Bio-Justice

by Scott Takemoto

  It was getting hot in Milo’s car. His talk was starting to fog up the windshield.

  Danny yawned derisively. “Is this what I left a beautiful naked woman in bed for?”

  Milo chortled while shaking his head. “That Sonya. What a piece of ass! I envy you, my friend.”

  “Watch it, my friend.”

  “What? That’s a compliment. I was just making a comparison. Like, look what you get to go home to and look at the skanks slobbering over me.”

  “I don’t see you complaining.”

  “Listen, just because I call them skanks, doesn’t mean they don’t make good company.”

  Danny laughed and just mouthed fuck without saying it. Now it was time to get down to business. “OK, so this old guy…”

  “Every night, pulls up, parks in the church lot over there.” Milo nodded to the gravel lot across the street. “Lives next door to it, knows the minister—I don’t know. Must be sixty-something. Always alone. Must think God’s on his side.”

  “Listen, I don’t need to know whether he’s a God-fearing man. I don’t want to know if he supports eight grandchildren. Just what he drives.”

  “I told you a Lexus.”

  “LS 460?”

  “Yeah.”

  Danny cut his eyes sideways at Milo. “Yeah?”

  “I said, fucking yeah.”

  “OK. Well it’s almost eight-thirty. Where is he?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he choked on a chicken bone and died.”

  Danny exhaled heavily when he was suddenly alerted by Milo’s slap on his thigh.

  “Hey,” Milo said, “here comes old Gandalf now.”

  Milo’s car, a charcoal Camry, was parked at the curb at a forward angle about thirty feet across from the lot as the white Lexus slowly pulled in off the street. The two young men saw the car make a wide left turn approaching the eastern wall of the old church. It lurched once or twice from the brake being pressed tentatively before it came to a stop. The headlights switched off.

  “Does that look like a ’14?”

  “I’d say so,” Milo muttered.

  The two waited for the old man to step outside of his car before Danny knocked the toothpick out of Milo’s mouth. “Let’s go.”

  The old man was crouched forward collecting some plastic bags full of items from the passenger seat of his car when he heard the rapidly approaching footsteps. He turned quickly but they were already upon him.

  Milo punched the old man in the face which staggered him to his knees. Then Milo kicked the old man so he went tumbling to the ground. Danny grabbed the keys from the old man’s clenched fist, his aging grip no match for the younger man’s search.

  “Help!” the old man wheezed, sprawled on his stomach, his head twisting up to see his attackers.

  Milo yanked the old man to his feet—“Oh, so we’re going to call for help?”—and cocked his fist, putting his full strength behind the next blow. The old man’s dentures exploded from his mouth and streams of blood sprayed inside the car, his body dropping like dead weight to the sharp gravel of the lot. Milo pressed his right shoe on the back of the old man’s neck, his spittle exploding in bursts as he cursed his victim. Danny could see the old man couldn’t breathe.

  “Fucking useless old man—”

  Milo’s rage was interrupted by Danny pushing him off the old man. “Fucking crazy, you’re killing him. Let’s go!”

  Danny waited for Milo to turn and head back to his car before sliding into the Lexus. He could see the old man stir slowly on the ground as he started the car and shifted it into reverse. Skidding on the gravel, Danny made a wide arc around the old man and gunned it when he hit the street. It wasn’t until Milo’s Camry had turned the corner that Danny was able to breathe again.

  His hands felt sticky and Danny could see the old man’s blood had gotten on him from the splattered leather seats.

  Gabriel Alonzo owned the best chop shop in Brooklyn although he rarely seemed to be around. His managers—Frank, during the day and Joey, by night, operated the place like a smoothly-run factory. Tucked inside an industrial storage building in Red Hook blocks away from the gentrified yuppie brownstones, hip recently-opened cafes and the overused dog park, the chop shop flew below the radar like a hidden underground club: only those who patronized it knew about it. The weathered stone and brick building wasn’t so much inconspicuous as it was an accepted remnant of the neighborhood’s once thriving, then impoverished, working class past.

