The Poet by Michael Connelly Page B

OD’d. Then the man stirred slightly. For a moment Gladden considered reaching down and pulling the plastic bracelet off the man and replacing it with his own. He’d probably be released in the morning without the cost of a lawyer and $50,000 bail.
    It was too risky, he decided. The man sitting across the cell might be a cop and, besides, the one on the floor might be a multiple repeat offender. You never knew when a judge was going to say enough was enough. Gladden decided to take his chances with Krasner. After all, he’d gotten his name off the network board. The lawyer must know what he was doing. Still, the six thousand bothered him. He was being extorted by the judicial system. Six thousand for what? What had he done wrong?
    His hand went to his pocket for a cigarette but then he remembered they had been taken away. That brought the anger down on him even heavier. And the self-pity. He was being persecuted by society and for what? His instincts and desires were not of his choosing. Why couldn’t they understand that?
    Gladden wished he had his laptop with him. He wanted to sign on and talk to those on the network. Those of his kind. He felt lonely in the cell. He thought that he might even start to cry except that the man leaning against the other wall was watching him. He would not cry in front of him.

8
    I didn’t sleep well after my day with the files. I kept thinking about the photos. First of Theresa, then of my brother. Both of them captured forever in horrible poses, stored away in envelopes. I wanted to go back and steal the photos and burn them. I didn’t want anyone ever to see them.
    In the morning, after I had made coffee, I turned on my computer and dialed into the Rocky’s system to check messages. I ate handfuls of Cheerios from the box as I waited for the connection to be made and my password to be approved. I kept my laptop and printer set up on the dining room table because I most often ate while using them. It beat sitting at the table alone and thinking about how I’d been eating alone for more years than I cared to remember.
    My home was small. I’d had the same one-bedroom apartment with the same furniture for nine years. It wasn’t a bad place but it was nothing special. Other than Sean, I couldn’t remember who the last visitor was. When I was with women, I didn’t take them there. There hadn’t been many of them, anyway.
    I thought when I first moved in I’d only be staying a couple years, that maybe I’d eventually buy a house and get married or have a dog or something. But it hadn’t happened and I’m not sure why. The job, I guess. At least that’s what I told myself. I concentrated my energy on my work. In each room of the apartment there were stacks of newspapers with my stories in them. I liked to reread them and save them. If I died at home, I knew they’d come in there and find me and mistakenly think I was one of those pack rats I’d written about who die with newspapers stacked to the ceiling and their cash stuffed into the mattress. They wouldn’t bother to pick up one of the papers and read my story.
    On the computer I had only a couple of messages. The most recent was from Greg Glenn asking how it was going. It had been sent at six-thirty the night before. The timing annoyed me; the guy okayed the assignment Monday morning and on Monday night he wanted to know where I was going with it. “How’s it going?” was editor-speak for “Where’s the story?”
    Fuck him, I thought. I sent back a brief reply saying I had spent Monday with the cops and was convinced of my brother’s suicide. That out of the way, I would begin exploring the causes and frequency of police suicide.
    The previous message on the tube was from Laurie Prine in the library. It had been sent at four-thirty Monday. All it said was, “Interesting stuff on Nexis. It’s on the counter.”
    I sent a message back thanking her for the quick search and saying I had unexpectedly been tied up in