by Terri Reid
“But it didn’t, Grandma,” Jamal inserted, feeling sorry for the poor detective who was facing off against his grandmother. He would hate to be in his shoes. “I’m fine.”
She whipped her head over to look at him. “You ain’t fine, Jamal Gage,” she stated emphatically. “You left this house without my permission. You got yourself involved with that gang and nearly got yourself killed. You is so far from fine, you might not ever see fine in your lifetime.”
Sean sent Jamal a quick, sympathetic look and cleared his throat to draw the grandmother’s ire back to him. “From what Jamal reported yesterday, the only reason he agreed to participate in the gang activity is because they threatened to hurt you,” Sean said. “Did you know that?”
She turned from Sean to Jamal and stared at him for a moment. “Is that true?” she asked.
He shrugged and nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Devonte stopped me when I was coming up the stairs. He told me if I didn’t come to the throw down, something bad would happen to you.”
He paused for a moment, searching her eyes for understanding. “I couldn’t let them hurt you, Grandma,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re all I have in this world.”
“I’d like to see them try and hurt me,” she blustered, but Sean could see the old woman was afraid.
“Grandma, this ain’t no game,” Jamal said. “They don’t care about no one but themselves. They would have hurt you. They would have hurt you bad.”
She took a deep breath and turned to Sean. He could see that her frail hand clutching tightly to a handkerchief was trembling slightly. “So, what you gonna do about this?” she demanded. “How you gonna protect us?”
A thunderous pounding on the door interrupted the conversation. “Police,” the word was shouted through the closed door. “Open up immediately.”
Jamal and his grandmother looked at Sean in confusion. “What’s this all about?” the old woman asked.
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out,” Sean said, standing and walking to the door.
He started to open the door and was in the process of pulling out his badge when the door was kicked open the rest of the way, and four SWAT members ran into the room, their weapons drawn.
“Freeze!” one of the officers shouted.
Jamal wrapped his arms protectively around his grandmother and stood behind the wooden chairs. His grandmother’s eyes were wide with fear.
“There’s been a mistake,” Sean said, holding his hands away from his body. “I’m Detective O’Reilly, First Precinct, and I’m interrogating this witness. We haven’t charged him with anything.”
The lead officer turned to Sean. “You got ID?”
Sean slowly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his identification and badge and showed it to the officer. The officer reviewed it and nodded. “Okay, you’re clear,” he said. “But I’ve got to take your witness in.”
He turned to Jamal. “Jamal Gage, you have been charged with multiple counts of murder in the gang-related deaths of over one hundred victims. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
Dumbstruck, Jamal just nodded.
“My boy didn’t kill no one,” the grandmother wept. “My boy’s a good boy. He didn’t kill no one. You tell him, Detective, you tell him the truth.”
“Wait,” Sean said, stepping between the officers and Jamal. “There’s been a mistake. This kid is just a witness. He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t even make it all the way to the crime scene. He was across the street.”
“We got a witness who will swear he saw the perp swinging some kind of machete-like weapon and causing the deaths of the gang members,” the officer replied.
Sean was incredulous. “Are you freaking kidding me?” he asked. “Did you see the crime scene? What do you think, this kid is a ninja? Whoever you got as a witness is lying.”
“Sorry, Detective, I gotta do what the warrant states,” he said. “I’ve got to take him in.”
“I get that,” Sean said, coming up alongside the officer and lowering his voice. “But this is a good kid. He didn’t do it. I’ll stake my badge on it. So, do me a favor and keep an eye on him.”
The officer met Sean’s eyes and a quick connection of understanding passed between the two men. “Yeah, I can do that,” he replied softly.
Pulling handcuffs from his tactical belt, the officer walked over to Jamal. “Okay, son, put your hands out in front of you,” he said, his voice firm but gentle.
