Chapter 14
As they left the corridor of jail cells behind and entered the main lobby, Righty noticed the officers did not seem to slow a lick as they marched him straight towards the exit. He would be headed to the capital in a wagon towards a federal prison, never to see the light of day again.
He began to wonder whether he should shout out to Harold for help the second he tasted fresh air and hope that Harold could swan dive and extricate him before he was inside a locked wagon.
The door was just feet away.
“Not so fast, gentlemen!” an authoritative voice cried out.
Instantly, a dozen or more officers blocked the door.
A spectacled man with a studious look, probably in his fifties, marched rapidly towards Righty and the agents holding him. Righty also noticed that the processing officers were standing next to the chief. And the two of them, particularly the one who had punched him, looked sheepishly at Righty and then the ground. Their demoralized faces suggesting they had just received the tongue-lashing of the century.
“Mr. Higler is our prisoner and will not leave this station without a court order. You know—protocol,” the man said, almost apologetically.
“He’s a kingpin and tried to bribe us. He goes with us!” Benjamin snapped back.
“Now, good sirs, let us reason with one another,” the chief said. “There are plenty of fish for all, so to speak. Let’s not start acting like two opposing armies,” he then added with a congenial tone.
“It’s federal jurisdiction!!” Willis snapped back, sounding a bit like a child outraged at an unforeseen obstacle.
“Sirs. Sirs!” the chief replied, as if beseeching them. “Just two days ago the city council passed a measure with identical language to that of SISA. So, you see, it’s really a matter of overlapping jurisdiction. And we all know Haldensen v. Selegania,” the chief said with the tone of a professor instructing a first-year law student. “When a city criminalizes the same conduct as federal law, jurisdiction lies . . . with . . . the . . . arresting . . . entity,” he finished, unable to hide his contemptuous glee.
“Only if the city law has penalties as severe as, or more severe than, the corollary . . . federal . . . statute,” Willis shot back.
“Sirs,” the chief replied in a condescendingly soft voice, “the city council’s only regret was that SISA’s sentencing is not more severe, as they would have gladly issued harsher sentencing parameters if they could have said they were just copying the federal statute.” He paused. “The criminal penalties are the same.”
Silence reigned.
A tattoo-covered arrestee, who perfumed the room with whiskey with every breath, looked at the dueling titans with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. He had no idea what they were talking about, but seeing policemen of any stripe fight with one another brought him a pleasure second only to drinking.
“He’s also under arrest for attempted bribery,” Willis said in a softer, but more chilling, tone.
The chief sucked in air as he prepared to deliver another devastating riposte, suggesting he felt sympathy for his outmatched opponent. “That’s a Class D felony. We’ve got him here, with priority jurisdiction for having first arrested him, on a Class B felony.”
He gave Willis a look which seemed to say, Please don’t make me keep embarrassing you, but when Willis refused to cede, the chief said softly, “You can’t transfer an arrestee from city to federal custody on a separate federal charge until the city has fully investigated and prosecuted, or formally declined to prosecute, the arrestee for all crimes upon which the original arrest was based, unless the separate federal charge is more serious than the offense for which the city first arrested him. Alas, attempted bribery is not.”
The chief paused. “Haldensen v. Selegania,” he repeated, with a tone of reverence and finality.
“We don’t leave here until WE process him!! That means a sketch, questioning, and a full copy of ALL processing notes surrounding his SISA crimes!!” Willis shouted, a vein bulging in his neck.
Shrugging his shoulders amiably, the chief said, “But of course.” He then gave an aggressive slap on the back to the two original processing officers, snapped his fingers, and said, “Get to it!”
To Righty’s relief, Benjamin and Willis didn’t seem to vent any of their frustrations on him. In fact, now that their fish had inadvertently eluded their trap, at least for the moment, they felt a bit embarrassed remaining in the presence of a man who—intentionally or not—had witnessed their thorough humiliation.
Willis barked for a copy to be made of the sketch, and an artist quickly began moving his pencil, creating a quality copy within about ten minutes. Meanwhile, Benjamin and Willis had little difficulty copying the processing notes, as they said little besides the fact a dagger and large sums of cash had been confiscated pending investigation of SISA violations.
Once Benjamin and Willis had what they wanted, they stormed out of the station.
Senator Hutherton was going to hear about this.
Chapter 15
As Righty was led to the chief of police’s office by two now very deferential processing officers—including the one who had roughed him up earlier—confusion had taken over what had just moments earlier been a bleak terrain of doom. He felt he should feel some sense of relief over the chief’s show of force against the two federal agents who had tricked him into committing yet another crime, but he couldn’t be entirely sure he had not simply leapt from the fire into the frying pan.
