Only the Hunted Run

by Neely Tucker

It was the bargain-basement realm of the criminal justice planet, the justice-by-mass-discount world of the black and brown and every now and then, at least in D.C., some random white dude, almost always picked up for solicitation or something to do with sex and, what do you know, today his perp, the one and only Native American. Terry Waters was the reason television trucks were lining the street outside, their antennae spiraling up into the stagnant heat, cameramen in shorts and T-shirts, sitting on the shaded side of the vehicles. It wasn’t even noon, still hours before Waters would have his five-minute hearing, and the room already smelled of stale sweat, of the loss of hope, of desperation, of a three-year bid against a twelve-year charge.

  He came around the back right of the room, behind the pews, catching the eye of Keith, sitting next to Dave, the WCJT reporter, both far off to the left. They raised eyebrows at him in recognition, but their bench was packed, nowhere for him to slide in. He parked himself on the front bench, marked LAWYERS ONLY. The U.S. marshal in the well of the court, who knew him and knew he wasn’t a lawyer, gave him a bored glance, stifled a yawn behind a closed fist, and turned away.

  * * *

  By the time Waters finally emerged from the Door to Hell, six hours had passed.

  The reporters packing the room had gone from a well-heeled group of professionals to a sweaty mob who had already filled out the Times crossword puzzle (with help from the entire bench they were on), studied the box scores until they had them memorized, stepped out to the bathroom, made a coffee run, made a sandwich run, made an I-can’t-take-this-shit-anymore run. They did deep knee bends by the escalators, beating back the nodding-head monster of drowsiness. They called their editors and their spouses from the hallway, wandered over to the cafeteria, were asked to pipe down by the deputy clerk, were reminded that they could not bring food or drink into the spectators’ gallery. One of their tribe, an Australian television reporter, was booted from the room after approaching the well of the court for the third time and asking Magistrate Raymond Estes, who was not having the best day of his life, exactly how much fucking longer could it possibly take to bring forward the one defendant anyone was there to see. Scattered applause followed him out the door.

  Sully had been over to hobnob with Dave and his WCJT crew, stepped outside to call Josh and Alexis twice, and now, late in the day, everybody musky and irritable, looked up from his paper to see Janice Miller, the head of the Public Defender Service, emerge from the Door to Hell, make her way around the tables and chairs in the well of the court, and slide in next to him.

  “You’re not a lawyer, mister,” she whispered in his ear, smelling of expensive perfume, coffee heavy on her breath.

  “You ain’t much a one,” Sully whispered back.

  Janice—she pronounced it Jah-niece—tucked her chin down and grinned, squeezed his hand and let go, easygoing, even today. Born and raised in the Five Points neighborhood in Denver. Full-ride scholarship to USC Law. She could ski double-black diamonds and then call in from the bottom of the slope to tell twenty-four-year-old fuckups—who were now having second thoughts about the plea deal she’d spent weeks negotiating—that they’d sign the papers in front of them or she’d cut them off from agency representation and they’d spend the next thirty in a federal pen wishing they goddamn well had listened to her. But, hey, she’d tell them, it’s up to you. Totally up to you.

  “What’s been the deal,” Sully whispered, “I mean, I know—”

  “Floridly psychotic,” Janice nodded, tilting her head toward the Door to Hell. “Our boy is florid. Can’t get anything out of him for an hour, and then he’ll spout about radio transmissions in his molars.”

  “Come on. I talked to him. He was, like, regular.”

  Janice held her right hand up, as if taking the oath.

  “Can I use it?” Sully asked.

  “Just state it as a fact, not sourced to me. This is going to be a problem.”

  “How you mean?”

  “The state, they’re going to want to force him to take medication.”

  “To make him sane enough to stand trial,” Sully whispered back, shrugging.

  She grimaced and shook her head, long brown hair, coming to rest on her shoulders. “Not happening.”

  “Pero por qué, muchacha?”

  She looked over at him, bemused, slightly put off that he hadn’t thought this through. Now her face was turning tutorial, the eyes expanding, the mouth elongating, talking to the slowest student in her Georgetown Law seminar. “The man is charged with killing ten people in the U.S. Capitol, four of them officers, one of them a woman,” she whispered. “Does that sound like a capital offense?”

