No, this kid definitely didn’t belong here.
"What about you?" he asked.
Drake nearly chuckled and probably would've chuckled, if it weren’t for the pain that radiated up from his liver.
"Well, I too had an altercation with the cops, although mine went a little differently from yours. Mine started with breaking a police officer’s nose and ended with him being locked in a shipping container that had once housed dead prostitutes from Colombia that were destined to be sold as trophies."
Leroy stared at him for a moment, expecting Drake to laugh, to tell him that he was just joking.
Drake held the stare and Leroy eventually caught on that this was no joke.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, but that’s the whole story,” Drake said.
And then, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, Drake started opening up to the kid. He told him about the corrupt mayor, about how Ken Smith was involved in the human trafficking ring and how he also smuggled heroin into New York from Colombia.
When he was finally done, Drake's mouth and throat were in worse shape than they were an hour ago despite whatever the doctor had spiked his IV bag with.
"That's one hell of a story, man — puts mine to shame. But like I said before, they really ain’t that different.”
Drake raised an eyebrow.
"How’s that?"
Leroy breathed deeply, and his eyes closed again; clearly, the pills that the doctor had given were starting to take effect.
When he spoke again, his eyes stayed closed.
"Because we both hate the cops, and because both of us are victims of corrupt city officials."
Drake couldn't argue with that.
It dawned on him that he liked the kid. Maybe it was the fact that they shared a common thread, or maybe it was because they were so very different but faced a similar struggle. Whatever it was, Drake felt an immediate kinship with him.
"You said something before about needing a better lawyer? Well, I think I can help with that. You don't belong here, Leroy — and neither do I. I’ll get my attorney to take your case. And when you get out, I want to go see a friend of mine. I think… I think you’re right, I think we have something in common, and I think that we might be able to help each other out."
He glanced over at Leroy, but the only movement in the bed beside him was the slow rising and falling of his chest.
Drake sighed and turned his gaze to the ceiling. Just these simple movements caused pain to erupt from nearly every square inch of his body.
The doctor was right, of course. He’d put himself through hell over the past six months, maybe even longer. Shit, it was longer. Drake had been punishing himself ever since Clay had died.
Thoughts of his partner brought about mental images of his baby, the one that he only spent a minute with before DI Palmer had arrested him.
I'll see you again one day, Drake thought. Only he wasn’t sure if he was referring to his late partner or his newborn son.
Chapter 13
At some point, Drake must've dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the infirmary was full of people. At first, he thought that maybe Leroy was having a fit, but the kid was still sleeping soundly.
Someone was in severe distress, but it wasn’t Leroy; it was someone with a shaved head and tattoos on his neck.
It was Drake’s one-time cellmate.
The doctor with the beak-like nose was hovering over the man, performing chest compressions while at the same time ordering several other nurses to start a transfusion.
"Can’t find a rhythm," the doctor shouted. “Hurry!”
There was blood everywhere: on his hands, on his arms, all over his lab coat.
"What the — what the fuck happened?" Drake asked hoarsely.
To his surprise, the doctor turned to look at him.
"Stabbed three times in the leg, severed his femoral artery."
And then he went back to trying to save the man’s life.
A nurse wheeled a trolley full of bags of blood into the infirmary and started to set up an IV. She’d just found a vein when the doctor swatted her away and reached for a defibrillator.
“Still no rhythm!”
Drake blinked several times, trying to figure out if this was some sort of morbid hallucination. But every time he opened his eyes, the bloody scene remained.
In the back of his mind, he had the nagging sensation that this was all his fault. After all, it wasn’t beyond the realm of reason to think that the fucked up methhead had gone around telling people that his name was Drake — as a joke, a lark, or maybe just because he was out of his mind.
And when the wrong person heard this — maybe one of Rodney’s goons who couldn’t tell the difference between an aged ex-detective and a tweaker — they’d gone ahead and taken him out.
A buzzing sound filled the room, and Drake glanced over briefly at Leroy. Whatever pills the doctor had given him must've been strong; he still appeared to be sleeping.
"Clear," the doctor said as he pressed a button on the defibrillator. There was a beep and a split-second later, the man’s body seized, before collapsing again.
“Still nothing… again!”
They tried to shock the man’s heart back into beating three more times before giving up.
"He's gone," the doctor eventually said, reaching for a wad of towels to clean the blood off his hands. "He's gone and he ain't coming back."
Chapter 14
The look on Roger Schneiderman's face was one of pure horror.
"Jesus! I heard it was bad, but this is… ungh."
