J is for Judgment (15 page)

I thought it better not to mention that I was picturing him like a piece of bait in a trap.

In the office alcove below, the phone rang. Dana launched into a description of Brian’s misfortunes, but I found myself listening to her canned message as it came wafting up the stairs. The live message followed at the sound of the beep, one of her bridal clients with the latest complaint. “Hello, Dana. This is Ruth. Listen, hon, Bethany’s been having a little problem with this caterer you recommended? We’ve asked the woman twice for a written cost-per-person breakdown of the food and drink for the reception, and we can’t seem to get a response. We thought maybe you could give her a call and
light a little fire under her for answers. I’ll be here in the morning and you can call me, okay? Thank you. I’ll talk to you then, babe. Bye now.”

I wondered idly if Dana ever told these young brides the problems they were going to run into once the wedding was over with: boredom, weight gain, irresponsibility, friction over sex, spending, family holidays, and who picks up the socks. Maybe it was just my basic cynicism rising to the surface, but cost-per-person food and drink breakdowns seemed trivial compared to the conflicts marriage generated.

“…a real helper, generous, cooperative. Winsome and funny. He’s got a very high IQ.” She was talking about Brian, the alleged teen killer. Only a mother could describe as “winsome and funny” a kid who’d recently broken out of jail and gone on a killing rampage. She was looking at me expectantly. “I have to get on with this so I can reclaim my bedroom. You have any other questions before I get on with the vacuuming?”

Offhand, I couldn’t think of any. “This is fine for now.”

She kicked the switch and the vacuum cleaner shrilled to life, a high keening whine that drowned out any possibility of conversation. As I let myself out the front door, I could hear the droning of the motor as she hauled the suction wand across the floor.

M
y watch showed that it was nearly noon. I drove over to the Perdido County Jail. The Perdido County Government Center was constructed in 1978, a sprawling mass of pale concrete that houses the Criminal Justice Center, the administration building, and the Hall of Justice. I parked my car in one of the spaces provided in the vast marina of asphalt that surrounds the complex. I went into the main entrance, pushing through the glass doors that opened onto the lower lobby. I hung a right. The main jail public counter was located down a short hallway. On the same floor were the Sheriff’s Personnel Counter, Records and Licensing, and the West County Patrol Services counter, none of which interested me for the moment.

I identified myself to the civilian clerk and, in due course, was directed to the watch commander’s office, where I introduced myself. I showed my identification, including my driver’s license and my investigator’s
license. There was a brief delay while a second clerk picked up the phone and checked to see if the jail administrator was in. The minute I heard the guy’s name, I knew my luck had improved. I had gone to high school with Tommy Ryckman. He was two years ahead of me, but we’d misbehaved together rather desperately in the days when one could do that without risking death or disease. I wasn’t sure he’d remember me, but apparently he did. Sergeant Ryckman agreed to see me as soon as I’d received my clearance. I was directed down the hall to his small office on the right.

As I entered his office, he unfolded himself from his swivel chair, emerging to an impressive six feet eight, his face wreathed with a grin. “Well, it’s been way too long. How the hell are you?”

“I’m great, Tommy. How are you?”

We shook hands across the desk and made effusive noises at each other, trading hasty summaries of the years since we’d met. He was now in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven with glossy brown hair parted on one side and slicked across. His hair was thinning slightly, and his forehead was scored as if by the tines of a fork. He wore glasses with wire frames, and his jaw looked like it would smell of citrus after-shave. His khaki sheriff’s department uniform was starched and crisply pressed, the slacks looking like they’d been professionally tailored to fit. He had long arms and big hands, a wedding ring, of course.

He motioned me to a chair and then eased back into his own. Even seated, he had the build of a basketball player, his grasshopper knees visible above the edge of
the desk. His black shoes must have been a size 13. His accent was still shaded by a touch of the Midwest, Wisconsin perhaps, and I remembered that he’d arrived at Santa Teresa High halfway through the school year. He had a studio portrait on his desk: a wifey-looking woman and three medium-aged kids, two boys and a girl, all with glossy brown hair neatly slicked down with water, all wearing glasses with clear plastic frames. Two of the kids were of an age where they had goofy teeth.

