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 complicit 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 chuckled and yanked Drake’s chains, sending him stumbling into the facility.
“I guess I don't have to tell you how dangerous he is,” Max offered as he and Twig started back toward the van. “Keep your eye on this fucker. We’ll be back in a week to collect what’s left of him.”
Chapter 17
Leroy checked the address on the business card four times as he approached the door to Triple D Investigations. It was the only place in the entire strip mall that wasn’t boarded up, and yet it looked equally as condemned.
This can’t be the right place, he thought. They must have moved since the card was made.
Then he shrugged. His lawyer had done exactly as he said he would at their first meeting: gotten Leroy off with just a dozen hours of community services. So, this was his part of the bargain, visiting Triple D.
As far as he was concerned, all Leroy had to do was knock and wait and when no one answered the door, he could be done with it. After all, he’d never agreed to search down the most recent address for Triple D, if it still existed, that is.
“Here goes nothin’,” he said as he rapped his knuckles gently on the glass inlay to avoid it shattering inward.
Leroy could hear the sound echo inside the office, and he could see that there was a light on inside, but, unsurprisingly, no one came to the door.
He knocked again and decided that three would be enough to fulfill his duty.
Another ten uneventful seconds passed, but as Leroy raised his hand for the third and what was to be his final knock, the door suddenly opened.
“Yeah?” a man with a shaved head and goatee asked. He was tall and thin and was anywhere between 25 and 30 years of age.
Startled, Leroy took a step back.
“Yeah, uhh, a guy, uhh, he—”
“We’re not taking new clients right now,” the man said as he started to close the door.
Leroy almost let him close the door completely but stuck his foot in it at the last moment.
Adjusting the bag that had slipped down his shoulder, he said, “I think I met a friend of yours. He told me to swing by.”
Scowling now, the man acquired a more aggressive posture.
“I don't have any friends.”
In his mind, Leroy pictured Drake with his busted-up face, the missing front tooth and swollen lips.
Yeah, he thought with a touch of sadness, I bet Drake would say the same thing.
“Drake; I met Drake and he told me to come see you.”
The man behind the door squinted at Leroy for a good ten seconds before pulling it wide.
“Okay, come in.”
No sooner had Leroy stepped inside the stale smelling office was the door slammed and locked behind him.
***
“You met Drake… in prison?”
Leroy nodded.
He’d already told the man an abbreviated version of what happened with his brother and how, by sheer chance, he’d come across Drake in the infirmary.
“And he said that after you got out to come here?”
Again, Leroy nodded. He wanted to add more—no matter how he told it, the story sounded fabricated—but he really didn't know what else to say. He’d formed an unusual bond with Drake based on their mutual hatred for the police force, but it was hardly a blood oath.
“And I paid for your lawyer?”
Leroy raised an eyebrow.
“No, that was Drake. He said that if—”
The man shook his head.
“Drake doesn't have any money. I’m paying for his lawyer, so I guess I paid for yours too. My name’s Screech, by the way,” he said, extending a hand.
Screech? What the hell kind of a name is Screech?
“Leroy,” he replied, shaking the man’s thin hand. When they disengaged, the two men just stood there, feet from each other, without saying anything.
“Well?” Screech offered at last.
Leroy squinted; Screech seemed even stranger than Drake, somehow.
“Well, what?” he asked.
Screech hooked a chin at the bag draped over Leroy’s shoulder.
“You wanna show me what’s in the bag? I’m guessing that if Drake told you to bring it to me, it’s gotta be worth the five grand I paid to keep you out of prison.”
Chapter 18
“You know, if you
wanted to see me again so badly, there are easier ways to go about it. Like, how ‘bout just giving me a call?” the woman said with a smirk as she started to unlock Drake’s handcuffs.
“What can I say? I lost your number,” Drake replied. When he was finally free of the cuffs, he rubbed his wrists. Twig had put them on practically as tight as they would go.
“Well, welcome back, Drake. I gotta say, it’s never a dull day when you’re around.”
Now it was Drake's turn to smile, even though it hurt his gums and lips to do so.
“It's nice to see you too, Hanna.”
The two of them stared at each other for several moments without saying anything. This was the part of Drake’s plan that was the least concrete. The last time he’d been to Oak Valley, the woman had practically bent over backwards to help him. Whether or not she’d turn herself into a pretzel doing the same this time, was yet to be seen.
“I watched your case on the news, Drake,” Hanna said, running a hand through her hair.
“You're not the only one,” he remarked.
“Yeah, but I bet I’m one of very few who thought that you’d end up here. And would you look at that? Here you are.”
Drake held his hands out to his sides, palms up.
“Here I am.”
“And I bet that you’re not here to see Dr. Mark Kruk this time. I’m thinking that you have some unfinished business to take care of, instead. Maybe you want to go on an… unsupervised sabbatical? Is that it?”
Drake tilted his head to one side.
The truth was, he did want to see Dr. Mark Kruk. The man had insight into Ken Smith; after all, Kruk—or, more precisely, his split personality Marcus Slasinsky—had made the mayor’s youngest son, Thomas Alexander Smith, his first butterfly victim.
Which is what Ken had intended when he’d set them up after all those years apart.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 42