Gundown

by Ray Rhamey

  Two guards entered, stoppers drawn. Arnie pointed. “Jimmy, cover these guys, especially the troublemaker.”

  Arnie checked Mannie’s pulse. He sighed and said to one of the new guards, “Better get a gurney over here from the Repair Shop. He’s going to need a little treatment.” He opened the barred door to the elevator area and signaled Hank to enter. “In.”

  Hank applied all his strength to break the bonds of the tangle. It gave slightly, then no more. “Like this?”

  “You’re a lot less trouble that way.”

  “Up there, I’m in trouble this way.”

  At Hank’s feet, Mannie stirred and moaned. Arnie knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. Mannie’s eyes cracked open. Arnie said, “You okay?” Mannie nodded, then winced.

  Arnie stood and considered Hank. “You’re the guy who saved Noah Stone’s life?”

  “That’s what I’m in here for.”

  Arnie gazed at Hank, then took an aerosol can from a drawer. “Don’t use this much—hope it’s still good.”

  He sprayed the tangle; it sagged and fell away.

  “Thanks.” Hank fetched his supplies, went to the elevator, and joined Dalrymple. Arnie pushed a button, the doors closed, motors whined, and the elevator rose.

  When it stopped and opened, they edged into the room, spreading to create space between them. The elevator shut behind them.

  The steel door into the exit chamber was set in a steel frame cemented into concrete block walls. Hank tapped the button on the panel and the door rumbled open. It revealed a bare room four feet square, with a steel door and control panel on the opposite wall. Hank led the way into the room. Behind them, the door closed.

  In grisly testimony to the force behind the doors, just inside the outer door lay a mummified hand, the rusty brown of dried blood staining the floor under it. A spider skittered away from the bones. Hank tsked; apparently there was no maid service up here.

  Dalrymple said, “You gonna open the door?”

  Hank didn’t want to be first out in a prison filled with thousands of the state’s most violent men. He said, “Help yourself.”

  Dalrymple snorted and swaggered forward to stab the button. This door lifted straight up. Instead of being squared off, the bottom edge was wedge-shaped, and the doorjamb in the floor was shaped to receive it. With ten tons of pressure behind it, the door would cut through anything in its way. Nasty.

  Hank’s ears and skin sensed the increased air pressure that supported the huge fabric roof. Foul air flowed in, carrying an eye-watering stench of unwashed men and God knew what else. Men waited outside the door.

  One of them coughed. Dalrymple retreated a step.

  Arnie’s voice said, “I need to shut that door. Please step out.” Hank spotted a tiny camera in a corner of the ceiling.

  Hank stepped to the doorway. A semicircle of beefy, unkempt men waited for them. Sure they did; they’d seen the helicopter arrive and had expected new fish to be delivered. Seeing nothing to gain by waiting, Hank moved out. Dalrymple came after. The second he cleared the door, it slammed home like a giant guillotine blade. Very nasty.

  There were five in the reception committee, all bearded and, judging by the odor that drifted to Hank, unwashed for entirely too long. Two wore their hair pulled back in ponytails, three let it bush out. Of course, there were no scissors or razors in the Keep. A crude tattoo of a skull and crossbones decorated each man’s forehead.

  The air structure stretched before them; it still reminded Hank of a giant pill, long and rounded. The ceiling arched eighty feet over a half acre of concrete. King-size lighting fixtures hung from the roof. Scattered through the space were chairs, tables, and beds, some clustered together, others isolated. Pieces of clothing littered the floor, and occasional piles of what looked like trash rose a few feet from the pavement. It was a gray scene, the only color hundreds of orange jumpsuits. Men lounged on beds and chairs. A couple of card games were in progress. On the far side two men fought inside a circle of cheering prisoners.

  Twenty yards from the door, a row of metal pipes ending in showerheads stuck up through the floor. Nearby, a couple dozen urinals decorated a low concrete wall, and toilets occupied a row of half-wall stalls. Fifty feet past the “bathroom” stood a thirty-foot square formed by what looked like walls of fabric. It looked like a tent without a roof, and was flanked by a smaller square, maybe ten feet to a side. Hefty men stood guard at the big square’s entrance.

