The Juke (Changes Book 2)

by Ted Persinger

  “Okay.” A part of him was curious about it. Another part of him knew he should not watch it. He also knew they were going to gauge his reaction and measure his response, so he resolved to be dispassionate. What he didn’t know was that he was already convicted.

  Marshal Lawrence turned the screen toward Frank. Grainy surveillance video, broken into four quadrants with each showing a different area of the store, began to play. On that small screen, it was difficult to see details…at first. He could see the date imprint, and the time showed 8:03 am.

  In the upper left corner, he saw his ambling, shoddily dressed image push through the swinging two-sided glass door. Though his hair was shaggy, he recognized himself immediately. Junkie Frank. Homeless Frank. Skinny, filthy, wearing rags. Still buzzing and slack from his last high. Missing teeth. At the time he thought he was acting cool, but now he saw how jittery and twitchy he was. When the man behind the counter stood up and greeted him, he saw his jerked response. His ghostly gray image turned a hard left and walked over to the drink coolers, and he passed through two other quadrants of the screen, past snacks and then to the drink coolers in the back. Facing one screen quadrant, his back to another. He saw his hand shaking as he struggled with the door and grabbed a drink. At the cooler, he turned and looked right into a camera. There was no mistaking him. This was the only close-up image. Jagged teeth, greasy hair, ragged clothes, junkie shakes, but definitely him. The rest were from a distance. The turn to the cooler marked him and put him at the scene.

  There is no turning back now.

  “Stop it please,” Frank asked.

  “We’re not finished yet.” He saw Lawrence wore a leering smile. He was the predator, and Frank was the prey.

  “Please, just stop it.” He felt sick, worse than any dope sick he had felt.

  But they didn’t stop it. He watched as the curly-haired man turned to get the cigarettes. He saw himself pull his .357 from behind his back and, with a trembling hand, point it at the owner. He watched Junkie Frank stuffing wads of dollars and rolled coins into his pockets with his left hand. As he turned to the door, he saw Fadrusz reach under the counter and produce a pump-action shotgun. There was no sound, but he saw him shout. Frank’s eyes were riveted as Junkie Frank hunched over and moved for the door, then covered his face as glass exploded all around him. A second blast sent potato chips flying. Frank turned and fired blindly, gun jerking hard from the recoil. He saw Hadur drop from that first shot. Junkie Frank fired again, then ran out the door, sliding to four points on broken glass, leaving the Pepsi bottle behind among the shards.

  And then the wreckage. The ashes. After a moment, he saw Hadur stand up, shirt covered in black blood, arm hanging limp. He staggered over to his phone and picked it up. He dialed quickly and then fell again.

  “The paramedics found him unconscious,” Lawrence said, clicking off the video. “He had lost a lot of blood, and the area behind the counter was filled with it…and chunks of his bone.” Frank looked down at his hands. “When they got him to the hospital, the brachial artery was beyond repair, and the tissue had gone necrotic already. They took his arm just below the armpit. He barely pulled through.”

  Frank felt the heat in his eyes. He could feel the tissues swell. He felt burning in his throat.

  The officers exchanged glances. Morrison spoke next, in a deep, soothing voice. Fatherly almost. “Mr. Joseph, we understand your predicament here. You’re a successful businessman now. You have a family. I understand how this is tough for you.” Officer Morrison was Good Cop. “We know that it isn’t easy to face some stupid thing you did in the past, and I’m sure any judge will consider what you’ve done since that time.”

  Frank looked up and smiled at Bad Cop, who didn’t smile back. “My whole life is a series of stupid things from my past, officer. My whole life.” He paused for a minute. Morrison and Lawrence knew the confession was close. Their eyes told each other so. “So how did you find me after all this time?”

  Officer Morrison smiled again, leaning back in the chair. Shirt buttons strained against his large belly. Almost there, he thought. “Mr. Fadrusz saw you on television. He had remembered your face.”

  “After all this time?”