“You’re here with regard to Brian Jaffe.”

“More or less,” I replied. “I’m actually more interested in the whereabouts of his father.”

“So I understand. Lieutenant Whiteside told me what was going on.”

“Are you familiar with the case? I’ve heard some of it, but nothing in any depth.”

“A good buddy of mine worked with Lieutenant Brown on that case so I had him fill me in. Just about everybody down here knows that one. Lot of local citizens got sucked into CSL. Lost their shirts, most of them. Sometimes I think it was a textbook scam. My buddy’s transferred since then, but Harris Brown’s the one you want to talk to if we can’t help.”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I was told he retired.”

“He did, but I’m sure he’d be willing to help any way he can. Does the kid know there’s a chance his dad’s still alive?”

I shook my head. “I just talked to his mother and she
hasn’t told him yet. I understand he was just brought back to Perdido.”

“That’s right. Over the weekend we dispatched a couple of deputies to Mexicali, where the kid was handed over. He was transported by car up here to the main jail. He was booked in last night.”

“Any chance I might see him?”

“Not today, I don’t think. Inmate mealtime at the moment and after that he’s scheduled for a medical exam. You can try tomorrow or the next day as long as he has no objections.”

“How’d he manage to escape from Connaught?”

Ryckman stirred restlessly, breaking off eye contact. “We’re not going to talk about that,” he said. “Next thing you know the information ends up in the paper and then everybody gets it down. Let’s just say the inmates discovered a little quirk in the system and took advantage of it. It won’t happen again, I can tell you that.”

“Will he be tried as an adult?”

Tommy Ryckman did a stretch, extending his arms above his head with a series of popping sounds. “You’d have to ask the DA, though personally, I’d sure like to see it. This kid is devious. We think he was the one who cooked up the escape plan to begin with, but who’s going to contradict him at this point? Two guys are dead and the third’s in critical condition. He’ll claim he’s the innocent victim. You know how it goes. These kids never take responsibility. His mother’s already hired him a high-priced attorney, bringing some guy up from Los Angeles.”

“Probably utilizing some of the benefits from his father’s life insurance policy,” I said. “I’d love to see Wendell Jaffe make a discreet appearance. I can’t believe he’d risk it, but it would sure verify my intuitions.”

“Well now, I’ll tell you the problem you’re going to have with that. Case like this, a lot of notoriety, courtroom’s probably going to be closed and under tight security. You know how it goes. Kid’s attorney’s going to offer up spirited arguments, asserting his client’s fitness for treatment under juvenile court law. He’ll want a probation officer to investigate. He’ll want reports submitted with other relevant evidence. He’ll raise six kinds of hell, and until the matter’s decided, he’ll maintain his client is entitled to protection under juvenile statutes.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I’d be given access to his juvenile criminal history,” I said. I was stating the obvious, but sometimes a cop will surprise you.

Sergeant Ryckman laced his hands across his head, smiling at me with a sort of brotherly indulgence. “We wouldn’t do that regardless,” he said mildly. “You can always try the paper. Reporters over there can probably get you anything you want. Not sure how they do it, but they have their little ways.” He sat forward on his chair. “I was just on my way to lunch. You want to join me in the cafeteria?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” I said.

On his feet again, I realized how much he’d grown since I’d seen him last and he was over six feet tall then. Now he was stoop-shouldered and seemed to carry his head tilted to one side, perhaps hoping to avoid being knocked silly by the door frame when he entered or left a
room. I would have bet money his wife was only five feet tall and spent her life with his belt buckle staring her in the face. On a dance floor, the two probably looked as though they were engaged in an obscene act. “If you don’t mind, I got a few things to take care of on the way.”

“Fine with me,” I said.

