Killer Storm

by Jen Wright

  She replied with, "Excellent! I knew there was a good reason I asked you to tag along."

  Lou gave me a quizzical smile, which I took to mean, "She's a dyke, you're a dyke, interesting?" I could see the wheels turning in his head about where I had been during the storm. I put a silent bet on the fact that he would look into it further. I just shook my head no with a little grin. I'd keep him guessing a bit. I wondered if everyone could tell I was having the best sex of my life. That thought stopped me short. I realized it was true.

  We pulled up to the Courthouse a half block back from the secured van with the agents inside. Now what were they going to do? The vehicle with Nichols in it, having taken a separate route, pulled up to the building. The FBI team created a human shield, ushering him into the building. He was now securely inside. Smithy was nowhere in sight. We didn't know the make and model of his vehicle, or whether he even had one.

  During the half-hour wait before Nichols's court appearance, we hung out in the holding area. There was a desk in front of three secure holding cells. The prisoners were housed several to a cell while they waited for their court hearings. When the bailiff announced the Nichols hearing, he was transported to his court appearance via the back elevator with a jail deputy and four FBI agents. Nate and I walked up the three flights to Judge Manning's chambers on the fourth floor. The other agents were interspersed throughout the Courthouse. The St. Louis County Sheriff's Department Chief of Security, who was also housed in the Courthouse, had caught up to us and was now coordinating with Sam. They had placed an FBI agent under cover as a prisoner in orange; he was already waiting in the custody box of the courtroom.

  Manning's courtroom was identical to all of the courtrooms on the fourth floor of the Courthouse. Each of them was bigger than my entire house, with plaster ceilings twenty-five feet high. The acoustics were horrible, so each courtroom had to be set up with several microphones. I think the basis for retirement for most judges is their inability to hear proceedings. Nichols and the undercover agent were seated together in a four-seat area to the right of Judge Manning's bench. The empty jury box was to the left. The lawyers' tables were nearly directly in front of the judge. There were benches in the back three quarters of the courtroom to accommodate observers. A bailiff sat at a table near the in-custody box.

  The bailiffs in the Courthouse are all retired police officers or Courthouse personnel. Many of them are over sixty. They control the flow of people and lawyers, and keep track of who is ready to proceed. They tell you that their job is to throw themselves in front of a bullet heading for their judge, should the need arise. I think they underestimate the speed of the bullets. The bailiffs run the gamut from crotchety, bitter old cops who think offenders are all scum, to extreme extroverts, who love all of the interesting people who come through court. Judge Manning's bailiff is the crotchety old sort.

  The Judge was still in chambers, presumably putting on his robe. Some of those robes are pretty scruffy up close. Judge Manning, being one of the more senior judges, must have worn his considerably. I was still contemplating the condition of his robe when he entered the courtroom.

  "All rise, District Court is now in session. The Honorable David M. Manning presiding."

  Judge Manning stood at his bench and motioned for us to sit with a simple gesture. The younger judges still fluster a bit at the formal gesture of respect.

  "Counsel, please tell me why we are here. This matter has already been arraigned."

  "Judge, Richard Johnson for the defense. This matter is before you for a bail review. I request a bail reduction."

  "Have there been any substantial changes since your client's arraignment?"

  "Yes, your honor. There have."

  "Any objection from the prosecution?"

  "Jon Detarrio for prosecution, your honor. We request the right to respond."

  Judge Manning nodded at prosecution and motioned with a hand gesture for the defense to begin. "Let's hear it."

  Johnson stood, buttoned his suit, and placed his hands on the table for effect. "Mr. Nichols has been held in isolation for the past week and a half. He is only let out of his cell for an hour of supervised exercise a day. All of his meals are served in isolation. He is innocent until proven guilty, your honor. The isolation is affecting his mental health. He is withdrawn and depressed."

  I looked over at the bailiff and saw him roll his eyes. I could just hear him. Oh, poor baby, should we get you cable TV? Would that help your mental health? How about a massage?

