The habitual motion struck me again as profoundly sad, reminding me of that panther pacing his cage perimeter, reduced to an automaton.
“You want to see your work completed. What do you mean?”
“They want me on constant edge and that’s where I am. Food, water, cigarettes, and protection are the four basic staples in here. Cigarettes, even though I don’t smoke, and my three squares buy me protection for now.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I know.”
“You’re not eating?”
He nodded.
“What does ‘protection for now’ mean?”
“Remember what I told you the first time we met?”
“Yes.”
“The writing’s on the wall,” he said with an edge in his voice.
“Is there someone I can talk to—your court-appointed lawyer, the superintendent, Sgt. Collins?”
He looked to the door. “There are things you do and things you don’t do in a place like this. There’s an unspoken code. I’ve seen inmates cross the line and it always comes back to bite them. You don’t rat another inmate and you never call out a guard. You do your time and don’t make waves.” He whispered, “I have friends. Everything I set out to do remains in motion.”
“May I share this with your friend from school?”
He nodded. “Promise you won’t tell Momma what it’s like in here. Tell her I’m doing fine.”
“I will, but she needs to see you. I know you don’t want her to see you like this, but you two need to meet soon, before things deteriorate. If convicted, they’ll transfer you to a federal prison farther away and it’ll be harder for your mother to visit.”
He looked at me and whispered, “There won’t be a trial.”
Sgt. Collins knocked and walked into the room to say our time was up.
“What are you saying?” I said.
He stared at the cold, pock-marked concrete block wall with a look of complete despair and turned away from me.
Who would make sure there is no trial?
$ $ $
Leaving the jail, a black Cadillac Fleetwood skidded to a halt in front of me and the driver window powered down to reveal the scarred face of Detective Baker. He wagged a finger at me. “Get in. We gonna take a little ride.”
The shabby interior smelled of stale sweat, fast food, and pork rinds. Juice cans and Power bar wrappers littered the front mat and back seat. Fuzzy yellow dice hung from the rear view mirror and the barrel of a shotgun protruded from under the bench seat.
He revved the engine. “I’m worried about the little brother, Cool Breeze. My snitches inside are spooked. They clammed up tight as a virgin’s legs on prom night. What’d he tell you?”
My training and code of ethics caused me to backpedal from that often asked question. I remembered Skinny’s fear that I was workin’ for The Man. A crazy idea hit me—could Baker be working for The Man?
He’s a homicide dick who’s holding out on me. He’s using me to prevent another crime, or so he says. Had he somehow conned me all this time? Had I forgotten the manipulation and threats from last year?
“What he and I talk about is confidential. You know that, JoJo.”
He glared at me a long time while he drove by feel. The more the car steered itself toward oncoming traffic the more anxious I grew and the more he stared at me with something like hate in those black eyes. His massive hands squeezed the steering wheel with such force I swear I heard it crack. At last he said, “’Fraid you’d say somethin’ like that.”
He slammed the undercover car to a screeching stop in the left traffic lane as the cars behind veered and quickly jockeyed around us to avoid a collision. He ignored the glares, horns, and fingers from passing motorists. He slid over on the bench seat so close the ubiquitous toothpick in his mouth stabbed my cheek and I smelled pork rinds on his breath.
“You and me about his only friends now. Fuck confidentiality. You gonna tell me what I want to know. What did … he tell you?”
“I’m beginning to believe he’s a modern-day Robin Hood.”
“You not understand the question?”
“Loud and clear. Skinny told me before this was over I’d either die or betray Lonnie. I want to prove her wrong.”
He backed away, surprised. “She grab your hands?”
I nodded. “She chanted strange names. Is she a voodoo priestess?”
I imagined a tiny doll of me in Skinny's raspy hand and a needle in the other if I disappointed her.
He didn’t answer. He looked grim, lost in thought. “Damn. Here’s the only deal you gonna get. I tell you somethin’ if you tell me everythin’ the little brother has said about the case.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’. Why would I be workin’ this on my own time if I wasn’t on the little brother’s side? Your Nervous Nellies take a leap of faith seeing you. Now’s your turn to jump.”
I closed my eyes. “Only if you go first.”
His eyes narrowed as if to challenge but he said, “You were half right. People want him dead when he’s no longer of value, but they not looking for his money.”
“They want the other shares because Lonnie’s has already been spent, or is in the process of being spent.”
He whistled, looking surprised. “Babe Sleuth just called his shot.”
This time my eyes narrowed. “The bills are perfect duplicates, aren’t they?”
“Proof’s in the puddin’. Word is that every bill of the little brother’s share has passed for real.”
“How do you know?”
He shook his head. “My turn. What’d the little brother tell you?”