  Danny had turned sharply into an alley eight blocks from the jacking where, in the shadows beyond the floodlights, he applied a plastic sheath with new numbers over the old man’s plates in case the police or surveillance cameras were searching for the stolen car. Twelve minutes later, after Danny drove into the industrial building through a corrugated iron door away from the street, the white Lexus was being hoisted up on a hydraulic lift. Key parts of the body and the interior control panel, as well as the VIN number would be replaced. The computerized identifiers would be scrambled and reset. The car would be repainted—the request was for a rich shade of midnight blue—and then delivered to the mob guy for his nephew. The replaced parts would be transferred to another site for distribution later.

  In the office of Joey the night manager, Danny glared at Milo, who was standing next to a window that looked down at the three mechanics who were finishing up on the Lexus before sending it along to the repainting unit. Danny and Milo were alone, waiting for Joey to come in with the final inventory. The air in the office was charged and toxic.

  “What were you trying to do—kill him?”

  Milo looked nonchalant as he picked up some hard candy from a dish on Joey’s desk. “Maybe I was. So what?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “What’s the matter, Danny? What difference does it make whether I bust open some stinking old man?”

  With Milo, Danny always had to play this fucking game of not looking weak and soft. He had to come up with a reason even a Neanderthal like Milo would understand. “Shit,” Danny said, “I’ve got a grandfather who looks just like him.”

  Milo glared back at Danny unfazed. “If your grandfather stood between me and that car, I would have clocked his ass too.”

  Before Danny could respond, Joey was in the office with his clipboard. Joey, with a food gut way too big for a guy in his early thirties, looked at each of them without saying a word. His mouth twisted funny and then he spoke.

  “Boys, good job.” He handed each an envelope. “Danny, tell George to call me and I’ll set up the delivery.”

  Danny and Milo pocketed their money and turned to leave when Joey remembered something.

  “Listen—fellas, watch the blood on the upholstery next time,” he said.

  Milo could tell Danny was really pissed at him. It had been several blocks since they had even made eye contact. With money in his pocket and a night with no specific plans, Milo didn’t want to get into a squabble, the kind chicks started when they caught you looking at the bouncing tits of another girl who happened to pass you going in the opposite direction. This freeze-out shit was pussy stuff and Milo would be damned if he let Danny whip him like a chick.

  “Come on, man. So maybe I shouldn’t have been so tough on the old dude.”

  Danny grimaced and looked out the passenger window at the deserted streets.

  “Hey, let’s go to a club. How about The Platinum? Pick up some lovely young thing?”

  Danny breathed out, still not looking at Milo. “I don’t think so. Just drop me off at Sonya’s.”

  The Camry swung north onto Fourth Avenue. Danny could see the silhouette of the Williamsburg Savings Bank tower fifteen blocks away.

  Milo banged on his steering wheel. “Come on, Danny. We got money to burn, baby! Let’s you and me get some puss-puss.”

  Danny tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t. A laugh rippled across his pressed lips. “Puss-puss,” he groaned softly, shaking his head. “Fuck.”

&nb
sp; Milo slapped Danny on his arm, laughing loudly. “See, you can’t be mad at your boy, motherfucker. Come on, the night’s young.”

  “Nah,” Danny said. “Not tonight.”

  “So let me get this straight, you’d rather go, on a sizzling Saturday night, back to Sonya’s, probably watch some dopey chick flick and catch up on the latest gossip involving her girlfriends?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shit—you are whipped, man.”

  “You know, you don’t have to blow all of your money in one night.”

  Danny looked out the window again, awaiting the insolent response that would inevitably be hurled back at him, and when none came, he felt a strange tension in the silence that filled the car instead. Something was going on in Milo’s head and usually that was bad. Danny turned his head and looked over at his partner. Milo’s eyes were fixed, his head tilted as if his thoughts were weighted and were shifting from side to side. Suddenly, Milo slid up in his seat, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.

  “Danny,” Milo said. “Look. Up ahead—the Mustang. Cherry red.”

  “And?”

  “Alonzo’s been singing in our ears for weeks. Mustang, he said. He needs one, like yesterday.”