We began to traverse the maze of corridors linking the various offices and departments, moving through a series of security checkpoints, like the airlocks on a spaceship. There were video cameras sweeping every corridor, and I knew we were being observed by the deputy manning level-one control. The smells changed subtly from one area to the next. Food, bleach, burning chemicals, as if someone had set fire to the plastic ring on a six-pack of canned sodas, musty blankets, floor wax, rubber tires. Sergeant Ryckman conducted a couple of administrative transactions, apparently minor matters fraught with clerical jargon. There were a surprising number of women working in the processing unit—all ages, all sizes, usually in jeans or polyester pants. There was a nice air of camaraderie among the people I observed. Lots of telephones ringing, lots of movement from department to department, as we cruised through.

Finally, he steered us toward the small employee cafeteria. The menu for the deputies that day was lasagna, grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, french fries, and corn. Not quite enough fat and carbs for my taste, but it was coming close. There was also a salad bar, featuring stainless-steel bins of chopped iceberg lettuce, sliced carrots, green pepper rings, and onions. For drinks, one had a choice of orange juice, lemonade, or cartons of milk.
The prisoners’ menu was listed on the board above the hot table: bean soup, grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, beef Stroganoff or lasagna, white bread, french fries, and the ubiquitous corn. Unlike the meals at the jail in Santa Teresa, which were served cafeteria style, the food here was prepared and dished out by inmates onto trays that were loaded, in turn, into big stainless-steel hot carts. I’d seen several being rolled into the industrial-size elevators en route to jail levels three and four.

Ryckman still had the unruly hunger of an adolescent. I watched him pile his tray with a serving of lasagna the size of a brick, two grilled sandwiches, a mound each of corn and french fries, and a hefty side of salad with a dipper of Thousand Island dressing poured on top. He tucked two cartons of low-fat milk into the remaining space on his tray. I followed him in the line, picking up plastic flatware from a bin. I opted for a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich and a modest log pile of fries, hungrier than I thought possible given the institutional nature of the setting. We found a free corner table and unloaded our trays.

“Were you working in Perdido when Wendell formed CSL?” I asked.

“You bet,” Ryckman said. “‘Course, I never invest in deals like that myself. My dad always told me I was better off with my money stashed in a coffee can. Depression mentality, but it’s not bad advice. Actually, you better hope the word on Jaffe doesn’t get out. I know a couple deputies lost money on that scam. He shows his face, you’re gonna have a posse of irate citizens riding down on that dude.”

“What’s the deal?” I asked. “I don’t understand what these guys are about.” He squirted ketchup on his fries and passed the dispenser to me. I could tell we shared the same intense interest in junk food.

Ryckman ate quickly, attention focused on his plate as the mountain of food diminished. “System works on trust—checks, credit cards, a contract of any kind. People perpetrating fraud feel no inner moral obligation to make good on their agreements. They operate along a continuum that runs from financial irresponsibility to civil consumer puffing to fraud to criminal lies. You see it all the time. Bankers, real estate brokers, investment counselors…anyone exposed to large sums of cash. After a while they can’t seem to keep their hands off it.”

“Too tempting,” I remarked. I wiped my hands on a paper napkin, uncertain whether the grease was coming from the sandwich or the pile of french fries. Both were heaven to a person of my low appetites.

“It’s more than that. Because it’s not just bucks these boys are after as far as I can tell. The money’s just a way of keeping score, like they say. You watch these guys operate and pretty soon you realize it’s the game they get off on. Same goes for politicians. It’s a power trip. Us ordinary mortals are just fuel for their egos.”

“I’m surprised anyone in law enforcement fell for his scheme. You guys ought to know better. You probably see enough of it.”

He shook his head, chewing on a bite of sandwich. “Always hope to make a killing. A little something for nothing, and I guess we’re not above it.”

“I had a conversation with Jaffe’s ex-partner last night,” I said. “He seemed pretty slick.”

“He is. Went right back into business, and what the hell are we gonna do? Everybody around here knows the guy went to jail. Day he comes out they’re ready to invest again. What makes these cases so hard to prosecute is the victims don’t want to believe they’ve been deceived. The victims all become dependent on the crook who’s cheating them. Once they invest, they
need
him to be successful to get their money back. Then, of course, the con man always has last-minute excuses, stalling repayment and dragging his feet. Case like that is a bitch to prove. Lot of time the DA can’t even get corroboration.”