“You got something else going?” I asked gratuitously, mostly to increase his obvious discomfort.
He shifted in his chair. “No more than anyone else. To be honest, Joe, I’m asking you for two reasons-one pretty straightforward, the other a little more self-serving.” He held up his index finger. “One, you’ve been part of more task forces, special units, and out-of-department assignments than anyone. You know how the inter-jurisdictional system works, its strong and weak points, and you probably have your fair share of ideas about how to improve it.” He raised a second finger. “Two, I’ve been known to ride a little high in the saddle politically, now and then, and I’m worried if I go up there, they’ll start taking shots at me for ancient history and maybe lose track of what they should be doing. I think Reynolds has an interesting idea with this one-department-for-the-whole-state approach. I know it’s got problems and would never fly as such, but this state is long overdue for a change, and I don’t want to be a part of anything that screws that up.”
I couldn’t argue his points, or find cause to turn him down, and I’d satisfied my childish urge to make him squirm. Also, while he’d been talking, I’d realized that since Jim Reynolds was going to be in my sights for a while longer, it wouldn’t hurt to see him functioning on his own turf.
I finally nodded and stood up. “Okay, you got a deal. When do I go?”
The trip to Montpelier this time was completely unlike its predecessor, the passing countryside as draped in crystalline white as it had been brown and drab before. The contrast was more pronounced several miles east of town, at the interstate’s highest point crossing the Green Mountains, where a brief rain the previous night had coated every twig of every tree with a shimmering sheath of near-blinding clarity. Driving through this corridor of sparkling, glassy trees, with the deep blue, unsullied sky overhead pulsating with the sun’s cold energy, I felt transported far away from the often discouraging world I normally inhabited. It was with palpable regret that I reached the western downslope of this exposed bit of road and continued to my rendezvous with a room full of politicians.
Montpelier was busier than during my earlier visit and the parking that much worse, neither of which helped my darkening mood.
In contrast to the startlingly clear air, the ring of surrounding snowy hills, and the prominent gold dome of the capitol in their midst-as bright as a sparkler adorning a birthday cake-the town looked gritty and flattened this time, like some bit of soil ingrained in the palm of an enormous celestial hand.
Adding to my apprehension was the presence of several haphazardly parked cars and trucks, all stamped with the logos of various newspapers, radios, and television stations. I started thinking that Tony Brandt might have been a little coy with his reasons for staying home.
The first floor, under the two chambers and the governor’s ceremonial office, housed the Senate committee rooms and was as packed with people as a subway during rush hour. Shedding my coat in the sudden heat, I elbowed my way to the sergeant-at-arms’ office to announce my arrival. She made a brief phone call I couldn’t hear and told me in a loud voice to stand by the doorway-that someone would soon arrive to escort me to the committee room.
In the ten minutes that took, I watched some of the hurly-burly of a citizen-legislature in action.
In most states, the capitol is called the “people’s house,” or something close to it, although most visitors know there are limits to how much access they have to this purportedly open domain. A trip to these places is not unlike a tour of a museum-grand, quiet, a little stuffy and sterile, and yet imbued with the sense that something significant is occurring just out of sight.
In Vermont’s State House, the only museum quality in evidence is in the architecture and the artwork adorning it, which is all the more remarkable for being jammed into such a small building. Otherwise, the whole place was reminiscent of a high-class hotel during a wedding reception or a famous person’s wake. People milled all over, talking, laughing, arguing, shaking hands, and grabbing elbows. I recognized a few of them from pictures I saw in the papers, and many more by their attire as workmen, farmers, or well-paid lobbyists. But whether in overalls or three-piece suits, they all wandered the halls with comfortable familiarity, knowing that here there were almost no rooms they couldn’t enter with impunity. The crowd reinforced the feeling that while most governments exuded a sense of privacy, waste, and special privilege, Vermont’s was still small enough-at least in this picturesque, cluttered setting-to seem viable, real, and eminently approachable.
Eventually, a teenage page, dressed in an awkwardly fitting uniform of green blazer, gray slacks, and overlarge black running shoes, tugged on my sleeve and led me down a dark hall to a room marked “Judiciary.”
It was small enough-and with high enough walls-to make me feel I was standing at the bottom of a large can. A can so full of people, both sitting and standing, that at first it looked as if there were no possible way through them.
Excusing myself repeatedly, however, and choosing my steps with care, I made my way slowly to the large table in the middle and the one empty chair I was obviously supposed to occupy. Surrounding the table in concentric rings were several senators, their assistants, guests, lobbyists, and finally a row of journalists standing against the walls and windows, holding pads, tape recorders, cameras, or light-equipped camcorders. It was my first glimpse of just how big the so-called “Reynolds Bill” was playing.
The man himself sat opposite me, flanked by his Senate colleagues. Even sitting he looked oversized, his unruly hair crowning a head more proportioned for statuary than for human anatomy. He identified me, introduced me to the others, and ran down a small list of my achievements. He did not mention that I was here substituting for my boss.
Over the next hour and a half, against a steady background of people shuffling in and out of the undersized, stuffy room-and to the accompaniment of the occasional camera click or whir-I answered questions about law enforcement in Vermont from my personal perspective. It was easier than I’d thought it would be back home, where for the past several days I’d been boning up on practices and protocols. I discovered that these lawmakers were remarkably ignorant of what I did for a living, asking me questions so simple at times that I suspected I was being tested less for my knowledge than for my kindness to the mentally challenged.
This was not true of Jim Reynolds, of course. Being one of the few elected lawyers in the State House, he was used to navigating the waters I traveled. But he was careful not to show that off and spent most of his time encouraging his colleagues to follow me through an elementary primer of police procedure, using me as his foil in describing a system often redundant, wasteful, inefficient, and costly. It was masterfully done, I had to admit, as I slowly watched my interrogators become increasingly confused by what I was trying to keep simple. Reynolds had a point to make, and he was manipulating everyone but himself into making it.
I had worried that at some point I’d be asked my personal opinion of the bill and its ramifications, but here again, Reynolds showed a subtle control. While those kinds of questions did occasionally come up, he always swooped in and convincingly urged that at this early stage such prejudices be put aside. Toward the end, like a well-intentioned trail boss watching his herd simply wandering away, I heard my bland and placid testimony sounding more like a resounding condemnation-all due to Reynolds’s carefully worded guidance.
As I picked my way toward the room’s exit at last, having been solicitously thanked for my appearance, I could already visualize the next day’s headlines, touting me as a clarion for change.