Guilty Blood

by Rick Acker

  Brandon rolled away and scrambled to his feet, holding the shiv. The man he had taken it from got to his feet more slowly. He spat blood and swore at Brandon.

  The guy with the chair leg jumped forward, holding it in front of him like a sword. Brandon grabbed the other end of the leg and yanked, simultaneously slashing with the shiv. The point scored the man’s forearm, opening a long cut. He yelled and jerked back, releasing the chair leg.

  Other inmates now crowded behind the first two, filling the small area between the corner and the admin building. Brandon spotted a few Los Reyes tattoos, but he was pretty sure not all of the men were members of the gang. About a third weren’t even Hispanic. They were just there because they could get out of their cells and this was the only place to go.

  All of them gave Brandon a wide berth. Even the Los Reyes members—he counted at least four, two armed—hung back.

  Despite the danger, a savage elation rose up in Brandon. Here he was, literally cornered by a mob of rioting prisoners, and they were scared of him. He wiped sweat from his forehead and bared his teeth in a half snarl, half grin. “Who’s got next?” he growled.

  “I do,” a voice called. A squat, heavily inked prisoner pushed his way forward. The other prisoners shrank back, and it was immediately clear why: he had a gun, which he must have taken from a guard. Without hesitating, he pointed it at Brandon’s head and fired.

  Brandon flinched to the left just as the man pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the wall an inch from the right side of his head, spraying it with tiny fragments of cement.

  He lunged toward the gunman, but the distance was too great. The man fired again before Brandon could reach him. Fire knifed through Brandon’s right side, staggering him.

  The door behind him opened and a man burst out, shouting in Spanish. He ran in front of Brandon, facing the startled gunman with his hands in front of him, speaking rapidly.

  It was Father Vicente.

  The gunman yelled back and didn’t lower the gun. He gestured for the priest to move, but he wouldn’t. Now other inmates were yelling too. Some were grabbing at the gunman and others—Los Reyes members—were pushing them away.

  The gun went off a third time. Father Vicente’s body jerked and he collapsed to the sidewalk.

  Three inmates tackled the gunman. Guards finally started coming out through the door of the admin building, wearing riot gear.

  Brandon tried to kneel down to help Father Vicente, but his balance seemed to be off. There was a roaring in his ears and the bright sunlight dimmed. He felt himself falling.

  CHAPTER 80

  Jessica had been trying to reach Jade when she saw the news: there had been a riot at Tassajara Jail that afternoon. Two people had been killed and several were seriously injured.

  She left a Please call me message on Jade’s phone and immediately tried Tassajara. She phoned the warden’s office. Nobody answered. She tried every number she could find for anyone at Tassajara. She even called the maintenance department. All the lines either were busy or rang until they went to voicemail.

  For an agonizing hour, she alternately prayed and retried various numbers that she had already called. Finally, the call came from Tassajara. Yes, there had been a riot. Brandon had been shot and was in surgery. No, they couldn’t tell her any more.

  She rushed to the hospital, only to find that her son was still in surgery and that the police officer outside the door didn’t know anything about his condition. The paramedics who brought him in might have known more, but they had left after dropping off Brandon.

  Jessica went to the waiting room, found a quiet corner, and perched on the edge of a leather love seat. She typed out a quick email to the woman who ran the church’s prayer chain, then dropped her phone in her purse and ignored the intermittent buzzing from people calling, emailing, and texting their support as the word spread. It was good to know that she wasn’t alone, but she wanted to focus on praying. Her bodyguard sat a few yards away to give her privacy.

  Finally, a man wearing blue scrubs walked into the waiting room, looked around, and called, “Jessica Ames.”

  Jessica stood, heart thundering. The man spotted her and walked over. To Jessica’s relief, he was smiling.

  “I’m Mike Cranston, one of Dr. Singh’s surgical assistants. She had to go straight into another surgery, but she wanted me to give you an update. Brandon’s surgery went well. He may need some physical therapy, but he should make a full recovery.”

  Tears of relief welled up in her eyes. “Thank you. That’s wonderful news. What happened to him?”

  “Oh—no one told you?”

  She shook her head. “All they said was that he’d been shot and he was in surgery here.”

  The surgical assistant nodded. “A bullet hit him in the right side of the chest. Either he was shot from above or he was crouched and leaning forward. The bullet entered here.” He pointed to a spot about an inch under his right collarbone. “And exited here.” He moved his finger to a location roughly six inches under his right armpit. “It broke a rib and tore his right pectoral muscle nearly in half, but that should all heal.”

  “Can I see him?”

  He shook his head. “He’s in post-op, and he’s still sedated. He may wake up later tonight, but he’ll be on painkillers, so he’ll be pretty groggy. It’s probably best for him to rest. He should be here for a couple of days, so you can visit in the morning.” He glanced at a clock on the waiting-room wall. “I should get back in there, but if you need anything else, just call the hospital’s main number.” He hurried out of the waiting room, leaving Jessica watching his retreating back.

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to do. She desperately wanted to go to Brandon, see him with her own eyes, and comfort him. But she knew that sleep would do him more good than a maternal visit, particularly since he would be drugged.