I had a decision to make; Lonnie had given verbal consent to disclose privileged information to Baker if critical to his survival. “Tyrone’s arrest hurt him deeply. He opened up about life on the inside, how the Secret Service plays mind games, offering a lighter sentence if he gives up his co-conspirators. It’s strange. He admits to a role in the crime, but denies philanthropy. Prisoners are beating him, not the guards. He’s trading food and cigarettes for protection. He’s lost weight and the intense stress has produced a facial tic. He’s got a target on his back, is convinced his days are numbered unless he gives the SS Earl and Benny. He says he can't because he doesn't know where they are. He says the guards make him watch every news show about the case, especially Tyrone’s arrest.”
Baker perked up at that. “That can help us. Keep him talking about the case.”
We were still stopped in the left lane of traffic with no emergency flashers on. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Dunno, and that bothers me. When I have to react to what comes next it usually means I’m too late. The little brother is smart, and we may need his eyes and ears to help us find evidence we can use.”
“He’s preoccupied with death. Is there any way he can be sequestered from general population for his own safety?”
“Last thing I heard before my birdies quit singing was that his court-appointed made the request but the super nixed it. Two men have super’s ear—the police chief and Maynard.”
Baker slid back behind the wheel and negotiated a quick, illegal U-turn.
“That reminds me; I met Maynard at a party. He already knew I’d been seeing Lonnie in jail. Same goes for Fallon. Seems I make Maynard’s guard dog nervous. He fired a verbal warning shot that night. I'm convinced it was Maynard talking to Fallon in the mens’ room.”
For the first time he looked truly surprised. “You never cease to amaze. He and that little pit bull Fallon just put you at the top of their shit list.”
“Veiled threats from Fallon, all deniable.”
He smiled and slapped the wheel. “You been busy, Cool Breeze. I owe you. Usin’ your street cred, usin’ your contacts,” he looked at me and said, “Looks like you grew your pair back, so maybe we even.”
“I’ve met amazing, kind people in Lonnie’s neighbo
rhood, and some I hope to never see again. On both sides of the law.”
Baker had circled back to the front steps of Gateway City Jail. “Don’t jaywalk; don’t spit on the sidewalk. Watch yo’ ass, because every past and present aspect of your life is now bein’ investigated by Maynard's staff. Your family, friends, and associates, too. They’ll use shovels, anal probes, whatever it takes.”
Now that I had my cojones back, I wanted to keep them. Sitting back and waiting for the next bad event to happen wasn’t my style.
chapter thirteen
things we do for love
Tony and I had finished stretching and were taking shots before our one-on-one basketball game. He was taller, stronger, and heavier, but ten years older and my quickness and shooting usually made the difference in a half-court game. The tradition began years ago when Tony had his practice, when one of us needed to blow off steam or ask for a second set of ears with a difficult case.
The playground was deserted and I’d intentionally been quiet the entire time, swishing and banking jumpers. Tony eventually said, “So, what’s on your mind?”
“Dan Quinn. He’s missing.”
“Three days now, I hear,” he said, dribbling around the key and taking a shot.
I jumped to grab his rebound. “Officially missing. He ever do something like this before—be a no-show, no-call at work for days?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said with sudden cautiousness.
I dribbled around his flank and made a hook shot in the lane that he tried to block. “Huh. Maybe he stumbled into the wrong crime scene at the wrong time.”
“Being a cop is dangerous work.”
“My hunch is he’s already dead or running for his life.”
He glared at me, grabbed the ball, and bulled his way down the lane, pushing me backward with his bulk to make an easy lay-up.
“You got anything to back this up, other than one of your famous hunches?”
I palmed the ball at the top of the key and told him everything I knew, without mentioning Debbie.
He listened and said, “You’re certain it was Maynard and Fallon in the crapper? Whispered voices are much harder for witnesses to identify correctly. More often than not it turns out they were mistaken.”
“I’m sure.”
He frowned and said, “But Maynard told the world on TV almost all the money was impounded at the scene.”
“I think he was lying. Quinn would know that for certain, wouldn’t he?”
“You don’t have any proof; you’re placing too much trust in the word of a counterfeiter. That could land you in deep shit, grasshopper.”
“Alleged counterfeiter.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, smirking at my rebuttal. “Quinn's probably on a bender or got lucky in a bar.”
It was my turn to grin. “Lucky enough to jeopardize his twenty-and-out pension? He must have alcoholic amnesia or he hooked up with one hell of a woman.”
“Your theory involves a lot of lies and people—Maynard, his key staff, and a mole in the Secret Service.”
Not necessarily the last part.
I nodded. “You’re right, but a lot of money can turn smart people stupid. People have done worse for far less.”
I drove past him and swished a fade-away baseline jumper just over his outstretched arm.
“Shit!” he shouted after swatting nothing but air.
He really thought he’d blocked that one.
I felt the start of a sweat on my brow while I found a rhythm on the court. “I know cops, especially lonely and middle-aged ones, sometimes eat their guns. Could he be belly up in a cheap motel or cabin decomposing somewhere?”
Something I said seemed to make him pause and think. The belly of his shirt soaked with sweat, he stood palming the ball in his hand. “I’ll look at his file. I doubt it’ll help and that’s all I’ll do.”
