Street Justice (10 page)

“People are so used to seeing kids on the street, dressed as they are, and dismissing them, that they become part of the landscape,” Adrian intoned. He was watching the boys intently.

“Social commentary?”

“No, just fact.” The older boy who had taken the package, gave it to one of the younger boys who scampered off down the block. He stashed the package behind one of the newspaper boxes for Seattle Weekly, a free weekly newspaper. As he was doing this the boys dispersed. One of the small boys took each corner. The older boys grouped two and two, the group containing the boy who had taken the package drifted up the block in the Camry’s direction, but not as far as the young lookout. The other two drifted down somewhat near where the young worker was stashing the package.

The young worker finished stashing the package and jogged over to the duo near him and handed them a handful of something. The shop was set. Just as Steve watched their first customer pull up in a beat up blue Dodge Ram pickup, Adrian fired up the Camry, hung an illegal U-turn and followed the Audi. The two men drove in silence for several blocks, Adrian following the Audi at a discreet distance and Steve thinking about what he had just seen.

The two men followed the Audi through the streets as it made other stops. The stops all looked similar, the Audi pulling up, the boys appearing from the landscape and then dispersing into position. Adrian continued to keep a reasonable. It was more important to stay out of sight than it was to not lose the Audi. If they lost the Audi, they could pick it up the next day, if they Audi knew someone was following it, the responses could vary, from closing down the corners until the heat died to a shoot out, and everywhere in between. Coming back the next day was a lot easier.

Finally, the Audi made its finally stop, just as night was truly settling in, and headed out of the area, south toward the Mariner’s Stadium and the docks. Adrian and Steve followed it to a club called Foxy Ladies, a mid-level strip club. The Audi pulled up in front and three of the four doors opened. Adrian pulled the Camry into an open spot on the road across the street from the club. Steve already had the camera out and was taking pictures.

The digital SLR whirred as it snapped off the pictures, even though there were no moving parts to whir. Most photographers were still used to the sound of SLRs before they all went digital, so camera companies added the sound into the advanced machines to give users a sense of comfort. Steve let the camera whir from the time the doors open until the three men were in the club and the driver, the only man left in the car, pulled the car down the road to park. He did not immediately get out of the car, so Steve put the camera down.

“Well, I guess they aren’t going back to the club house just yet,” Steve said, “So what do we do?”

“Easy, we wait,” Adrian replied as he eased the seat back and settled in.

Katie entered her house, a small place in Renton, a bit south and east of Seattle proper. The community was mainly working families but it did have its rough element. But an extra lock and some simple precautions were enough for her to basically feel safe. Most of the crime was that of opportunity, not of some hardcore criminals.

As she swung the door open, the smell of chicken pot pie wrapped her senses. She was momentarily swept back to her childhood, entering this same house, after playing in the streets with her friends, greeted by the same smell. She knew her mother would be in the kitchen, pottering around the kitchen in her blue apron. Even though the pies took nearly an hour to cook, her mother never left the kitchen while they were in the oven. Katie’s mother took great pride in her pot pies and baked them not based upon time, but smell.

Katie’s mouth immediately started watering. She hurried to drop her keys into a bowl on a shelf next to the door, then hang her coat and purse on hooks next to the shelf. It was not until right then that Katie realized how hungry she was. She also realized she had forgotten to eat the lunch she had brought to work. After Devon left she had back-to-back meetings, then spent the afternoon filing paperwork and worrying about Devon.

She truly believed he still had the opportunity to straighten out his life and she wanted to help. While she knew her job was technically only to assign her clients their jobs, check up on them to make sure they were staying out of trouble and administer the occasional drug test, she could not help herself from taking some of her clients personally, as if Devon’s choice to stay straight or go awry, was somehow her responsibility. She knew she was not his mother but she often felt like she might be.

“Is that you?” she heard her mother’s loud but calming voice ask from the kitchen, located straight back, down the hallway.

Katie hurried down the hall to the kitchen, replying on the way, “Yes, mom.” Katie entered the kitchen and saw her mom, wrapped in her blue apron as expected. Her mom was an older lady with graying hair and kind eyes that were a slightly darker shade of gray than her hair. Carrying a little extra weight but was by no means obese. Katie reflected that her mother would be called solid; her voice, her weight, her personality and her love.

Katie scurried across the kitchen and gave her mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “How much longer until dinner?”

“Not exactly sure, but I’m thinking we should be ready in five or ten minutes. I can smell the crusts just starting to brown,” her mother squinted her eyes and sniffed a few times, her nose twitching like a mouse trying to locate the cheese.

