Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  “You’re a licensed foster home. Was Family Services behind the work?”

  “I kept asking the crew, and each time they insisted they didn’t know who hired them, that the money was paid up front. As they completed the job and drove away, the foreman handed me a sealed envelope.” Shondra opened a tiny drawer in the end table next to her and passed me a handwritten note which read:

  Dearest Mrs. McKinney,

  The poor people in our neighborhood like to say, “What goes around, comes around,” but Justice is indeed blind, her scales are tipped, and her visits to us are infrequent. You are, and have been, a source of strength and comfort to me. You gave me hope when you held me to your heart and said you loved me. I didn’t believe you at first, I couldn’t, that was survival instinct on my part, but in time you taught me not to hate myself and gave me the courage to face my lot in life. Your home was an oasis for me and many others. One day I asked why you took in kids and you said, “I’m changing the world one person at a time.” I will never forget you and Jimmie, may his soul rest in peace. If not for you I would have committed suicide by cop years ago. You urged me to make the best of my abilities. I tried, I really did, and I hope you won’t judge me too harshly. I’m trying to change my world one person at a time.

  You tore down the walls I'd constructed around myself. I wish I’d been able to keep them down. In return for your love I give you a wall. May you keep the home fires burning for future lost souls and discarded innocents. I got the better end of the deal by far.

  LW

  It was the same elegant calligraphic script as Coretta's letter. Not by Lonnie Washington's hand, and I didn't know what to make of these letters.

  I looked up and Shondra’s eyes were red, a tissue in her hands.

  “My benefactor left no paper trail. Many years ago, Family Services placed a teenager with us who didn’t speak a word for weeks. He wouldn’t even look us in the eye. He’d run away from countless foster homes. Bullies beat him because he was small and weak. I came to realize there was something different about him—he had a quiet intensity. He never was much of a talker, but when he spoke, he had something worth saying. He was so attuned to learning the right way to do things, no matter how small. School came easy to him, he could read something once and remember it, but his passion was painting on canvas.

  “The teenager I knew for two years back then never raised a fist in anger or uttered a harsh word. I realize that was a long time ago and an ocean of water has passed under the bridge. Has he changed? Did the world harden him so? Is it me or has the world gone mad, Dr. Adams?”

  “You’re not mad, Mrs. McKinney, but I’m not sure about the rest of the world.”

  Back at the car, my phone rang. It was a 911 call from Detective Baker. Ty and DeAndre were nowhere in sight.

  He was in a heated argument with someone on his end of the line when I returned his call. I heard him say he was going to use somebody’s head for a soccer ball if they didn’t deliver as promised. I heard a woman in the background weeping. He said, “There’s been another arrest. I’ll be over for the six o’clock news.” Before I could ask who, he’d hung up.

  $ $ $

  I made an early dinner of grilled chicken quesadillas with sharp cheddar cheese, ripe avocado, Arkansas tomatoes, lettuce, lime salsa, and fresh cilantro on flour tortillas. I washed them down with a dark Negra Modelo in a frosty mug. I felt a good kind of tired tonight, after my first work out and three mile run in I don't know how long.

  This had been my life of Riley before Kris's murder.

  Maybe I was tired of rotting on the couch.

  Or I’d licked my wounds long enough.

  Maybe it was the fear of Skinny’s prophecy.

  Or the thinly veiled threats from Fallon.

  The dishes were soaking in the sink when Baker showed up with a grim look and a twelve-pack. We sat again on my front porch.

  “They caught the big man,” he said, popping open a can.

  Tyrone Sparks, with the sloping forehead and menacing stare. “He was the muscle of the group, right?”

  He made a face and handed me a beer. “They took him down a block from home. I’m not surprised, but I hoped it wouldn’t happen.”

  “You’re a homicide cop and you’re disappointed a felon’s off the streets?”

  He ignored my statement and said, “Worst thing is they separatin’ him and the little brother in jail.”

  “How do you know?”

  He wiped his Fu Manchu and crushed the can with two fingers. “A little birdie told me.”

  “Is the birdie named Skinny?”

  He ignored me again and looked at his watch. We went inside. “Your groupie’s about to come on. Got any chips?”

  I offered Baker the sofa while I rummaged for a half-full bag of lime chips in the pantry and a Bitter Lemon for myself.

  The credits for some popular show about a beautiful but tormented crime-fighting eighteen-year-old orphan with supernatural and time-traveling powers were rapidly scrolling down the screen as I sat down. That could happen.

  Debbie Macklin’s big hair filled the screen as she announced a breaking Channel Four news story. “Channel Four is pleased to be the first station to air the capture of a second alleged member of the St. Louis counterfeiting gang. City police safely and quickly apprehended this dangerous man, and the exclusive amateur video you are about to see was taken by a private citizen during the tense police action. If you have young children near the TV at home, you may not wish to have them watch what we are about to show.…”

  The screen bounced and jiggled while the cameraman tried to narrate the action in clipped, excited phrases as he jogged to keep pace. Figures quickly darted in and out of camera range, momentarily lost while running behind parked trucks and buildings. Six or seven cops entered and left the screen at various times during the intense foot chase until the large subject was surrounded in the middle of Cote Brilliant Street. Two cops aimed pistols at the man and fired point blank. The large man staggered like Frankenstein from the Taser charges until finally collapsing. A brief but rough take-down allowed the cameraman time to focus on the rigid face of Tyrone Sparks lying on his stomach, blood flowing from his mouth to the cracked pavement, his head tilted to the right and wrists secured behind his back with zip ties, a cop kneeling on his back. Then the handheld camera bounced wildly, showed nothing but a dull gray sky, and the screen went black.