“Wait, you can’t take my boy,” the grandmother cried, clinging to Jamal. She looked up at Sean, tears streaming down her face. “If they take him in, something bad is gonna happen to him. The Whispers are warning me. Don’t let them take him in.”
Sean was too Irish not to understand the pit that was growing in the center of his stomach. Whatever those whispers were, Sean believed them, too.
“Officer Trudeau,” Sean said, addressing the lead man. “How long can you keep an eye on him?”
The man shook his head regretfully. “I’ve got two more hours on my shift,” he said. “After that, he gets turned over to someone else.”
“You got kids?” Sean asked.
The man nodded. “Yeah, a son about his age,” he replied softly. “And my gut tells me this kid’s no killer.”
“Where are you taking him?”
The officer took hold of Sean’s arm and guided him to the far corner of the room. “For some reason, I was told that if there were other law enforcement personnel at the scene I was not to tell them that I am taking the perp to the Twelfth District,” he said softly and then continued in a louder voice. “So, I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t tell you where we are taking him.”
Sean nodded and whispered, “How slow can you drive?”
“We’ll take the scenic route,” Officer Trudeau replied.
The officer turned away from Sean and clapped a hand on Jamal’s shoulder. “We’ve got to go, son,” he said.
“You take care of my grandma,” Jamal pleaded with Sean. “If someone thinks I had something to do with those killings, she ain’t safe.”
“I’ll take care of her,” he said. “I promise.”
The officer guided Jamal forward while his grandmother collapsed against the chair and wept. Sean pulled out his cell and pressed one button for speed dial. He waited a moment for someone to answer and said, “Pete O’Bryan, please. This is Sean O’Reilly calling.”
He waited another moment and then, without taking any time for greetings, spoke urgently into the phone. “Hey Pete, I need you to drop everything and get down to the Twelfth District,” he said. “You got about ten minutes to be there waiting, or this kid is going to get lost in the system. Yeah, this one seems more than a little suspicious. Kid’s name is Jamal Gage. You need to habeas corpus his ass out of there. Yeah, thanks. Call me when you are both out of there, and I’ll tell you where to meet me. Oh, and Pete, I’m doing you a big favor. You just got a great adventure tossed in your lap.”
Chapter Seventeen
Attorney Peter J. O’Bryan had an Ivy League law degree, played quarterback at Notre Dame, was one of the most respected lawyers in the city of Chicago, and loved flashy sports cars. Although getting his wheelchair in and out of the backseat was a pain in the ass, the handling of the car was worth the grief. He pulled into the handicapped parking spot, opened his door, shifted in his seat and one-armed the wheelchair over the seat and onto the pavement next to him. Positioning it correctly, he swung his body from the car into the chair, flipped the car door closed and clicked the locking mechanism on his keychain.
Setting his tie straight and making sure his expensive, Italian-made suit was aligned, he touched the controls on his wheelchair and rolled up the ramp into the front lobby of the Twelfth Precinct.
“Can I help you?” the officer behind the tall, reception desk inquired, looking down at Pete.
Pete pressed a lever, and the seat of the chair rose so he could be eye to eye with the officer. “Yes, you can help me,” Pete said, drawing a card from his coat pocket and sliding it under the partition between them. “My client, Jamal Gage, has just been picked up by some of your officers and is on his way here. I need to see him immediately, before any processing takes place.”
“I don’t know…” the officer began.
“My client is a juvenile,” Pete said firmly. “The officers did not give his guardian the option of accompanying him here and did not give her the address of where he was going to be held, pursuant to Section 4-405, Illinois Statute 705 of the Juvenile Court Act of 1987. Now, Officer, I suggest you get on the radio and have those officers deliver my client to the front lobby before any other infringements of his rights occur.”
Turning away from the lawyer, the officer picked up the phone and spoke quietly into it for a few moments, making furtive glances in Pete’s direction. Pete pulled out his phone, looked at his texts and smiled. He watched the officer for another moment, biding his time, and then tapped on the glass. The officer stopped his conversation and came back to the window. “Is there something else?” he asked.