  Hank noted that none of the five waiting men had made a move to get inside the exit chamber. He figured that was a sure sign he could rule it out as an escape route.

  Each man carried a stout club about two feet long, one end tapered to a point sharp enough to put a serious hole in someone’s belly; a fist-sized rock tied to the other end looked good for bashing.

  The biggest man said, “Take it.”

  The other four stepped forward and grabbed the supplies the new arrivals carried. Hank let his stuff go without protest, but Dalrymple hung on, saying “Hey, that’s mine!”

  One thug stepped behind Dalrymple and smashed his fist into a kidney. The rapist dropped his bundle, and his assailants grabbed their loot and rejoined the semicircle. The leader aimed his club at the topless tent. “We’re going there. You give us a problem, well . . .” He slapped his club head into a palm. “Did they show you Bone Hill on the way in?”

  Hank nodded.

  The leader said, “Let’s go.”

  Fundamentally Rational and Fair

  Jewel closed the folder on the Armstrong file, done at last, and sooner than she’d thought. She was getting the hang of the Alliance system. She leaned back and sipped her coffee—bleh, it was cold. Can’t have that. Just as she stood to go for a fresh cup, her cell phone dinged. A text message. She checked the screen.

  It was from Murphy’s number. It said, “Gotcha.”

  Fear clenched her. No . . . She didn’t know what to do, where to turn.

  Benson appeared in her doorway, papers in his hand. Good, he’d know what . . . Why was his always cheerful face so down? A uniformed police officer appeared behind him. It was Tom, the nice cop she’d seen around town.

  Tom said, “Ms. Washington, I—”

  Benson said, “Let me, Tom.” He held up the papers. “Jewel, Tom is here to take you into custody. The State of Illinois has a warrant for your arrest.” He squared his shoulders and took a breath. “The charge is murder. And there’s an officer here to extradite you.”

  This was crazy. “Who did I murder?”

  Benson read from a sheet of paper. “Timothy Washington.”

  She dropped into her chair, sucker-punched by his words. “My brother? I didn’t— Who said—”

  Benson said, “The charging officer is John Murphy.”

  “That lying bastard!”

  Tom stepped into the office and took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Sorry, ma’am. I gotta do this.”

  She stood and backed away, hands out in protest. “This is all wrong.”

  “Please don’t make this any tougher.”

  Benson said, “I’m on this, Jewel. Just stay calm.”

  The cop clicked the cuffs on her—cold, heavy, scary—and he said, “You have the right to . . .”

  Four hours later, Jewel sat in a jail cell, still wracking her brains to figure out what to do. She thought about Hank Soldado sitting there and understood why he had tried so hard to escape. She felt so—trapped, as helpless as a newborn.

  The cellblock door opened and Benson hustled in, a file folder in his hands. The jailer followed, keys in hand. Benson said, “Hi, Jewel. You okay?”

  “Yes. No. I’m so damn scared for Chloe.”

  “I checked. Franklin’s taking care of her. Ah, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to act as your advocate.”

  “Oh, yes, but I don’t get why I need one. I didn’t do what they said.” It struck her that Hank hadn’t thought he’d done anything wrong, either.

  The jaile
r opened the cell door and swung it back. Benson said, “Come on. We’ve got an inquiry to go to.”

  “So fast?”

  Benson reddened. “Uh, I asked for a favor.” Now that was something, Mr. Letter-of-the-Law asking for special consideration.

  A pulse of fear struck. She shrank back from him. “Oh, God, Benson, I don’t want to go to the Keep.”

  “Did you do what they say?”

  Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.

  He said, “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Come on, let’s get this done.”

  She held her arms out for handcuffs.

  Benson said, “No need for that. Come on.”

  #

  When they stepped into the courtroom, another shock greeted her—Murphy sat by the state’s advocate, Jenny. He looked different . . . His nose veered to the side. The creep smiled at her like an executioner who enjoyed his work. It was a black woman’s word against a white Chicago cop’s. She was in deep shit.

