Thank you.”
Five
When he first came to Seattle, Nick worked summers bussing tables at the Parthenon, his abusive great uncle’s hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant. It wasn’t much, wedged between a sex shop and a used clothing store, but that first summer he was eleven, and it was all his so-called family had. The only good thing he remembered about the Parthenon was the fish soup. Every morning Uncle Nikos would send old Herminia, a deaf Greek peasant woman, to scour the market for fresh fish, produce, even spices. Before the restaurant opened for lunch, she’d have the soup pot simmering, ingredients coming together just so to create that wonderful smell that drew people from the street. Nick loved that smell and he had loved that soup. It was about the only thing in his loathsome great uncle’s restaurant that Nick didn’t hate. What he had learned, his first summer, was that just when Herminia’s soup was simmering…just when the broth was rich, the fish tender, and the smell perfect…just when Nikos sat back with his morning ouzo, that’s exactly when some pissed-off waiter, or an ungrateful dishwasher who couldn’t even speak English, snuck over and spit in the soup pot. He had seen it done, and he had learned vigilance.
Nick was looking out the office window. He would announce his candidacy soon. Jesse Stein was going to manage his campaign, which was perfect. He could help her, state-wide. He could get out the voters in Yakima, Spokane, Port Angeles, wherever there were organized workers. And outside Seattle, the Democrats needed whatever help they could get. Then, after he won state attorney general—an accomplishment for a political newcomer—Jesse could introduce him nationally. A.G. was a sweet spot to take off from. High profile. You went after the bad guys, and you never had to cut anyone’s budget. He planned to give Jesse Stein custom treatment—full focus—the kind of careful attention he lavished on his most important projects, or problems. She was perfectly positioned to help him. And if he delivered, she could give as good as she got. Maybe better. The woman had looks, brains, and clout, nationwide. She had been on top of his short list, and he had set it up carefully.
Now his campaign machine was up and running, ahead of schedule. The right people were saying the right things. His soup was simmering, just the way he liked it. But every time he tried to unwind, clear his mind, there she was—Corey Logan—spitting a nasty batch of phlegm right into the boiling broth.
He buzzed Lester. He would know where they stood with her.
Not that Corey could prove anything…and now, she’d had a taste of what could happen, and she had kept her mouth shut so far…but…but—whenever he looked over his shoulder—there she was, a scorpion with her venomous tail in the air. No! No, you can’t have that! Not while you run for state attorney general.