  “It’s fucking ten-thirty.”

  “Come on, baby sister,” Milo said. “The light’s turning up ahead.” Milo leaned over Danny’s lap and clicked open the glove compartment, grabbing his SIG Sauer semi-automatic. “There’s a Glock under the seat. Take it.”

  “Milo, no.”

  “Come on, we’re almost there,” Milo said. You could hear the excitement in his voice—without fear and getting a high over the thrill of it. “Take the gun. I mean it. Don’t fuck this up. Here we go.”

  At the intersection, Milo’s Camry pulled up to the right of the stopped cherry red Mustang. Glancing to their left, Danny and Milo could see only one person in the car, a fit looking male. Maybe he might resist. They would have to discourage that quickly.

  “Let’s go!” Milo shouted.

  The pair sprung from the Camry like from compressed air and both pointed their guns at the driver.

  “Get out!” Milo screamed as he fixed his aim at the driver through the windshield.

  Danny hammered on the driver’s closed window, the muzzle of his pistol inches from the driver’s face. “Put it in Park and get out of the car!”

  For a moment, the driver, a man in his late thirties, didn’t move. Danny studied his face—he looked calm, like he was sitting there figuring out returns on his 401K.

  “What’s he doing?” screamed Milo as he came over closer to the car. His gun was pointed, like Danny’s, at the man’s skull.

  Danny watched the driver slowly shift the car into Park. Shit, it was taking too long! He and the Mustang should be gone, out of sight by now. Shades were being raised and lights were coming on in the upper windows of the buildings on either side of the intersection. A couple of open doors and people started to creep onto the pavement—cautiously, keeping their distance.

  The night was closing in on Danny. He felt a pressure pushing up against his back, propelling him forward. A hot gust of air was at his neck. Whatever Milo had instigated and set into motion was now playing itself out to its dark conclusion.

  “Come on!” Danny screamed, ramming the butt of his pistol into the window, creating an ugly webbed crack in the glass.

  “I’m gonna kill this motherfucker!” Milo raged. “Get out! Get the fuck out!”

  Danny saw the driver bend down slowly and he heard the power locks click open.

  The gathering on the street was growing. People boldly creeping forward but not intervening. Danny saw women and even kids watching them.

  Slowly, the car door opened. The driver rose from his seat and stepped out onto the street. Milo took a step back but signaled for Danny to pistol whip the slow-moving son of a bitch.

  Then, it all turned.

  Danny looked on in shock as the driver, in his movement to his feet, produced a gun from behind his back, shoving it into Danny’s ribs.

  “Police!” the driver cried. “Drop your fucking weapons!”

  Danny immediately dropped the Glock to the ground. The street lights around him were casting everything in a haloed light. He heard a gasp from the crowds around him. The cop was yelling in his face while the gun kept ramming into his side.

  “Tell your fucking partner to drop his gun!”

  Danny could see Milo, his eyes shooting back and forth like crazy pinballs, his mouth opening and closing, his arm thrusting the gun forward again and again as if this alone would make the cop cease and desist.

  “Drop it, I said!”

  Milo’s eyes stopped moving and Danny could see his pupils shrinking to pinpoints. Danny raised his open hand at Milo, screaming frantically.

  “Milo, don’t! No! No!”

  In the split second of the moment, Milo’s eyes locked onto Danny as if to say, Now you’ve done it. You just killed me. This is where I die and you just did it, you stupid son of a bitch—

  Milo fired first, the bullet grazing the cop’s shoulder. Danny dropped to the ground as the cop swung his arm up and pumped three quick shots into Milo, each bullet thudding into his chest, pieces of him scattering everywhere.

  But Milo refused to fall.

  Screaming like some vile siren, Milo returned fire until his gun was empty. The cop, who jerked and spun with each hit, managed to get off two last shots—one which exploded into Milo’s forehead—before he crumpled to the ground.

