December Boys Part 9

She was still shaking her head as she fanned the papers. "Even before I started working as a clerk there, Judge Roberts has been shipping kids to North River. Look at this sentencing history. Year by year. Twenty-one. Thirty-three. We're barely two months into the new year, and he's already signed the orders for sixteen more."

"I told you. I don't care. What's that got to do with the two cops I just told you about? Didn't you hear me? They took my license, Nicki, wrote down my address, said they'd be back to finish the job if I even spoke to you. You want to explain that?"

"I just did. North River."

I went to the fridge for a beer. I didn't offer her one.

"Have you been following New Hampshire's recent debate about privatizing prisons?" Nicki asked.

"Nope." I popped the top and leaned against the counter.

"Diversion programs are an alternative form of punishment," she continued, undeterred by my lack of interest. "Here's how it works. Parents of the juvenile offender, because they are minors, get together with the judge, and if both parties come to an agreement that this type of intervention makes sense, the judge executes the order, and the juvenile offender is locked up at North River."

"Here's how I know you're full of s.h.i.t. Brian's mother wasn't at the courthouse. That's why I was there. I'd gone to Longmont to advocate on her son's behalf, so no way in h.e.l.l would Donna Olisky agree-"

Nicki grabbed a fax from the table, waving it under my nose. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the page from her hand. There was Donna Olisky's signature approving Judge Roberts' recommendation for North River, time-stamped with last Friday's date, a few hours after she'd called me in tears, hysterical.

"How does this North River work?" I asked her. "Exactly."

"You remember that old c.o.c.kroach commercial? You check in, but you can't check out."

"I think you mean the 'Hotel California.'"

"I hate the Eagles."

"Everyone does, Nicki."

"I like kitsch better. Old commercials, PSAs from the '70s. 'How a Bill Becomes a Law.' Cheesy '80s music-"

"Terrific. I feel like I know you so much better." Nothing kitsch about it when you survived the s.h.i.t the first time. "What I mean is who funds this thing? If it's not private, the state subsidizes?"

"North River's main source of revenue is from the clients themselves, the parents, and from nonprofit donors. And it's not cheap. These places can run upwards of a thousand bucks a day."

"I've been to the Olisky house. They don't have a thousand dollars, period."

Nicki shrugged. "That's the least disturbing part." She ran her finger down a page till she found the figures she was looking for. "The facility started out with thirty beds. Look at this chart. Over the past three years alone, North River has seen a 300 percent increase in new inmates. Wings and additions are being added almost daily, the grounds in a constant state of construction. Complex is ma.s.sive."

"Okay," I said. "Once more for the cheap seats-this concerns me how?"

"It concerns your friend."

"I told you. We aren't friends. His mom holds an insurance policy with our company."

"You said he's a good kid. Band geek, right?"

"Yeah."

"Don't you think it's bulls.h.i.t he's doing hard time for telling a fib and a joint?"

"Sure. But the world's a s.h.i.tty place. I know at your age, you want to believe if we all join hands and try our best we can make a difference. Plant a tree, buy local produce, change the world. But none of that matters. Go campaign for cleaner ozone, free Tibet, whatever the f.u.c.k you college kids think matters. I'm just telling you it doesn't."

"How the h.e.l.l did you get so cynical?"

"By walking around with my eyes open."

Nicky pointed at the paper trail. "Jay, there are kids, some as young as thirteen, locked up for popping Mom's pills and posting on social media." She flipped through her Xeroxes. "This girl, Wendy Shaw? Who got accused of cyberbullying? Her princ.i.p.al wouldn't let a trans kid go to the prom-"

"Trans kid?"

"Transgender?" She said it like my not picking up her new American slang painted me a dinosaur. "Wendy rallied support for the student on her blog. Criticized school officials for being h.o.m.ophobic and discriminatory. All she did was write about it. Judge Roberts slaps her with that cyberbullying charge. She's been in North River for a year." Nicki plucked another page. "Another boy. Nabbed shoplifting lip gloss for his girlfriend. Almost two years." She practically shoved the papers in my face. "Dining and ditching. Fistfights. Egging a house on Halloween. Pot, pills, E. All sent to North River by Judge Roberts."

I pushed her hand away. "You know why people like to believe in conspiracies, Nicki? Because it means that no matter how s.h.i.tty life is at this moment, at least it isn't completely random-there's someone who knows what the f.u.c.k is going on, a puppet master calling the shots, a wizard behind the curtain-and that however wicked, nefarious, or just plain evil that ent.i.ty may be, it is still preferable to the alternative. Namely, that we are on our own. Everyone is running this race blind. The train's gone off the rails, ship's rudderless, each crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d as screwed up and clueless as the next." I finished my beer and set it down hard.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Enough that I don't have patience to play intrepid reporter with some riot girl who just read Sylvia Plath for the first time."