Pete nodded. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” he said. “My associate has been following the police cars that have custody of my client. I just wanted to inform them that all of my associates’ vehicles are equipped with a dash cam that is required to be running at all times. I’m afraid the officers may be inadvertently videotaped. Nothing personal. They don’t have a problem with that, do they?”
The officer quickly went back to the phone and relayed the information. He came back a few minutes later. “They don’t have a problem with that, Mr. O’Bryan,” he replied politely, although his jaw was clenched tightly. “And they will be arriving with your client directly.”
Smiling, Pete rolled back a few inches from the counter. “Thank you for your help,” he said. “I have lunch once a week with the police commissioner. I’ll be glad to let him know how professional you and your colleagues have been in this matter.”
“The police commissioner?” the officer repeated, his face turning a light shade of purple.
“Old family friend,” Pete replied with a shrug. “No big deal. He was the best man at my father’s wedding.”
The officer pasted a smile on his face and nodded. Pete rolled farther away from the counter, noting the officer’s dash to the phone and his frantic conversation.
As promised, Jamal was led into the precinct lobby in a matter of moments. Other than looking scared to death, Pete noted, he didn’t look any worse for wear. Pete rolled forward. “Hey, Jamal, I’m Pete,” he said. “I’m your lawyer.”
“Yeah? For real?” Jamal asked.
“Yeah, for real,” Pete replied. “Did you talk to these officers at all?”
Jamal shook his head. “No. Officer Trudeau, he told me to keep quiet and don’t say nothing to nobody ‘til I had a lawyer.”
Pete looked over Jamal’s head to the officer that was behind him. “Thank you, Officer Trudeau,” he replied with a nod.
“You a friend of O’Reilly?” Trudeau asked.
“We played football together at Notre Dame,” he replied. “I was taller back then.”
The officer smiled. “You take care of this kid, okay?”
“Yeah, I will,” Pete said, his respect for the officer growing. “Is there a place he and I can talk?”
“Yeah, follow me,” Trudeau said, buzzing them through the security door and leading them to a small office with a couple of plastic chairs and a metal desk.
“We spare no expense for our attorney friends,” he joked.
“Yeah, real homey,” Pete replied. “Thanks.”
Pete pulled out his phone and then turned to Jamal. “When was the last time you had something to eat?” he asked.
“Last night Detective O’Reilly got me some food at the hospital,” he said. “But they let me out too early for me to eat any breakfast.”
“Burgers or chicken?” the attorney asked.
“Burgers,” Jamal said with a relieved smile.
“You want fries with that?” Pete teased.
“Yes, sir,” Jamal replied. “That’d be great!”
Chapter Eighteen
Sean O’Reilly was getting nervous. He had already carried four large boxes down to his car, and Mrs. Gage was still packing what she called her “necessities.” He had no idea how he was going to fit her and her stuff into his car.
“Mrs. Gage,” he said, walking back into the apartment. “We need to hurry…”
The knife was fixed against her wrinkled neck, only fractions of an inch from her jugular vein. Sean’s heart accelerated as he quickly considered the situation.
The attacker was about five feet six inches tall and fairly hefty. He was probably sixteen years old. His hair was long and braided into cornrows that reached nearly to his shoulders. He was wearing an oversized jersey with gang colors unlike the colors worn by the bodies in the park.
“You need to let the lady go,” he said calmly, slowly reaching behind his back.
One arm was wrapped around Mrs. Gage’s neck, pulling her body close to his, and his other hand clutched a knife angled against her throat. “She ain’t going nowheres,” he spat at Sean. “And you ain’t going nowheres either.”
Mrs. Gage’s eyes were wide with fear, and her hands were clasped together like she was praying. And, Sean thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if she was.
“Well, shit,” Sean muttered, pulling out his gun and pointing it at the young man. “Just let her go and no one has to die. And by no one, I mean you.”