  “I thought it was nine dead.”

  “One of the criticals died this morning, two hours ago.”

  “But the District doesn’t have the death penalty,” Sully said, eyeing her up, thinking. “The feds do. They’ll claim jurisdiction, a case like this. So they’ll kick it out of 500 Indiana over to 333 Constitution.” He indicated this with a jerk of his head, the federal courthouse being catty-corner across Marshall Park.

  “So the State,” she said, nodding, “is going to want to medicate my client into sound mental health so that—”

  “—that, that, they can execute him,” Sully said, finishing the sentence, getting it. “They’ll want to make him sane enough to execute.”

  She patted his knee, teasing, playfully patronizing, but her tone betraying an undertone of bitterness. “Exxxactly. Know what a legal conundrum is? When the best thing you can do for your client is to keep him mentally ill.”

  “Don’t they call this a Hobbesian trap?”

  “I thought it was a Catch-22. As his lawyer, it would be insane for me to make him sane. And no, you can’t quote my quote.”

  He started to respond but she was already gone, the Door to Hell swinging open, her client emerging, the room coming alive, the air gaining a static charge.

  * * *

  Waters entered, flanked by two U.S. marshals, one on each side, holding an elbow, another walking close behind. They had him in an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, his black hair pulled back in a ratty ponytail. He had a scraggly beard. One eye partially swollen shut, deep bags beneath them both, like he’d been up all night. A red gash on the right side of his forehead. Sully put his height at about five foot eleven, not that tall, really, slender if not muscular, hard to tell with the jumpsuit.

  His hands were cuffed in front of him and a chain ran down to a pair of leg restraints, making him rattle when he walked. But the most startling thing about him, the one thing that stood so wildly out of place, was his demeanor. He did not smile, he beamed, absorbing the energy of the courtroom. He moved forward by shuffling his feet in a kind of jig, looking out at the crowd, happy as a clam. For a second, Sully thought he was going to wave when they made eye contact.

  The spectator gallery came to attention, the small talk dying, even the babies seeming to hush, people turning now to see. The courtroom artist, perched in the jury box, his charcoal pencil skittering across the pad with such speed that it could be heard across the room, the only image from today that the outside world would see.

  The deputy clerk, seated just in front of the judge, scarcely looked up. Her monotone, born of a thousand days and a million defendants, had all the spontaneity and excitement of a washing machine clicking over to the rinse cycle. “Your Honor, now before the court, we have the United States versus Terry Running Waters, criminal case two zero two eight. Counsel, please introduce yourself for the record.”

  Sully had been so absorbed in the theater of Waters’s entrance that he had not noticed that the regular bull-pen attorney for the U.S. attorney’s office had stepped to the side, and Wes Johnston, a no-bullshit veteran, had materialized from a rear door and was now in the well of the court. He’d hoped Eva Harris would draw the assignment, his best source over there, but no such luck.
Johnston was built like a linebacker, with a shaved head and a thin goatee; he looked like he’d just as well punch you out as prosecute you.

  “Assistant U.S. Attorney Wesley Johnston, Your Honor, for the United States.”

  “Janice Miller, Your Honor, PDS, representing Mr. Waters.”

  “I’m Terry,” Waters said brightly, leaning forward, nudging Janice with a friendly elbow. “Terry Waters.”

  Estes looked up, mildly, and said, “Thank you.”

  A nervous titter ran through the gallery.

  “Your Honor,” the clerk continued, “the defendant is charged with nine, no, make it ten counts of first-degree murder while armed, twelve counts of attempted murder while armed, multiple counts of assault with a deadly weapon, multiple counts of assault, illegal possession of a firearm, and,” her voice trailed off, scanning down the sheet in front of her, “multiple other federal charges related to crimes of violence.”

  “Your Honor,” Wesley started, “we have an affidavit from two detectives, which should be in front of you, stating there is probable cause in this case, on these and other charges—the charging document isn’t complete—and we’re going to ask you to find, ah, to find probable cause here. We’re requesting Mr. Waters be held pending a hearing in federal court on Monday.”

