Burners - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery

by Henry Perez

  Fail. But not as big a fail as me asking Phin to stay outside. While the arresting officers no doubt had military training, they likely had no idea how to react in a hostage situation. But Phin and I had plenty of experience in this area.

  A moot point. I was unarmed, Phin wasn’t here, and things had gotten very bad very fast.

  That’s when the fear came, like swallowing a large, cold stone.

  People could die.

  I could die.

  Malvo was frantically pushing something under his desk. Then I remembered that most courtrooms are equipped with a panic button. The look on the judge’s face, and the fact that no one had come rushing in to see what was going on, told me this one wasn’t working.

  The gunman signaled to the gallery. “Felipe, lock the doors.”

  The tall Hispanic man I’d sat behind earlier slowly stood. The expression on his face suggested that what was happening was as much a surprise to him as to the rest of us. He walked to the back of the courtroom and turned the heavy bolt on the large oak doors.

  “Now the latch at the top,” the gunman said, pointing to a brass slide lock that appeared to be brand new.

  “Now look, you,” Judge Malvo, raising his voice as he began working toward standing.

  “Sit down, judge. Don’t make me hurt anyone.”

  Malvo grimaced, muttered something under his breath and slowly eased himself back into his chair.

  “No cell phones,” the gunman said, then directed the bailiff, “Lock the door to the judge’s chambers.”

  The old man did as instructed without protest or hesitation.

  “Now the other door, on this side.”

  The bailiff exchanged looks with Malvo as he walked across the front of the bench and for a moment I hoped they had some sort of pre-determined code, and maybe the bailiff would make a run for it, though running was probably a bit too much to expect, and go get help. But all he did was lock the door and shuffle back to his post.

  “I don’t want to shoot nobody, but I must protect my son and get the truth. Everyone take your hands out of your pockets, and put your purses on the floor. If you don’t, I will shoot you.”

  Everyone listened. I don’t know what the gunman actually hoped to accomplish with this stunt, but desperate men do desperate things. Was he really hoping to break Tony out of custody? Once he left the courthouse, how far did he think he’d get? And how was he going to get out now that he’d secured all of the doors?

  Facing away from the bench, eyes continuously scanning the courtroom, the gunman took several deliberate steps back, until he was no more than a dozen feet from Judge Malvo.

  Malvo looked like he was ready to throw up.

  On the far right of the judge’s bench, the court reporter, a woman in her mid-forties, her bottle-colored black hair cropped short in an indistinct style, had stopped typing. She started up again, however, when the defendant stood and said, “Papa, don’t do this.”

  The defendant was standing behind the table, the assistant attorney clutching his arm.

  “Sit down, Tony,” his father ordered.

  “You’re going to get into trouble for this. I’ll be okay. The jury will figure out I’m not guilty.”

  “No, no mijo, they won’t. These people are trying to set you up. All they want is to send you to jail.”

  The gunman waved his weapon around the room, causing several onlookers to slump in their chairs. Then he pointed to the gas cans with his free hand. “My son did not do this!”

  I rifled through my options, they weren’t especially encouraging. No doubt someone in the room had discreetly dialed 911, or someone on the outside figured out what was happening, so the place would be surrounded soon. I could announce myself as a police officer, try to talk Mr. Beniquez down, but he didn’t seem enamored with cops at that moment. The best course of action was to wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  James and Emmanuel each looked fidgety, and I worried that one of them might do something stupid and endanger themselves, civilians, or me.

  “No, your son did not do this.”

  The voice didn’t come from the gallery or behind the bench, where Judge Malvo’s face, slick with sweat, was turning different degrees of pale. It came from the jury box, and I didn’t have to look to know whom it belonged to.

  “Como se llama, usted?”

  I’d never heard Chapa speak Spanish before, never gave it any thought, really. The gunman turned to face him, and I knew what James was thinking. If the guy let his guard down…

  “Que?” the gunman asked, clearly surprised to see someone standing in the jury box, hands raised.

  “Su nombre? Como se llama?”

  “Me llamo Carlos, Carlos Beniquez.”

  Chapa nodded and began to make his way out of the jury box. What the hell was he doing?

  “Yo se que su hijo es innocente. El no hizo por lo que esta acusado.” Chapa seemed to be searching for the last word, which told me his Spanish might not be all that good. In which case, we might be one verbal misstep away from things turning even uglier.

  Seeing the gunman’s attention had been momentarily divided, Lewis stood from where he was seated near the back of the gallery. But he didn’t get far with whatever he’d planned because Carlos Beniquez quickly turned and pointed the gun at him.

  “You sit down.”

  “Just let me pull out my cell phone and call someone who can—”

  “Sit down now!”

  “—who can help resolve this situation in a peaceful—”

  “Do I have to shoot you? Or shoot someone else?”

  I saw Lewis glance over at James, who calmly nodded. Lewis slowly sat down, but Carlos kept the gun trained on him, until he seemed to remember Chapa.

  “Are you a cop?” Carlos asked, without switching back to Spanish.

  Chapa shook his head.