“Great, I’ll go get washed up,” Katie said. She scurried back down the hall to the washroom and was back momentarily.

“So how was your day?” Katie’s mom asked.

Katie took a second to reflect. Most of her day had been filed with paperwork, dotted with brief meetings with parolees that, while she prayed for them, she held little hope for them. The parolees had been conditioned by too many years of living in a social structure that re-enforced bad habits and a system that focused on punishment rather than rehabilitation. Then she thought of her meeting with Devon. “It was pretty good. I have a new charge, Devon, who has a real opportunity to turn things around,” Katie smiled.

“That’s great to hear. I so seldom get to her about clients who you are positive about,” Katie’s mother said.

Her mom meant it as a casual comment designed to support her. But reflecting, Katie sighed internally, knowing her mother was right. She had gotten into this field to help others, to break the mold when it could still be broken. But slowly and over years, she had allowed her job to become a chore and an assembly line of crossing “t”s and dotting “i”s. Reflecting on how she’d gotten here, and Devon, she decided she needed to take charge of her world. She could not change everything, but she could do more to ensure that she made a difference to at least one person for whom she was responsible.

Sitting in her kitchen, listening to her mom scurry around the room, clanging silverware in the drawer, cups clinking together as she selected two, the drawer slamming as she retrieved two placemats, she suddenly felt as if a large weight she had not even known she was carrying, was lifted. As the weight rose into the air, it tugged the corners of her mouth up into a broad smile. She sat up a little straighter as her mother brought over the pot pie and set it on a pot holder in the middle of the tiny table. Katie stood and said, “Sit mom, I’ve got this.”

Looking a little startled but pleased, Katie’s mom said, “Really, well thank you.” She took a seat in her chair, Katie served the pot pie to both of them. They ate, re-telling stories about Katie’s childhood and moments that had meant something to her. After dinner Katie ushered her mother into the living room and set about cleaning the dishes. She hummed a light tune as she cleaned.

Hours later, the Audi pulled up in front of the club followed by a murdered out 1996 Chevrolet Impala. The three men Adrian and Steve had watched walk into the club came out. They laughed and joked as they made their way out while seamlessly spreading out between the Audi and the Impala. Once they were all in their cars, the drivers pulled out. Adrian fired up the Camry and followed, initially with the lights off, turning them on about a block from the club. “OK, let’s see where they go,” Adrian said.

Adrian and Steve followed the Chevy which followed the Audi. They did a near reverse of the earlier track. With the roads being emptier, Adrian had to give the Chevy more space but with less people they had no troubles following the two cars. In a mirror of the drop off, the Audi would pull up, one of the crew would approach the car and hand in an envelope presumably filled with cash. Then that person would walk away and the Audi would drive off. The Chevy would pull up and another member of the crew would approach handing in the grocery bag filled with the remaining product. Then like ghosts, the crew would disperse into the shadows created by the copper colored light thrown out by the phosphorus street lamps.

It took about an hour for the Audi and the Chevy to make the rounds, then they accelerated toward the north of the city. Getting on 99 and heading over Lake Union on the Aurora Bridge. Once over the bridge the two sedans split up. The Audi took the first Freemont exit, the Chevy made no indication of following.

"What do we do?" Steve asked Adrian.

"Follow the money," Adrian replied and steered the car after the Audi. Slicing through the back streets, always maintaining exactly the speed limit, the Audi eventually turned into the parking lot of a closed tire and rim shop advertising rims up to 24 inches. A kaleidoscope of colors bounced off large chrome rims in the window, reflecting the lights of the city.

Adrian drove past in the Camry while Steve turned to watch the men exit the sedan in the parking lot and walk to the side entrance. After a knock and a short pause, the door opened, bathing the men in a pool of white light. They handed the envelope to a large man blocking much of the entrance.

"What do we do," Steve asked.

"Well, I think stopping might be a bit obvious," Adrian said smoothly as he accelerated the Camry," We have a drop off. That is something."

"Fair enough," Steve replied, his head cranked around trying to watch what was going on as the car drifted by. Shifting forward, he relaxed in the seat, closing his eyes and without moving finished with, "Well, that seems as if the night is done, drop me at the closest bar."

Adrian gave Steve a stern look but realized that any response was moot. A block after, Adrian pulled into a parking lot and with a stiff finger keyed into the GPS a request for the closest bar. He glared at Steve who never moved and seemed relaxed to the point of falling asleep. The female voice of the GPS suggested a local watering hole. Steve made no response to the suggestion. Adrian glanced one more time at Steve, then accelerated out of the parking lot and headed toward the GPS destination.