  Estes looked down at the paperwork in front of him and said, “The pretrial services report? Do we have that?”

  The deputy clerk turned and whispered to him, Estes leaning over the bench to hear.

  “It’s incomplete, I believe, Your Honor, if I may,” Janice said. “It’s been something of an exercise to get information from Mr. Waters.”

  “‘GALVESTON, OH GALVESSSTTTOOON,’” Waters burst out into song, the deputy clerk jumping in spite of herself, the judge’s head snapping up as he sat back in his seat. “I STILL SEE YOUR SEA WAVES CRASHING . . . AH, SHE WAS TWENTY—”

  And a marshal was up in his face, pointing a warning finger, Waters cutting off the singing but doing some little doo-dah, doo-dah dip with his knees, like he was about to segue into “Camptown Races,” the spectator gallery erupting, reporters leaning forward, bursting into nervous laughter, elbowing the guy next to them, finally, finally something they could lead the broadcast with, top off the story, the long day not a waste after all, this guy was—

  “Mmmiiisssstttteeerrr Waters,” Estes said, patiently, leaning forward, the din in the spectator gallery dropping off. The judge looked over his glasses at Waters and cut his gaze to Janice, who was already nodding. “Are you with us today?”

  “Yes, sir!” Waters said brightly. “Right here.”

  “Do you understand you’re in a court of law?”

  “Sir, I do, really. I do.”

  “Okay. Then you know we can’t have any more outbursts like that, correct?”

  “Sir, I just love the song. Also, I have seen many Negroes today. This is also what I have on my mind.”

  Another twitter from the gallery, this time drawing a glare from Estes.

  “Ms. Miller, are we going to have a problem?”

  “No, Your Honor.” She turned and whispered to Waters, who nodded rapidly.

  “Okay then,” Estes said. “Okay. The pretrial report. Everyone just sit still a minute.” He sifted papers, then settled on a sheaf of stapled paperwork, scanned the front of it, then flipped a page, it being so quiet you could hear the pages rattle.

  Sully eyed Waters, shaking his head without being aware of it.

  “‘I CLEAN MY GUN AND DREAM OF GALVESTON,’” Waters bellowed, this time more on key, as if it were coming back to him, the melody.

  “Mr. Waters,” Estes said, unperturbed.

  The marshal got back in front of Waters, whispering fiercely, his face red with fury, the veins at the top of his balding forehead pulsing. The second marshal stepped in tight behind the defendant. The third marshal came from beside the Door to Hell, flanking Waters on his right.

  Estes finally looked up. “Ms. Miller?”

  “Your Honor, we’re not going to contest probable cause. But this sounds like a random shooting, so we’ll ask those first-degree charges be set as second-degree while armed, at most, as there’s no evidence presented of premeditation, that Mr. Waters was carrying out some sort of planned act.”

  Wesley leaned forward to speak into the microphone: “He came to the Capitol building with two semiautomatic firearms, other weapons concealed in a backpack. Premeditation. First degree.”

  Estes nodded. “I’m going to find probable cause, which, by federal statute in the District of Columbia, requires me to order that the defendant be held until further notice.”

  “Could we get a twenty-four-hour screening at St. E’s, Your Honor?” Janice said. “Mr. Waters has had lifelong mental-health issues, apparently, and has been without a fixed address for quite some time, at least since his father died. It’s been difficult to communicate.”

  “You’re saying he can’t assist in his defense or he’s psychotic.”

  “Either. Both. I would argue he meets both prongs of the standard. I think we’re going to wind up with a thirty-day eval at St. E’s, but for now, if we could just get the screening.”

  “Counselor?” Estes said, turning to Wesley.

  “No problem with that.”

  “And, Your Honor,” Janice said, “let me introduce this to the court now. Should the issue of forced medication arise, we’re going to object as invasive and prejudicial to—”

  “Okay, problem,” Wesley cut in.

  “—basic best interest, I know, I hear you, I’m just making sure we’re on record as—”

  “This seems preemptive, Ms. Miller,” Estes said.

