All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (12 page)

“T
hat fella Halsey, he's a bit of a master of distraction, isn't he?” Mr. VanLeer chuckles up into the rearview mirror. I watch the flat farmlands go by from the backseat. I've learned to sit behind Mr. VanLeer in the SUV. I feel less obligated to chat with anyone whose face I can't see. “Inmates become tight with each other,” he says, in a know-it-all way. “Powerful system of doing favors,” he says. “But it's okay. I expected that. And I don't mind a good card game . . .” More chuckling.

I hear him. But I'm in a not-listening state. I've taken in about all I have room for today, and if I listen to VanLeer, it'll be all the harder to hold on to the important stuff. Like what Big Ed said after he finished the story of how the boy died. I asked him how he got convicted of manslaughter.

“It's not like you shot him or pushed him into the road,”
I said. But Big Ed said the presence of the gun was the factor. “Menacing with a firearm,” he said. “Resulted in a death—of a child no less. I was outside my shop, so no ‘stand your ground' defense. That's what got me convicted. That, and the fact that I was filled with guilt and all out of fight.”

VanLeer interrupts my concentration. “I trounced him,” he says. Is it possible to hear someone looking in the rearview? I think so. I don't look up. I'm still staring out the window, watching a dot of bright pink growing larger in the opposite lane. It's the scooter rider again, the one I saw in the Blue River parking lot last week.

“That fella Halsey,” VanLeer says, “I beat him about like you and Zoey beat me and Mrs. Samuels at Pictionary the other night. And that's in spite of the fact that he's a sly player. Blue River is full of tricksters . . .”

I pull my notebook out of my pack and open it across my lap. I scan to the notes about Big Ed's sentencing:

Asked to serve time far away from Florida.

Take his shame with him. Never return.

Henry and Lila, others testified for him—not a danger.

My notes stop there. My hand was aching up to my elbow, and across the common the card game was breaking up.

I fish my camera out of my pack. I took five short videos in all. I scroll to the last one I shot. I watch Big Ed say, “I prayed the Lord my soul to take. But he wouldn't. Instead I had the good luck to land here in teeny-tiny Surprise, Nebraska.” Mom leans forward then. She takes one of Big Ed's hands in both of hers and squeezes. The video ends.

VanLeer pipes up again. “How about you, Perry? Did they get you into their card games there at the prison?”

I glance up at the mirror but only for a split second. “You mean did they teach me how to cheat?” I let it out in an under-mumble way.

“What's that you say?”

“Mr. VanLeer, I don't mean to be rude, but I can't talk right now.” I rustle the pages of my notebook so he will hear. “I'm working on my school assignment.”

O
n Monday night, I am looking ahead to Tuesday. I've spent a lot of time organizing Big Ed's interview from my scrawly notes and the short videos. It's a job trying to turn it into one smooth-reading story. Especially when all I can think about is how something so sad could happen to Big Ed when he's one of the greatest people I know.

I've written down almost all the words. But there is something about watching Big Ed on the little screen. I can see his story—see the way he feels. It makes me wish I'd had the guts to sign up for Video Boot Camp in spite of Brian Morris and his friends. But being a library volunteer is going to give me an unexpected assist on the Blue River Stories. That's a win.

The part I worry about is time. If each rez thinks about
how to tell his or her story ahead of time, the Saturday interviews might go quicker. So I've written short notes to the ones I'm closest to. I've asked for their stories. That might sound easy, but like I say, I've never asked before. I know not everyone will want to tell me. But just in case, I gave them questions. Like, what did you do before you came to Blue River? What are you in for? (If you want to tell me.) How long will you serve? What are the best and worst things about Blue River? If you have your
eye on the end
, what do you see?

Zoey is going to help me get the notes and questions into the right periodicals. I wish I didn't have to feel sneaky about this plan. I don't know if anyone would care. But if there is a rule about not putting notes into magazines, I don't want to know it. I really need these questions to be on the Bucking Blue Bookmobile tomorrow. We have to do that before Mrs. Buckmueller leaves for Blue River—
if
she's going, that is. I hope her knee is feeling better. I hope so for her, and I hope so for me.

The VanLeer kitchen smells like a whole other country tonight. It happens a lot, and even though I miss Blue River meals, this is pretty awesome. Eggy-Mon would probably love to cook with the spices Zoey's mom uses. My mom would love to taste them. Tonight, something sweet and peppery is going into the skillet with the garlic and onions. But that's just the beginning. Zoey's mom has bowls of chopped vegetables and chicken pieces ready too. Mr. VanLeer will
be late for supper, but we will see him right here in the VanLeer family room; in about ninety seconds he'll be on the big-screen TV.

He's being interviewed on
Counting on Butler County
with Desiree Riggs. The segment runs every Monday evening during the news, and everybody around here knows about it because of Desiree. She has fancy hair and big-city clothes, and a gooey way of speaking that makes her sound like she's handing out cream-filled chocolates. Her voice goes low, and she melts her words together. All that just to interview the locals. I've watched her plenty of times on the set in the Blue River Common. She comes on just about the time we line up for supper there. I wonder if Mom and the others are tuned in now. I smile to myself when I imagine that we are doing the same thing tonight, even if it has to be in different places.

