Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Where was the other gun? Had one of them just not been carrying a gun last night? He felt the hair on his arms bristle; had he missed one? There was no way. His eyes stopped on the phone and he froze… and then his mind spun up, handling several possibilities at once.

  If it's on it's traceable.

  And just as he reached for it… it buzzed – the vibration of the incoming call shocked him just as thoroughly as if he'd found a rattlesnake in the mix–he jerked his hand away. And just as quickly, snatched the phone up and struggled to pull the battery out of it. The parts tumbled apart in his frantic hands, falling to the floor where he left them for several minutes as he caught his breath. He'd missed that… and if he'd not paid enough attention to avoid being found out by a simple triangulation, what else? And just as suddenly, the next thought moved through his mind.

  This was the second gun.

  Why would the white kid have been pointing it? Seth leaned forward, examining the phone without touching it… and then flipped it over with one finger; and there was his answer. It had a camera.

  He stared at the tiny pinhole lens that had probably recorded his family's death. The bile rose up in his throat… it simmered there as he willed another possibility to show itself, and when nothing arrived… he crawled toward the bathroom, and heaved unto the tile. He blinked away tears, letting them fall away unto the floor as he hung his head.

  He would have to look. There was no way to avoid reliving it all – if there were pictures, they would be coffin nails, but Seth wasn't certain that he would survive the viewing.

  Meek sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth and eyes, and then crawled back to the phone. He gathered himself, pulled his legs up into his chest and took several minutes to think things through. It was a risk he would have to take; he'd have to reactivate the phone in order to check for images. He searched his mind… did he have any way of downloading the memory card in the phone without turning the thing back on?

  Yes. Yes… there was a memory card slot on one of the digital cameras downstairs. He finally picked the phone up and tugged open the little door that held the card; he focused, closed his eyes and prayed that rage would guide him. Inwardly, he faltered… if there was simply no card, he could remain in this twilight world of glancing memories. If there were… he would be forced to face the singular fear in his life. He trembled, a deep shaking that came from his very core and then he warmed – if it were there… he'd broadcast it all, and there would be no escape for the two that had ended so many lives.

  When he focused through his tears, it was there… a tiny memory card, capable of so much. He pried it loose and held it up. Two minutes later he had one of the cameras from the basement in his lap, the chip fit, and came up on the screen: UMB0033. There were actually three files, but much larger than Seth would have expected for low–resolution digital images. He squinted at the LCD and then understood… these were films. Instead of retreating this time, he drove his mind forward. He'd destroy them with this… why else would they have been pointing the fucking phone if not to have something to gloat over later with their friends. Fuck them eternally… he'd show the world.

  The first file was a short film of nothing but blackness with intermittent audio that sounded like sandpaper being rubbed against the phone. Someone said something about money, but there was little more that came through in thirty–four seconds of rasping. Maybe it had been accidental, maybe a poor man's attempt at covert recording. It didn't matter, it was nothing.

  The second was even less revealing. Two minutes and ten seconds of the white kid jerking off on someone's couch–Seth forwarded the file to the end. The last file.

  A dozen minutes according to the counter and the very moment Seth queued it, he knew. It was grainy, just like the rest, but well lit by the lights in a house that Seth would never set foot in again. He paused the film over the image of his front hallway, his daughter's door.

  His throat burned, but there was nothing left in him but wrath. It hemorrhaged in his lungs, filling his throat with a scream that never came. His fingernails cut into balled fists until blood spotted his thighs, but only then could he go on. They'd filmed it all.

  Twenty minutes later, Seth walked back down the stairs. He replaced the box of personal effects on the shelf, and then slid down into the seat across from the boys. He wiped bloody hands on his pants, a detail that did not escape his visitors.

  “What’s this shit?” Salt broke the silence.

  Seth stared for several minutes and then said, "Your trial.”

  Chapter Thirty–Four

  Tardy

  He rubbed the scabs out of his eyes and blinked the clock into focus. 6:39am. More and more, every time Hack drank, he’d sleep like a retarded kid for two or three hours, and then be wide awake to deal with the throbbing behind his eyes. This morning was no exception. What made it worse was that now he only drank when he was angry, which was often, and the headaches were enough to keep him pissed off all day long. Enough to start drinking again as soon as he could.

  Hack slumped down into his desk and dropped his round head into his hands. No amount of aspirin would serve to get the little Indian fucker out of his head, so he opened a new fifth and took a swallow. It tasted just as good as it had last night. He opened his eyes and the world was a slightly better place.

  There was a lighted mirror that he kept on his desk, the sort one might find on a woman’s vanity, and he peered into it searching for they day’s reality. His face nearly filled the mirror’s concave surface, exaggerated by the curve, and he studied his complexion as he pondered Ray. He wasn’t calling. He probably wasn’t going to call until he realized that he was fucked without someone who had experience, someone who would take his information and turn it into something usable. The kid wasn’t a bad writer, which was irritating too, but without someone with a national column to get it into print, he was out of the game.

