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Blacklist
by Sara Paretsky Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Loyalty Private detective V. I. Warshawski is back
in Sara Paretsky’s new novel, Blacklist.
The changes in our post 9/11 world influence Paretsky in such an overwhelming
way that some readers may become frustrated with how much ranting takes place
in this book. Putting that aside, Paretsky explores personal loyalty and
loyalty to country and law in much depth in Blacklist.
She effectively links the post 9/11 changes in presumptions of loyalty with
the McCarthy era and the House Un-American committee hearings. Lovers of
detective Warshawski will overlook any of Paretsky’s preachiness and
heavy-handedness in processing the changes in American life. Lovers of John
Ashcroft will probably want to take a pass on this novel. Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 33, “Patriot
Acts,” (pp. 237-242) that illustrates this point: I feigned surprise when the Chicago cops followed me into my building, but I didn't have to pretend anything when two other men jumped out of adjacent cars and hurried in after them. One was a federal agent who flashed a quick badge the way they're taught in G-man movies, the other a DuPage sheriff's deputy. I clearly was no superhero, since I hadn't noticed them earlier. The four men weren't pals—there was a lot of pushing
and shoving in the entryway as they all tried to speak to me. The DuPage
deputy said he had orders to deliver me to Wheaton, and since I had
"fled the jurisdiction where a crime was committed," he had first
dibs. The Chicago cops said they had told him already his orders had been
superseded, that I was to go to Thirty-fifth and Michigan with them as soon
as the federal agent had finished with me. "I am operating under orders to search your
place of residence," the federal agent announced. That got my attention at once; I demanded to see his
warrant. "Ma'am, under the Patriot Act, if we believe
there is an emergency situation affecting national security, we are permitted
to bypass the warrant process." He had a flat nasal twang that made him
sound like the quintessential bureaucrat. "I'm
not involved in any emergency situations. And nothing I do affects national
security." I put my house keys into my back jeans pocket and leaned
against the inner door. "Ma'am, the United States attorney for the
Northern District of Illinois is the judge of that, and he deems that the
events of yesterday evening are sufficiently alarming to require us to
examine your premises." "The events of yesterday evening? Could you
stop talking like a damned manual and tell me why you're here?" The Chicago cops exchanged grins at that, but the
agent continued in his flat way. "Ma'am, you vacated a house where a
known terrorist was in hiding. We need to make sure you are not involved in
shielding him in some way." "Was there a known terrorist there?" I
asked with polite interest. "I only knew that a DuPage County lieutenant
thought he could lock me in an abandoned mansion all night." "Irregardless, I have orders to search your
place of residence; if you do not cooperate, the Chicago police are ordered
to break down your door." He didn't speak with the aggressive glee that some
law officers show when they can overwhelm you with force—he had a job to do;
he was going to do it. "What happened to 'the right of the people to
be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable
searches and seizures'?" My voice was husky with fury. "Ma'am, if you want to challenge my orders in
federal court you will be able to do so at some later point in time, but
these officers"—indicating the Chicago cops, who stood stolidly behind
him, dissociating themselves from the proceedings—"are here to ensure
that I examine your place of residence." Before I could escalate the confrontation to a level
where I'd spend the night as the taxpayers' guest, Mr. Contreras erupted from
his apartment with the dogs. Mitch took exception to seeing men in uniform in
the entryway and hurled himself at the hall door. Peppy barked in support. I opened the hall door wide enough to slip through
and grabbed the dogs by their collars, panting at Mr. Contreras to get their
leashes. When I had the dogs under control, I wanted to stay on the far side
of the entryway, hurling abuse at the law with the dogs, but I knew that
would not just postpone the inevitable, it would make the inevitable more
intolerable. I told my neighbor to let the men in. "What in heck do they want?" he asked. "To search my home. According to that walking
manual in the tan overcoat, they can go to any home in America, claim the
owner is concealing Osama bin Laden, and enter without a warrant. And if you
object, they bust down the door." We were collecting an audience. The medical resident
who lives on the first floor across from Mr. Contreras stormed out, saying
that if I didn't stop making all that racket she was calling the cops. When
she saw the uniformed men, she biinked a few times, then demanded that they
write me a ticket or impound the dogs. The four lawmen were knocked off balance, but the
federal agent recovered first and began intoning the fact that he was not
here as part of a canine complaint unit. Before he could finish his first
paragraph, a pair of guys from the second floor leaned over the stairwell and
hollered down at the resident to shut up and get a life—they had an ongoing
feud with her because she'd sicced the law on their late-night parties
several times. "Those dogs are well trained, they never bother
anyone," they yelled. The Chicago cops were now uncomfortable. When
neighbors start to gather, simple situations turn complex in a hurry. The
cops shushed the Fed and hustled our party up the stairs, sped along by the
pair on the second floor who were singing "God Bless America"
loudly enough to bring out the young Korean family from the facing apartment.
