Dead Politician Society (26 page)

Clare squished out her cigarette with her sneaker and entered the campus café.

“Jessica!” Clare was pleased to see a friendly face.

Jessica's eyes lifted briefly from the newspaper, and returned to her reading. “Hey.”

“Can I join you? I'm going to grab a coffee.”

“Sure. You can have a section of the paper.”

“You're reading the obituaries.” Clare pulled up a chair when she returned with an oversized dark roast.

“I find death comforting,” Jessica said with a wry smile.

“Anyone you know in there?”

“Not today.”

Thankfully, Morton hadn't given the
Star
the go-ahead yet to publish the politicians' fake obituaries. Clare wondered if Cloutier had been bluffing for some stupid reason, or if Morton was waiting out the right time.

“Why do you find death comforting?” Clare blew on her coffee.

“I'm weird I guess.” Jessica shrugged. “It should make me sad. But reading the obituaries — you know, the loving ones, written by the families — makes me feel closer to my parents, however briefly.”

“I'm so sorry. At least your grandparents are nice.” Clare realized how dumb that sounded once it was out.

“They
are
nice. But old. They never understood me the same way.”

“How did your mom die?”

“She killed herself.”

Clare was stunned. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Jessica said. “If anything, my parents' tragedy gives me more reason to make a difference.”

“Because your parents never got to fulfill their own destinies?” Clare wished she could get to that place with her own father, instead of resenting the emotional havoc he wreaked on her mother and her.

“Maybe. But I don't like to play the sympathy card. I appreciate that you cared to ask. But I'd rather people just think I'm an overprivileged tree-hugger.” Jessica grinned.

“You got it. I can actually understand where you're coming from.”

“You think?” Jessica looked at Clare dubiously.

“Not about the tree-hugging.” Clare told Jessica about her own father, killing himself with tobacco.

“My god.” Jessica looked pointedly at the pack of smokes on the table between them. “Wait. Wasn't yours the smoking bill? As in, you wanted to make cigarette sales illegal?”

“I know.” Clare eyed her pack on the table and gave Jessica a lopsided grin. “We are creatures of contradiction, aren't we?”

“Well, certainly you are.”

Jonathan's bill passed easily through Utopian Parliament. Churches would no longer be exempt from paying property taxes, and small businesses would no longer be forced to contribute the lion's share.

Jon felt almost as elated as if the bill had passed in real life. It was too late to save his mother's café, but maybe, if his classmates were remotely representative of the politicians of the future, stories like hers would one day be nothing but news from the past.

When the class was dismissed, Diane approached him.

“I respect your viewpoint,” she said. “I thought your bill was intelligently drafted. You made taxes make sense, which isn't easy.”

Jonathan looked at her. “What's the catch?”

“I have an amendment I'm going to propose.”

Ugh. Why did Diane insist on being such a thorn in his side? “The bill's already been passed. You should have proposed the amendment when it was on the table.”

“Don't you want to hear my side?” Diane looked hurt, which was obviously an act.

But Jessica was engaged in what looked like an intense conversation with Dr. Easton, and Jon would only be waiting around in the hall.

“Fine.”

Diane's cross sparkled in the sunlight coming through the window. “I agree that churches and mosques and other places of worship should contribute. But they should get credit for any good works they do in the community.”

“What good works? Taking little children's minds and brainwashing them with scary tales about floods and Satan?” Jonathan felt his nostrils flare, and reminded himself that this wasn't worth losing his temper over. He made an effort to speak evenly. “The Catholic church has got to be the most hypocritical organization in the universe. They take money from the suckers in their congregations, preach the virtues of poverty so no one minds paying more than they can afford, then they funnel the cash away so the pope and cardinals can live in gay luxury in Italy.”

“Vatican City isn't technically in Italy.”

“So you agree the rest is true?”

Diane smiled benignly. “You can't win an argument with an ignorant man.”