He knew nothing of the chief, and while he suspected hypocrisy was on full display with the chief’s zealous statements in favor of fighting drug distribution, he had no reason to feel certain the chief would not seek to have him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Perhaps he might do so for corrupt reasons—e.g., because of a previous bribe made by an up-and-coming drug rival—but that would be of little relief to Righty. But if Righty failed to fully appreciate the implications of the now deferential attitude of his erstwhile tormenting captors, his pessimism may perhaps have been justified in light of the way his day had gone thus far.
Before he had time to further analyze the issue, there he was—once again fully clothed—in front of the chief of police.
“Un-cuff him!” barked the chief.
“Yes, sir,” the processing officers replied. “Careful there, Mr. Higler. That’s it, easy now,” Mr. Uppercut said, as he treated Righty’s wrists like fragile chinaware.
“Get out of my sight!” the chief said to the two officers, almost belching fire.
While for Righty this was but a temporary respite—similar to a man at sea who has been dunked mercilessly by one wave, has come up for air, and is given a few seconds of relief while waiting for the next tower of water to crash upon him, daring him to return to the surface for more breath—in a day full of misery, for the chief this was almost a magical moment.
Months and months he had spent analyzing his quarry, hoping for some overt gesture on Mr. Brass’s part ever since the death of Heavy Sam to initiate a business relationship. But when none came, the chief had been left with no choice but to treat Mr. Brass as a target. Throughout the entire time, however, he had been filled with a kind of awe as to the mysterious nature of a man who had managed to become a kingpin in the chief’s city without so much as ever being arrested.
The chief studied him carefully.
“Today has been a disaster of unspeakable proportions,” the chief said.
Righty agreed but wasn’t sure whether it was prudent to say so. What a police chief viewed as a disaster might be deemed propitious by a criminal.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. But I barely saved it before it became irrecoverable.”
Righty remained silent, glancing at the chief occasionally, but mostly looking down. His confidence was obliterated.
“You are a subject of great mystery to me, Mr. Brass,” the chief began. “No arrests before today. And y
et you’ve been the kingpin of my city for quite some time now. And still I don’t even know your name.”
The chief continued studying him like a lawyer analyzing the fine print an important contract.
“But . . . I have the strangest feeling . . . that I recognize you,” he said with incipient satisfaction.
The chief stared at him unabashedly as though he were a slave on an auction block, bereft of the right to become indignant by such conspicuous evaluation.
The chief’s mind began to recall images, all over a decade old. His mind began to subtract age from the face before him, give it a cocky flush, and remove the nascent forehead lines.
He was in a room . . . no, much larger. A stadium. He was near a ring. He turned to his left:
“AND NOW . . . RIIIIIGHTY RIIIIICK!” the chief shouted out, imitating a boxing announcer.
Righty felt the inner core of his soul freeze, as he realized he may as well be hung upside down before this man, with a bright line indicating the jugular vein.
“YES!! It is you!!” the chief said, and then stood up from his chair and began slipping and ducking, throwing out jabs and crosses, before delivering a heavy right hand to the body of an imaginary opponent. He then backed away wincing, holding an imaginary wound to his ribs.
“YES, YES YES!!” the chief said, thrilled.
“You were one of my favorites. You could have been a legend. You were . . . an almost champion.” The chief’s tone terminated in a doleful note.
“Broken wrist. Trained hard anyway. Fought hard anyway. And almost won anyway. Almost. Almost,” he repeated, his eyes filled with pleasure.
“Are you seeing a repeat performance of that, Righty Rick? Or should I call you Richard? You know, the Sivingdel Boxing Association keeps detailed records of all professional boxers going back at least a century. And if I’m not mistaken, they’re indexed both by real name and ring name. So, I’m about thirty minutes on horseback from the SBA, and I think it would take me an hour at the most to find your last name. Are you going to make me work like that, or are we going to work together?”
It seemed to Righty that the last time a cop suggested they work together he had been rewarded with handcuffs and an extra criminal charge. He kept his mouth shut.
“Okay, I can understand if you’re a bit distrustful. Those NDP boys are real idealists. I’m a realist. Do you know why you’re even here, Righty? And I’m not being cute; it seems you really don’t.”
“I know what I’m accused of,” Righty said laconically.
The chief rolled his eyes.
“You pay to play . . . get it?”
Righty was silent. He “got” it, but he wasn’t sure whether the “it” was just another trap.
“Okay, okay, let’s start over,” the chief said. “This is my town. You’re doing business in my town. That business happens to be illegal. I’ve got to make some arrests, or important people start to wonder. And when important people start to wonder too long, I lose my job. So, you pay to play. Those who don’t end up paying in a different way. The way you’re paying right now.”
Righty was silent.
“You’ve been flying free for a long time now, Righty. I could have gotten to your men a long time ago, but I wanted to get someone near the top once I realized you were going to be hard to reel in directly. So, I took my time. And when I saw how hard-core these NDP fellas are, I realized that if I arrested you before Sivingdel passed a statute analogous to SISA, the NDP was just going to sweep right down and take you from me. They almost did.”
