by Estes, Danny
With the knowledge of who might be inside, Randolph tried to swallow back the bile fouling his mouth and licked dry lips as he pulled out the building’s access card. If I’d had the time to set up my normal security measures, this trip wouldn’t be necessary. If I hadn’t left in such a hurry, if,if,if… Randolph scolded himself. With the knowledge he was only stalling the inevitable, Randolph rubbed his sweaty palms dry on his sweat pants, took a deep breath and dashed across the street shoving the card key home. Click, the undeniable sound of the magnetic lock on the plastic-steel door sounded. With a yank on the door the instant the computer registered his office ID number, Randolph rushed in.
Once inside, the feeling of a bright neon target painted on his back by targeting electronics melted away. However, Randolph’s elation of this victory evaporated the instant he was a few steps in. No! his mind screamed as he stopped in his tracks. With another silent denial to what his eyes were showing him, Randolph tried unsuccessfully to retrace his steps because a bulky body moved in between him and the door, jarring him into an uncomfortable stop. The very next instant before Randolph could side step the human blockage, he felt the unmistakable pressure of a pistol pressed up against his spinal cord.
Randolph’s perspiration flew into overdrive as his eyes registered too late the four musclemen resting comfortably in the unadorned lobby couches. NO! Heaven above no…! They shouldn’t be here! I purposely showed off other avenues of escape I could use to sneak in or out of this building!
Totally at a loss, Randolph looked on the group who by all rights should be elsewhere in the building, spread out to cover three other points of entry, not to mention the roof. So seeing them all gathered in this unadorned lobby meant he had granted them far more intelligence then they held. Or perhaps I underestimated their numbers! Randolph removed his eyes from this improbability to turned and look on the wall blocking his way out. He tilted his face up to view the Neanderthal with a uni-brow across both eyes, and upon seeing his menacing grin, knew he held no chance in removing this obstacle. With no need to broadcast his level of intelligence to Randolph, the big fellow motioned with a huge protruding chin that Randolph should walk right on in as he had been doing. Unable to render a justifiable reason why he should not, Randolph tried to swallow, then felt the reason against his side why he should obey the silent command.
For once in his life, while his heart did a double twist nose dive into building stomach acids, Randolph regretted his conviction to never carry a weapon. But even if he had, situations like tonight would still have found him in this same predicament. So even lamenting his choice, he would still be here, slowly raising his hands to inform the row of badly-tailored line backers he held no weapon to endanger their lives.
Unable to influence matters until a change in his favor presented itself, Randolph watched the worst of the lot, the one with more intelligence than the whole group combined, calmly fold up the paper he’d been reading before standing.
Encircled by the five heavies, whose mothers apparently ignored basic nutrition requirements in child care, preferring to raise their sons on beef byproducts and steroids, Randolph watched in mounting dread as Mr. Stanton crossed the badly-polished, dull white floor, dressed smartly in fashionable black dress shoes.
The brick wall dressed in a blue-stripped Harmanii business suit brushed off imaginary lint on the sleeve, before he tugged on a 2,000 credit diamond cuff-link as a signal to his men he wished to speak to his captive. “My dear Mr. McCann,” he began with a voice basted in malice, nailing Randolph’s wide eyes with his own hard gray ones. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see you whole and unhurt. Especially after the all-points bulletin on my police band,” he calmly showed off the very illegal card scanner just inside his inner jacket pocket as he switched it off. “Why, by the sound of the chatter, you managed to upset two city precincts, which I must say caused me some misgivings in regards for your safety. But thankfully, here you are.” Mr. Stanton smiled then, like the proverbial cat before he devoured the mouse. “But upon my word, you don’t look likewise pleased to see me and my associates.” The mountain man, whose manicured fingernails looked well out of place, frowned down on Randolph as if he were genuinely aggrieved to learn of this, regardless of what his cold gray eyes said. “This sentiment, of course, could not be from not accomplishing your task this night,” Mr. Stanton then announced, “as Mr. Hilden very plainly explained the consequences. So I can only surmise your current state of anxiety could only be derived from being uncomfortable in my presence.” Mr. Stanton allowed a false look of sadness to touch his facial muscles before he continued, “I am thusly very hurt, Mr. McCann. I had thought our prior meeting was rather enjoyable. But now I plainly see that you’re shaking in my very presence. Very well,” he said as if being reasonable, “If you’ll but hand over the package you acquired from Mr. Henderson’s home office safe, my men and I will depart, and no more need be said or done between us.”
Randolph tried to wet dry lips with a dry tongue while he thought furiously. If only he could recalibrate his brain. If,if,if… he berated himself, knowing it was futile to render up excuses but he had to say or do something! “Look Mr. Stanton,” Randolph began lamely, “I tried! I really did try, but I’m not one of your fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants sort of thief. I told Mr. Hilden that, you heard me! It takes months for me to setup a properly executable job, not days!”
Mr. Stanton frowned with an evil smile which spoke louder than words he’d never expected Randolph to achieve his task. “So you were unsuccessful?” Mr. Stanton asked needlessly with a shake of his head as if he were even remotely saddened at Randolph’s failed attempt.