  “No.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “No, even better,” Chapa said, and struck a pose that would’ve put John Wayne to shame. “My name is Alex Chapa, I’m a newspaper reporter. And I know your son is innocent.”

  I rolled my eyes and swore under my breath. Maybe Chapa had never been shot at, so perhaps his fear of loaded weapons and unstable gunmen wasn’t as healthy as it needed to be. Whatever he had in mind—and I knew Chapa well enough to know there had to be something knocking around in there—was risky as hell.

  But in the silence that followed, I didn’t hear the sounds of rescue sirens. I didn’t hear a hostage negotiator calling to us with a megaphone from the street. I didn’t hear the court phone ring.

  I remembered where we were. Not in the heart of Chicago, where help, in the form of backup, a SWAT team, or hostage specialist, was never too far away, but in a sleepy suburb, where news still traveled slowly.

  Right then, we were on our own.

  And Chapa was risking making things a whole lot worse.

  I was glad Carlos had decided to switch back to English. Over the years, my Spanish, which wasn’t that great to begin with, had slipped to the level of a high school sophomore. It was clear that Carlos had worked very hard to lose his accent. Much harder than I had at holding on to my native language.

  Still, asking him his name, telling him that his son was innocent, and that he hadn’t committed the crimes he was accused of in his native tongue had served to get Carlos’ attention, kept him from shooting anyone, at least for the moment, and maybe earned a little of his confidence.

  “You don’t belong here on the floor.” He pointed the gun at my chest. “You need to get back with the jury.”

  Well, perhaps not his confidence.

  “I can help you and your son, Carlos.”

  “I am going to get to the truth.”

  It seems corny to say I could smell the fear in the room, but with the air conditioner still not turned up quite as high as it needed to be, and with the added stress a guy with a gun could trigger, the scent of perspiration was starting to drift through the stale
air.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Officer James slowly easing himself out of the witness stand. He was planning to rush Carlos, and once that happened there would be a high probability that someone would get shot. Probably me, the way this week was going.

  He was gradually lowering himself into a crouch, ready to cross the twenty feet of open courtroom that separated him from Carlos, when the defendant saw what was about to happen.

  “Papa, lookout!”

  Carlos spun around as James started to make his move. A gunshot echoed across the courtroom, sending James scrambling to the floor in retreat as the wall behind him coughed up a fistful of plaster.

  “Do not make me shoot at anyone again.” Carlos had intentionally missed, but I felt certain he would not be so generous the next time. “Go back up there,” he ordered, pointing to the witness stand with his gun hand.

  “No, you don’t want him to do that.” I took a chance and approached Carlos.

  “I told you to get back.”

  “If you send him back to the witness stand he’ll just try it again, and from up there he’ll be able to communicate with his partner.” I pointed to Emmanuel Lewis, whom I was starting to suspect was not the same one who played Webster.

  Carlos looked toward the stand, then the gallery, then back at me.

  “He’s lying,” Carlos said, pointing to James. “He needs to tell the truth.”

  This was an interesting development. My first assumption was that Carlos had planned his son’s escape from the courtroom. That theory took a hit when he locked all the doors, and now it was dead altogether.

  “You don’t want to take your son and escape?”

  “No. I want a fair trial. It is not fair so far. People are lying. I knew they would lie. Like this one.” He turned his gun on James. “He lies like a snake.”

  So Carlos didn’t want revenge. He didn’t want to grab is son and run off. He wanted what he thought was justice.

  “If he’s lying,” I said carefully, “there are other ways to figure it out. If you threaten him, he’ll say whatever you want him to, just to keep you from shooting him.”

  Carlos seemed to be processing this, but I didn’t kid myself into thinking I’d gotten through to him, and I had to find a way to do that or else lots of people were going to get hurt.

  “This is not the way to do this, Carlos. You’re a smart man, right? You’re the one who did all of the new woodwork and built this railing here.” I pointed to the hollowed out piece of oak where Carlos had hidden the gun.

  “Si. Yes. When the job contract came up, I bid very low so I could build it and hide a gun inside. And I put that latch on the door, it’s a strong one. I needed to help my son. They have been lying like I knew they would and—”

  I risked cutting him off. “A smart man, in this situation, needs to play it cool. A smart man would tell Officer James to take off his coat, toss it aside, and just have a seat on the floor where you can keep an eye on him.”

  Then again, a smart man would’ve kept his ass in the jury box. Actually, a smart man would’ve gotten himself excused from jury duty when he had the chance. But here we were. So much for newspaper reporters being smart men.

  From behind us, Malvo let out a groan.

  “What about him?” Carlos asked, tilting his head toward the judge.

  “I wouldn’t worry about him, he looks like he’s stoned.” And he did. The judge was sweating like Texas livestock, but he had one of those goofy I-just-came-from-a-Grateful-Dead-concert-and-can’t-remember-a-damn-thing looks in his eyes.

  Carlos turned back toward James.

  “Do what he said.”

  James gave me a look that could’ve split a lesser man in half, then slowly stepped out of the witness stand and walked to the front of the prosecution table.

  “The coat, take off the coat.”

  For the first time since this showdown began, I saw a look of concern on the officer’s face.