  “—as, as, I, well, Your Honor. I suppose. It is. But this is very clearly going to come before the court, and I wanted our position clear.”

  “You can argue that over at 333 Constitution at the appropriate time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Other business?”

  The attorneys shook their heads.

  “It is so ordered that Mr. Waters will have a twenty-four-hour screen. This matter will be taken up on Monday by Judge Arrington, in district court, but we are likely looking at a full thirty-day psychiatric eval in St. E’s, given this case’s nature.”

  Bang bang went the gavel and it was done, Wesley and Janice putting away their papers, the deputy clerk asking the marshal, over an open mic, if there were any more cases. The man turned to ask his colleague and Sully saw it, even before it happened.

  Terry Waters leaned back from the hips, as if he were a man leaning out of his window trying to see something on his roof. Then he rocked forward and snapped his forehead into the marshal in front of him. It caught the man off guard and in the temple. It made a sound like two croquet balls colliding. The marshal dropped, out cold even before his knees buckled.

  Janice and Wesley turned. The marshals behind and to Waters’s right came forward. The gallery audience bolted to their feet, the court artist dropped his sketch, the room off kilter and gone wrong, erupting, as Waters bunny-hopped in his leg chains toward the bench.

  “DO YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTAIN ME, YOU BLACK-ROBED PIECE OF SHIT? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA OF MIRIAM’S POWERS? DO YOU KNOW THE REIGN OF DEATH YOU—”

  He was at the front of the dais by then, the deputy clerk ducking below her seat, Estes rising, banging his gavel and yelling, the marshals tackling Waters from the back and the side, Sully standing to see it, Waters’s head hitting the wooden dais, going down to his left and sideways, the two marshals piling on top of him. And still, you could hear him, cackling, bursting into a laugh that ricocheted off the ceiling and the cheap fluorescent lights, words that shot over those assembled in their spittle-flecked madness:

  “THIS IS THE SHIT, WHOOO!!!”

  FIFTEEN

  “THAT LITTLE SHIT STAIN is going to
be at St. E’s a lllonnnggg time,” R.J. muttered, looking at the story on the computer screen.

  Sully and Keith were standing behind him, looking over either shoulder, the newsroom all but empty at this hour. Eddie was in his office, reading the story on a printout, glasses down on the end of nose, copy editors at their desks, eternally slouched in front of their screens, the last barricade against reportorial failures of grammar, common sense, and third-grade mathematics.

  The rest of the place, save for the guys in Sports, had gone dark. It gave the low-slung cubicles and filing cabinets a lonesome atmosphere, where sound traveled and the dimmed lights in the hallways absorbed the echoes.

  “Shoots up the Capitol, goes ape shit in C-10?” R.J. rattled, twiddling the cursor back and forth. “He’s going to be the next Hinckley up there at St. E’s. An institution at the institution.”

  “Nobody is happier about that than Jodie Foster,” Keith said, staring at the screen. “R.J., let’s put ‘bizarre’ back in the lede. ‘Waters’s bizarre outburst.’”

  R.J. half turned in his seat, arching a bushy eyebrow.

  “You don’t think a mass killer breaking into a Glen Campbell song and assaulting a marshal in court is bizarre on its face?” He put it back in, his fingers on the keyboard. “You think we got to explain that?”

  They all looked at it.

  “Never liked ‘Galveston,’ all that much, myself,” Sully said, thinking it over. “Now, ‘Gentle on My Mind,’ that’s your quality Glen Campbell.”

  “He sang ‘Rhinestone Cowboy,’” R.J. said, “I’da shot him myself.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” Keith said. “Take it back out.”

  Eddie came out of the office, flipping the sheets on the story, not even looking up, coming to an abrupt stop at the side of R.J.’s desk. “Do we know who this ‘Miriam’ is that he was raving about?”

  “No,” Sully said. “That whole thing was off, you ask me. He was not anything like that, the times we talked.”

  Eddie shifted his feet, staring at the papers in front of him, deciphering his scribbled notations. “Maybe his meds wore off once he was in lockup. And look, there’s nothing in the piece, no charges, about him shooting up La Loma, taking potshots at Sully.”