A place to meet

I always thought of McDonalds as that happy place where divorced couples, as part of their custody agreements, came to return or retrieve their children. I probably got that idea from television or the movies. But of course life does not always imitate art.

I came to realize that meeting at McDonalds was a myth created by Hollywood and probably paid for by McDonalds. People who did not divorce on amicable terms and dragged each other through many battles of family court were forced to meet at the state police barracks or local town police stations. Their hostility ran deep, causing these chasms.

Often I would drive into the parking lot of the state police barracks at sunset to see cars running and people sitting inside them. Most people did the "exchange" in the parking lot. But more often than not, ex-husband and equally ex-wife met inside the barracks in a dingy conference room across from the countertop.

It was a chilly Wednesday night, and I was innocently reading the blotter while chatting with the trooper at the front desk when a mother and her two daughters came into the barracks. The oldest seemed about 14, long light brown hair, a white tee-shirt with Betty Boop on the front. The youngest seemed about seven or eight. The two sisters were holding hands. The cold March air blew in with them.
"We're meeting my ex-husband," the woman said with a raspy voice.
The girls moved toward the wall next to the doors. Mom leaned up against the counter. I tried to read the blotter.

Blotter# 44560 --Jack Smith, 42, charged with 1192.a as a result of traffic stop. Failed FST's. BAC .12. Subject arraigned in front of Town Justice Weaver at 3:40 a.m. Subject released on $500 bail to Sara Lishton, 41, girlfriend at 4:04 a.m.
This made for real exciting reading. What I wanted to know was: Was he slurring his words? Did he look and sound like a bumbling idiot? And why did the officer pull the poor schmuck over? What did his girlfriend say when she came to pick him up? That sonofabitch, I told him not to drive, but does he listen? They never gave these important details. It was a slow news day. I was going to have to pull teeth to get the details. Lucky for me I recognized the handwriting. After a year of reading their writing I could name the source immediately. Finding the source was a different story.
Five whole minutes passed as I read the other entries.
"Don't be surprised if your father doesn't show," the woman with spiked platinum blond hair told her daughters.
I turned around to look into the eyes of the oldest daughter. No doubt she had heard this before. She gripped her sister's hand tighter and pretended not to hear her mother. Instead of responding she looked away with a stolid expression on her face.
I looked at the trooper at the desk. He looked at me and sighed. He had heard this before too. He continued his game of solitaire. I knew this because I could see the reflection of the computer screen in the glass behind his desk. Like I said, slow news day - on all fronts.
"Any good news today?" he asked.
They always asked me this. It was part of a long running joke that as a newspaper we did not print good news, nor did we care about it.
I racked my brain for a good 30 seconds.
"A firefighter in Veddyville saved an old lady," I said.
"That'll be in the paper tomorrow?"
"No."
"Figures."
I wished I could explain but then I would reveal the secrets of the news business and for some reason I felt an allegience to my place of employment, to the entire field of journalism. How could I tell him the obvious? Bad news sells. Good news is boring. This was not my opinion. I would love to fill the dirty pages of a newspaper with good clean news. But people would probably not read it. The minute they saw a horrific crime, car accident, or toxic scare on the front cover they'd grab the paper with all their might and never let it go until they devoured the details. It was just human nature. Why do you think people rubber neck? To stretch their necks? No. To see gruesome stuff. And to whisper in relief afterwards: Thank God that wasn’t me....
It's that simple.
I think he knew the obvious. I think they all knew it. But they wanted me to say it and I wasn't budging. It was too much fun knowing they were all hypocrites anyway. Not once did they ever ask me the details about the good news. They could care less. I think they just wanted to tease me.
"You work for the paper?" The spiky mom asked me.
I turned around and smiled.
"Yes. I cover crime."
"Well I gotta story for you. Deadbeat dad doesn't pay alimony or child support. Doesn't show up to meet his kids. Probably drunk at the bar by now."
Oh lordy.
"Well actually, I leave Family Court stuff to my colleague Ryan Sheehan, who happens to be on vacation this week."
I said this as graciously as possible as I turned around and asked Officer Solitaire if Trooper Bassino was in the barracks. I wanted to get the scoop get the hell out of there. But then again, the rubber-necker in me wanted to stay and watch.
Five minutes passed by and suddenly Trooper Bassino, who handled the aforementioned traffic stop, came sauntering out of the break room.
"I hear you need some details," he said as he pulled up his belt and straightened out his gun. He was a young trooper, not a newbie on the force, but a newbie to the barracks. He’d only been there for a few months. Brown hair, closely cropped to his head, he was also muscular with deep brown eyes and a full set of Italian lips. He may have been new but he couldn’t let that be a weakness. So he projected an air of arrogance to show us reporters who was boss.

"Yeah. Whydja pull that guy over last night?"

Two could play that game.
"Which guy?"
"Jack Smith."
"Oh yeah, good ole Jack Smith. He failed to signal," he said leaning up against the counter.
The party line. Heard it a thousand times before.
"Anything else?" I tapped my pen on the countertop.
"He drove on the sidewalk.”

“Where?”

“In front of the movie theater before he made the turn," he replied smiling.
Edna Buchanan was right, all you had to do was ask.
"How far up on the sidewalk?"
"All the way."
"Why?"
This was getting better and better.
"Said he wanted to find out what movie was playing."

“Movie?” I asked, skeptically.

“You know the Doorpark Town Theatre?”

“Oh. Yeah.” The theatre was small, family owned and operated. Ran one movie a week.
"How did you know he'd been drinking?" I fired away.
"He had a glass of gin and tonic in his cup holder."
Aha!
"When you say he failed his Field Sobriety Tests, what did you mean?"
"I mean he failed."
Oh this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.
"Come on..."
"I had to tell him three or four times what to do. Walk the line, say the alphabet backwards. He never made it past Z. Straight line was not in his vocabulary."
"What did his girlfriend say when she picked him up?"
I heard a snicker behind the desk but I ignored it.
"Oh yeah. You didn't see that in the blotter?"
"See what?" I looked down on the pages. I lost the entry momentarily. Then I found it and read the next one down. How could I have missed it? Must have been distracted by the train wreck and her kids standing next to me.

Blotter # 44561- Sara Lishton, 41, charged with 1192.a. Subject picked up boyfriend from court and arrived intoxicated. Subject failed FST's. BAC .15. Subject processed and held overnight. Arraigned by Town Justice Weaver 10:04 a.m. and sent to county jail on $1,000 bail.

Jackpot. I furiously scribbled it into my notebook.
“Wow, they’re really meant for each other,” I commented.

“They certainly are,” he said, looking me in the eye.

Then he slapped both hands on the counter hinting to me that he was ready to move on with his day.
"Got enough there?" he asked me.
"Yes. Thank you!" I said.
He smiled and turned around to go back into the troopers’ office.
He was happy to catch the bad guys, and I was happy to write about their stupidity.
My glee was cut short by the spiky haired mom next to me.
"It's been fifteen minutes already. This is so like him." she said, putting her fingers to her mouth. Her voice was filled with disgust.
"I'm here every Wednesday and he always does this! Am I right?" She looked at the trooper for some support.
"This is my first time doing the desk in a month, m'am."
"Sure. Come on girls lets go. Hey is there something I can fill out to say that I was here and he wasn't?"
The trooper sighed and came around to the counter.
"You done with this?" he asked me, pointing to the blotter.
"It's all yours," I replied.