  She went back out to her car, trailed by her guard, who checked for bombs and started the engine before allowing her to get close to the vehicle. She drove home and, after her guard had checked that all was well there, went into her apartment and locked the door.

  Her bed looked very inviting, but she checked her phone first. There were fifteen texts and six emails, all some variant of Praying for you both! She sent a quick update to the prayer chain, then checked voicemail. There were five voicemails from friends who had heard about Brandon, and one from Jade. She simply said, “You can call me after ten thirty, but before midnight.”

  It was quarter to eleven. Jessica wondered whether Jade had been entertaining a client tonight. Maybe someone like Nate. She pushed the thought out of her head, braced herself, and dialed.

  Jade answered on the second ring. “Hello, Jessica. What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Jade,” Jessica said, trying to sound casual and friendly. “My son’s trial is starting in a week, and we need to find a witness. Specifically, we need someone who can put a human face on the Lan Long part of the case.” She paused, but Jade didn’t say anything. “We were hoping you might help us find someone who could do that.”

  “Someone like Lin Liu, you mean?” Jade asked, her voice cold.

  “Well, yes.”

  “What happened to Lin Liu, Jessica?”

  Jessica took a deep breath. “I still have nightmares about that. You don’t have to remind me.”

  “Then why do you ask me to put another girl in danger?”

  “Because I don’t have a choice.”

  “Yes, you do!” Jade shot back. “You had the choice to tell Brandon to plead guilty. He could be serving maybe five or ten years. But you chose to go after Lan Long, even after I warned you. Now Lin is dead, Nate’s receptionist is dead, your bodyguard is dead, and Sofia is in the hospital. And still you go after them. More people will die.”

  Jessica’s frustration boiled over. “If you didn’t want us to go after them, why did you call Nate? What were you doing?”

  The line was silent for several seconds, and Jessica fear
ed Jade had hung up.

  “I was making a mistake,” Jade said at last, her voice hard but subdued. “I wanted Lan Long gone, but not at this cost. If this goes on, they’ll keep killing people. Maybe even your son.”

  “Someone tried to kill him today,” Jessica said, fighting to keep her voice level. “I just came back from the hospital.”

  “Oh,” Jade said, softening. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I hope he gets well soon.”

  “The doctors expect him to make a full recovery,” Jessica said. “But I can’t leave him in prison for five or ten years. I just can’t. They’ll kill him. And he’s innocent. Please, you have to help.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Jessica began to grow desperate. “Do you work for Lan Long?”

  “Of course not! I despise them. I should end this call.”

  “If you despise them, then help us. We’ve come closer to catching them than anyone else, even the FBI.”

  Another long silence from Jade. “Will you catch them if I help you again?” Jade asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t make promises like that. I wish I could. We’ll do everything we can.”

  “Then there’s nothing further for us to discuss. Good night. And good luck.”

  CHAPTER 81

  Brandon reclined in his hospital bed, sipping coffee with his left hand. His bed was by a window, and he often gazed out of it, drinking in the view—as he was doing now. He could see a parking lot dotted with trees. Oaks, mostly, though there was a tall palm tree at the corner of the lot. Beyond the lot was a street, across which sat a small Chase Bank branch. Next to it was a commercial construction site. Brandon wondered whether he knew anyone working there. In the distance, he could just make out a blue slope, which might be part of Mount Diablo.

  In short, he saw an ordinary Pleasanton street view. He treasured it. He was going to be discharged in a few hours, and then it would be back to jail. And after that, probably prison. He might not see a view like this again for decades—or forever. He wanted to capture it in his memory and lock it there.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.

  He turned carefully as he spoke, trying to avoid jarring his damaged right side. Most of the time, it was a dull ache, which the painkillers he was on mostly kept under control. But sometimes he would accidentally bump it or unconsciously try to move his right arm, which was strapped to his body. When he did that—which he had several times while trying to sleep—a jag of fiery lightning would arc across his chest.

  The door opened, and his mother and Nate Daniels walked in. His mother had visited him five times over the last two days, but this was the first time he had seen Nate since the shooting. He was dressed in a blue polo shirt and crisply pressed khakis. “How are you feeling, Brandon?” he asked. His voice was as strong and energetic as ever, but his eyes were a little bloodshot and there were bags under them.

  “As well as can be expected, I guess. How about you?”

  “Likewise,” Nate said. “The last few days before trial are always a busy time, but caffeine and adrenaline get me through.”

  His mother came over and gave him a careful hug. “It’s good to see you, honey.”

  “You too, Mom. Is there any news?” he asked. “About my case, I mean.”

  Nate nodded. “There is indeed. That’s the main reason I’m here rather than working on trial prep. The DA has offered a plea bargain. If you plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, he’ll recommend a prison term of eleven years. That’s at the high end of the range, so we might be able to negotiate him down. The bottom of the range is three years, though I doubt we would get him down that far. Six years might be possible, though.”

