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As I entered the unguarded side door-there is only one security officer in the building and no metal detectors-I was reminded of another, more blatant example of the philosophy underlying this true house of the people: The legislators have no offices of their own. Of the hundred and fifty representatives and thirty senators, only two-the speaker and the president pro tem-have private places to call their own, complete with secretaries. Everyone else has an antique desk in either the House or Senate chamber, a large, shared, computer-equipped common room, a cramped committee room, or a briefcase on the lap. If you want to find the people you elected, there are few places they can hide and even fewer subordinates to run interference for them. It’s always been one aspect of democracy I’ve liked the most.

It also made locating James Reynolds fairly easy. All I had to do was wend my way through the milling crowd of lobbyists, lawmakers, and assorted others, climb one of the two ornate iron staircases to the second floor, and walk over to the glass-paned double doors leading into the startlingly small Senate chamber. I immediately saw my quarry sitting in a long, curved row of connected school desks, furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad as one of his colleagues was pawing the air in mid speech.

I cracked open the door, motioned to one of the doorkeepers, and handed him a note, “For Senator Reynolds.”

He nodded and crossed the chamber to deliver my message. Reynolds thanked him, glanced at what I’d written, looked up at me with a surprised expression, and immediately left his desk.

He met me at the door, grabbed my arm, and propelled me toward a second, narrower staircase leading up to the visitors’ gallery overlooking the chamber. “Too noisy here,” he said, a broad smile contrasting with the tenseness in his voice. “I know somewhere quieter we can talk.”

At the top of the stairs, he steered me away from the galleries toward a small, low, locked panel that looked like a discreet closet door. He dug into his pocket and extracted a key. “I’m not supposed to have this, but you take what you can in this job.”

The small door opened onto a rough wooden corridor lined with electrical boxes, ductwork, and bundles of wiring. A second opening to the right led up a final set of stairs, made of bare, unfinished two-by-sixes.

We finally emerged through the floor of the State House dome, which towered a good sixty feet above us in a giddying grid of raw trusses and crude bracing-in startling contrast to its sleek, gilded exterior. Encircling us were twelve tall decorative windows, alive with the buzzing of hundreds of trapped flies, incongruously out of season, beating against the warm, sunlit glass. A rough wooden catwalk crisscrossed overhead to a final small door, almost invisible at the top.

“They sometimes bring school groups up here to show them how it was put together.” He gestured directly overhead. “There’s a little balcony way up there, too-it’s quite a view.”

I didn’t answer, waiting for the public persona to settle down to normal. Looking around, I saw dozens of names scribbled on the rough lumber surfaces surrounding us-simple signatures of people who apparently thought the most impact they could have on this building and its occasionally self-inflated inhabitants was to furtively leave their mark in an unseen place.

Reynolds glanced at the note he still held in his hand. He was a big man-broad, tall, trunk-like in build, with a thick mane of unruly hair.

In court and on the stump, he used that to his advantage, frequently raising both arms to better resemble a bear, while occasionally flashing a boyish smile as if to show he wasn’t without heart. It was a physical demonstration of the ambiguity that helped make him all things to all people-and which hinted at a lack of sincerity to those who got too close or looked too hard.

He waved the note at me. “What did you mean by this?”

I’d taken Brandt’s recommendation to heart. The note had read, “I’d like to know why your name keeps cropping up,” and I’d signed it, “Lt. Joe Gunther-Brattleboro Police,” to put the question into context.

I extracted it from his fingers and placed it in my pocket. “Mostly I just wanted to get your attention. It is true, though, and Tony Brandt thought we better talk.”

His expression was unhappy and guarded. “Maybe you should be a little more specific,” he said slowly.

“There was a break-in at your office you downplayed at the time but later hired Win Johnston to investigate. I got a call saying you might be involved in the illegal dumping of hazardous waste-right after we discovered a broken-down empty truck that had just made a midnight delivery in Dummerston. And finally, your Crown Victoria was seen at the end of Arch Street, carrying three men who deposited a body on the railroad tracks, which was then pulverized by the night freight.”

Up to the end, his face wore the neutral expression I’d seen him use in court. But the last item got a reaction. His eyes grew wide and incredulous. “When the hell was that supposed to have happened?”

I gave him the date we’d decided upon. “January sixth.”

He shook his head. “That’s bullshit. I was up here that night.”

“With anybody? In the middle of the night?”

He became angry. “What the hell’s that mean? I have an apartment downtown. I was alone. I don’t use that car, anyhow. It’s my wife’s and she keeps it in Bratt. My car’s got Senate plates.”

“You could have driven home and back, with nobody the wiser.”

He stared at me, his mouth half open. He reached behind him and groped for the railing at the top of the stairs, leaning heavily against it. “This is like a bad movie. I thought that guy was a bum who committed suicide.”

I was impressed. Hitting someone out of the blue could have all sorts of unintended benefits, especially with lawyers, who were trained to recover quickly. Honest-to-goodness bafflement was a rarity.

“That’s what we’ve let the press believe so far. But we have witnesses to the contrary.”

The politician in him began to revive. He looked at me closely. “How many people think it was my car?”

“Just my squad. It won’t stay there for long, though. Never does.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Jesus H. Christ. How the hell…? Does my wife know? Did you talk to her yet?”

I shook my head. “Thought I’d see you first. The car’s registered in your name.”

He waved a hand absentmindedly. “They all are. Who was the victim, if he wasn’t a bum?”

I decided to keep that to myself. “We don’t know yet. We’re still checking.”

Reynolds rose and began pacing the wide expanse amid the windows, further stirring up the flies. “Look, I can tell you right now I have no idea what this is about. But I know what kind of impact it’s going to have. I’ll do all I can to help, and you can count on my wife for the same cooperation.” He stopped before me. “But will you at least try to keep a lid on it until you’ve got something solid? It’s not just the embarrassment. I’m doing something downstairs I hope’ll change this entire state-make it safer for its citizens and create a better place for you to do your work. It’s precedent-setting. If we get this bill passed, it’ll be a real sign we’re no longer tied down by traditions and habits that date back to the horse and buggy. And we could do it. Vermont more than any other state in the Union has proved how bipartisan pragmatism can be made to work for the good of all. We can get the job done if we don’t let the kinds of bastard that’re behind this get to us.”

I held up my hand. “No offense, Senator, but I don’t really care. It doesn’t change how I do my job.”

He tucked his head and smiled apologetically, even shuffled a foot. “Sorry. Got carried away. You can’t believe how that hit-what you just told me. There’s nothing to it, but it could sink me all the same.”