  The only other people in the courtroom were the jury panel and the court clerk. Just as she and Benson got settled at the advocate’s table, Judge Edith Crabtree strode into the chambers and took her place behind her desk. The judge rapped her gavel, peered over her reading glasses at Murphy, and said, “Well, what can we do for the great state of Illinois?”

  Jenny rose. “Your honor, Officer Murphy seeks extradition of Jewel Washington on a charge of first-degree homicide committed in Cook County, Illinois.” She held up a folder. “He has provided the appropriate paperwork.”

  The judge considered Jewel. “Ms. Washington? Aren’t you with the Alliance advocate team?”

  Jewel stood. “Yes, ma’am, Your Honor.”

  Murphy stood. “That doesn’t matter, what she is here. It’s what she did there that counts.”

  Judge Crabtree leveled her gaze at Murphy. “You are absolutely correct, Officer.”

  “Then let me have her and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Ah, but here in Oregon we like to inquire into the facts of ‘what she did there’ before making judgments.”

  Murphy protested. “She did it. She poisoned Timothy Washington.”

  Anger flared in Jewel. The son of a bitch. She opened her mouth to protest, but Benson stopped her by saying, “Your Honor, the accused is ready to proceed with the inquiry.”

  Murphy sputtered, “I got all the paperwork. The Chicago D.A. said just pick her up. What kinda deal is this?”

  “The ‘deal,’ Officer, is to get at the truth. Please be seated.” As Murphy lowered himself into his chair, the judge turned to Jewel. “Please take the witness chair, Ms. Washington.”

  Again Jewel thought of Hank as she walked to the chair and had the verifier headset placed on her head. He’d been convinced he was innocent, yet he had been sentenced to sure death. And now she was in the grip of the same system. Going back to Chicago would be as bad as being sent to the Keep.

  Benson started the questioning. “Ms. Washington, do you know a Timothy Washington?”

  “Yes. He’s . . . he was my brother.” The verifier light glowed green.

  “Let’s get right to it, Ms. Washington. Did you poison your brother?”

  “No, sir.” The green circle remained unlit. There was no memory in her of doing anything like that.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “The day I left for Oregon, ’bout a month ago.”

  “Was he alive when you left him?”

  She pictured Timmy, lying dead on the closet floor. Tears filled her eyes. She said, “No.” The light flickered green.

  Benson said, “But you did nothing to harm him.”

  Oh, God, what was the truth? She’d bought pink for him, time and again. But what could she have done differently? She shook her head and the green circle stayed dim. Mercifully, the judge didn’t ask for her answer out loud; she wasn’t sure she could hold the tears back.

  Benson stepped back and said, “That should be enough, Your Honor. We recommend denying the order for extradition as Ms. Washington is clearly not guilty of the crime she is accused of.”

  The judge said, “Jenny, does the state have any questions?”

  Murphy shot to his feet. “I sure as hell do!”

  The judge scowled and her voice boomed. “You will watch your language in this courtroom.”

  Murphy shrank a little and then muttered, “Yes, ma’am.” He straightened. “But that’s not all there is to it. Let me ask her some questions.”

  “Of course. We are, after all, here for the truth.”

  Murphy swaggered over to stand in front of Jewel. The bitter reek of old sweat struck her. He said, “Let’s see if you tell the truth about this.”

  The judge said, “Please get on with it, Officer.”

  “Did you give your brother the drug known as pink?”

  Oh, shit. But she had to answer. “Yes.” The light greened.

  “Did you give him a lethal dose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that he would take it?”

  She shuddered. Timmy’s Thank you whispered in her mind. She nodded; the light glowed green. “Yes, I knew he would take it.” Jewel lifted her chin. “I hoped he would.”

  Murphy faced the judge. “At the least, Your Honor, this is a case of assisted suicide, if not manslaughter, and you have to allow the extradition so justice can be served.” He returned to the advocate table and sat.

  Judge Edith said, “You have a point. The circumstances seem to call for further investigation.”