“My point,” Jonathan said, “is that religious organizations look out for their own interests. I'm not willing to offer a tax credit for that.”

Diane put a finger to her chin. “What about credit for good works outside of religion? Like employment projects in the community? Habitat for Humanity is a faith-based organization — don't tell me you think they're hypocrites.”

“Okay. I'll agree to your amendment
if
businesses can get a tax break when they're adversely affected by a new law, like a smoking ban.”

“I think it's great that people can't smoke in bars and restaurants,” Diane said. “I, for one, go out way more often since that ban has been put in place.”

“I'm sure the herbal tea you order more than makes up for the dozens of people who now drink beer at home.”

“I don't think those two laws should go together,” Diane said. “It makes for a convoluted American-style bill.”

“We have all year to debate it.” Jonathan tossed his knapsack over his shoulder. “You prepare your amendment, I'll prepare mine.”

Jonathan headed toward the door, but the exit was congested. There were only six or seven people in front of him, but the line was moving surprisingly slowly. When he came to the door, he saw a uniformed officer standing with Inspector Morton. A table was set up with a bunch of bags on it, and two more uniformed cops were going through them. A woman in baggy khakis had her own small desk set up, where she appeared to be examining a cell phone.

“We'll need your bag, please.” The officer at the door spoke abruptly.

Jonathan faced him. “Can I see a warrant?”

Inspector Morton produced a piece of paper from his breast pocket.

“Fine.” Jonathan handed over his knapsack without reading the warrant. “What's this about?”

“You can wait over there.” The officer pointed toward the opposite side of the hallway, where a group of his classmates was gathered.

“What's going on?” he asked Clare, who was standing among the other students.

“I'm not sure.” Clare shook her head. “They seem interested in anything electronic.”

“They —” Shit. “What do you mean?”

“They're going through the bags, and when they find a phone or a laptop or anything, that lady turns it on and does something.”

Jonathan relaxed. His iPhone was in his jacket pocket, and his laptop was at home.

“I'm gonna need your jackets, too.” Could that asshole read his mind?

Jonathan and a couple of others who had jackets took them off and placed them onto the pile of bags. “This is like airport security, but without the social graces.”

“Tell me about it.” Clare grimaced.

“You can clear out of here once you have all your things back.”

Four or five people had had their bags returned, but no one was leaving.

“Come on. Move. This hallway isn't a frat party.” The uniformed officer looked pointedly at Brian, Susannah, and some others.

“The coffee house,” Susannah said loudly to the group as she began to walk away. “I look forward to seeing any and all of you there. Well, maybe not you cops.”

The collective laugh was louder than Jonathan thought was respectful, so he joined in.

Jessica came out of the classroom and joined Jon and Clare in the hallway. “This is so weird. They have no leads, so they decide to hassle us.”

“They must have a lead,” Clare said. “Or they wouldn't have a warrant.”

Jonathan snorted. “I think suspicious breathing would be enough to get a warrant. This case is so high-profile, they have to be seen to be doing something.”

Clare said goodbye as her bag was returned, and said she'd see them in the campus café. Dr. Easton and Diane came out of the classroom — which was odd, because didn't they hate each other? — and Dr. Easton locked the door behind them.

The searchers were looking through Jonathan's things now. One gave his knapsack the all-clear while the other pulled his handheld from his inner jacket pocket.

“Wish me luck,” he told Jessica.

Her eyes widened. “Do you need it?”

Jonathan watched as the woman turned on his phone and attached a cord to his dock connector.

“What's she doing?” Jessica asked.

“I think she's recording the logs. Emails sent, websites visited, that kind of thing.”

Jonathan didn't take his eyes from the woman. While the data was being transferred, she was looking at his phone, pressing buttons, pressing more buttons.

“So why do you look so worried?”

The woman stopped what she was doing and held Jon's phone in the air. “Whose is this?”

