The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  The next few minutes were a chaotic whirl. Barnes stepped to the back and pulled Keller from the car. Marie ran interference, placing herself between Barnes and Keller and the news team. It was a mistake. She was the one they had come to interview. “Officer Jones,” the brunette reporter yelped, “can you tell us how you lured the suspects into custody?” The implication was unmistakable. Marie didn’t answer, just gritted her teeth and bulled straight past them, with only a “no comment” escaping between her gritted teeth. Behind them, Keller caught a glimpse of Stacy with his hand on the back of DeWayne’s shirt. Puryear’s head was bowed as if he was trying to avoid the view of the camera, but with his hands bound, there was no way to shield his face from its blank, pitiless glass eye. Keller didn’t even try; he looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the camera or the reporter. The frustrated reporter tried to shove past Marie to point her microphone into Keller’s face. Marie straight-armed her, almost knocking her back into the cameraman who directly behind her left shoulder. Then they were through the heavy metal doors and into the building.

  “Hey, Raymond,” Billy Ray said. “take at look at this.”

  There were five men in the room: Raymond, Billy Ray, Geronimo, and the two soldiers that had come with Suarez. Geronimo had left with Suarez and returned without him, but with the back cargo area of the Suburban filled with long wooden crates. They had unloaded the crates, stacked them in the living room, and pried them open with a crowbar from the garage. Now, the two gunmen were removing several short, ugly submachine guns from the crates and cleaning them of packing grease. Billy Ray had been watching the operation, his attention wandering between the efficient, assembly-line operation before him and the big-screen TV.

  Raymond came into the room, followed by Geronimo. Billy Ray picked up the remote and turned the sound up. A male anchorman with the high cheekbones and perfect hair of a male model was speaking.

  “...News at Noon Reporter Carmen Reyes is on the scene,” he said. “Carmen?”

  The face of a strikingly attractive brunette replaced that of the male anchor. “John,” she said in a deeply concerned voice, “I’m at the Cumberland County Detention center, where at this moment, detectives are bringing in Jackson Keller and DeWayne Puryear, the two men implicated in last week’s gun battle in a Fayetteville neighborhood that left three men dead, including a Fayetteville police officer. News at Noon has learned that a Fayetteville policewoman who was the partner of the murdered officer conducted her own investigation into the killing and brought the two men into custody.”

  As she spoke, the camera pulled back to reveal the two cars pulling into view. The cars stopped and there was a confusing flurry of activity, made even more incomprehensible by the shaking and jiggling of the camera as the reporter and cameraman moved to the curb. Raymond recognized the older cop who had interrogated him in the hospital, the one who had called him Chief. He was followed by a female cop Raymond didn’t recognize. Between them was the handcuffed figure of Jackson Keller. A hot ball of rage formed in Raymond’s gut, contending with the line of pulsing fire around his surgical scar. He couldn’t make out the words being said by the cops for the sound of the blood pounding in his ears. Keller looked straight ahead, as if the cameras weren’t there. “I have you, you sumbitch,” he whispered. “I know where you are.” He raised his voice slightly. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s the man who shot my brother.” The camera focused on the duo coming behind Keller. The small man with his hands behind his back was bent over practically double to try to hide his face. “And I’ll bet that guy is one of the ones who shot my Daddy.”

  “Well, shit, vato,” Geronimo said in disgust. “How th’ fuck we supposed to whack ‘em while they’re in jail?”

  “We’ll think of something,” Raymond said.

  The live feed was replaced with a videotaped shot of a storefront. The words “H & H Bail Bonds” were stenciled across the front windows and repeated in a smaller format on the door. “Keller reportedly worked as a bounty hunter for this bail-bonding business in Wilmington. Calls to that business were not returned.” The camera was back on the face of the brunette reporter. One of the men on the couch said something to his partner and laughed sharply. He stood up and grabbed his crotch with an obscene humping motion towards the big screen. The two men laughed again. Geronimo spoke sharply to them in rapid Spanish. The smiles left their faces. They sat down and got back to work.