  A member of the jury panel raised her hand. She was in her thirties, and her eyes were moist. The judge said, “A question?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed.”

  She addressed Jewel. “Had your brother been addicted for long?”

  “A year. It seemed like forever.”

  “Did you care for him?”

  “Every day.”

  “Did you buy drugs for him?”

  “Every day I could afford to.”

  A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek; it was mirrored by one from Jewel’s eye. The woman said, “Why?”

  Jewel gazed at the judge. “To stop the pain.” The green verifier light turned on. “And withdrawal would kill him.”

  “But the pain always came back, didn’t it?”

  Jewel took a breath and tried to harden herself. “Yes.”

  “Why did you provide him with a lethal dose?”

  Jewel cried out, “To stop the pain!”

  The woman said, “Yes.” She turned to the judge. “My husband died of this evil drug.” She shuddered. “I still hear the screams.”

  Benson asked Jewel, “Was the supply of this drug plentiful?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then why didn’t your brother go get it himself?”

  “No money, and he was so sick.” She glared straight at Murphy. “And I had the connection.”

  Benson was quick to pick up her meaning. “And who was that connection, Miss Washington?”

  She pointed at Murphy. “That scumbag.”

  The verifier light glowed green.

  Murphy jumped up. “That’s a lie!”

  Judge Crabtree said, “Well, we can’t have that, Officer. Would you like to take the stand and answer a few questions?” Her smooth tone didn’t hide the venom underneath.

  Murphy glanced at the verifier monitors. “I have to wear that thing?”

  “Yes. All you have to do is tell the truth. It will know when you do.”

  Murphy paled. “Uh, no, no, I don’t think I ought to do that. Uh, testify, I mean.” He sat.

  The judge rapped her gavel. “Considering the evidence before us, I see no reason to honor this request for extradition. But we have our process, our due process.” She turned to the jury. “Does the panel need to adjourn to take a vote?”

  The jurors shook their heads. The woman whose husband died of pink raised her hand.

  The judge said, “Yes?”


  The woman stood. “I think it’s clear, Your Honor, that there’s no justification for the extradition. However that man died, this woman didn’t do it. But is there any way to arrest the—” She pointed at Murphy. “Scumbag?”

  The tiniest of smiles appeared at the corners of Judge Crabtree’s mouth. “I’m afraid there’s no way we can detain the scu— ah, officer. But we will be in communication with our peers in the Cook County justice system.”

  If Murphy had looked pale before, he now looked bleached. He threw a look at Jewel hard enough to make her flinch.

  The judge banged her gavel. “This inquiry is closed. Miss Washington, please return to your life, and enjoy every minute of it.”

  Jewel took the headset off, relief bringing a wide smile. “Oh, yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  The judge pointed to the back of the courtroom. “It’s not me you thank. It’s the people who made truth the goal of our system.”

  Jewel turned, and there was Noah. He nodded and then slipped out the door.

  Benson shook her hand and said, “Well, do you think our system is so bad now?”

  Jewel, still quivery inside with the fear that had filled her for hours, said, “Maybe it worked for me. But one right doesn’t fix a wrong. Hell, Soldado could be dead by now because he saved a life.”

  Benson shook his head. “And took one.”

  “Righteously.”

  “But not rightfully.”

  Jewel shook her head. “You’re never going to sell me that.”

  Benson scowled. “Then maybe you don’t belong here.”

  The Beast Is Hungry

  Hank headed for the fabric structure, followed by Dalrymple. Two men fell in on each side, their clubs ready, and the leader took up the rear.

  Hank passed a barrier fence of bed frames turned on their sides and tied together three-high that extended from the side of the concrete elevator building. The makeshift fence enclosed an area stacked high with cardboard boxes, leaving only a narrow opening guarded by big guys with tattoos on their foreheads. A ramp sloped down into the area from an opening high in a side wall.

  As they passed, a cardboard carton arrived and slid down toward a mound of goods. A line of inmates formed at the opening to the enclosure. The tattooed guys handed out packages that Hank guessed were food.