“Look, please,” Randolph threw into the silent moment of false remorse. “I have 50 thousand credits in an island account. I’d be glad to give them to you if you were to simply misplace me. Give me five minutes, just five minutes head start and I’ll disappear.”
“Tsk tsk, Mr. McCann. Have a little back bone. You failed in your appointed task, pure and simple,” Mr. Stanton announced with distaste, taking out a hypo-dart pistol. Randolph’s eyes locked on the conceivably deadly weapon that could be supplied with harmless sedatives, or a kaleidoscope of non-traceable poisons. Regardless of whatever Mr. Stanton had chosen to insert into the barrel of his pistol, the consequences would be dire. But before Randolph could fall to the floor to cast aside the remnants of any dignity he may still own, Mr. Stanton pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Two
Randolph became aware of himself sometime later, sitting at his desk. He raised his head, feeling as if he’d had one too many boilermakers and blinked several times. Without any true consciousness of his actions, he took note that his monitor was on and the computer was actively running cheaply-designed intrusion software he’d never use. With a mouth tasting of dry cotton, Randolph smacked his lips and sat slowly up but found he was unable to manipulate his hands properly to acquire a cup of cold tea left on the desk. Still unsure as to why this was, and why he heard the office door slam open, Randolph fought to gather his wits and make sense of the pounding feet attached to bodies attired in Special Forces equipment. Just able to swivel his executive chair a bit Randolph looked blurry-eyed on three laser rifles trained on him before another body passed them by to cast him to the floor face first. Without hesitation the man strapped his arms and legs together in record time as if he were a rodeo bull in an old western video.
“Suspect is down and in custody,” was the unnecessary yell above his prone body.
“Fan out and search the rooms,” someone else shouted, which added to Randolph’s pounding head. The feet about him moved away save one set, which moved one foot to apply weight to the center of his back with the added coldness of a riffle barrel planted to the base of his neck. A precaution which could damaged his spine or takes his life, which ever the officer felt appropriate, should he try and resist. But as Randolph marveled over why he was still alive rather than dead, he gave the
armed officer no reason to put him in a wheelchair or incinerate his head.
“Lieutenant, have a look here,” someone called from a closet across the room. His vision clearing, Randolph saw the officer open up a wooden crate he’d never seen before and pull out a strip of plastic explosive he knew with a certainty should not have been here. Randolph would never incriminate himself so easily, nor endanger the lives of any local residents so unnecessarily.
He closed his eyes and moaned in despair. Mr. Stanton has set me up to take the fall for something. Now the question remains, how bad is it? To this realization, Randolph sighed. The court system likes open and shut cases regardless if they are or not. I just hope I get a competent lawyer who will do more than a look-see into where the equipment came from.
After an hour on the floor while the trained men collected five or six items Randolph never acquired for the Henderson job, the officers gathered around him and applied body restraints. Four men then strapped him to a pole and hefted it up onto their shoulders to carry him out; a standard procedure for any dangerous suspects to restrict any chance of escape while transported through an unsecured area. Next came a short trip to the city jail still suspended within the vehicle; another precaution against any conceivable means of harm to the men present in the vehicle’s cabin. Randolph then was carried out and placed in a holding cell where processing could begin.
After only a short time, Randolph was forced into an enclosed booth with half of one side made up of a glass-steel mirror plate, for observation. He was then instructed none too cordially to strip bare before restraint rings were applied to wrists and ankles by a robotic arm. Next came the unpleasant white room, where the magnetic rings were activated, a rather painful experience that resulted in his arms and legs being snapped out like Leonardo Da Vinci’s depiction of the human body. Here three different chemicals sprayed over Randolph’s body, one to dissolve every strand of body hair, a second to clean his skin of any objectionable germs and finally a third, to disinfect him of any stubborn air borne illnesses or chemicals. Next his arms and legs came together as if he were preparing for a high dive, so a rotating cylinder from the roof could slowly descend to take X-rays and videos of his outer and inner body structure. This unobtrusive technique by the aid of computers could now make a complete rendering of his body to produce his image in any position or outfit to better ID him in any disguise.
After all this humiliation, Randolph finally sat dressed in a bright red coverall, in a gray cell, five feet by five feet, three hours after hitting the jail, as yet without a clue to the charges against him. But this is normal, he reminded his overactive imagination. Criminals should already know why they’re here. However, being set up as a fall guy by Mr. Stanton, Randolph was one of a small minority uncertain of his actual crimes in a system built to process criminals in wholesale fashion.
Given five days to sit on his butt and wonder over the matter, while the charges were tallied and a sentence agreed upon before the kangaroo-court would convene for the public records, Randolph’s appointed hour for the public hearing arrived.
With the arrival of grim-faced court deputies, Randolph’s restraints activated to a touch of a button, bringing his arms and legs together. Once he was settled on a robotic transport, the group of them, including two city guards as redundancy measure, saw him to the elevator platform. This decadent precaution had been established long before the restraints and robotic transport were incorporated to make certain no prisoners disappeared before the elevator could lift the defendant up into the courtroom.