  “Keller and Puryear will be arraigned tomorrow in Cumberland County Superior Court. Carmen Reyes, News at Noon.” The picture switched back to the male model. Raymond took the remote from Billy Ray and turned the sound back down.

  “That’s it,” Raymond said. “That’s when we take them. When the cops move them to the courthouse.”

  “Man,” Geronimo said. “You crazy. They’re gonna have cops all over the damn place.”

  “No,” Raymond said. “Usually only two. One deputy driving and another with a shotgun in the back of the van.”

  “I don’t like it,” Geronimo declared.

  Raymond looked at him. “We had a deal. We do this my way or your boss doesn’t get my business. Comprende?”

  Geronimo muttered something under his breath in Spanish and walked out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Cumberland County Jail is a massive brick structure that sprawls across two city blocks. The face that the building turns towards the downtown area is a pleasant if somewhat sterile metal-and glass facade that would not look out of place on a museum or a corporate headquarters. Behind it, the vast bulk attached to the public space is forbidding, blank, and featureless from the outside. The inside, however, is like any other place where men hold their fellow men in captivity–a place of harsh lighting, sudden sharp sounds and loud voices. The man who said that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation has never spent time in a modern jail. The desperation in such places is deafening.

  Keller sat at a gunmetal-gray table in one of the interrogation rooms. He was dressed in a shapeless orange coverall, badly worn at the elbows and seat. His shoes had been replaced by cheap ill-fitting plastic sandals. The official reason for the footwear was security; there were no laces that could be used as a garrote or a noose, no hard edges to use as a bludgeon. Keller suspected that the real reason was the gait the wearer was forced to adopt, a weary shuffle that was the only way to keep the flimsy things on the feet.

  Keller stared at the mirror on one wall, keeping his face expressionless. This was another part of the game, he knew. The waiting was meant to make a subject nervous by giving him time to think, letting his imagination run over the possibilities. In this place, the possibilities were mostly bad. The result was that, while he waited, the prisoner’s own fear began the corrosive breakdown of his resistance. Waiting didn’t bother Keller. He was good at waiting.

  He knew someone was on the other side of the mirror, but he didn’t know who. Barnes, almost certainly. Probably Stacy. He hoped Marie wasn’t there. He didn’t like to think of what thoughts might be going through her mind if she was looking at him. Would she be feeling anger? Satisfaction at having caught him? Pity? He shook his head angrily. This was getting him nowhere. He was thinking too much. He was playing the game they wanted him to play. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He hunkered down inside his head and waited.

  As if the headshake had been a signal, the door banged open. Barnes came in, holding two packs of bright orange peanut-butter crackers in one hand and two plastic bottles of spring water in the other. He put a pack of crackers and a bottle of water down in front of Keller. He sat down across the table and opened his.

  Keller looked at the crackers and the water. He debated not taking them, feeling somehow that would put him in the detective’s debt, giving Barnes some sort of advantage. Thinking again, he said to himself. Trying to puzzle out the hidden meaning. It’s just a pack of crackers. And I am hungry. He picked them up.

  “You’re wel
come,” Barnes said sourly.

  Keller opened the pack. “Thanks,” he said. He took a bite, washed it down with a sip of water. “My lawyer get here yet?”

  Barnes sighed. “He’s on his way. You know, Keller, if you’d just tell us what happened, we might be able to put in a good word for you. Once you get all lawyered up, though...” he spread his palms apart in an it’s-out-of-my-hands gesture.

  “Skip it,” Keller said flatly. “I’m not exactly new at this.”

  Barnes took another cracker. “Guess not.” He let the silence stretch, chewing the cracker while gazing at Keller thoughtfully. “This was a pretty big collar for Jones,” he said.