  “Well, you have to understand that this was a major turning point for him…life changing. He also had a copy of the video, which he says he watched now and then.” A pause. Keep talking. Let conversation flow. “At the time we could never place the face. We had APBs out for you, but you fled town and cleaned up. No new arrests, so nothing to trace. After a while, the trail grew cold. We never thought to check California where you had a record. Or Arizona.”

  “So it was just a matter of time, probably.”

  “Yeah, we like to think so. We had your fingerprints on the Pepsi bottle. Your blood on the scene. Eventually something would have hit on a database somewhere.”

  “I wonder why it didn’t before.”

  “Well, unfortunately we have a harder time when we cross states. It’s getting better, but it’s not there yet. Plus, you stayed clean…we count on most criminals to reoffend.”

  Frank sat back and looked down to his hands again. He looked at the hand that carried the gun and pulled the trigger. All those years ago.

  His mind’s eye showed the images. Deep in his thoughts he saw the shooting from his own perspective. The gun leaping in his hand. The flash and crash of broken glass. The boom of the shotgun.

  “Mr. Joseph?”

  The images came to him disjointed, out of order. The gun. The cooler. Mariah in the car. All scattered about and disorganized, but all there. He wasn’t going to escape those memories now. They had stayed locked in their compartment for a long time, but now they were with him and they were going to stay with him. He knew the next stage of his life would involve these images, and they would haunt his sleep. The men he worked with in the Arizona penitentiary told him that. You spend your nights reliving what put you there…it’s like a bad movie you can’t stop watching.

  “Mr. Joseph?”

  He looked away and spoke softly to himself. “Another juke…”

  “Sorry?”

  He looked up and smiled at the large officer. “Another juke…life gave me another one…”

  Morrison put his elbows on the table and leaned toward him. Maybe it was time for a second Bad Cop. “I don’t follow…” with a more commanding tone.

  “Juke…football…” He remembered a game, so long ago. “When a player fakes out another one…they call it a juke. A fake from the hip. A sudden twist with the shoulders, and then they’re past you.” So long ago, it was. “A juke.”

  The two officers looked to each other. Lawrence tipped his head and mouthed now, but Frank turned to him and smiled. “Life made a juke again, Marshal Lawrence. It faked me. I thought I had it lined up this time. Getting all of it, finally. Hitting it for all I was worth. Time after time, life has faked me out. Every fucking time. This is just one more fucking juke. Whenever I put myself together, life fakes left, and I miss it. I was so close this time. So close. A juke. And then I fall to the ground, empty-handed.”

  He thought for a moment. “Life’s the matador, and I’m the blind, enraged bull, chasing a phantom…a red cloth waved in front of my face.” He knew what was waiting for him. He knew all too well. State penitentiary. He knew the men that lived inside it…he had worked with some of them. He was under no illusions. He knew horror awaited him.

  Morrison put his hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Joseph, I understand…but we’re here…”

  “I know why you’re here. I know. Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want. You want a confession?” The two officers looked at each other, and Frank watched their eye contact. “You’ll have it…don’t worry. I’m ready. I was never meant for a life like others. I was never meant to have a good life…a regular life. Life was a big fuck you...thanks for playing, and I’m done with it.”

  “No offense, Mr. Joseph,” Marshal Lawrence said with narrowed eyes, “but
how do you think Mr. Fadrusz feels? I’d say his juke was worse than yours. What say you?”

  “Thanks. I needed more, marshal.” There was no pity in Lawrence’s eyes. “This isn’t hard enough already.”

  There is no turning back now.

  Frank looked out the window and saw a red-crested cardinal in the tree in his front yard. It quickly flitted from branch to branch, and then flew off suddenly. Frank smiled, then looked to Morrison. He was Good Cop, after all. He would at least feign sympathy. “Give me your forms…I know that’s what you need. It’s all about paperwork, right? I’ll give you what you want.”

  XXVII

  The Super 8 in Harrisburg was weather-beaten these days. The stucco was beginning to crumble. It was to be his last stop as a free man, and it would have to do. He spent his last night of freedom eating soggy pizza. Few words were said. He hadn’t slept and instead read the stains and crawling bugs on the ceiling. Now that it was near noon, he was bracing himself for the surrender. He was giving his life for his sins and the sins of some others. He was taking the burden on himself and accepting the penalty.