  “I assure you there is nothing in the coat, and no reason why I should—”

  “Take it off, now!”

  His face painted with regret, James slipped off his coat, folded it with the care a priest takes when handling the Eucharist, slipped a handkerchief out of the breast pocket and draped the coat over the railing. James then used the handkerchief to wipe the floor before sitting down.

  I turned to the court reporter, who I’d noticed typing a moment ago.

  “Are you still getting all of this?”

  She seemed surprised by the question.

  “Of course,” she said in a tinny voice, then continued, “Carlos Beniquez - The coat, take off the coat. Officer James – I assure you there is nothing in the coat, and no reason why I should. Carlos Beniquez - Take it off now. (Officer James removes coat, sits on floor). Alex Chapa - Are you still getting all of this?”

  “You’re good. What’s your name?”

  “It’s a job, and it’s Emily.”

  “Emily, I want you to continue recording everything that’s said here. Okay?”

  She shrugged.

  “Sure. What else am I gonna do? Sail off on a cruise around the world with George Clooney? Not likely.”

  Apparently Emily had a lot on her mind.

  “What do we do now?” Carlos asked, his eyes still locked on the gallery.

  I had stepped out of the jury box and into the middle of this nightmare in the hope that I could keep Carlos Beniquez from shooting anyone or getting himself shot. I’d even entertained the crazy idea that maybe I could get Carlos to surrender his gun to me. And yeah, that would’ve made for one hell of a headline.

  But now a different idea was driving my actions, and it extended well beyond something as basic as a newspaper story. I needed to learn the truth. Not just for myself, but for Carlos and Tony and Dennis Braun, and maybe his widow and family, too.

  I looked at Jack in the back of the courtroom. She seemed to have a look of confusion on her face, and I knew I was about to make it worse.

  “Now I call my first witness.”

  I stared at Chapa, wondering how the situation could get any more surreal.

  That’s when he called my name.

  I shot him a look that said, If I get shot and killed I swear I’ll come back from the grave and haunt you forever. But Chapa’s expression remained unfazed. If anything, he looked like the proverbial cat with the canary in his mouth.

  Frowning, I made my way back to the front of the courtroom. As I walked by Chapa on the way to the stand I whispered, “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, Alex.”

  He smiled and whispered back, “So do I,” which did nothing to ease my concern.

  I sat down, looked out at the terrified faces in the gallery and waited for Chapa to make his move. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Lieutenant, you know you’re still under oath.”

  Of course I knew that. But Chapa was reminding the jury.

  “Yes.”

  “I sensed during your testimony that you had much more to tell us about what you saw on the day of the fire. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is your chance to tell everyone here the full story.”

  Lebanon sprung to his feet. “I object! This is most irregular.”

  Chapa turned to face him. “No shit, Sherlock. Did you just figure that out all by yourself?”

  Lebanon started to say something, but Chapa interrupted.

  “There’s a guy over here holding a gun,” Chapa said, then turned to the elder Beniquez. “No offense, Carlos.”

  “It’s okay,” Carlos responded with a half-smile.

  “If you want to object, take it up with him. He’s calling the shots.”

  “I overrule the objection.” Carlos, again.

  I glanced at Malvo. The judge looked like death warmed over. He groaned, then uttered something unintelligible as Chapa continued his dressing down of Lebanon.

  “GQ cop down there on the floor may have just
perjured himself. And I’m still trying to figure out whether or not that guy is the same Emmanuel Lewis who played Webster, or an impostor. Though I’m leaning toward the latter. So yes, Einstein, this is most irregular.”

  Having apparently said his peace, Chapa turned his attention back toward me.

  “Jack, are you ready to tell us what you actually did and did not see?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “One of the tricks attorneys use is to only let witnesses say what suits their case. Good attorneys,” I purposely glanced at Lipscomb, “will often phrase questions to make it seem like witnesses said something that they didn’t.”

  Chapa nodded. “You seemed agitated about the duffel bag and the gasoline cans.”

  “I was. I did see Tony with the duffel bag. But I never saw the gas cans. I was there for the entire arrest. The bag was definitely not opened at that time.”

  “So Officer James is lying?”

  “Emily,” I turned to the court reporter. “Can you read back James’ testimony in regard to the bag?”

  Emily pressed a few buttons. “Lipscomb - Did you then check the contents of his duffel bag? James - We did. Lipscomb -What did you find? James - Two empty gasoline cans.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t say if Officer James is lying. He may have found those cans later. But I never saw them. And two full gas cans weigh a lot. We’re talking six pounds a gallon.”

  Chapa raised an eyebrow. “You know how much gas weighs?”

  “I drive a Nova with a broken gas gauge. I’ve done my share of hauling around gas cans. Can you check how big those cans are, Alex?”

  Chapa nodded again. This seemed to be getting good to him. He strolled to the evidence table and picked one up.

  “Two and a half gallons each,” he said, reading the side.

  “So that’s thirty pounds. And when Tony rushed past me, it didn’t look like he had thirty pounds of anything in his bag.”

  “So what if they weren’t full?” This from Lebanon.

  “Those cans do not belong to me, or my son,” Carlos said, shaking his head.