Drake just shuffled towards his lawyer, keeping his head low. The doctor had done his best to patch him up and make him look presentable, but given what he’d had to work with, the results weren’t pretty.
"Man, they sure did a number on you," Roger continued.
"Thanks," Drake grumbled.
"Fuck… well, listen, we can deal with whatever happened after your plea. That’s the most important thing right now. Just plead not guilty, watch your manners, and I’ll have you out on bail in under an hour. Screech has already put up the cash, so that won’t be an issue. But if you act up and Judge Robinson holds you in contempt again? Well, I don’t think you’re gonna make it through another night at MCC. Be smart, Drake. Be smart."
Drake just nodded solemnly and took up residence beside his lawyer. He knew that DI Palmer would be in the audience as soon as the doors opened, as well as Detective Kramer, but he tried to keep his cool.
There would be a time when he would confront both of them, but now wasn’t it.
"The Hon. Judge Robinson presiding," the bailiff said as the door behind the bench opened. "All rise."
Drake rose and turned his head forward as the judge first entered and then took his seat. There was a slight delay as a second bailiff opened the doors at the back of the courtroom and the spectators filled in. When this quieted down, Judge Robinson spoke.
"This is in the matter of the City of New York versus Damien Donald Drake. This is a plea hearing and I remind everyone present that I will not tolerate outbursts of any kind. Doing so will result in you being held in contempt of court." The judge paused for a moment to let his words sink in before continuing. "Good. Now I will read the charges."
Drake waited for the man to list off the string of charges that he’d long since committed to memory.
"Now, Damien Drake, how do you plead?"
Drake took a deep breath and his lawyer gently nudged him. But he refrained from speaking until the Hon. Judge Robinson looked down at him.
"Damien Drake, if you do not reply, I will hold you in contempt of court again. How do you plead to the charges as I have read them to you?"
When Drake still didn’t answer, the man sighed, removed his glasses, and addressed his lawyer.
"Mr. Schneiderman, this is the—"
"I plead that Mayor Ken Smith is a criminal who deserves to be brought to justice," Drake blurted. "I plead that he is comp
licit in the murders of more than a dozen Colombian girls that he tried to smuggle into New York."
The audience collectively sucked in their breath and Drake could literally see the judge's face melt. He banged his gavel and ordered everyone to quiet down.
But Drake wasn't done yet — he wasn’t close to done.
"Ken Smith is also responsible for importing heroin into the city. His empire—"
The judge had had enough, and he banged his gavel again before pointing it at the bailiff.
"Drake, you are in contempt of court. I will now remand you to—"
Roger elbowed Drake in the side. It was only a nudge, but it was a direct hit to his liver and Drake winced and curled to that side.
"Judge Robinson, may I approach the bench, please."
The judge eyed him, and then Drake, and then eventually nodded.
"Approach the bench, councillor, but I’m warning you, if your client speaks out one more time, I will have him remanded to MCC for a week or more.”
Drake bowed his head as Roger hurried to the bench. They were joined by the DA, and the three of them spoke in hushed tones for several minutes, before Roger returned to his side.
"The court is in agreement with Mr. Schneiderman; at present, Damien Drake is unfit to enter a plea."
More audience chatter, which was silenced by another gavel strike.
"Therefore, I will postpone this plea hearing for one week, during which time, I will remand the defendant, Damien Drake, to Oak Valley Psychiatric Institution for evaluation and assessment – a 703."
More murmurs as the audience rose to their feet and started to make their way out of the courtroom. This time, Drake didn’t look for Palmer or Kramer. He just kept his eyes straight ahead.
"You happy now?” Roger said, leaning in close. “I had no choice, Drake. You wouldn’t survive another night in prison.”
Drake smiled, despite the pain it caused him.
"Oh, I’m happy, alright — I knew you’d do your job."
Roger gave him a strange look.
“What are you—”
“I've got a new client for you,” Drake said, cutting the man off mid-sentence. “He's just a kid — name's Leroy Walker. Just let Screech know that his case is about some corrupt cops, and I’m sure he’ll pick up the tab."
Chapter 15
"Mr. Walker," the sharply dressed man said as he stepped into the interview room. "I’m your new lawyer; Roger Schneiderman. I’ve already spoken to the judge and arranged bail; you should have never been sent to MCC, let alone spend the night there."
Leroy gaped.
“What? Bail? I don’t—”
The man waved a hand dismissively.
“Already taken care of — as have my fees. Your mother has already signed off on me representing you, so unless you have any concerns…?”
Leroy said nothing; he couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d been convinced that the man he’d met in the infirmary was delusional or that he was just trying to make him feel better.