  Danny slowly rose to his feet and while the crowd had grown considerably, the following seconds were stifled by a suffocating silence. No sound reached Danny’s ears as he looked in horror at Milo’s riddled body and the slumped-over corpse of the off-duty policeman—even as patrol cars rocketed to the scene with officers popping up one after the other with guns drawn and the helicopter overhead captured him in the blinding searchlight—until he heard the piercing shriek of a woman cutting through the starless night.

  CHAPTER 2

  Danny Fierro stood, his wrists shackled, in a coarse bright orange prison uniform, his head bowed. The judge peered over his reading glasses with a thinly veiled contempt and addressed Danny, his reprimanding voice clearly heard in every corner of the courtroom. With the widow front and center, the courtroom was filled with the friends and family of the deceased, including a multitude of seething police brothers. Danny’s people had stayed away—too ashamed, too angry to lend their support. Only Sonya was there, her swollen belly screaming the outrage of the moment, her face hardened but her eyes awash in tears.

  “What are my chances of getting a break here?” Danny had asked his attorney, a public defender named Aaron Mossbacher, after the jury had passed down its verdict two days previous after only ninety-three minutes of deliberation. “Not too good, Danny,” Mossbacher had told him, “Yours was the fourth cop killing in a month. And what with the Hernandez kid and all the furor over the Wilkes home invasion killings, the public is up in arms. There’s a lot of pressure for this judge to come down hard on you.” Mossbacher had patted Danny on the shoulder as if to mitigate some of the damage he had just inflicted upon his client’s down-spiraling spirit. “Anything can happen,” was the best Mossbacher could come up with as encouragement.

  “Daniel Harrison Fierro, a jury of your peers has already found you guilty of murder in the first degree of Officer Burton Andrew Taggart and in accordance with the laws of the State of New York, I will now pass down your sentence. Based upon the ruthless nature of the crime and the appalling indifference you demonstrated for the loss of another human life, regardless of whether you personally pulled the trigger, the commission of your crime constitutes the first degree murder of a peace officer which carries a special condition for maximum punishment. I therefore sentence you to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.” Here, the judge paused, to allow the visitors to applaud and cheer their approval—which they did. Then he continued. “Believe me,
Mr. Fierro, if it were up to me, I would reinstitute the death penalty for your case—for the murder of a highly decorated officer, and for the incalculable loss of a husband and father to Officer Taggart’s wife and his two young children. You are a blight, Mr. Fierro, and the sooner you are isolated from civilized society, the better. Officers, please remove the prisoner from this courtroom, and from my sight.”

  A pair of court officers dragged Danny to his feet after he collapsed in his chair. He felt weightless, his head spinning like in a fever dream. His eyes strained to focus. In the chaotic aftermath of the judge’s sentencing, only two sounds reached Danny’s ears before he was hauled out of the courtroom and into a waiting transport car: Mossbacher sighing heavily as he zipped up his briefcase and Sonya, through all the righteous cheers for Officer Taggart’s family, sobbing uncontrollably by herself.

  Danny had once spent a few weeks in jail for punching one of his mother’s “boyfriends” and six months in juvenile detention when he was fifteen, but nothing could have prepared him for the concrete desolation of state prison. His windowless cell was seven by ten, containing a bunk, a stainless steel toilet and sink, a small table built into the wall over a bolted down stool, and a small shelf where he could place books, framed photographs or personal objects he could look at to keep himself from going mad.

  Because he was a convicted cop killer serving a life sentence with no chance of parole, Danny was not made to share his cell with anyone. At first, he couldn’t believe his luck, for Danny was not one to enjoy small talk; he also didn’t want to wind up becoming some hulking cell mate’s bitch, a receptacle for some half-crazed monster’s rage to spew inside of him. But then, after a few weeks, it occurred to him that he was being kept in isolation by design, a clear, calculated move to slowly break him down. Even without the death penalty, Danny realized the justice system would have their pound of flesh, one way or another. Loneliness would feed upon his soul—until there was nothing left.

  Danny made up his mind that he would not let that happen. Hope and fantasy would keep his mind facile and engaged, his heart stalwart and undeterred. As long as he kept the faith. After all, Mossbacher had mentioned the chance of filing an appeal. It was a door Danny desperately needed to know was there.