As I undid the dead bolts on my door, I could hear their four-year-old ask,
"Is it a parade?" It didn't take the law long to hunt through my
apartment for the obvious: you can't hide a body in four rooms without it
coming to light pretty fast. Mitch and Peppy helped: every time someone
opened a cupboard or looked under something, they were on his heels. I kept
the dogs on short leashes, made sure they never actually touched one of the
men, but a hundred-twenty-pound half Lab can make even a federal agent turn a
few hairs. Mitch was also pulling on my sore shoulder hard enough to make me
wince, but I pretended not to feel it. During the search, Mr. Contreras kept up a running
commentary on men who hid behind badges as an excuse for doing work: no
decent person would undertake: "Let me tell you, I saw plenty of that in
Europe in 'forty-four, never thought I'd watch it in my own country. I risked
my life on the beaches at Anzio, I know what real fire feels like coming at
you out of real artillery, I saw my buddies cut up in pieces around me. If
I'd known I was doing that so you could break into any house in America
because you felt like it, they couldn't a got me on that landing boat." That did sting the Fed: no manly man likes to be
reminded that searching a woman's apartment for a runaway youth isn't as
dangerous as facing real fire. He kept breaking off his search to try to
rebut Mr. Contreras, but the beat cops told the Fed they were under orders to
get me to Thirty-fifth and Michigan pronto, and to finish up. Thirty-fifth and Michigan is the new Chicago police
headquarters; I couldn't begin to guess what they wanted with me there.
Whoever had set up the meeting was getting impatient: he—or she—kept calling
the Chicago cops to move them along, and they kept complaining that the
federal agent was taking his sweet time. When the Fed said he wanted to go
through my papers, the Chicago cops dug in all four feet: they had orders to
bring me in within the half hour. "I don't require her or your presence to
examine the documents," the Fed said in his flat voice. "I'm not leaving you alone in my
apartment," I said firmly. "You could plant evidence. You could
steal something." When he started to proclaim his essential honesty, I
said brightly, "I know: Mr. Contreras and the dogs can stay with you.
Make sure you get a detailed description of any document J. Edgar takes, Mr.
Contreras. And for heaven's sake, don't let him walk off with the utility
bills unless he promises to pay them—1 can't afford to have my electricity
turned off." The thought of an evening alone with the dogs and my
neighbor made the Fed decide my papers probably weren't worth going through.
Perhaps the array of mail and books in the living and dining rooms also
daunted him. At any event, he left my "place of residence" with the
other lawmen. I locked up and followed them downstairs with the
dogs. At the front door, Mr. Contreras told me gruffly to
keep my chin up; if I wasn't home by midnight he'd get Freeman to find me. I
went out with the four lawmen, including the deputy from DuPage, who hadn't
spoken since we'd gone inside. He went off to his own car without so much as
a good-bye to his partners in crime prevention. At least the U.S. agent
thanked the city cops for their "intergovernmental cooperation." As I learned in the squad car, the DuPage deputy was
sulking because the Chicago cops had overridden his orders. The two men
thought this was such a good joke they shared it through the grill with me,
but they wouldn't—or couldn't—tell me why we were going to Chicago police
headquarters. "You'll find out soon enough when you get
there, ma'am," the driver said. At least they were calling me
"ma'am" instead of "girlie," and I wasn't in handcuffs. The driver covered the ten miles south in twelve
minutes, blue lights flashing, occasionally hooting the siren to move cars
out of, the way. If I'd been president. I'd have felt important, but when we
reached the underground garage behind the slick concrete building I only felt
motion sick. Police headquarters had been at Eleventh and State
for my whole life. I used to go there with my dad when he had a meeting or
needed to turn in special forms of some kind; the chief of the patrol
division would ruffle my curls and give me a dime for the vending machine
while he and my dad caught up on departmental gossip. I had a kind of nostalgia
for the old headquarters' beat-up linoleum, and its rabbit warren of offices.
The new building felt cold and unfriendly—too big, too clean, too shiny. My escort handed me over to a desk sergeant, who
busied herself with the phone. I studied the wall notices. These, at least,
hadn't changed in thirty years: armed and dangerous, last seen driving,
workers' compensation, missing since January 9. The desk sergeant summoned a uniformed officer, a
heavyset woman whose equipment belt created a giant M between her
breasts and hips. "You got to cross that lonesome valley," I
sang under my breath, following her down the hall to an elevator. "You
got to cross it by yourself." "Is it that bad?" she asked, as we rode up
one floor. "What'd you do to get so many big men in a room
together?" I made a face. "Ran away from an ugly county
lieutenant last night. But why that should get a lot of big men into a room,
I don't know. In fact, I don't even know what big men have gathered on my
account." She
held the elevator door open until I was in the hall in front of her: never
leave a suspect alone in an elevator. "Well, honey, we've arrived, so I
guess you'll know soon enough" She opened a door, saluted, said, "Here she is.
Captain," and left. I couldn't sort out how many people were in the
room, or which ones I knew, I was so astonished at seeing the man my guide
had saluted "Bobby?" I exclaimed. "What are you doing
here?" Another motif explores issues of class and
the impact of secrets on closely knit communities. Agree or disagree with
Paretsky, but give Blacklist
some time, and think about how artists can speak truth to power. Steve Hopkins, December 22, 2003 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the January 2004
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Blacklist.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins &
Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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