  He leaned closer to the mirror and squeezed out a blackhead between two yellowed fingernails. He examined the remnant, and then flicked it away into the carpet. A thought began to form. He’d been betrayed. Cut off in the middle of what could have been the story that capped his career, the story that could set him on the national stage for real, not just under an assumed name.

  The new kids never realized how vulnerable they were. He’d done it a dozen times with the cherries that came to him looking for work. Sure kid, just put in your time in the trenches and I’ll put in a good word for you. You have to publish to be published you know. He’d get them into position to shovel dirt, and in so doing, they’d always get dirty to one degree or another. He’d had a girl from Salt Lake come to him two years ago and she’d gone home in a bag after getting involved up with the wrong hookers. Ray was only guilty of being naïve really, but that was guilty enough to end his career with the right words. To end it in prison.

  He’d write it up today, something about how Ray had taken it upon himself to infiltrate the D.C.P.D. with the express intent of smearing the names and reputations of D.C.’s finest. Hack would look the hero for stopping it, and Ray would burn. Sounded pretty good. He took another swig. Good enough.

  Yep, that was about right. He closed his eyes, put his forehead on the cool desk, and thought about Ray’s face when his new chums at the PD came to beat him down. Irving Hack fell asleep fantasizing of Ray’s shocked expression as he watched the fists come one after the other.

  Chapter Thirty–Five

  Talik

  “Yes?” came the surprisingly clear voice from the gate speaker. The depth of the man’s tone gave the impression of mass, even from the four–inch intercom.

  “Spencer Tonic, I called this morning about speaking with Mr. Meek.”

  “Yes sir, and who are the gentlemen with you?”

  Tonic smiled and waved to the camera that he couldn’t see. “James Finny, and Ray Ramadeep, both with me.”

  “Gentlemen, please make your way up the drive without pausing and stop in the visitor�
��s parking space by the guard shack. Please do not speak with the media while at the front gates.” There were still two vans across the road, FOX and CNN, both crews still hiding inside for shelter from the early chill. A third, forlorn local crew had evidently been dropped off or sent their driver for coffee. They shifted from foot to foot, their gear forgotten in the struggle to keep warm. No one was going to talk to them anyway.

  “Gotcha,” Tonic said and inched up to the gate as it swung open. “That was… easy.” He looked at Ray who occupied Finn’s usual seat. Finn had taken a nap in back on the way out – the hours were getting long, and his ribs ached.

  “Yeah, they aren’t putting up much of a fight,” Finn agreed. He massaged his temples with the heels of his hands. It had been an exceedingly long night, the kind that lapses into the morning and becomes an unending blur. And in this case, it was punctuated by being shot for the first time in his life. Ugly didn’t begin to cover it. In fact, as the hours ticked by, the pain and stiffness only increased. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe he was just getting too close to the ideology that was going into Seth Meek’s planning, but Finn was feeling this case more than he would have liked. It was obvious that Ravish was hurting too, though he had lots of things on his mind; and while Tonic was typically upbeat, Finn had been around him long enough to see it in his eyes. It was hard not to cheer for Meek. Chalk one up for the little guy. Unfortunately, that now put them into the unenviable position of being the umpires that have to call an end to a great game because of a little rain. All of them had toyed with the fantasy of what they might have done given similar circumstances–Finn, in fact, had just awoken from such a dream–but the sheer audacity of what this kid had done was breathtaking. To just wade into gangland like that and snatch those bangers off of the street. Alive. They had to be the ones that had done his family, little else made sense.

  The grounds of Whitaker Meek's home were well maintained, trimmed to nice square angles despite the weather, and it was easy to see that the man valued his privacy – the drive from gate was several minutes of winding woodlands. As they broke into a clearing, the first thing that came into view was a kid in a nice jacket waiting at parade rest in their parking space. He stepped aside and gestured to the spot as if they might have missed his intent.

  The guy approached the driver’s side, but waited for everyone to open their own doors.

  “Morning,” Tonic said as he stepped out into the eight o’clock sunlight. "How ya doing?”

  “Just fine sir,” the guard replied.

  “Nice jacket,” Tonic added as they stood together.

  No reply from the somber face.

  “No, really. It's a nice jacket. Yeah, okay. Well… we’re here to see Mr. Meek.”

  “Of course sir, he’s expecting you. If you’ll just come with me, we’ll check you in.”

  “Absolutely.” The three followed across the lot, working to keep up.

  They’d expected a guard shack, but it was more like an upscale bungalow. It was built from sand colored bricks and had wide windows that distorted what lay within. The air inside was slightly warmer, but only slightly. Another man rose from a desk and offered a greeting, “Good morning Gentlemen. If I could have a moment to look at your identifications please.” It was not a question.

  Even Finn was looking up at this guy, and, uncharacteristically, he seemed quite underdressed in his city leather and slacks. “What’d you eat to get that big?” he asked as he fished for his ID. This earned a little simper, but nothing more. Big guys liked to hear how big they were Finn had learned long ago.