I can almost hear Mr. Halsey. He loves to get all breathy and call out, “Hey-yay! It's Deh-hezzz-ah-raaay!” That's how she says her name too, and it makes the rezzes laugh. But everybody does listen to her show. Chocolate cream sucks you in and sticks. Sometimes it sticks to Miss Sashonna so much that she tries to sound like Desiree all through supper. She's no Desiree. But I don't tell her that.

Desiree will interview almost anyone: a farmer with a bumper crop, a new businesses owner, someone with a blue ribbon recipe for chokecherry jam, or the winner of the Rising City Elementary spelling bee. But tonight, it's Mr.
Thomas VanLeer. And he's coming to us live.

“Mom, it's time,” Zoey calls over her shoulder. She picks up the remote. “Mom, you better come in here . . . You're going to miss it.” She adds a few bars of volume.

Mrs. Samuels clinks a spoon against her skillet and hurries around the countertop to be nearer to the screen. She bumps her hip on the way and says, “Drat!”

Zoey pumps up the volume some more, and there we are, all three of us, waiting to see Mr. Thomas VanLeer.

“This is Desiree Riggs for
Counting on Butler County
.” There she goes, melting the butter, pouring on the cream. “Our guest this evening is our very own district attorney, Thomas VanLeer . . .”

I have never seen anyone I know on the television. It's strange to see VanLeer filling the screen, so big and close. I can see him better now than when he stands a few feet in front of me. He is VanLeer in high definition. VanLeer magnified. He's got a clean shave, but I can see all the places his whiskers will sprout from. They look like tiny grains of sand. He has no wrinkles in his skin, but there's a map of pale-blue veins at his temples. The camera moves out while the two say polite hellos. Desiree asks, “Mr. VanLeer, what brought you to Butler County?” Huge VanLeer fills the screen again.

“Well, Desiree,” he says, “I was attracted to Butler County because I felt this was a place where I could make a difference as your district attorney. When I met my wife and her daughter, I knew within a few short weeks that I'd struck it
lucky. I had a ready-made family. And I knew we were going to meet our challenges like every family does, and tackle our obstacles together. That's exactly what we have done, and our glue grows stronger with each hurdle . . .”

I look over at Zoey. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. I'm wondering if it is weird for her that her stepdad is talking about her. I wonder if he's making her mad. Her fingers drum her lip.

“Now, Desiree, you probably know that families and communities are built of much the same stuff,” Mr. VanLeer says.

I think of Blue River and decide that makes a lot of sense to me. I think of the award on the wall in Mr. VanLeer's office, and I figure this is why he won it.

“So, with an all-in approach”—VanLeer makes a little fist—“I thought, new family, new territory. I researched Butler and the surrounding communities—Rising City, and even tiny Surprise out there . . .” He chuckles. “These were precisely the types of areas I wanted to see better served. I'm a roll-up-your-sleeves kind of guy, and I'll give you an example. When I learned that there was a young member of our community—a boy the same age as our Zoey—who needed a . . . well, a suitable place to live, shall we say, I brought him ho—”

Desiree interrupts. “Now, you're referencing the boy from the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility?” There is no chocolate, no cream when she says it. I feel like I've been
dunked in ice water. Thomas VanLeer and Desiree Riggs are talking about
me
.

I look at Zoey's mom. Her hand goes slowly to her mouth. She's losing color. On the TV screen, VanLeer dips his chin. He seems off-track now. “Uh . . . Blue River is a minimum-security facility. I am in favor of prison reform through the courts, and by that I mean reduced sentencing for the nonviolent. Now, I'm not at liberty to be specific here, but I am in the process of reviewing many, many cases. Now, when s-something . . .” VanLeer is flustered, trying to bail out. “An irregularity came to my attention, and I simply felt it warranted an investigation—”

“Investigation?” Desiree says. There might be some butter on that word. No. It's hot mustard, I decide, and she slathered it.

“Yes, there are . . . there is the appearance of impropriety. I'm concerned, Desiree.” He spits it out. “About our community. The style of management at B-Blue River has been—”

“And would this be about the warden? Because you know, District Attorney VanLeer, there has been a long-prevailing sentiment in Butler—and outside of Butler as well, for that matter—that Blue River Co-ed Correctional is a progressive and effective facility with a recidivism rate of zero.”

Wow. Desiree dipped that zero in caramel. The warden would love that!

“What's
recivi-difa-cism
?” Zoey nudges me.

I whisper the answer quick as I can. “Repeat offending. Returning to prison.”

“Oh . . .” She nods.

“Ye-yes, but I'm not here to talk about that particular issue anyway.” VanLeer puts up his hands and then taps his fingers on his palm. “Let's go back to the boy. We had to get him out of there, and with a very slim foster care system here in Butler County, I just felt I had to step up. I spoke with Robyn—my wife—and she agreed that we would open our home and our hearts to him.”

