said as our beer arrived.
Annie dipped her index finger into the creamy foam, put the finger into her mouth, and drew it out slowly. âI guess for some women, thatâs a turn-on,â she said. I found myself wondering what it was that turned on Annie Squires. She gestured to my beer, which was sweating into a puddle. âSee what you think.â
I sniffed. Fermented molasses. The taste was better. Not subtle. But dark and rich, almost creamy. âVery nice,â I conceded. âInteresting.â
âInteresting?â
I took another drink and wiped the foam from my lip. âA little more of this and Iâll be ready for a snooze,â I commented, yawning.
Annie stared into her beer before saying, âI know you donât want to talk about it. I just want you to know that I ⦠we all feel the work has changed since what happened.â
Why couldnât people just leave well enough alone? What was the point? âReally, you donât have to ââ I started.
But Annie was determined to finish. âSo youâre not coming back to the same place, really. Itâs a helluva way to learn about murder. But once youâve seen it from the inside, you canât treat it quite the same.â It was just a statement of fact. Annieâs direct look didnât feel like pity.
âSo how do you keep doing it?â I asked.
âItâs still a job. Itâs how the system works. Donât think I havenât considered going over to the other side. I have. But that would be even harder. My heart wouldnât be in it. And leave the work completely?â She shook her head. âI could never do that.â
âSo you can still do this work, defending people you know in your heart of hearts are guilty?â
âWhen you put it that way â¦â She looked directly at me with those clear gray eyes. âMaybe youâd understand if you knew how I got into this work in the first place. Iâve never told you, have I?â She rested her chin in her hand and gave a wry smile. âI know it sounds corny, but I always wanted to be a cop. Thatâs what the men in my family did. I was always pestering my uncles to let me sit in their patrol cars, or put on their caps, or wear their badges. My dad wasnât a cop, but thatâs only because he had this heart condition. Couldnât pass the physical. He became a printer. You know, a linotype operator. He worked six days a week and late on Saturday, sitting at this enormous keyboard â like one of those big old movie theater organs. Whenever I visited him at work, heâd make me a lead slug with my name in it. Heâd hand it to me, still hot. Iâve got a whole collection of them. Heâd always say the same corny thing, âSee, youâre already making headlines.â
âAnyway, his employers were so grateful for all his hard work that when the linotype machine went extinct, they tried to fire my dad and all the people he worked with. Dad was a fighter. Heâd take just so much abuse, and then, watch out. He walked picket lines. Heâd lie down in front of the trucks trying to deliver newsprint. Quite a few times he got arrested. One time, when he was in jail waiting for the judge to set bail, he got beat up pretty badly. They didnât even call a doctor. When he got out, he looked like a human punching bag. His kidneys were damaged and he had a detached retina. He never did say who did it and I didnât ask. But I think it was cops who worked him over. Up until then, cops were family. Thatâs what broke his spirit. By the time I was in eighth grade, heâd retired without a fuss and turned into a TV junky.â
âSo you didnât want to be a cop after that?â
âNo way. Arresting people and putting them in jail lost its
allure. Working for the public defender seemed like a logical choice. So you can see why going over to the other