Free Service Dress Blues by Michael Bowen Page A

comic
book
.”
    â€œDistributed how? Youtube?”
    â€œYoutube, My Space, Facebook, Twitter,
et
bloody
cetera
. Count on the hook and the outside-the-box stuff to draw the attention of commercial networks and generate free media.”
    â€œThe two most beautiful words in the English language,” Ole said with an emphatic nod. “It could work. How do we get Gephardt to sign off on it?”
    â€œWe generate the buzz
first
, and get the theme out there
first
. Not flogging any candidate. Pure civic concern about discrimination or corruption or whatever we’re worried about this week. Once we’ve got the brand,
then
we hook the saleswoman.”
    â€œI like this boy,” Ole said to Rep.
    He beamed as he spoke the words. He suddenly looked like a dad whose son had been named valedictorian and made the Olympic track team on the same day. His cranky sniping and impatient dismissals of Carlsen’s comments faded in the nimbus of unambiguous esteem for the younger man. Carlsen basked contentedly in the glow of his mentor’s approval.
    â€œI’ll leave the political tactics to you,” Rep said. “Legally, though, if you get me ten or twelve comics panels or a handful of storyboards, I’ll get you a c with a circle around it.”
    â€œSounds like a plan,” Carlsen said, taking a quick glance at the digital clock in the lower right-hand corner of his computer screen. “Let’s hit the bricks with it.”
    Carlsen turned the boombox back on as Ole and Rep got up to leave. They made their fifteen-second walk to the door to the accompaniment of the talk-jock wrapping up a chat with a caller who apparently agreed with every word he said. The last thing Rep heard as he opened the door to the hallway was the radio voice saying, “Great call. Now, here’s a question I’d like your input on around the corner when we start a new segment after the break: Is racial discrimination by the government somehow
not
discrimination if the goodies the government is passing out are gambling licenses?”
    â€œNow how do you suppose he managed
that
?” Ole asked, looking with twinkling eyes at Rep.
    ***
    Kuchinski urged his Cadillac Escalade steadily south toward Milwaukee, glancing with anxious misgivings every ninety seconds or so at the dog-eared, white manila folder on the passenger seat. The folder held the police file on the Lindstrom investigation. He’d only taken a cursory look at it so far, but what bothered him was the way he’d gotten it. Usually you have to negotiate fiercely over disclosure of the investigative file in a criminal case. Not this time. He’d walked in to hand the assistant DA his written request, and the bored prosecutor had pulled the file off his credenza, tossed it on his desk, and said, “Tell Lois outside to copy whatever you want. Fifty cents a page.”
    In other words, the ADA didn’t think there was a scrap of information in the file that would be the slightest help to the defense. He thought he had Lena Lindstrom cold. Kuchinski was thinking that he might have to pull something out of left field to win this case.
    For forty-five miles he resisted the temptation to call Melissa. She was his link to Frank Seton. Frank was his link to Harald Lindstrom at the Naval Academy. The Ole/Lena slugfest had started with a fight over Harald—and in Kuchinski’s eyes that meant the kid was now prominently standing right up against the left field wall. Trial lawyers aren’t known for outstanding manners, but Kuchinski was a pragmatist. Make yourself a nuisance with people who do you favors, and pretty soon they stop returning your calls.
    He made it to Allenton before his resistance collapsed and his itching fingers reached for his cell phone, nestled in the cup-holder in front of the car radio. He was just about to grab it when six bars of the theme from
Perry Mason
chimed tinnily from