Rickford Burke

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Will Farrell was sitting in his office.

A tall man with blue eyes and thick glasses, a brisk manner and an air that defined him as a man who smoked, Farrell had been called in four days ago and still hadn't made his presence known to Burke. "Anything I need to know," Farrell said just shy of going. "Anything at all."

"It's going to take a couple of days," Burke said. The conversation was going fine. It didn't need the words "bullying the superintendent's daughter" to trip over from his mental checklist.

"Then I'll talk to you," Farrell said. "I'm through with you."

"Now, look, I don't care what this is about. You know it's not true. I'm just going to go out on a limb here and I'm just saying it has nothing to do with you. I don't think you understand what the impact on your life would be. You're not in the superintendent's job. And you are in control of your life. You're going to have to clean up your own mess. You're not going to walk away from this. As I said, it has nothing to do with you. I know what the DA is going to say. It's not your business. I mean, it could be, but it's not. And you know it.

"Look, I don't get bothered by threats, you know that. But you gotta be a big boy. Clear the air. We're done here."

Burke crossed the room, calling out in a firm voice, "Be careful. If you don't think you are the smart one, then you think you'll be the fool for the rest of your life. You're putting this together for me. You're putting your own life at risk, and you know that. You know you'll be painted as a nice guy who's not in your right mind unless you're a straight man. Now, I gotta know."

Burke was on his knees in Farrell's office in front of his desk. He was rocking back and forth. He scooted this way and that for emphasis. Then he moved again.