The GPS routed them toward the Little Red Hen. Adrian headed in the direction of the bar fuming in his head about the work that needed to be done and Steve's ability to ignore it. Shortly before pulling up to the front of the bar, Steve asked calmly, "You mad?"

"No," Adrian said, pausing then replying, "Yes, yes I am. You seem so relaxed. But we just witnessed a major drug dealer destroying our city. Your response is to get drunk. How can you do that?"

Steve sat up in his seat. Stretching, he looked over at Adrian and offered, "I think you're wrong."

Adrian stopped in the middle of the road, not knowing what Steve was getting at. He glared at Steve waiting for Steve to expand. Steve looked lazily back at Adrian not saying a thing. The two men glared at each other for a moment. Adrian felt the stress of his impromptu stop in the middle of the road. Steve seemingly feeling nothing, staring back at Adrian with a wondering look, more questioning how he got there, than a response to Adrian's question.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we have a known drug leader down the street? We need to be figuring out what to do about this, not drinking,” Adrian explained.

“Ah, so that’s it,” Steve said, realizing why Adrian was upset, “Well, I’m getting drunk for two reasons. First, I don’t think drug dealers are all that bad. I don’t think our war on drugs is all that effective or righteous. Do I think drugs are bad, as in me not wanting to do them? Sure. I don’t not do drugs because I can’t find them, but because I don’t want to do them. I think this ineffective war on drugs has driven up the price, meaning there is more money in it, and that drives a lot of the secondary violence both between drug gangs and amongst innocent bystanders.” Steve paused.

Adrian stared at him for a moment then said, “And the second thing?”

Steve broke into a broad smile and said, “Well, I know you’ll worry about our next steps, so I don’t need to.” With that he hopped out of the car and headed into the Little Red Hen. Adrian sat unmoving for a moment, then a car horn honked behind him. Adrian straighten up, looked in the rear view mirror and gave the driver of the car he was blocking a small wave. Putting the Camry in drive Adrian headed home, wrestling more with Steve’s response that he would do all the planning than his social commentary on the war on drugs. Adrian sighed and resigned himself to knowing that in the end Steve was right, he would do the planning.

              Russ adjusted his tie, and looked in the rear view mirror of the truck, tilting the mirror down to see more of his body. The suit was not a perfect fit, as he had been carrying more weight before he left for Afghanistan. Running hard ops in a desolate country had forged his body into a leaner, yet stronger version of himself. But it was the best suit he had and couldn’t afford to go buy another at this point, so he took one last look at himself, put on his sunglasses, grabbed his personal binder, which held a note pad, two pens and two printed copies of his resume, and exited his quad-cabbed, red Dodge Ram 1500.

              Russ headed toward the large Seattle Justice Center. He had been trying for weeks to get an interview anywhere, and when he got the opportunity to interview with the Seattle Police Department, he was ecstatic.  He felt energized as he strode toward the building. The damp, gray wind whipped around in the narrow confines of the streets and plaza. His scalp bristled at the chill let through by his short hair, but the chill only made him feel more alive.

              Russ entered the glass fronted building. The multi-storied lobby was open and airy. The bustle of people hustling across the painted concrete floor rattled around the space. Steve looked across to see a reception desk and strode over, trying to channel his energy to look purposeful rather than excited or nervous. He reached the reception desk, broke out in a big smile and said, “Hi, I’m Russ Evenhuis, and I’m here for an interview with the police department as an IT administrator.”

              The receptionist was a rail-thin, young lady dressed in a red blazer over a white shirt. Her hair was pulled back tightly. She did not smile as she looked at Russ and replied in a nasally, monotone voice, “Who with?”

              Russ crinkled his brow and replied, “Uh, the police force.”

              The receptionist let out a large exasperated exhale and spat back, “No, what person on the police force are you here to interview with.” Pointing at her screen with a boney finger she continued, “Who do I message to tell you’re here?”

              “Oh, um,” Russ dug through his binder, finally finding the name of the man interviewing him, “Yeah, it is Michael Haines.” Russ looked up from his binder and smiled at the receptionist. She already had her head down and was typing on the computer. Russ held his smile for a few moments, then realizing she was not going to look up, let it slip away.