With that, he powered down the lane again and pulled up for a shot in the paint. I leapt and blocked the ball, diving to the asphalt for possession before he could use his superior strength and position against me. I felt a burning pain. He cursed again when I came up with the ball, slamming hard into me, fouling me out of frustration. “You fast little fucker. You skinned the shit out of your knee, you crazy sonofabitch.”
“Thanks. Whatever you find I need tonight.”
“You're going to hell for this, you know.”
“I won't be alone. We all know how the road is paved.”
He was mouth breathing as he put a hand on my back to check me. “I can’t believe you took this no-win, pro bono case. What good can come from it?”
The question on everyone’s mind. “I took it for all the wrong reasons. I took it for myself.” At least pro bono means “for good” in Latin, and I already I felt the whole mess had done me some good. At least I was off the couch.
We left the court bloodied and completed our tradition by eating lunch at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. The fact that we’d moved seamlessly from warming up to our most intense physical play ever wasn’t lost on either of us.
$ $ $
When I met with Lonnie, his left eyelid was closed, red, and swollen. That didn't faze the tic, which quivered and twitched unevenly. His jaw was bruised and his eyes betrayed the same hardened, glazed-over quality as his mug shot. He leaned as close to me as his shackles allowed and I smelled the same unwashed fear and desperation I’d smelled the first time I entered this end-of-the-road place.
I sat down and said, “This was never about the money, was it?”
Minutes passed until he shook his head. “I did it for love.”
“Earl?”
He whispered, “He’s living on borrowed time.”
I waited for him to continue.
He coughed into his shackled palm as best he could, keeping his head bowed for some time. His narrow shoulders sagged like a collapsed tent as he leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial hush, “You’ve seen his picture. He's eighty-three years old, he needs an operation. Insurance calls it experimental even though hundreds have been done successfully. No hospital will let him through their doors without fifty grand up front. He’s borrowed against his business, double-mortgaged his house, has payments on the press. No bank would extend him another loan in this economy with his credit history. It was this, or kiss Skinny farewell and die.”
“Would you do it all over again?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Who shot the lady guard?”
He wetted his cracked lips, staring at the battered and scratched tabletop. “I don’t know. Earl hired local talent. Their leader had worked as a Treasury guard in the past and knew when and where the building was most vulnerable. They posed as security guards at shift change and their plan to substitute inferior quality paper and ink drums for the authentic supplies went smoothly until they reached the final security checkpoint. What the ex-guard didn’t know was that building security had been tightened the day before due to a recent rash of office computer thefts. All truck and car payloads leaving the building were subjected to multiple mandatory searches. The lady guard was clever, she discovered the hidden paper and ink. She drew her gun, but one of the robbers shot her. The crew narrowly escaped to claim their cut and deliver the goods. Earl told me everything went smoothly." He coughed.
“Why’d he lie?”
“He knew I wouldn’t have completed the plates if I’d known an innocent was hurt. The prosecutor will claim I’m only saying this because I was caught; anything I have to say about it now would fall on deaf ears. I’m ready to be judged on my actions, once they’re known. I’m confident you’ll put them in their proper context, but you’re still missing pieces.”
“How do you know the details of the robbery if Earl kept them from you?”
Regret crept into his face as he weighed his answer. “You’re a smart man. I talk to people. I listen to them and ask questions. Like you.” He coughed again.
He’s a midget version of Baker.
&nb
sp; “You’re being intentionally vague.”
“You’ll find the answer when you think about this later. It will mean more to you that way. I have complete trust in you now.”
His eyes shifted to the door behind me and I heard the guard coming in.
“One last question. When did you learn about the lady guard being shot?”
The door opened and the massive Johnson twins entered.
He doubled over and suffered through a lengthy coughing fit. He winced as he tried and failed to press his fingers to his brow, clearly in pain, his breathing suddenly labored. Thick gobs of fresh red blood colored his ink-stained palms. He managed to say, “The day I was arrested.”
I shouted to the guards, “This man needs to go to the infirmary now. He’s coughing up blood and bleeding internally.”
The Johnson twins stood dumbfounded until Sergeant Collins appeared at the door. He nodded for the twins to unchain and escort him to the infirmary. He told them to hurry, and this time I sensed compassion in his voice. As Lonnie left he turned to me and said, “Tell Momma I’m fine.” Collins and I watched the three men leave.
“What the hell is going on in here, Donnell? He’s scared of his own shadow and people are beating the shit out of him.”
He stared at me self-consciously as we stood by the visitation table.
“Well, aren’t you going to answer?”
He stared transfixed at the tabletop as if debating how to respond. Quickly looking around, he took me by the arm and directed me away from the stuffy room. “This is a prison, Dr. Adams. This prisoner is a physical runt and runts get picked on, have their food taken by force and are easy targets for larger, more aggressive inmates. A well-planned assault can be over in seconds. Runts get bullied on the outside, too.”
“They don’t get killed, Donnell. Do you watch him at all, or do the guards conveniently look the other way when instructed?”
His face hardened and his eyes narrowed. “You’re out of line, Doc. We can’t watch them all the time.”
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