“Good,” the lawyer said, taking a sheet of paper out of a briefcase that looked like it cost as much as Leroy’s monthly rent. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t rightly care. I’m taking this case as a favor for a friend of a friend.”
He slid a sheet of paper over to Leroy. On it was an outline of a head with hash marks and notations above the right eye. It took Leroy a moment to realize that he was looking at something that was supposed to be him; him and his injuries.
"A forensic pathologist friend of mine, Dr. Beckett Campbell, took a look at the report of your injuries; he says they are more consistent with a blow from a curved object than a fall. This, combined with the fact that they messed up by putting you in MCC last night without provocation… I'm thinking that worst case scenario, you end up doing a handful of hours of community service — you know, picking up trash in your neighborhood. Best case? The judge just throws it out."
The interaction was so surreal that Leroy was at a loss for words.
Even though he’d done nothing wrong, the charges against him were serious; he’d heard of people go to prison for less… much less.
Roger must have seen something on his face because he frowned.
"You’ll still have to stand in front of the judge and keep your mouth shut… you know, only speak when spoken to — yes, sir, no, sir, that sort of thing. Do you think you can do that? Because my last client…"
Leroy finally animated, nodding so vigorously that he made himself dizzy.
"Of course, and I can't thank you enough. I mean, this is just—"
Roger held up a hand.
"Don't thank me," he said, sliding a piece of paper over to Leroy. It was a business card with a name and an address on it: Triple D Investigations. "Thank your benefactor. But a piece of advice? Don’t stay too long. The owner has a way of passing his stink onto others, if you catch my drift."
Chapter 16
Drake switched his blue jumpsuit for a white one shortly after leaving the courtroom. Then he was escorted across the city in a van to Oak Valley Psychiatric Institution. The guards who accompanied him, a burly man with a mop of curly hair who went by Max and a gaunt man who called himself Twig, egged him on constantly during the drive.
But Drake had no problem ignoring them. They weren’t part of the plan. Which, aside from the searing pain in his side and missing front tooth, had pretty much been followed to a T.
Even Roger had played his role, even though he’d been completely oblivious to it.
"Hey Max," Twig said with a snicker. "I wonder if they're going to give him electroshock treatment. I saw this show once about this woman who kept thinking she saw her dead mother walking around her house? They hooked this machine up to her head that shot electricity into her brain. It was so powerful that they had to put something in her mouth so that she wouldn’t bite her tongue. Looked like when those big mouth guards, like a running back in the NFL might wear, you know?"
Max grunted something, which encouraged his partner.
"Yeah, but even with that thing, she managed to bite it nearly clean off."
Twig turned to Drake in the back of the van.
"You think they’re gonna do that to you, Drake? You think you can handle a lightning bolt in the ol’ noggin? You think…”
Drake just let the man ramble on without paying much attention. Over the course of just two short years, he’d gone from the most hated man in the NYPD after what happened to Clay, to regaining some of his reputation following the apprehension of Marcus Slasinsky. But everything went downhill again after DI Palmer called him a person of interest in the Church of Liberation case. From there, he’d slid off a cliff when he’d been arrested for assaulting and ‘kidnapping’ Officer Paul Kramer.
"We’re here — get up," Max ordered as he hopped out of the driver seat and walked around to open the sliding door. Drake had just risen to his feet when he was yanked from the van and shoved forward.
Max walked behind him, while Twig grabbed the chains that bound his wrists and feet and led like a puppy dog to the back of a squat, brick building. Twig reached a nondescript metal door first and knocked on it three times. A second later, a man in a white smock peered out.
"Psychiatric transfer 0713 — Damien Drake," Twig said, his words dripping with disdain.
The orderly glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand. His lips moved as he read something, then he pushed the door wide.
"We'll take it from here," he said.
Up to this point, Drake had been staring at the ground to avoid tripping. But when he heard ‘we’, he looked up.
And then he started smiling again.
Behind the orderly was a woman with dark black hair that was shaved on one side. There was a silver ring in one eyebrow and a matching stud in her cheek.
"Damien Drake?” the woman asked. “Is this that asshole who kidnapped a police officer?"
Twig nodded.
"Yeah, he’s a fucking
traitor — a scumbag.” Twig raised a fist to each of his temples. “Hey, you guys have those electroshock things here?"
The woman nodded.
"Yeah, we just had the power converter upgraded, too." She held her hands out and then her whole body started to shake, including her cheeks. Then she laughed. "It’s a real shocker, let me tell you."
Twig laughed and yanked Drake’s chains, sending him stumbling into the facility.
Drug Lord- Part I Page 6