  "Please advise on why he is in isolation, Mr. Detarrio."

  "He is being kept separate from other gang members. Several of his known associates were arrested for attempting to break into the Juvenile Detention Facility by shooting their way in. They were attempting to free Mr. Nichols. If Mr. Nichols has free roam of the jail, he poses a serious threat to the guards and to other inmates. He is provided with reading material and is also within earshot of a guard for conversation."

  "Defense would like to be heard, your honor."

  "Enlighten me further."

  "These are all allegations. There is no direct evidentiary tie to the alleged gang members or to the break-in. My client was at the St. Louis County Jail when this incident occurred. This is all speculation on the part of some very creative police officers."

  I glanced at the bailiff. He was red faced with anger now. Judge Manning was easily ignoring him, but he was providing quite a show for the rest of us.

  "Mr. Johnson, are you asking for a psychological evaluation?"

  Nichols bolted up a little and whispered into Johnson's ear.

  "No, we are not, your honor."

  "I do not adjust bail in response to security measures at the jail. It is within the discretion of jail administration to segregate prisoners based on risk. I do not find his treatment cruel or inhumane, and I will not overrule my previous bail ruling based on what I have heard here. Bail will remain the same. Anything further?"

  "No, your honor," answered the public defender.

  "No, your honor, and thank you," chimed in Detarrio.

  Chapter 25

  A jailer escorted Nichols out of the courtroom. The undercover FBI agent followed. We were getting up to leave when we heard shots. Three shots – boom, boom, pause, boom. The judge ran back into chambers. The bailiff stood there frozen. We then heard what sounded like a scuffle.

  Nate quickly ran to the door with his weapon drawn. He put his back to the door and peeked his head around with his weapon out in front of him pointed to the ceiling. He took one hand from the weapon and gestured for us to stay. He whispered into his head unit, "Armed suspect has a hostage."

  There were still FBI agents posted throughout the building. Nate continued talking quietly, "Suspect has two in-custody subjects. Suspect has a gun, and Nichols is with him. They are edging their way toward the back north stairwell. Hostage is a federal agent. Transportation officer is down and in need of assistance. Please call an ambulance."

  I took out my cell and made a 911 call. I thought about all of the probation staff housed on the same floor. I prayed no one was on a bathroom break or getting a drink of water.

  Sam was still in the courtroom. She walked calmly out into the hallway with her gun pointed at the suspect.

  "Freeze! Don't move another inch!"

  The rest of us crept up and peered around the door. I couldn't stop watching. "That woman has ovaries," I thought aloud.

  "Balls, too," came out of Lou's mouth. We had forgotten about our headsets.

  I assumed the man with the gun was Smithy. He had backed toward the stairwell and was ten feet from it, directly in front of the elevator. The elevator dinged, the arrow pointing up lit up, and the door opened. Smithy looked up at the light to see about catching a ride and then peered into the elevator car. There was a federal agent in camouflage standing in the car with a shotgun pointed at Smithy and Nichols.

  For a second, I thought about the safety of Nichols. I have often heard o
fficers talk about police-assisted suicide. They are referring to when they have to shoot an armed suspect because the offender fails to respond to commands to put down his or her weapon. If an armed offender makes a move toward the officers, they shoot to kill. Instead of having to deal with the emotion connected with taking a life, they call it a police-assisted suicide. They infer that the individual must have wanted to die.

  Nichols spoke up now.

  "Back off, all of you! We'll kill him. All of you!"

  Nichols was still shackled and belly cuffed. He didn't look convincing, but his brother Smithy Nichols did. He had a gun to the head of the orange-clad agent, who amazingly looked calm. The agent in the elevator had pushed a button so that the doors would stay open. This also sounded a loud ringing alarm, adding a sense of urgency to the scene.