  Keller felt his facial muscles tighten involuntarily. Barnes noticed the sudden tension and his eyes glinted. “Yep,” he said with elaborate casualness, “they may even fast-track her to detective. Showed a lot of initiative bringing you in.” Keller raised another cracker to his lips. He bit back a curse as he saw that his hand was shaking with rage. Barnes smiled in satisfaction and stood up. “See you around, Keller,” he said softly and left.

  Keller sat in silence for a few minutes. He tried to restore his detachment. He knew what was coming next. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the door open and Marie walked in. She was in uniform. She sat down across from Keller.

  “I’m still not talking until I see my lawyer,” he said.

  “Jack--” she began.

  “Why are you here, Marie?” he said. “Is this off the record? Just you and me?”

  She sighed. “You know better.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I do. You’re here as a cop, not as...” he trailed off, raised one hand in a helpless gesture, and let it fall.

  “I am a cop, Jack,” she said. “It’s who I am.”

  “And that’s your answer.”

  She looked puzzled. “What was the question?”

  “Why I didn’t tell you that I was in trouble.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “That isn’t the question. It never was.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Why you came to me in the first place,” she said. “Why you...” she glanced at the mirror as if she had forgotten it was there. She bit her lip. Then she straightened her back and took a deep breath. “So,” she said. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  He spoke slowly, biting off each word as if speaking to a frustratingly stupid child. “Not--without--my--lawyer,” he said.

  She stood up abruptly, so fast that the chair almost tipped over. “Okay,” she said. “That’s it, then. There’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  “No,” he said. “I guess not.”

  She didn’t look at him as she left. He sat there alone for a few moments, then looked at the mirror. “Nice try, Barnes,” he snarled. The mirror made no reply.

  He waited for another endless time before the door opened again. A uniformed jailer stood in the doorway. The guy was slack-jawed and slack-bellied. His eyes were small and mean. A toothpick dangled from one corner of his mouth. “Time to go back,” he said.

  “What about my lawyer?” Keller asked.

  “Don’t know nothin’ about that,” the jailer said. “My orders is to take you back to lockup. Hold out your hands.” When Keller hesitated a second too long, the deputy’s hand dropped to the sap on his belt with the ease of long practice. Keller gritted his teeth and held out his hands. The jailer snapped the shackles on. Keller shuffled behind the jailer down the long brightly lit concrete hallway, lined with heavy metal doors.

  “If these guys get caught at this,” Raymond said, “we’re all fucked.”

  Geronimo looked at him and smiled thinly. “You would rather use your own vehicles, perhaps? With license plates that could be traced back to you?”

  They were sitting in the black Suburban, parked on a darkened residential street. He didn’t know what town they were in, but it was at least an hour’s drive from Fayetteville.

  “Relax,” Geronimo said. “Antonio and Jesus have done this sort of thing before.” He smiled again, this time with a hint of nostalgia. “Compared to taking out a government minister, this will be nothing.”

  A car started at the end of the street and advanced towards them with the headlights off. It was a large black Ford pickup with a crew cab. “Bueno,” Geronimo said. “That will be the blocking vehicle. When it is reported stolen tomorrow, the police will first look in the immediate area. By the time the search expands to Fayetteville, we’ll have finished and ditched the car.”

  “Whatever,” Raymond said. As the truck passed by, Raymond caught a glance of one of Suarez’ gunmen behind the wheel. Antonio or Jesus? he thought. He had never bothered to learn which was which. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the bottle of pills.

  “You taking an awful lot of those, my man,” Geronimo observed. “Will you be able to do your work tomorrow?”

  “Don’t worry,” Raymond said. “And don’t forget. Your boys take out the cops. But Keller and Puryear are mine. I want to look in their eyes when they die.”

  “Si, si,” Geronimo said. “They’re all yours. And after that, we will conclude our business. You will like Bogota.”

  “Yeah,” Raymond said. “Bogota.”