              The receptionist's fingers tapped on the keyboard, then paused for several seconds, then typed again, then paused again. Russ realized she was having an IM conversation, letting Michael know he was here. He realized how long it had been since he was in the “real” world. Before the army, he had a few jobs, but ones you got by talking directly to the manager when you walked in and applied. In the army, phone calls and paper still ruled. Now the receptionist did not even make a call to talk to people in the building.

              It was a new world, and for a brief moment, Russ thought maybe it had passed him by. He quickly shook the thoughts from his head. He knew he needed confidence if he was going to do well in this interview. He refocused on his skills as a leader and the skills the army had taught him for systems administrations. He was good at both of those; the skills had been tested and honed in the toughest environment imaginable. He let a smile drift back to his face, this time not to make friends with the receptionist but because he was actually feeling more confident. He guessed no one else applying for this role had been through what he had been through. Besides, he thought back to a phrase he had learned in basic: “Fake it until you make it.” Looking confident was as important as feeling confident.

              Finally, the receptionist stopped her stuttered typing and looked up as Russ' beaming face. Her stolid face showed no response to Russ' smile. But Russ did not care. She droned to Russ, “He'll be right down. You can wait over there.” She glanced at three chairs circling a squat table.

              “Thank you,” Russ replied to the top of the receptionists head, as she had already turned her gaze from Russ and back to her desk. He strode over to the grouping of chairs. They had obviously been picked more for their design than their function. They were several shades of bright reds and oranges. They were close to the ground and had short backs that curved backward. Their mounded seat cushions seemed about ready to split the fabric.

              Russ sat down and immediately regretted the decision. The overstuffed seating surface was stuffed so tight that it was over firm and unyielding. Rather than sink in, he teetered on the crest of the seat. The seat was so close to the ground that Russ' quads sloped upward, nearly putting his knees in his chest. He leaned back but the seat back arced away from him, until he was nearly supine when he finally made contact. Mentally picturing how ridiculous he probably looked, Russ quickly extricated himself from the chair and stood next to them.

              Russ laughed to himself as he stared down at the furniture. In the army, he was used to function with no thought even given to form. These chairs were the other side of the spectrum. Created to look good, but nearly useless for what they should be used for. In the army, they would have the chairs on the next burn pile, as they would be more helpful keeping them warm on the freezing night in an arid, desert, than they would be for furniture.

              “Russ?” a male voice said from over Russ left shoulder. Russ swung and saw a balding, gray haired man, with a quizzical look on his face.

              “Yes, sir,” Russ replied, looking down to the man who was eight inches shorter than he was.

              “I'm Mike, how are you?” Mike offered his hand. He was dressed in kakis and a light blue collar shirt. Large round glasses adorned his face.

              Instinctually, Russ hand made a slight move up, toward a salute, before he recovered and took the offered hand, “Hi, I'm Russ Evenhuis.”

              “Good to meet you,” Mike continued with a broad smile, “Please, follow me.” Mike turned and wandered toward the thick glass doors leading to the offices and cubicles on the ground floor.

              “Yes, sir,” Russ quickly straightened his suit jacket, squaring it on his shoulders, where the looseness had allowed it to fall. He took two large strides to catch up to Mike then shortened his stride to match the smaller man's gate. Scanning a badge on a badge reader, then, jerking on the heavy glass doors, Mike led the way in. They walked through corridors defined by cubical collections. Russ looked over the edges and saw a scurry of activity, imagining himself working alongside these people.  Several small hallways lit by fluorescent lights later, Mike finally turned into a small office.

              The office was small and over lit with fake light. The door nearly opened into the back of two wooden framed chairs, with seat and back cushions of a mauve, tan and teal splash pattern that Russ thought had to be from the 1980s. The chairs nearly butted against an institutional looking desk, the kind which was obviously pressboard covered in plastic with a fake wooden design. The desk backed nearly to an unimaginative rectangular credenza which looked to be the exact width of the room. In the corner was a standing lamp and on the desk a small desk lamp. These gave off a warm, orange glow which combined and contrasted with the cool white light of the fluorescents. The combined lumens were much more than the tight room needed.

              Mike left the door open and squeezed through the small gap between the desk and the wall. Behind his desk, he had to turn his chair toward him, sit then spin to fit behind his desk looking at Russ. “Take a seat, close the door,” Mike offered and asked.

              Russ closed the door then looked at the chairs. They were vastly more functional than the chairs in the lobby downstairs, and would have been fine, except for the lack of staging room. He moved the chair closest to him as far back against the wall, then, in a motion similar to Mike's, sat and turned himself into place. Russ' knees rubbed the front of the desk, but he tried to look as comfortable as possible.