  "Mike, we can work this out," Sam said calmly. "Listen to me. There is no way out here. The place is crawling with FBI agents. We have the building surrounded. I can help you get out of this alive. You can have your day in court. Walk away from this."

  "No! Fucking, no! You back off. I'm going to get out of here or fucking die trying." He exploded his reply. This was not going well. This was not a negotiation. I had forgotten that his name was Mike. Sam really had done her homework.

  "Do you want to go out like this? Take your brother down with you? You seem too smart for that to me. Tell me what you need so your people don't get hurt, and my people don't get hurt."

  Sam had not lowered her weapon. There were other FBI agents creeping down the south hallway, and one advancing up the stairs. The Nichols brothers were cornered, and the circle was tightening.

  The deputy was still in the hallway bleeding through a gunshot wound to his upper shoulder. He was still, but conscious, and was leaning up against the marble wall. Blood was visible on the wall behind him where he had slid to a propped up position after being shot.

  Sam began in an authoritative but calm voice, "Look, Mike, let's do this respectfully. I'm the only one who can get you out of this. OK? Talk to me. Tell me how I can get you out of here."

  "I'll only talk to Lou."

  The word "shit" eased out of my mouth in a whispered breath. Lou straightened a bit, looked at me, and said, "I can do this. Let me at it."

  I sat there for what seemed like an eternity weighing things. There was no handy equation for this decision. I said, "Your choice." His wife Sara and their two kids crying at his funeral flashed into my mind. I hoped he had the same thought.

  He said into the headset, "I'm coming out."

  He walked softly into the hallway. All of the guns shifted a bit. It sounded like a drill.

  "I'm here, Nickel. It's me, Lou."

  Nickel eased a bit, and then he said to Lou, "This is fucking bullshit. Get them out of here, or this guy is going to die."

  I heard over the headset, "Tell him that his hostage is a federal agent."

  "Nickel, your hostage is an undercover FBI agent. He would see it as his job to die here, and then the cops will kill you. His family would get a double pension. He would be a hero. Any way you look at this, they win. Don't let them win. If you end this, you are in control, and you maintain respect."

  Lou was employing his knowledge of gang social rules, speaking to the leader even though his brother held the gun. Everything is about respect with these guys. Everything is about saving face and being in control. The situation could still go either way. I was certain Nickel did not have it in him to back down.

  "I can end this, all right." Nichols turned to the uniformed driver of the first van and said, "Straton, you are the one who fucked this up. You were supposed to get me out of here. Do something."

  An FBI agent trained his high-powered rifle at the driver's head.

  Straton began to shake. "I don't know what he's talking about. The guy is nuts."

  Nichols said, "You were paid good money for protection. You chicken shit. You're gonna fry with me. Never trust a dirty cop. You can't turn on me and get away with it. I've got proof. My boys have you on tape."

  As Straton made a move for his weapon, an agent shot the gun out of his reach. I was impressed as hell that they didn't shoot him.

  At that point, all weapons were trained on Nichols. Lou was twelve feet from him. Smithy and the hostage were to his right. There was a clear shot at Nichols. Smithy's finger was on the trigger, his gun barrel pointed at the hostage's head. Over the headset I heard, "Clear shot at big Nichols." "Clear at Nichols here, too." "Locked on to armed subject."

  "Nickel, listen to me." Lou sensed he was running out of time. "Do you trust me?"

  "More than the others. You still locked me up. Where is that dyke bitch boss of yours?"

  "Listen, I'm not going to screw you. If I hadn't locked you up, you might be dead now. This thing is all messed up. It didn't go like you wanted it to, so back up and try it again. You have leadership skills, man. Going down here will waste all of that. Don't waste all that you have made and become."

  There was a long pause. Nichols was wired. He looked like pure potential energy.

  "All right, I'm in control here. Do what I say. Smit, lower the gun. Everybody just chill the fuck out! Do you hear me? Chill. Take a pill. It's not time yet to spill." He then walked toward Lou and stood next to him, looking at Smit. I thought to myself, Smit does make a whole lot more sense than a name like Smithy. That just didn't fit for a gangster.