  “You can’t put him in here with me!” DeWayne screamed. He propelled himself backwards against the wall with his feet on the bunk. It was as if he was trying to drive himself through the concrete-block wall of the tiny cell. “That guy’s crazy,” DeWayne insisted to the guard. “He’s done tried to kill me once.”

  There was a malicious twinkle in the jailer’s small dark eyes. “Looks like you two lovebirds have a lot of catching up to do,” he said. ”Pleasant dreams.”

  “You stay the fuck away from me, man!” DeWayne said. His voice was trembling in fear.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, DeWayne,” Keller said. “That’s over. And you know damn well I didn’t try to kill you. If I recall, it was you who tried to kick my head in. Besides, it’s not like I can turn you in to anyone now.”

  A look of suspicion crossed DeWayne’s face. “So what are you doin’ here, man?” he demanded. “This ain’t some sort of trick, is it? What are you in here for?”

  “Murder,” Keller said. “Second degree. One of the guys that came to kill you and your cousin drew down on me with a pistol.” Keller sat down on the floor. “I shot him.”

  “But if he had a gun--”

  “Nobody found the gun. There was a third man there. He took the guns and the money.”

  DeWayne shook his head. “The money,” he said. “The damn money. I can’t believe all this shit went down over some damn money.” He shook his head. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “They all do.”

  It was past midnight, and the single light in the office was the gooseneck lamp that illuminated the desk. Angela sat behind the desk, office phone in hand.

  “They’re giving me the runaround,” Scott McCaskill was saying. “I won’t be able to see him until tomorrow.”

  Angela’s hand clenched more tightly on the receiver. Only the calming effect of McCaskill’s voice, a voice that had captivated a thousand juries, was keeping her from screaming. She was afraid that it was only going to have a short-term effect on her roiled emotions.

  “Why are they doing this?” she said, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “What are they doing to him?”

  “Easy, Angela,” McCaskill said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Too many people know he’s there for them to try any monkey business. This is that prick Stacy’s way of trying to show us who’s boss. He wouldn’t be trying this sort of chickenshit mind game if he wasn’t worried about his case.”

  “What about you?” she said. “Are you worried?”

  McCaskill paused just a second too long. “You are worried,” Angela said.

  He sighed. “Yes, I am, a little. We’ve got a dead man killed by a weapon that Jack is known to favor.
They can put him at the scene because of the blood on his clothes. He claims self-defense, but no one found a gun near the body. And, of course, there aren’t any witnesses to back him up.”

  “You’re saying they won’t believe him.”

  “I’m saying that if we put him on the stand, a good prosecutor will be able to bring up what he does for a living much more effectively. They’ll be able to paint him as a violent and unstable individual. In that situation--who knows.” His voice softened. “There’s nothing we can do about it tonight, Angela,” he said. “Get some sleep. I’ll be at the arraignment tomorrow.”

  “So will I,” she said.

  “Of course. See you there.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  She heard a knock at the front door.

  She tensed. Her hand went automatically into the desk drawer where she kept a Glock 9. She stood up, gun in hand. She walked to the office door and looked across the reception area towards the front of the office. Through the glass door, she saw a figure silhouetted against the light from the street. “We’re closed,” she called out. “Try Speedy Bail Bonds. It’s down the street.”

  “Are you Senora Hager?” a voice said.

  She approached the door, the hand holding the pistol held behind her back. “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I have some information about Mr. Keller. Something that might help him.”

  Angela’s heart pounded. She ran the rest of the way to the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob. “What information?” she said through the door. “What can you tell me?”

  “I was there when those men were killed,” the voice said. “My name is Oscar Sanchez.”

  The next morning, a different guard came for them, an older deputy with gray hair. He took them out of the cell one at a time, DeWayne first. Each man’s hands were cuffed behind him, then fastened by cuffs to a heavy chain that went around their waists. The guard took them though a maze of halls and metal doors until they reached the garage. It was a large echoing chamber that looked far too big for the single patrol car parked just inside the closed door.