White River Burning полностью

Coolidge sighed. “I’m a student of history. I realize that political divisions are nothing new in America. We’ve had angry disagreements over all sorts of things. But the current state of polarization is worse than anything I’ve seen in my lifetime. It’s stunningly ironic that the explosion of available information on the internet has led to the irrelevance of actual facts. More communication has led to more isolation. Political discourse has become nothing but shouts and lies and threats. Political loyalties are about who you hate, not who you love. And all this ignorant bile is justified by making up nonsensical ‘facts.’ The crazier the belief, the more strongly it’s held. The political center, the rational center, has been driven to extinction. And the justice system . . .”

He shook his head, his hands opening and closing into fists. “The justice system! Sweet Jesus, what a misnomer!”

“In White River in particular?”

Coolidge was silent for a long moment, staring into the remnants of the fire. When he spoke again his voice was calmer, but a bitterness remained. “There used to be a car wash out in Larvaton. In cold weather, when there was salt on the roads and cars needed washing, the mechanism was either not operating at all or doing crazy things. Soaping when it should be rinsing. Rinsing when it should be soaping. Squirting wax on the tires. Freezing shut with the sprayers on full blast, turning the car into a block of ice. With the driver trapped inside. The blowers were so powerful they’d sometimes rip the trim off a car.”

He looked away from the fire and met Gurney’s puzzled gaze. “That’s our court system. Our justice system. An unpredictable farce in the best of times. A disaster in times of crisis. Seeing what happens to vulnerable people pushed into the maw of that insane machine can make you cry.”

“So . . . where does all this take you?”

Before Coolidge could respond, Gurney’s phone rang. He took it out, saw that it was Torres, silenced it, and put it back in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”

“Where does all this take me? It takes me in the direction of Maynard Biggs—in the upcoming election for state attorney general.”

“Why Biggs?”

Coolidge leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. “He’s a reasonable man. A principled man. He listens. He begins with what is. He believes in the common good.” He sank back in his chair, turning up his palms in a gesture of frustration. “I realize, of course, that these qualities are severe disabilities in today’s political climate, but we must stand up for sanity and decency. Move from darkness toward the light. Maynard Biggs is a step in the right direction, and Dell Beckert is not!”

Gurney was surprised at the sudden venom in the rector’s voice.

“You don’t regard Beckert’s resignation speech as his withdrawal from public life?”

“Hah! The world should be so fortunate! Obviously you didn’t catch the latest news.”

“What news?”

“A flash-polling outfit connected to RAM-TV asked registered voters who they would be likely to vote for in a hypothetical election matchup between Beckert and Biggs. It was a statistical tie—a frightening fact, given that Beckert hasn’t officially entered the race.”

“You sound like you’ve had unpleasant encounters with him.”

“Not personally. But I’ve heard horror stories.”

“What kind?”

Coolidge appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “He has a double standard for judging criminal behavior. Crimes that arise from passion, weakness, addiction, deprivation, injustice—all those are dealt with severely, often violently. But crimes committed by the police in the name of maintaining order are ignored, even encouraged.”

“For instance?”

“It wouldn’t be unusual for a minority resident who dared to talk back to a cop to be arrested for harassment and jailed for weeks if he wasn’t able to make bail—or beaten within an inch of his life if he offered the slightest resistance. But a cop who gets into a confrontation and ends up killing some homeless drug addict suffers zero consequences. I mean zero. Exhibit a human failing Beckert doesn’t like and you’re crushed. But wear a badge and shoot someone at a traffic stop, and you’re barely questioned. That’s the vile—dare I say fascist—culture Beckert has installed in our police department, which he seems to consider his private army.”

Gurney nodded thoughtfully. Under other circumstances, he might have probed Coolidge’s generalizations, but right now he had other priorities.

“Do you know Cory Payne?”

Coolidge hesitated. “Yes. I do.”

“Did you know that he was Beckert’s son?”

“How could I?”

“You tell me.”

Coolidge’s expression hardened. “That sounds like an accusation.”

“Sorry. Just trying to find out as much as I can. What’s your opinion of Payne?”