"You don't have to be an a.s.shole."

"No. I don't. But I don't feel like being nice, either. It's been a bad few days, and you've only made it worse-"

"I said I was sorry."

"I know. I appreciate it." I clapped my hands, sincere. "But besides two cops who would have no problem dumping my body in a ditch-"

"Roberts sent them to scare you off-"

"-my boss told me, in no uncertain terms, to drop the Olisky case if I want any hopes of landing this promotion. Which I desperately do. If only to get away from this frozen h.e.l.lhole. Now, if you don't mind?" I pointed at her so-called evidence. "Take your homework a.s.signment and go home."

Nicki s.n.a.t.c.hed her handbag but didn't pick up the rest of her c.r.a.p.

I pointed at the paperwork cluttering my messy table. "You forgot something."

"Maybe when you sober up, you can be bothered to think about someone other than yourself. Innocent kids are languishing in prison for nothing."

"When you walk out the door," I said, "that s.h.i.t goes in the trash."

Nicki shook her head and split without another word.

At least she left the Chinese.

CHAPTER TEN.

I DIDN'T THROW away the photocopies Nicki left behind. I abandoned them to the rest of the trash on the table and grabbed a container of pork lo mein, returning to my movie and beer, stewing. Nicki was young, but the girl knew how to push the right b.u.t.tons. Must be an innate female trait. I was lousy at not thinking about pink elephants.

My default position was almost always no, automatic refusal triggered from days dealing with my brother, who always needed a favor, a ride, a place to crash, money. When someone is forever making demands on your limited resources, you better learn to say no or you'll be run ragged to the poorhouse. But let a few minutes pa.s.s, wait for a cooler head to prevail, and some misguided angel would start chirping on my shoulder, the compulsion to do the right thing eventually getting the best of me. A quality both infuriating and redeeming.

Even though I kept telling myself Nicki's discovery didn't concern me, I had a tough time ignoring what I'd heard. Innocent kids doing time over victimless crimes. Maybe calling these kids "innocent" was a stretch; no crime is "victimless." The police weren't plucking random teens off the street without reason. Laws get broken, prices have to be paid. But punishment needs to fit the crime.

Despite technical cla.s.sification to the contrary, North River sure sounded like a prison. Then what was the play? Overzealous prosecutors? A constipated judge? More than likely, a bunch of well-meaning but out-of-touch adults were overreacting to bad decisions made by today's youth. Which had been the same song and dance for generations.

I gave up and accepted my brain wasn't letting this go. The kick in the pants to do the right thing giving me a pain in the a.s.s. Back at the kitchen table, I scanned the copies Nicki made at the courthouse. Nothing in there she hadn't already told me. Somehow reading the facts for myself made it worse, the horror more real.

There were serious crimes listed, like dealing and a.s.sault, but the majority of transgressions were misdemeanors-shoplifting, joyriding, vandalism, and underage drinking, which met with equally harsh penalties. I understood the need for law and order, but sending a fourteen-year-old up the river for s.n.a.t.c.hing a sweater off the clearance rack at the Gap smacked of disproportionate.

The kicker was that in each case, the parents had signed off on the treatment. Box after box notarized. How bad could North River really be if Mom and Dad were on board?

I swept up the Xeroxes and headed to the computer. Under normal circ.u.mstances, I'd have Jenny here to help me navigate this kind of digital research. Today, I was hunting and pecking search engines on my own. Not that I had to look far. The North River Inst.i.tute was the top result.

Most of the press featured glowing testimonials from parents. I had to scroll a few pages before I found a disparaging word, a couple malcontents in a chat room. Then again, it's hard to lodge a complaint when they don't let you out. The real grievances didn't come till several pages later, allegations of physical and s.e.xual abuse buried way beyond the electronic breakers.

The inst.i.tute pitched itself as an alternative to incarceration, bullet points cramming in as many loaded keywords as possible (Therapeutic, Reparenting, Intensive). In between the testimonials and touted success rates, including an 80 percent "satisfaction with life" for those who completed the program, whatever the h.e.l.l that meant, the phrase "behavior modification" caught my attention.

I may've been suckered in by party lines if not for personal history. My brother Chris was as far gone an addict as they come. In the end, he didn't care about his life circling the drain, and I didn't have much sympathy for his lame, failed attempts at sobriety. After so long in the wasteland, my brother had quit quitting before he walked through hospital doors. But early on I'd tried to get him cleaned up, and he'd at least gone through the motions. In those days there was a certain kind of facility that scared even me.

One of the counselors gave it to me straight in private. "They will tear you down to build you back up." He explained the strict regiments and controversial techniques critics called brainwashing. "But, frankly," he said, "some of these brains could use a little washing. Reformed addicts who know the game police these houses. They will call you out on the BS and aren't afraid to put a man in his place."