  Smit looked at him and put the gun down. The agent who had been held hostage stepped aside and into the elevator. Smit just stood there, dumbstruck. The agents pounced on him, and within seconds, he was on the floor and cuffed. Lou asked if he could escort Nickel to the holding cell. Sam said, "Only with some help."

  The paramedics rushed up to the transportation officer. I exhaled as they announced, "He's alive; vitals look good, but he's lost a lot of blood." They worked quickly and had him out of there in less than three minutes. The crime scene was secured, and I took the stairs down to the street. Lou walked up to me outside.

  "Nice work, Lou."

  "Thanks. I was scared shitless."

  "Me, too. I had a vision of your funeral."

  Chapter 26

  We walked over to the office. This would elevate Lou's status with the PD and the FBI to hero territory. It might hurt his status as a PO within the juvenile unit though. If he got too much attention because of this, his coworkers could feel threatened by his success. Once back at the office, I took this into consideration when updating the staff.

  One PO in particular came to mind as I was pondering the possible negative impact on Lou. Warren Gott, who was filling in for Lou with the intensive unit, had been passed over for a supervisory promotion, and he seemed resentful whenever Lou or any other PO did something outstanding and received praise for it.

  From time to time, a PO has had a flat tire in the middle of a field shift. The flats have been amazingly similar in nature. They all have been caused by sidewall slashes. The slashes have been just deep enough to make the tire lose air about ten minutes from the office. One day, after just such an incident happened in weather that was ten degrees below zero, Warren made a point of taking out his pocketknife and cleaning the blade in a staff meeting. I had no way to tie him to the vandalism directly, but I had my suspicions. Was his standoffish attitude toward the other PO's just a function of his approaching retirement, or did he harbor real hostility toward them? If he had slashed the tires, I wondered what he thought of kids who did property damage crimes. It made me sad that I had to downplay Lou's work to help him avoid negativity from his colleagues.

  I took the scenic route home. Deer season would end the coming weekend. I did a celebration dance in my head. I hoped many got away. A house on the upper side of the street had two deer strung up in a tree. I wondered what tourists thought of this strange practice. I decided to ask Zoey. Funny, how my thoughts were tending to stray in her direction.

  At home, I forgot to disarm the alarm system and had to struggle to remember the
deactivation code. I got it in time, and then did a quick scan for damage, as my dogs had rarely spent time in the house without me there. I felt the couch and found a warm spot. I didn't find a second warm spot, but I knew that Cocoa was not likely to be a couch potato. I pictured her parked in front of the dining room window on the watch for squirrels and all manner of things she would catch, given the chance.

  In the kitchen, I found a torn-open bread bag. The contents were nowhere in sight. I took a look at the dogs, and both appeared guilty. There was no other damage. I was pleased and told them they had earned a walk.

  The trail was easygoing where I had previously snowshoed, but painstakingly slow the rest of the way to the river. Once at the river, I pulled out my cell phone and called Kathy. I told her where I was and asked her if she would give me a ride home if I showed up at her house on snowshoes. She agreed and said she would meet me. I saw her about a third of the way up the river between our houses, and we shoed to her house together. All the dogs were along, and it felt like we were running a dogsled team. I loved watching the dogs run in a pack. Along the way, Kathy asked me how things were going with Zoey. I told her in some detail about the snowy weekend and the date at my house. She advised me not to worry about going too fast, "If it lasts, you will have some good memories. If it doesn't, you will, too. It sounds like you're getting to know each other. That's the important thing."

  "Are things always that simple and clear for you?" I asked her.

  "Other people's problems are. My problems, now that's another story."

  She then asked me if I had thought about what went wrong with Dar and if I had any ideas about how to avoid similar problems. I told her that this time I would try to talk about my feelings and to ask the hard questions.