  Debbie’s face briefly returned to fill the screen until a mug shot of an unsmiling Tyrone Sparks appeared. Coal dark eyes glared at the camera and the side shot displayed his prominent forehead. Debbie’s voice-over intoned: “Tyrone Sparks was taken into custody today after resisting arrest near his north city home. A warrant had been issued for his arrest concerning his possible involvement in the alleged counterfeiting ring based out of Brother-Hood Printers, a printing press on the north side where Mr. Sparks is employed. The Secret Service and city police are questioning him about his role in the alleged crime and hope he can provide information leading to the apprehension of the other employees. As you can see from the graphic video, Mr. Sparks attempted to flee, ignoring officers’ commands to stop. He required two separate shots from electric Taser stun guns before the large and unusually strong man could be safely subdued.”

  The screen cut to previously shown pictures as Debbie continued, “Now the search intensifies for the other two men—Earl Mooney and Benny Blades. Investigators have been working around the clock to find that one break in the case that will lead to the other employees of the printing company who appear to have gone into hiding after the arrest of Lonnie Washington. Chief Prosecutor John Maynard, Jr., had this to say about today’s news.…”

  Baker belched as if on cue when the screen cut to the chiseled face of Maynard, seemingly at home with a bank of microphones in his face. He smiled and said, “I am excited about our police force taking yet another extremely dangerous criminal off the streets and confident the apprehension of Mr. S
parks will lead to more information and arrests. I want to thank our brave policemen and women who work long hours to keep the public safe from people like this known felon. We have shut down their operation and are systematically flushing out and capturing these dangerous criminals. You have my word, this is not over. It’s only a matter of time before justice is served.”

  Then the screen returned to the same pictures of Benny Blades and Earl Mooney as Debbie’s voice-over said, “Once again, these are the remaining suspected counterfeiters. If anyone in our viewing area sees these men, do not initiate contact but call the police immediately at the number on the bottom of the screen. There is a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for useful information leading to their arrest.”

  Debbie’s wispy body and big hair returned to the screen as she wrapped up the main story. “For more on the sinister and shadowy world of counterfeiting, be sure to watch the first of my two-part special that airs tomorrow at 6 p.m.”

  Baker said, “Got any dip to go with these?”

  I shut off the TV and remained seated.

  “Dip helps my crime fightin’ skills. Huntin’ down bad guys is hard work. Salsa’ll do in a pinch.”

  I returned with the leftover quesadilla mixture, much to Baker’s surprise, who said, “Now it’s a party.”

  “Why are they sequestering Lonnie from Tyrone if they're both in general population?”

  He popped open another cold one and took a long pull. “So the big man can’t protect the little brother. They tryin' to get into their heads; play one against the other. Somebody’s orchestratin’ a master plan and pullin’ strings.”

  “I think Maynard plans to steal Lonnie’s money and kill him.”

  Baker whistled. “Don’ say that aloud again, Cool Breeze. You got no proof, and you’re wrong.”

  “You think so? Could it be the Secret Service?”

  “The Secret Service has ultimate jurisdiction over counterfeitin’ cases, but works with the local law. SS are the main interrogators and will offer deals and use psychological ploys to get Lonnie or Tyrone to rat the others in exchange for a lighter sentence and the hope of eventual freedom. Maynard convincin’ the judge to house Lonnie and have the trial here ain’t unusual. City and some county jails house federal prisoners all the time ’cause the Feds pay the jails to do it. I’d be shocked if the SS ain’t playin’ by the rules.”

  “Why do the names of the police chief and his top assistant suddenly show up on the arrest report and not Dan Quinn? It has to be Maynard and his men making a deal. He has his unblinking blue eyes on Lonnie’s money.”

  Baker nodded and worked his toothpick. “Keep that to yourself, too. I know he’s not after the little brother’s money, but I can’t tell you why.” He looked at the chip loaded with chicken and avocado in his meaty hands. “Damn, this shit ain’t half-bad for white people food.”

  “Beats Power bars and a pee jar. Would Tyrone roll over on Lonnie?”

  Baker popped another can. “They tight; known each other for years. I don’ think he would, but the SS is savvy. They’ll use his family against him.”

  “Why did I think you'd say that?”

  He played dumb and tossed me a beer. “My birdies tell me shit, but they not everywhere and don’ know everythin’.” His tone sobered as he leaned forward, “This gonna hit him hard. He may be ready to open up now. You need to get him to talk and soon.”

  I told Baker about the letters and mysterious help Coretta and Shondra received.

  He ignored it, waving it away with a giant hand. “Get him talkin’ ’fore it’s too late.”