  He sat on a chair, and she sat weeping on the bed, face in her hands. The door was open, and officers stood near it. Frank looked at her distant eyes. He saw the locket around her neck. She was losing herself in the moment, but he couldn’t blame her. He never had…he fully understood her.

  “Frank, what are we going to do when you’re inside?” She was looking at the complete reshuffling of her life. Everything that was before was no more. All their dreams. All their plans. Most of all, she knew the score…she was an aging junkie without someone to support her habit. She would have few options in a short period of time.

  “You’re going to have to be careful, Mariah. You have to think about Perry. You have to stay clean, or only use a little. You have to take care of him.”

  “I’ve tried to stay clean, but I can’t…you know that.”

  “Mr. Joseph, you have ten minutes,” the sheriff called out, nodded, then turned back to his fellow officers. Several badges were standing at the doorway, talking and drinking his motel coffee. Ten minutes and then the descent into Hell.

  “Okay, thank you,” he called back.

  “Frank, I don’t think I can hold it together. I can’t quit…”

  “Look, the house in Phoenix is paid off. When you get back, you have a house waiting for you, and Perry is in school. You have a bank account with enough cash to last you a long time,” then quietly adding, “but junk will eat it up if you aren’t careful. If you use carefully, you’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not enough, Frank. It’ll only last me a little while.”

  “It’ll have to do…I had to leave some to my kids…”

  “I know, but they don’t know you anymore. I’m here now…” and she regretted it as soon as she said it. “I’m sorry…”

  “It’s okay, baby…I know you’re hurting…” but it did sting. “Look, we’ve been over this…you have to make the money stretch. You only need to pay the utilities and buy food. You have a hundred grand in the bank…that can last a long time if you limit your intake as much as possible.”

  He felt bad for wishing he had her problems, but he knew he was facing something much darker…much deadlier…and much sooner.

  Perry came out of the bathroom. He had a hard stare on his face.

  “It’s okay, Perry. Don’t worry.” Frank smiled at him. “Everything’s okay.” Perry didn’t respond. He stood next to his mother, eyes like iron on Frank.

  “It’s not okay, Frank…it’s not.” She collapsed down to the bed and put her arms over her face. “We can’t make it out here without you, Frank. I won’t make it.”

  Perry put his hand on her shoulder. He gave Frank a harder stare, throwing daggers. He saw blame in those dark eyes. Gone was the little boy who couldn’t sit still. Now he was a young man, tall and straight, with a man’s mind. A young man who wanted to protect his mother.

  She looked up again, eyes lidded but tears still pouring out. “Frank, you accepted a plea for fifteen years. Fifteen years. How can we make it that long, Frank?”

  She was waiting for his plan, but he had none. “I know, Mariah. I know.” He felt the weight of it. Fifteen years. It was a heavy load. He understood why she wouldn’t wait, but the thought burned in him. “I know you’ll need to move on. I don’t blame you,” though a part of him did. I stood by you through all our street madness. But he also understood she was a junkie, and that would require attention and energy.

  “Okay, Mr .Joseph, time’s up. Let’s go,” the round-bellied sheriff commanded.

  Dutifully, Frank stood up, though Mariah grabbed his arm. He smiled at her, unwrapped her fingers gently and stepped away. Her head went down to the bed again. “Bye, guys,” he said, looking at Perry this time. Perry didn’t answer. He stepped toward the officers at the door. “I’m ready, sir.”

  “For your safety and ours we have to search and cuff you,” the baritone directed.

  “I understand.” He assumed the position against the opened door, and felt the rough hands on him. He put his hands to the small of his back and the metal cuffs were clicked around his wrists. The metal bit into his bone. He winced. I’d better get used to that feeling, he thought. Going to feel that for some time.

  The officers led him out to the awaiting car. The officer pushed his head down and he slid in. The door shut behind him. He looked back to the room, hoping to see them one more time, but they didn’t come out.

