Out in the parking lot

The night the insurrectionists set fire to the Paris Bourse, crying “Burn down the temple of capitalism,” Jimmy yelled to leave the TV on the news channel. No one on the tier objected. No one watched, either.

At midnight he was transferred to the phone booth in the prison parking lot, his possessions returned, free on his own recognizance, calling Cathy collect.

No causal relation.

Earlier that day Beverly Absalom had met with a Superior Court judge whose son — the leader of a Maoist splinter fraction of worker-oriented former members of Students for a Democ... oh never mind — Jimmy detested. So did the judge. The judge watched Jennifer’s filmed deposition, dismayed at her demeanor and furious that the DA’s office had not been present. He read the transcript, which he noted contained contradictory statements. He studied the photographs by Joe Kranz, which left him with the impression that James Fintan O’Shea was a maniac like his son and unworthy of bail.

He was rising to dismiss her when he received a phone call from State Assemblyman Willie Brown, who had a few chits to call in, the last of which bore Jimmy’s name, or that’s what Beverly inferred from the note-scribbling, the grudging cheery tone, and the Yes, Miss Abasalom and I were just ——

The judge pulled a form from his desk drawer, entered words, signed it, held it out to Beverly. Three hours later a screw kicked Jimmy’s bars. “O’Shea. Roll ‘em up!” O’Shea assumed he was going to solitary.

Even in the phone booth he figured it must be some kind of trick.