Access to Power by Robert Ellis Read Free Book Online Page A

it. He knew it was late. Past two in the morning. But all of the interview rooms were taken, and Randolph told him that it would be about twenty minutes before the next one opened up.
    When Randolph and Grimes walked off to check their messages and get started on their reports, Frank followed them down to the detective bureau at the end of the hall where a pot of coffee was said to be waiting.
    The room was set up like a campaign office with desks pushed together to form long tables assigned to what Frank assumed were various divisions. Where one table would have been delegated to the field campaign in Frank’s world, another to fund-raising, and the next to press relations, here the cluttered tables were dedicated to gangs, robberies and murder. Each campaign a real life race without a day when anyone involved could say it was finally over.
    Frank found the coffee pot. As Randolph and Grimes picked up their phones and glanced at him, he poured a cup and decided to wait in the hall.
    The coffee had gone bitter, probably brewed two or three hours ago with the shift change. But it was strong and the concentrated jolt of hot caffeine in his system revived him slightly. He checked his hands. The shaking had stopped. Then he noticed the row of doors before him and became aware of the muffled voices behind them.
    Interview rooms. Suspects being interrogated.
    One door had a sign on it that read Booth 7 . Detectives kept walking in and out of the room on the other side, giving Frank dirty looks as he stood there in his wet tuxedo. Their faces were intense, hungry, their words rushing out of their mouths in excited whispers.
    Frank managed a glimpse inside before the door swung closed. It was a long narrow room, five feet wide at best. The lights were dimmed, with folding chairs facing what looked like a window that extended the length of the room. Frank could hear the metallic sound of voices over a small speaker in the background. The detectives were watching someone through the mirrored glass in the next room. It seemed like they were getting somewhere with someone important. Like they were having a good time and dinner was served.
    Interview 7 finally opened up and that important someone turned out to be a fourteen-year-old boy, led out of the room in handcuffs by two detectives and a woman in a cheap suit who must have been the designated public defender on call that night. Frank looked at the boy’s feet. They were shackled, and it didn’t appear the boy would be headed for the lobby anytime soon. As they passed, the boy smiled at Frank and started to mumble something like you’re next, motherfucker , but a cop jerked him away like a leashed dog before he could say anything more.
    After a few minutes, Grimes appeared, opening the door for Frank and showing him into the room that had just been vacated. It looked like a small conference room with a beat-up table and a set of chairs. The linoleum floor was cracked and beginning to break up along the edges. The walls were whitewashed and left blank, except for the long mirror on the inside wall. Before he could ask why they had to meet here, Grimes thanked him for coming, excused himself and closed the door.
    Frank sat down at the table. He’d peaked. His body was starting to go cold again and the bright walls lit up by the fluorescent lights felt like they were closing in on him.
    The door opened. He heard Linda call out his name and looked up to see her rushing toward him a half step ahead of Jason Hardly. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. He could smell the rain in her hair. He could feel her trembling beneath her jacket as she clung to him.
    “Are you okay?” Hardly asked.
    Frank nodded. Hardly was standing over them, watching them hold each other. Then he picked up Frank’s coffee and made a point of examining the pasty mixture.
    “You don’t look okay,” he said. “Neither does this coffee. I’ll go see if I can get them to make a