Thus, without incident, Randolph was brought up into a glass enclosure, designed specifically so only the selected lawyer could hear the defendant’s boisterous complaints. A procedure put in place to protect the sensitive ears of judge and witnesses alike, should an unruly defendant decide to molest those gathered with objectionable profanity.
Once the elevator came to a halt, Randolph looked around the small oak-panel room which included ten witnesses on a pew, a middle aged bailiff, an ambitious looking judge, an old prosecutor, and Randolph’s all-too-young, snot-nosed-just-out-of-night-school lawyer. It appears Mr. Hilden is taking no chances, calling in a favor to make my incarceration a certainty. Randolph looked skyward, with the knowledge he’d been royally screwed. The question now of course is how screwed? And with that thought, his so-called trial started.
The kid outside his inverted containment dome sat down and somehow managed to open his briefcase with trembling fingers. Possibly because this is his first courtroom appearance, Randolph surmised.
“Let the video recorders show all court personal and witnesses are present,” the bailiff called out. “Case number 37645AD, the city of Willing in the great state of Luashess, for the people. Mr. Prosecutor?” He finished without emotion before he backed away so a fat, balding, older man could activate his monitor which displayed on a liquid screen all charges attached to Randolph’s case file.
The prosecutor, who bore the weight of over-indulgent eating habits, stood as customary so all could see the anger instilled in his fat face for the atrocities the defendant committed. “As you can all see,” he began in a boisterous voice, “the charges against this unrepentant criminal are substantial. The defendant is accused with fifteen minor and seven major criminal acts which alone would render a life sentence. But those all pale before the willful murder and lack of consciousness for the lives of the whole Henderson family, including their pregnant daughter, five live-in servants, and the rape and murder of a chanced-upon jogger in the city’s recreational park only an hour or more after setting up a bomb in the Henderson’s three story mansion, causing it to collapse and kill all within.” The prosecutor then stroked his black tie with chubby fingers and a cold smirk on his lips as the room of people reacted to his brutal inflection of words on the charges against Randolph. This reasonable reaction of outrage also included Randolph’s own disbelief of the charges.
“The Henderson family wasn’t even home!” Randolph screamed to the room but the glass enclosure carried his voice only to his lawyer’s ear piece, which still lay in its cradle next to the kid’s briefcase. “They were over...aw damn-it-all.” Randolph exclaimed, as the true folly of his mistake sank in. They were over at Mr. Hilden’s home, per his invitation. Of all the stupidities I could have ever done. There was never any package to retrieve! Randolph sagged against the restraints. That was why Mr. Stanton was so smug. The whole thing was a set-up to get my DNA on the grounds and link me to the bomb, thereby killing off the family and leaving me the sole fall guy! But what he couldn’t at first understand was the jogger—why did they kill an innocent bystander? Then it hit him; the bomb had to be set off hours later when Mr. Hilden knew the whole family would be home. The death of the jogger had been the simplest way to get the wheels of corporate justice on the move. Any murder automatically put a person on the top of the list, rating a visit from the city’s Special Forces. Once an informant squealed out Randolph’s location, the specialized group would have mobilized and entered Randolph’s office minutes after Mr. Stanton left. A truly professional job, Randolph grudgingly admitted. He turned his face to peer at the snot-nosed lawyer whose slack-jawed face gave Randolph every confidence in the court system. With a look skyward for help, Randolph already could feel the imaginary needle of death slide into his arm.
“Mr. Hamming, how does your client plead?” The Judge questioned, his voice colored with loathing to further imprint what the kid’s choice of words should render.
“Uh, hmm,” the young man stumbled. He opened his collar with a finger and then straightened his tie. With a look to Randolph with fear plainly visible in his eyes, he never even attempted to pick up the ear piece to communicate with Randolph before he said with a squeaky voice, “Guilty as charged Your Honor.”
“So entered,” the judge declared and slammed his gavel down, totally ignoring that Randolph’s lawyer had never spoken to his client. “Mr. McCann,” the judge began. “Alias Bill Lenton
, John Thornton, and Bob Towner. This court of law has the pleasure of sentencing you to death. As you have pleaded guilty, the sentence will be carried out in three days’ time!” With a final drop of his gavel of justice, the judge called out, “Next case,” while Randolph, though ranting and raving within his restraints, was lowered out of the courtroom.
Ceremoniously charged with murder meant top security measures were applied to the prisoner to make certain he couldn’t deprive the grief-stricken families the pleasure of watching him die. But in Randolph’s case, as he had been convicted in the death of a corporate head, the kangaroo court took extra measures to be certain their prisoner didn’t off himself before the city could record his death. For executions of his notoriety were a profitable business, one guaranteed to bring in thousands of video sales at twenty credits a pop. This left no opportunity for Randolph to apply his very useful skills as a professional thief and escape artist, which left him, in three days’ time, taken to the injection room by the same robotic transportation unit and redundant guards. Unable to control his emotional state, however embarrassing it may have been while moved to the special viewing room, Randolph excitedly implicated Mr. Hilden in the deaths of the Henderson family and the park jogger. Even so, while he cited over and over he’d never take a human life, Randolph knew it would only be seen as a slanderous gesture.