  He thought back to that night, now nearly a decade ago. Frank remembered the indignation at being put in a cop car. He remembered the flashing lights and his Miranda rights, all those years ago. He had wondered how someone like him could be treated in such a way. Now he knew he was exactly the kind of person who should be treated that way. He belonged in that car. He was a dangerous felon, and the cuffs protected the police officers from his violence. Once, he had wondered why anybody would become a violent criminal, but now he understood precisely.

  He was no different than any vicious felon, and the old Frank would have wanted someone like him rotting in a jail cell somewhere. He couldn’t argue with the logic. He wondered, though, if every felon felt this way on his way to prison, felt that he was the one exception to the rule…the one person who didn’t really deserve the predicament he found himself in. Did every trip to prison come with indignation? A sense of betrayal? He guessed he wasn’t alone in feeling this way.

  He was on his way to a new life. One that would require all the danger he had in him. The Big House. Pennsylvania State Pen. Home to the most hardened men in the state. He would be one of them. No cushy white-collar prison. No. He had earned a ticket to the maximum-security prison. He was guilty of a crime so heinous that he could have received a life sentence. The words in the charges they had filed sounded so unlike what he felt inside: Attempted murder. Reckless endangerment. Unlawful discharge of a firearm. Armed robbery. The plea bargain had saved him a decade of jail time and the state a lot of money.

  At the sentencing, he had repeated the word “guilty” as each charge was read. He had listened to the drone of words, this time convinced of his guilt, instead of angered about his innocence. The sense of himself was gone, along with his sense of entitlement. He accepted each charge and signed forms without protest.

  What he hadn’t expected was to see Hadur Fadrusz in person. When the judge asked for impact statements, the doors were opened, and he was shown in. Frank could only stare in awe as the now paunchy, graying man entered the court, carrying the burden of a mechanical arm and years of torturous demons. The heavy arm was strapped over his shoulder. Hadur tried to show pride on his face, but Frank could only see the pain in his eyes. He stood in front of the judge and read his statement with a thick accent. He never looked at Frank, who looked at him, taking in every inch of his face. This man deserves to hate me. I deserve to be punished for this.

  “Frank Joseph, I stand before you a broken man. A half
-man. That New Year’s Day took everything from me. You took everything from me. I lost all I had. When you pointed that gun at me, I thought you would murder me. When you shot me, you took away my manhood. I can’t work. I can’t love. My girlfriend left me. I am all alone. I live in a tiny apartment, on disability. You crippled my body and my soul. I will never recover from what you did to me. I hate everything you are, and I wish you had died that day. You’ll have a chance to live when you get out of prison. I never will again.” Frank heard the timber of sorrow in his voice. Heard the years of unanswered agony.

  Fadrusz then took two steps forward and spit as hard and as far as he could. Frank didn’t recoil when it hit him in the face. The bailiff grabbed the man and escorted him out of the room, now shouting “You deserve to die! You deserve to die!” Frank didn’t even wipe it off for a minute; he felt it was the least he could do for the man he maimed. Let him have that victory. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can give him.

  He had, after all, seen the arm. He had heard the pain in his voice. He knew the spit was nothing compared to a bullet destroying part of your body. And your life. Whatever would happen to Frank would be miniscule compared to the damage his victim had suffered.

  He was given a date to report to prison. It gave Frank time to sell his business and set up trusts. He set aside a hundred thousand dollars for Hadur Fadrusz, even though he hadn’t been fined. He had his lawyer arrange the transfer of funds to him. He then put all that was left in bank accounts for Mariah and Perry, plus trusts for his children. He didn’t realize he had signed Mariah’s death warrant.

  XXVIII

  As bad as Frank had anticipated prison would be, it quickly became far worse. Immediately, he was identified as new meat, and he was set upon by the predators. Most men who made it to the penitentiary were hardened criminals, the worst of the worst, with numerous, progressive convictions for violent offenses. Frank had lived on the streets, but only by running and avoiding danger. He had been a mouse, and now he was surrounded by lions. At every meal he had to fight to keep the food on his tray. Every corner unseen by guards was an opportunity for someone to threaten or strike him.