Righty’s trust was beginning to build slowly towards the chief, and he realized staying silent wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Just before he could, the chief began again.
“As for the rough treatment, that wasn’t supposed to happen. I think you noticed the changed attitudes of the processing officers. It all happened too fast for me. I threatened Tats this morning that I was going to send his case to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow if he didn’t talk. I was expecting him to break, tell me where I could find you, and then we could arrange the whole thing nice and pleasant, without all the frisking and needless humiliation.”
Righty found himself surprised that it seemed the chief was telling him the truth.
“But I had no idea you were just going to waltz in here and ask to speak to me. If I had known that, I would have alerted the processing officers to send you straight to me. You see the bad things that happen when there’s no communication.”
Righty felt it was now or never for him to talk. After the number of charges he was already looking at, he felt like he was certainly doomed without trying to make some kind of deal.
“How much and how often?” Righty asked.
Clap of hands.
“Now that’s more like it!” the chief said. “That’s what you should have come to me and said the day after you killed Heavy Sam!”
Righty felt like saying, Sorry for not taking it for granted that the Sivingdel chief of police enters into a partnership with every reigning kingpin, but realized that, in addition to angering the chief, it might make him appear naïve.
“You’re right,” said Righty.
“A million a month!” the chief said, with a challenging look in his eye, daring Righty to defy him.
Righty pinched his right thumb so hard he almost drew blood in order to quell a laugh that nearly escaped his throat when he heard the chief so proudly announce a sum that was now a fraction of a day’s pay.
Never having been one prone to acting, he was in new territory. He grimaced, cleared his throat, and said, “Every month?!”
“There’s a jail cell down there waiting for you,” the chief said.
“It’s a deal,” Righty said, his confidence now partly resurrected from the dead, and he extended his hand.
A sly look in his eye, the chief said, “I’m going to consider the amount we confiscated today as a donation for your unpaid prior months as kingpin. And I’m being awful generous by not charging you for every month since Sam bit the dust.”
Righty nodded appreciatively, knowing that until he was out of this jail, he was going to have to play his cards very carefully.
“Today’s the twenty-second. On the thirty-first, you’ll go to this address,” the chief said while he wrote rapidly onto a small piece of paper, which he then handed to Righty. It was a brothel.
“You’ll meet with a man named George, whom I’ll casually introduce to you on the way out.”
“I’ve got a demand,” Righty said firmly.
The chief looked a bit startled at the confident tone emanating from the man who, frankly, seemed like a bit of a weakling to him, nothing like the terrifying Heavy Sam he had worked with before.
The chief raised his eyebrows slightly, not wishing to dignify the request with a verbal response.
“I get my dagger back.”
“But of course,” the chief said. “Just remember, if you miss a payment, I’ll tell Willis the misunderstanding was all mine and that we currently don’t have the resources to deal with your kind. And that will be the end of you, pal. I know where Tats’ mansions are. I know where Crabs’ house is. I’ve infiltrated you. I own you.”
“Yes, sir,” Righty said.
“We’re going to get along great; I just know it,” the chief said.
He got up and went to the door and whispered something to the guards. About three minutes later, he was back with Righty’s dagger in hand.
He whistled admiringly. “She’s a beauty. I’m wishing I could renege on that part of the bargain,” he said, his eyes quizzing Righty.
Righty tamed the beast within . . . but only barely.
“But, I’m a man of my word,” he said extending the compressed sword to Righty. As his fingers touched it, a salve—nearly magical—descended upon his soul like the restorative kiss to a dead princess in a children’s tale. But unlike the love transferred by the mythical kiss
, this restorative power lay in something far more sinister—the knowledge that it was up to him whether he wished at that very moment to protract the game of broken prisoner or slice this vermin into more pieces than a diced onion.
“And one more,” Righty said. He almost delivered it in a menacing tone but got control of himself at the last second. With a weak shrug and a soft voice he said, “It’s gonna be hard for me to get that kind of cash to you each month if my associates downstairs are locked up.”
The chief’s eyes scanned Righty’s thoroughly, perhaps looking for signs of a challenge to his authority before responding, and then said, with some reluctance, “I wouldn’t want to bite the hand that feeds me, would I?” He paused. “Wait here a moment.”
“Carl! Watch him!” the chief barked at Mr. Uppercut while the chief disappeared from sight.
“Anything I can do for you while you’re waiting, Mr. Higler?”
Righty shook his head.
About ten minutes later, the chief returned.
“Now, you can’t go waltzing out the front door. For all I know, Benjamin and Willis are out there waiting. You and your compatriots are going to leave in the wagon Tats brought to Crabs’ house. And to show you I truly am a businessman, I’ve had your merchandise replaced as well. I don’t want to make it hard on you to meet that payment you’ve got coming up in just over a week!” The chief smiled. “I’ll show you the way.”
Birth of a Monster Page 4