              As Russ sat, patiently waiting for Mike to talk, his eyes started bothering him. He could not quite place the issue.  He wanted to squint while opening his eyes wider to see better. Suddenly it dawned on him, because of how he was sitting, one eye was mainly getting the light from the fluorescent while the other eye caught the warmer light of the incandescent bulbs. He laughed a bit to himself. While the searing light of the Afghan desert could be shockingly bright, at least it was consistent. Dark sunglasses were all you needed to fix the issue. This was like standing right on the edge of a shadow, one eye blinded by the glare and one searching for illumination.

              Russ shifted in his chair, trying to find a way to fix the issue. He tried to subtly shift his head from side to side, hoping it would help. When that proved futile, he turned his head. This helped but only once his head was turned about thirty degrees, an angle Russ did not think would be conducive to have an effective interview. Glancing over at the other seat, he thought that might be better. But thinking through the move, and what he would need to do to get his bulk heaved over into the corner, he thought better of it. Finally he decided this was no worse than boot camp. He told himself he could deal with the annoying but harmless light. He relaxed, forced it from his mind and refocused on his interview.

              Mike sat hunched over his desk looking down at Russ' resume. After a half minute or so he smiled and looked up. “Wow, three tours in Afghanistan,” Mike said, clearly impressed. Russ smiled internally, having a hiring manager impressed with your accomplishments was a good sign. Mike did not immediately continue to talk. Russ did not know how to answer. This was a statement of fact, not a question. He looked at Mike, Mike back at him

              Finally he stammered, “Um, thank...thank you, sir.” This seemed to be an acceptable answer as Mike looked back to his resume.

              “It says here you led a detachment of three HUMVEEs,” again Mike looked up.

              Again this was a statement, but Russ jumped in sooner this time, “Yes, sir.”

              Mike looked back at the resume. Without looking up, he said, “...and your admin training...” Mike flipped over Russ' resume, even though there was nothing on the back.

              Russ quickly reached for the resume, then immediately pulled back his hands. He did not figure reaching over the table toward his prospective boss would be a good idea. They had told him in his one and only exit interview from the Army, that civilians often took soldiers touching them as a sign of aggression. Russ figured this was mainly meant to warn guys about touching people in bars and social situations but he was not going to take any chances.

              Quickly, as if he was pulling out the well used maps they had used in the war, he pulled out a second copy of his resume from the binder he carried. Laying it upside down, from his perspective, on Mike's desk he pointed to the education part, “See here sir, I am a 53A Information Systems Manager.”

              Mike looked at the corresponding on his copy of the resume. Then he picked up the pick of paper and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the paper, Russ stared at him. Finally putting the resume back on the desk he looked at Russ and said, “This role is designed to be the head administrator for this group.” Mike went silent, continuing to look at Russ.

              Russ looked back and, nodding his head, said, “Yes sir.”

              “Do you think you could do this?” Mike asked.

              Continuing to nod his head he said, “Yes, sir, I do.”

              Mike started nodding his head as well, “This is not an entry level role, meaning we are not looking for someone we have to train on the job.”

              “Yes, sir, I understand,” Russ said. A small alarm bell in the back of his head started to ring, though he did not yet know why.

              Mike looked back at the paper, shifted forward in his seat. He looked up again, but did not meet Russ’ eyes. “Russ, let me be honest, we are looking for someone who is MSE certified and who has at least three years of hands on experience…”

              Russ saw where the interview was headed and interrupted, with a slight panic in his voice he interjected, “But I do have experience. I got my 53A certification four years ago and have been using it ever since--”

              Now Mike interrupted Russ, still not looking him in the eyes, “Yes, you have a certification, but the Army’s certification is not the same as the MSE certification and while your experience has been impressive, I thank you for your service, it wasn’t focused on systems administration, which I completely understand why, but that is what we are looking for.” Mike’s face flushed slightly with emotion.

              Russ sat quietly for a moment digesting what Mike had just said. Slowly he asked, “So there is nothing I can say that will convince you that I can do this job?”

              Mike finally looked up and met Russ’ eyes again, “No, I’m sorry, there isn’t.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact.

              Russ took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt like he had just been punched in the gut. He had pictured himself getting this job, coming to work, being productive, being part of a team again. He had thought about how great it was going to be to have that feeling of being wanted - needed again. He had let himself dream about where he would move, new clothes for the job and starting a new life, a normal life, a life outside the institution of the military.