  The IDs were scrutinized, ending with Ray’s. “Mr. Ramadeep,” the guard gestured at Ray with his own wallet, “is not a detective. He must serve some other purpose here this morning?”

  “Comic relief,” Tonic said.

  This didn’t satisfy the guard who divided his glare amongst the three. Finn stared back.

  Finally the guard said, “Gentlemen, unless Mr. Ramadeep is here in some official capacity…”

  “He’s with us. He’s under contract with the D.C. Police, we called him in to you guys this morning and you’ve had plenty of time to dig through his garbage so quit busting our balls,” Finn said without pause.

  The guard hesitated, wallet still in the air, but only so that he could repay Finn’s ire. He returned the ID’s and went on without a hiccup. "The two of you,” he indicated each with a large finger, “are police officers which means that you are undoubtedly carrying weapons. I will not ask you to relinquish these weapons as I understand that it is not in your nature to do so, however I will ask you to keep in mind that you are on private property and thus subject to surveillance while here. I assume,” he shifted his gaze to Ray who fought the urge to step behind someone. "That Mr. Ramadeep is not similarly armed?”

  “We don’t let him have a gun anymore,” Tonic said.

  “This is a no,” the guard pushed a clip board across the desk, asked them to sign in, and record the serial numbers of their firearms. “I’ll be your escort to the living quarters.”

  And escort he did.

  They walked through the grounds along winding mulched paths, following the urgent strides that all of Whitaker Meek’s help seemed to enjoy.

  “I thought you were working out,” Tonic said as he watched Finn struggle along.

  “I counter it with equal parts smoking and drinking you might recall.”

  “Want me to tell Sasquatch to slow down?”

  Finn looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. They rounded an uphill corner and came face to face with Whitaker Meek’s home. At least a portion of it. Another guard opened the oversized front door just as they reached the top step, and stepped back to let them all indoors once again. Finn’s heeled boots echoed on the hardwood, which actually seemed to amuse Sasquatch as they all waited for Mr. W.J. Meek to arrive.

  The foyer was expansive, much more akin to a hotel lobby than the first ten steps into any normal home. They stood around clicking their teeth like antsy teenagers at prom until a door opened on the far side of the room. Another man in a nice sports coat stepped out and beckoned them over. “Mr. Meek will see you now,” he said as they drew near. He wore a spooky little flesh colored earpiece, though thus far no one had started speaking to their sleeves. Certainly it was only a matter of time.

  Whitaker Meek sat at a wide desk surrounded by floor to ceiling windows. It spoke volumes about his security detail that a man who had spent a career working in the intelligence community would be sitting in what was essentially a transparent cube – pure glass on three of four walls. The view this afforded, however, was probably worth the occasional twinge of apprehension that quivered up his spine. A few thousand acres of rolling woodlands were spread out behind him and the view in the fall must have been like an Audubon cover. Beyond that lay Chesapeake Bay. It was a small room in comparison to what they’d see thus far, but the illusion was of sailing atop a vast ocean of trees. Only the whir of the ceiling fans disturbed the effect of utter solitude.

  Whitaker looked up from scribbling on a document, raised a finger and then signed the paper with a flourish. He rose with a spring, and strode over to the trio with his hand extended before he was half way there.

  “Good morning Gentlemen,” Whit said “Please… come in and have a seat.” He gestured at a half dozen straight–backed wooden chairs equally spaced against the walls. They looked like museum pieces. “Can I get you all something to drink, to eat? It’s a long drive from the city.”

  “How about a dry Rob Roy,” Finn asked.

  “Long night?” Whit asked as they walked back toward his desk dragging chairs along in their wake. It was hard for them not to feel like school children around the headmaster’s desk, and each wondered if a spanking of some sort might soon follow.

  Finn sat first. "It was long enough that it started a few days ago about this time.”

  “I understand.” And probably, Whitaker Meek did understand.

&nb
sp; “First of all, let me offer our condolences Mr. Whitaker,” Tonic said.

  The man nodded, “I assumed that’s what you were here about.”

  “Yes Sir, but I’m afraid this has to do with your son as well.”

  Another nod.

  “We know you’re busy, we’ll keep this short,” Tonic said as he opened his notepad.

  “Thank you. This will, I think, prove to be a very long day indeed for all of us.”

  “Right...”

  “I’m sorry,” Whit cut Tonic off. "Just who is this nervous looking lad?” He gestured to Ray who did indeed strike everyone as a little uptight. He sat ramrod straight in the chair, hands in his lap. He was trying, evidently, not to look nervous.

  “Sorry,” Finn said. "We’re all a little strung out. This is Ray.” He pointed around their semi–circle, “Spencer Tonic who called earlier, and I’m Finn, James Finny.” Whit continued to look at Ray.

  There was a knock at the door and the elder Meek said, “Come!” Sasquatch lumbered over with a tray of drinks: Two mugs of something steaming which went to Tonic and Ray, and a third drink for Finn which Sasquatch pronounced as, “Very dry.”