  Six years. He’d be twenty-seven then. His Berkeley classmates would have had their five-year reunion, and he would still be trying to graduate. Even if he did manage to get his degree, no one would hire him with a manslaughter conviction on his record. And what if Los Reyes kept attacking him? Maybe they were only coming after him because they had a contract with Lan Long, and maybe Lan Long wouldn’t be interested in killing him after his trial was over. But maybe not.

  Still, six years was a lot better than fifteen years to life—and that’s what he faced if he was convicted of second-degree murder.

  “What do you think I should do, Nate?”

  “To be perfectly candid, I don’t know,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “This is the first criminal case I’ve handled, and I just don’t have the requisite knowledge and experience to give you an informed opinion. Plus, there are a couple of large unknowns that could each make a significant difference. First, we’re trying to line up a key witness who can testify about Lan Long’s operations. Second, I still haven’t heard from the US Attorney’s Office. I’ve been following up with them every couple of days, but they don’t have a decision yet—and may not until after your trial is over. Depending on how they turn out, either of those could swing the case our way—or the prosecution’s.”

  “Have you talked to Sofia?” Brandon asked.

  Nate nodded. “She says this is a good deal, but that the prosecution wouldn’t be offering it if they were confident they’d do better at trial.”

  “Did she think I should take it?” Brandon asked.

  “She didn’t express an opinion one way or the other,” Nate said. “She’s been following your case as closely as she can from a hospital bed, but that’s not the same thing as being in the trenches. She doesn’t feel that she’s close enough to the situation to make a recommendation.”

  Brandon nodded. He hadn’t realized she was still hospitalized, and he felt a pang of guilt. “How is she doing?”

  “Well enough that she was editing my briefs yesterday,” Nate said with a smile. “The doctors moved up her last surgery, which is why she’s back in the hospital. She actually says that she plans to attend part of the trial, though her doctor doesn’t think that will be possible.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Brandon said. “What about that guy who was supposed to be replacing her—Eric whatshisname?”

  “Jameson,” Nate said. “His trial ran longer than expected. We’re not expecting him to be able to focus on your case until the trial starts, if then. He has no view on the prosecution’s offer, of course.”

  “I see,” Brandon said, a little frustrated that no one seemed to have an opinion on the most important decision he had ever been asked to make. He turned to the one person in his life who always had advice for him. “Mom, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re innocent,” she said without hesitation. “And if you say you’re guilty, that’s a lie. I’m not a lawyer, and I don’t pretend to know all the rules and the odds the way your legal team does. But I do know that it’s never a good idea to lie.”

  Nate looked out the window and said nothing, but her words resonated with Brandon. Taking the plea deal would mean lying. Well, he wasn’t going to lie to make the system happy. He wasn’t going to play their game. He was going to fight. Even if losing meant spending the rest of his life behind bars.

  “I’m not going to take the deal.”

  “Do you want to take some time to think about it?” Nate asked. “This is a big decision. The DA’s Office can certainly wait until tomorrow if you’d like to sleep on it.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need to sleep on it,” Brandon said. “Mom is right. I’m not going down without a fight. I’m not going to plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit. If they manage to convict me anyway, so be it.”

  His mother smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

  Brandon didn’t think Nate entirely agreed with his decision, but now that it was made, he didn’t seem very upset.

  A glint came into the lawyer’s eyes and he smiled. “Once more into the fray.”

  CHAPTER 82

  September

  Nate sat at the counsel table in Judge W
hittaker’s courtroom, battling first-day-of-trial jitters. He’d had them before every single one of trials, and he knew better than to expect to sleep well the night before a case began. But there were worse things. Losing, for example.

  He knew that being nervous in the days and hours leading up to a trial kept him focused and alert. Relaxed lawyers were sloppy lawyers. The more on edge he was at the beginning of a trial, the more likely he was to win. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself when he was staring at the ceiling at two o’clock in the morning. And so far, he had been right.

  Overall, Nate was happy with the jury they had picked. There were eight women, two of whom had college-age children. Six of the jurors had science or technology degrees and presumably wouldn’t have trouble following the technical evidence that would form the heart of the defense. Five jurors were Asian, and three were Chinese American, which might help when he came to the Lan Long part of the story. There was also the obligatory San Francisco juror whom neither side had been able to disqualify. According to the jury questionnaire he filled out, his name was Elrond Strange, his occupation was “philosopher,” and his home was “Golden Gate Park.” Nate wondered what would happen if Elrond were elected foreman.

  Brandon sat at the table beside Nate, wearing a stiff blue oxford shirt and khaki slacks. The right side of the shirt bulged over the bandage on his chest, causing the buttons to gap. A complicated sling strapped his right arm to his body. His face was stoic, but when he reached for a glass of water, Nate saw the dark circle of sweat under Brandon’s left armpit.

  The gallery of the courtroom was empty except for Jessica, who sat immediately behind Brandon, and a couple of reporters from legal newspapers. No one except a couple of DA functionaries sat on the prosecution side of the courtroom. Apparently, Linc Thomas didn’t have anyone who cared enough about him to come watch his murder trial. Linc hadn’t been an especially pleasant human being, but Nate still felt a little sorry for him.