I look up. Now Mrs. Samuels has her hand clapped tightly over her mouth.

“And we are doing that,” Mr. VanLeer continues. “It is complicated. But for as long as he needs us, we will absolutely stand by him. We're making a difference. We are not quitters . . .”

VanLeer is stumbling on. Desiree is trying to wrap things up.

“I'm here to help him.” VanLeer shifts awkwardly—lunging at the camera with just his left side. “I'll help him any way that I can . . . and he knows that.” That's the last thing he gets to say. Desiree thanks him and starts talking her way out to the commercial break.

Mrs. Samuels breaks for the kitchen. Her spoon bangs. Pots clank and scrape in there. “Okay, I think that's over.” She says it loudly. “Want to shut that down now, Zoey? Please.”

“Yup,” says Zoey, and she points the remote, kills the power. She looks at me. “That really stunk.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But yay you. You stayed cool.” I'm looking for the win.

“Only on the outside,” she says. “I've decided I can't spend my life in my bedroom.” I grin, and she laughs. “Perry? Aren't you ever going to . . . I don't know . . . get furious?”

I shrug and don't really get the chance to answer. Something is going on in the VanLeer kitchen. Zoey's mom rattles the cooking skillet. Dishes clank. I figure she's going to sauté up a hailstorm. But when I glance in there, I see that she has pushed all her little bowls of chopped food to the back of the counter. She has shut down her burner. She clears her throat.

“Get your jackets, you guys.”

“Mom?” Zoey looks over the counter at her mother.

“We're going out.”

“O
h no!” Jessica Cook shot out of her chair in the Blue River Common as if she had a rocket strapped to her back. “How dare he reference my kid on the air like that?” She stood pointing at the TV, her arm as straight as a stick. She listened to the whole Thomas VanLeer segment go further and further south, and when it was finally over she said, “That was excruciating.”

“If there was any doubt before, he's proved it now. He's a horse's patootie,” Big Ed said.

“Sure is!” several residents of Blue River chimed in.

“He should put a day-old sock in it,” said Callie DiCoco. “In fact, I'd like to do that for him.”

“Yeah! Because he shouldn't have done that!” Sashonna added her two cents, all the while channeling her inner Desiree Riggs. “Did you all hear him? You know what that's called? It's called uncouth!”

“And what's with Desiree?” Jessica whisked her hand in the air. “What was she doing perpetuating the conversation like that? ‘The boy from Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility,'” Jessica mocked.

“I don't know,” Halsey Barrows said. “I thought she was sticking it to DA VanLeer, and I liked that part.” He flashed a grin, grabbed a cafeteria tray, and twirled it over his head on one finger while Jessica considered that he just might be right. “Desiree was letting people know that VanLeer has done wrong by Perry. I say score one for Deh-hezzz-ah-raaay!” He pumped the tray out in front of his chest a few times and got the residents cheering: “Deh-hezz-ah-ray! Deh-hezz-ah-ray!” A smile loosened at the corners of Jessica's mouth.

When the noise died down, at Foreman Joe's insistence, Jessica said, “Is VanLeer's concern for Perry real? Or will he just do anything to raise his public profile? Is he using my kid to make himself look good?” The thought made her blood boil.

“If that's what he was after, I'd say it backfired,” Big Ed said.

Jessica thought out loud. “Is he truly passionate . . . but also super-prone to putting his foot in his mouth? I seriously cannot tell.”

“Hmm . . . I can't answer you that, Jessie,” said Halsey, shaking his head.

Jessie. He had been calling her that now and then, and
she liked it. He passed her a tray and invited her to slip into the supper line ahead of him.

In the Blue River kitchen, Eggy-Mon tilted back his head, about to crow a poem. Jessica listened. She liked to share the rhymes with Perry.

“I wish I had some honey, to drizzle on this pork. Could make the meat taste funny, but it would glue it to the spork!”

She managed to give the Blue River poet a nod and a grin. But really he had only part of her attention. Down the supper line to her left, she could hear Sashonna being Desiree Riggs. The utterly unpleasant Harvey Krensky was reaching across her and three other residents to bang his knuckles on the steam table—a timpani-like assault on the ears.

Meanwhile, tall, kind, and handsome Halsey Barrows was close on her other side being, well, tall, kind, and handsome, which was a different kind of unbearable. But most of all that damn segment of
Counting on Butler County
was nagging her.

Jessica thought about skipping dinner and going off to air-swim a few laps in the halls of Block C. Rotary breathing and rhythmic arm strokes from her teenage swim team days still calmed her—no water required.

“Jessie, you have to eat,” Halsey said, as if reading her mind.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” She thumped the back of her dinner tray against her own forehead. She let out a grunt, then put the tray up for Eggy-Mon to fill.

“Cheer up, lil' chicken!” the cook called to her over the serving counter, ladle in hand. “I mix my beans with sweet molasses, baked with love to please the masses!”

Again Jessica smiled. “I just hope Perry didn't see that segment.” She said this mostly to herself, but then she tipped her head so her ear rested briefly on Halsey's upper arm. “Please tell me that he didn't.”