I remembered driving through the gates to check Chris into one of these facilities, taking a look at the jacked-up, ex-con trustees and tatted enforcers, arms crossed and glowering in the doorway, and I turned the truck around.

Maybe I should've let those guys have a run at Chris. Maybe he'd still be alive if I had. I just knew my brother, how he responded to that kind of pressure. Like a sow bug. Slightest bit of pressure and he'd curl in a ball. Besides, I didn't know then what I know now. I'd thought I was protecting him. Dealing with adult addicts isn't the same as teenagers. Right? And North River wasn't a rehab, not in the strict, official sense. As I read through the courthouse copies, I saw more often than not, drugs were involved. The blog girl, a rare exception. There were almost always multiple infractions. An initial charge, for say shoplifting or truancy, would then be augmented with possession, distribution, public intoxication, proximity to a school, some drug-related case that made rehab a feasible and reasonable option.

Donna Olisky hadn't contacted me since last Friday. At first I'd been grateful to be let off the hook. Now that dots weren't connecting, I wasn't so sure. Despite DeSouza's expressly forbidding contact with the Oliskys, I had to know the real reason for the change of heart. Why would a mother go from worried parent to willing partic.i.p.ant in the sentencing of her son to somewhere like North River? There had to be a more logical explanation. Unable to reach Donna at home, I checked the clock on the microwave, and tried her at work. A friendly "Welcome to We Copy!" quickly turned sour when I mentioned my name.

"How can I help you, Mr. Porter?"

The return of "Mr. Porter" felt stiff and needlessly formal, but whatever; I forged ahead. "I'm just checking in, Mrs. Olisky."

"About what?"

I wanted to say, What the h.e.l.l do you think? But instead, I took the high road. "How is Brian? I wasn't able to speak with him at the courthouse." I knew d.a.m.n well how he was doing, and where he was doing it, but I was attempting tact.

"My son is getting the help he needs." Her cold, dismissive tone annoyed me. Like I was a telemarketer pitching worthless swampland, interrupting dinner. Where was the protective, overbearing mother of a few days ago? Beatrice jumped on my lap, and I stared down at her with a "What the f.u.c.k?" expression. My fat white cat pretended to understand. Then she coughed up a hairball. Had this whole world lost its head?

"He's at the North River Inst.i.tute?" I said, priming the conversation.

"Yes."

"Isn't that strange? I mean, North River doesn't seem like the best fit for your son."

"How would you know what's best for my son? This has nothing to do with you."

"You asked me to drive up to the courthouse in Longmont?"

"I never asked. You volunteered."

"Because you were upset."

"Or because you felt guilty denying our claim over a technicality?"

I hadn't denied anything. Her son confessed. To my boss. But I knew pointing that out now would get me nowhere.

"I don't understand, Mrs. Olisky. Last week you were freaking out about Brian feeling lonely for a few hours in a courtroom. Now you're saying he's been locked up inside a juvenile detention center, and you don't have a problem with that?"

"Do you know they found drugs in the car?"

"I heard they found a joint, yes."

"Do you know that's how my other son, Craig, died?"

"Because of pot?"

"Because of drugs! Drugs killed my boy. I will not sit by and watch them destroy the only son I have left."

I thought about their accident. The timeline didn't add up. Even if Brian had been alone in the car at the time of the crash, his mother arrived at the scene before the cops. Why wouldn't she have known about the marijuana sooner?

"I'm sorry, Donna. Mrs. Olisky. I'm confused."

"About what?"

"When did you learn about the pot?"

"It doesn't matter. My son needs help. The courts were kind enough to offer a treatment program for him. I took them up on their offer."

"North River isn't treatment. It's a behavioral modification detention center. And it's not cheap."

"Since your company declined our claim, I don't see how our finances are any of your concern." Donna Olisky cleared her throat. "I have to get back to work now. Don't call me again."

I flinched when she slammed down the receiver.

What the h.e.l.l? I stared into the earpiece I held at arm's length.

Why did I care? This had nothing to do with me. So what if Brian Olisky had been handed over to North River on a trumped-up, bulls.h.i.t charge? Why did I care if his mother was buying into the antidrug hysteria up here? Her and the rest of the G.o.dd.a.m.n state. I could've explained to Donna Olisky how after everything I'd seen pot was a G.o.dd.a.m.n vacation, pills a picnic. Then again maybe Donna was the smart one. Who was I to offer advice on how to deal with drugs? I'd botched every attempt.

I was ready to leave it there. I had Nicki's photocopies rolled back up and was about to walk out to the garage and ceremoniously drop them into the trashcan like I'd done with my own failed attempts investigating the Lombardis.

Instead, I grabbed my phone.

"Hey. You up for taking a ride?"