  $ $ $

  “I heard about Tyrone. I’m sorry.”

  Lonnie lapsed into a prolonged silence. I feared I’d already lost him today.

  He looked thinner since our last meeting and I noticed a new development—a tic danced below his left eye, among other fresh bruises and strawberries.

  For minutes the tic was his only sign of life.

  Then he broke the silence: “I have to watch my back in here all the time.”

  “What’s it like?”

  His slight shoulders sagged. “Imagine being in a place where you can trust no one, where the only face you might rely on is a visitor and the only voice you might count on is the one you hear during your ten-minute phone call. Imagine a place where someone is always after you or trying to take something important from you; you’re being watched all the time, and not necessarily by the guards. All the while you have to watch everyone else. You’re in an environment that is not always violent, but forever hostile. I worry most in the areas where the cameras don’t reach. You have to sleep with one eye open all the time, you’re always vulnerable, never able to rest or relax. You constantly walk a tightrope and everyone waits for you to fall, waiting for you to slip. You’re trapped in a place where you long for just one moment of solace. That’s what it’s like,” he said as his gaze hardened.

  “You mentioned the guards. How do they treat you?”

  He looked at the door behind me. “Some are decent, others dehumanize or demonize me, but the overall feeling is one of utter disdain, in their words and looks. They are trained to demoralize. Today Zack Johnson gloated about Tyrone’s arrest while his brother Wilbur said, ‘Don’t get your hopes up, that big buck won’t ever get a chance to protect you in here.’”

  I motioned to his eye. “Your stress is increasing. How can I help?”

  “You can’t. I’m handling it the best I can.” He nodded slowly. “The guards make sure bad news spreads quickly. Anything that demoralizes prisoners is viewed as an effective means to exert control. They made sure I watched the news today. Maynard called Tyrone extremely dangerous, painted a picture that he was an out-of-control mad dog.”

  “Did he not do three years for assault?”

  He assessed me with cool, calculating eyes. “He did.”

  I looked at him, awaiting more.

  “You met his wife Shirley at my momma’s. Six years ago, Shirley was his girlfriend and they went to dance at a club after dinner to celebrate their engagement. A drunk made a pass at her, which she politely rejected. When they left, the drunk and two of his buddies followed them to the parking lot with broken beer bottles. Tyrone wanted to drive away, but they attacked and it got ugly. He had to hurt all three to protect Shirley. I’m sure he’d do it again if he had to. Turned out one of the drunk’s buddies was connected to a local, high-powered lawyer who mopped the floor with Tyrone’s court-appointed one. He may look scary, but he’s a teddy bear long as no one messes with Shirley or their kids. The judge sent him away for three years in what was a clear case of self-defense. That’s the complete story of his conviction, but the news didn’t report that, did they?”

  “No, they did not.”

  His head bowed toward the metal table and for the first time, he looked defeated. “I warned him to resist visiting Shirley and the kids if we ever had to retreat to our hideouts. They staked out his home, of course. His family is like air to him. He felt he had to see them.”

  This was his first oblique admission of felony involvement.

  “They will try to break him, but he doesn’t know where the others are. I fear they will threaten to make life even more difficult for Shirley and the kids. Who knows what a man will say or do when pushed to the extreme?” The tic quivered as if in response to his own question.

  “Has the interrogation been rough?”

  “The local police are cupcakes compared to the Secret Service. They’re smarter and the intimidation is subtle and much more psychological. They offered a lighter sentence, the hope of seeing the outside again and my family if I give up Earl. They say Earl’s old and dying anyway, which is true. If I don’t, I'm gone for life. It’s a Hobson’s choice.”

  “Why do they want him so?”

  “For his mind. I had the talent, but he was my mentor. He’s probably one of the last true artisans of the craft. They want to make certain his knowledge is never passed down. Sixt
y-five years ago, a sage old man descended from slaves and one-eighth Indian, Cletus Jackson, had no sons of his own. He noticed Earl’s talents and took him under his wing, grooming him as an apprentice engraver. Like his daddy before him and his granddaddy before that. The last act of a master counterfeiter is to find and train a prodigy to continue the craft and, no, I did not pass on my knowledge.”

  I wondered about that. “Do they beat you during the interrogations?”

  He shook his head, but the tic remained. “The local cops threaten to hand me to the white supremacists or the Mexican prison gang since the pregnant guard I supposedly shot is Mexican-American. One guard enjoys tripping me when I’m shackled because I have horrible balance from my club foot. That cut in my scalp you saw when I first spoke to you? He stuck his foot out. The SS will say things like ‘I wonder who’ll take care of your momma if you go away for the rest of your life,’ or ‘Your momma lives all alone in a bad neighborhood, it’d be a shame for her if Tyrone makes the deal with us instead of you, so tell us where the others are.’ I’m used to threats and beatings, but forever is a long time. I’m only human.” He shook his head and a look of determination returned to him. “I’m going to stay strong and see my work finished.”

  Plans for the future, bleak though it may be. “You never were suicidal, were you?”

  His right hand moved automatically in the air as he drew another imaginary picture. He’d been doing less air drawing this week. A smirk crossed his face briefly.