How could she have found what she was looking for so fast? Jonathan shrugged. He could run, but what was the point?

“It's mine.”

Clare felt like her veins were made of coffee. She shouldn't be drinking another one, but what else was there to do? It was eleven a.m., and if anyone had a class, they were not inclined to go. The entire Poli Real World class, with the exception of those not yet released by the cops, was gathered in this café.

When Matthew, Diane, and Jessica approached the group together, it was clear from their posture that they were bearing what they thought was bad news.

“Jonathan was arrested,” Diane said, when they got close enough. “They think he's the Utopia Killer.”

Clare set her coffee down slowly. This was the end. She could pack up her things and go back to her uniform job. She had made exactly zero contributions to the case — at least none that Cloutier or Morton deemed relevant. She wanted to stand up, to pound the table, to scream obscenities in everyone's direction. She breathed deeply, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and settled in to listen to what her classmates had to say.

Susannah spoke first. “Sorry, Diane. I thought it was you.”

Of course it wasn't Diane. That first letter, the rant about small businesses closing up shop because of municipal tax hikes — and then in the third one he mentioned the smoking by-law's effect on cafés and restaurants — Clare should have put it together long ago.

“I think the important question here,” said Matthew, “is what is our collective responsibility to Jonathan?”

Diane spoke quietly. “He went willingly. He didn't seem surprised to be arrested.”

“But a killer?” Brian said. “We've known the guy for three years.”

“Let's think generally if we can,” Matthew said. “When someone we know is arrested, do we assume he's guilty because the police do? Do we assume he's innocent because we know him and like him? Or do we try to figure out how to act like his friend regardless of what he may or may not have done?”

Although no one spoke up right away, Clare could see glimmers of comprehension flicker through the students' eyes.

Finally Diane said, “I think we have to consider the probability that he's guilty. I'm sure that if we looked at statistics, we'd see more accurate arrests than false ones.”

“Why are you sure about that?” Susannah asked. “Faith in the system? I guess when the system has treated you well, blind faith is a logical response.”

“Come on, Susannah.” Diane's tone, for once, was conciliatory. “I know that the system can fail us. I just think that it's a safe bet that there are more true arrests than false ones. So our
a priori
assumption would be that Jonathan is guilty.”

Jessica shook her head. “That seems too detached when it's our classmate. If we determine that he
is
guilty, do we consider his motives before deciding if we should help him, or do we write him off as a bad seed and go on with our lives?”

“If he's a killer?” Diane stared at Jessica. “That would be the end for me. I couldn't help him get out of jail time no matter what his motive was.”

“I wouldn't help him get out of the jail time,” Susannah said. “But there are other ways to be there. We can help him figure out how to make the most of his time inside, sort out what he wants to do once he's out of jail.”

“Are you insane?” Diane exploded. “The guy's a killer. Killers kill. There's only one wise course of action, and that is to distance ourselves as far from him as possible.”

“Sure,” Susannah said. “If you live your life based on fear.”

“Fear has nothing to do with it.” Diane's face colored to almost precisely match her pink headband. “It's survival. The most basic human instinct, which you all seem to be lacking.”

Matthew laughed. “Diane has a point. And so do the rest of you. Listen, let's leave this discussion open. Think about your positions, put them into writing, and we'll reconvene next class.”

“Into writing?” Brian looked horrified. “Are we throwing the curriculum out the window and turning this into a social studies class?”

“No.” Matthew looked at him. “We're turning it into Political Utopia for the
Real
World.”

Clare stood up. She needed nourishment, or the coffee would erode her guts. She went to the counter and picked out a yogurt cup and a bottle of juice. As she was paying, she saw a sign beside the cash register.
Now Hiring.

“Can I get an application?” she asked the woman working the cash.

“Be my guest.” The woman reached below the counter and pulled out a sheet of paper. “The hours are long, but at least the pay is crappy.”

Clare smirked. “It's still a job, right?”