“Makes no matter to me,” he replied. “She gotta die ‘cause of what her boy did at the throw down.”
“What did he do?” Sean asked, trying to keep him talking while he worked out a plan.
“He killed them all,” the boy replied. “He sliced ‘em up.”
“He didn’t do that,” Sean replied. “He just saw it go down. Do you really think one kid could do all that damage? And if you thought he could, why the hell would you come messing with his grandmother?”
“It’s the law,” he said. “We kill them before they kill us.”
“What does this have to do with you anyway?” Sean asked. “It was other gangs, not yours that died. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“That’s not what we heard,” he said, tightening his hold and causing the old woman to gasp. “We was told he did it, by hisself, and he was coming after us next. We was told by someone who knows.”
“Well, whoever told you was yanking your chain, because Jamal was a street away from the park when it went down,” he said.
“My man don’t yank no chains,” the boy replied.
Sean sighed. “Okay, then, if you’re not going to listen to reason, how about this? I’m a detective. I’m trained with a gun, and I can shoot you dead,” he said. “And it’s just you against me.”
The boy stared at Sean for a moment and then looked beyond him and smiled. “I guess you don’t know as much as you think you do,” he said.
“Shit,” Sean murmured, without even looking behind him. He stepped sideways, his back towards the apartment wall and turned, his heart dropping at the sight of eight more armed gang members. Some held knives, but several had guns and they were currently pointed at him.
One of them stepped forward, and it was obvious to Sean that he was the leader of the group. Unfortunately, he had to demonstrate his authority. He was skinny and tall. His arms were covered with tattoos, and his eyes were cold and hard. He lifted his gun so it was level with Sean’s forehead, sneered at him and nodded slowly. “We gonna lay you out, pig,” he said. “And then we gonna have a good time with grandma before we slice her.”
He grabbed his crotch suggestively and turned his g
aze towards the old woman. “You want some, don’t you Grandma?”
Blood spurting, the thump of a gun hitting the floor and the sound of tearing material seemed to Sean to happen simultaneously. Then, suddenly, Em appeared out of nowhere and was standing between the gang member and Sean, the tip of her long sword hidden within the boy’s saggy jeans and pointing at the spot the young man had grabbed just moments before.
“Bitch! What you doing?” he screamed, clutching his hand that was less a trigger finger now, beads of sweat now glistening on his forehead. “You better back off.”
“I think I would be careful about giving orders, just now,” she said, jabbing slightly with the sword. “One twist of my wrist could change your life forever.”
He froze, looked down at the blade and looked up at her. “My boys could kill you and your friends.”
“But not before I cut you,” she replied evenly. “Cut it right off.”
He stared at her, his eyes wide. “What you want?” he begged.
“First, your friend needs to back away from the older lady,” she said firmly.
“Lee-Ron, you step away,” he commanded.
“But, Marcus, you said we had to kill her,” the other young man argued.
Em moved the sword slightly and Marcus winced. “You do what I say,” he shouted, his voice strained. “You do it now.”
Lowering his knife, Lee-Ron released his hold on Mrs. Gage, and then gave the elderly woman a hard shove. She stumbled, but Sean leapt forward and caught her in his arms. She leaned against him, her heart racing, and he guided her to a chair out of the line of fire.
“Are you okay?” he asked her softly.
Tears slid down her wrinkled cheeks and she nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“That was not well done,” Em said to Lee-Ron, her eyes blazing with anger.
He backed up and raised his arms so they were extended out on either side of his body. “So, what you gonna do about it?” he asked, a sneering grin on his face.
Using her other hand, she raised it into the air and, as if grabbing something, twisted it quickly and pulled back. Immediately Lee-Ron gasped and clutched his throat. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t breathe in. His eyes grew wide as he struggled, trying to move towards Em. Finally, he fell to his knees. His panic increasing, he ripped at his shirt collar, fighting for air.