Due Process

by Jane Finch

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Miranda awoke to complete blackness. She was no longer tied or gagged, but she struggled to breathe. She sat up slowly, nausea rising up and hovering in her stomach and bile gurgling in her throat. Then her head hit something solid and she ducked quickly. Reaching out her hands she began to feel around her and soon ascertained that the walls were made from a rough wood. She was in some type of box. The air was thick and heavy, and her clothes were clinging to her body like sticky tape. The ground was damp and gritty, like soil. She felt the panic starting to build as she realized she was underground.

  She still wore the white dress, which she quickly remembered had no pockets. As she sat her shoulders slumped and her legs began to shake. She had no fear of the spiders and insects that crept across her feet and toes, but she was terrified of suffocating. Her breathing was becoming more laboured and she struggled to calm her heart that was pounding so fast it sounded like a dentist’s drill in her ears.

  The panic soon took over and she began beating and pounding on the wooden roof, hot tears cascading down her cheeks.

  “Please. Someone help me,” she sobbed.

  The wood was harsh and she felt the needle-sharp shards shredding her palms. She began gasping for air.

  Just as she thought she would pass out through lack of oxygen there was a noise above her and a piercing white light caused her to shield her eyes. Strong black hands grabbed her and lifted her swiftly into the brightness.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she began, rubbing her eyes and trying to see where she was and who had saved her. At first all she could see was a shadow. But gradually as her eyes adjusted she could see that she was in a small room. Thick curtains covered the tiny window and cloaked the room in a dull light. Two men stood tall and alert by the doorway, watching her every move. The man who had saved her towered above her, dreadlocks disappearing behind his massive shoulders, his eyes glinting against his coal-black skin.

  She saw the hole in the ground behind her, a cavernous hole shored up with rough hewn planks of wood.

  “Why…?” she began, but the huge black man slapped her across the face so hard she felt her teeth rattle.

  “I’ll ask the questions, honey,” he said, grabbing a rickety chair and pushing her onto it. He squatted down so that his eyes were level with hers.

  “Now start talking,” he hissed.

  “Where’s Simon?” she asked, running her tongue around her teeth to see if any had fallen out.

  “Now listen, sweet girl, I will only ask once. Let me start you off. Your name is not Lucy Cray nor do you own a cosmetics company. You are Miranda Bell. I know where you live and what you do. I know how old you are, what school you went to, where you were born, and what happened to your parents when you were ten years old. I know your grandmother brought you up, and I know where she lives, too.”

  He took one of his dreadlocks and began to caress her cheek with it, and then stroked it across her neck and down to the top of her dress.

  “What I don’t know,” he continued, “is how much you know.” He smiled then, showing his discoloured teeth that glistened with his spittle.

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t…” she began, and then screamed as he lifted her from the chair and threw her back into the hole.

  “Let’s see if you can remember after a couple of hours back in there,” he shouted.

  The lid fell with a sickening thud.

  + + +

  Miranda didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. She had fallen head first into the hole and remembered nothing after the lid had fallen. A sticky substance on the side of her face told her she must have hit her head and passed out. Her whole body ached and she felt bruised and battered. Her mouth was sore where the beast had hit her, and her ears were ringing and her head thumping.

  She tried to make sense of what was happening. She had no idea who the men above her were, or what had happened to Simon. They seemed to know all about her, but why they should want to was beyond her. This was her first assignment with the drugs team, so she was an unknown. Then the answer came to her. This drugs gang was superior. They knew all about the team and its members. Probably had their identities checked regularly. So they weren’t taken by surprise. But her appearance was out of the normal, which meant something was going on. Something they didn’t know about.

  So they must be the suppliers, she thought. She felt for her watch and was relieved to feel it still on her arm. Hopefully the tracker on the base of the watch was still working. She had no way of checking with no light, so she just had to hope and believe that the team were on their way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Miranda heard the shouting first, and then gunfire. The sounds were muffled but she was certain she heard the sounds of glass breaking and a loud thud as if someone had fallen to the floor. She began banging on the roof.

  “Help me,” she yelled as loudly as she could, trying to gulp air that felt like pea soup going into her lungs.

  A noise caught her attention. It was like a cracking, and then a trickling sound, like water running. She ran her hands along the sides of the hole she was in, exploring, searching. Then she found it. One of the planks had split and sand was pouring in through the gap. She felt the floor. There was already several inches of sand piling up.

  “Quickly,” she screamed.

  There was another snap, and another. Then her fear overcame her, welling up from inside as she imagined how she would die. The sand was growing deeper, covering her feet and creeping along her legs. The air was becoming dusty. Her lungs felt like they were on fire. She tried to cry out again, but her tongue was so swollen she could barely make a sound. She lifted her arm weakly and began banging the roof. This is how it was going to be. She was going to suffocate. Maybe she would never be found. She closed her eyes and began to pray.

  Her breaths were shallow now, and she was feeling disorientated and dizzy. She didn’t know where the roof was anymore. She clamped her hand over her mouth to try to stop inhaling the dust and sand, but she needed to breathe. As the fear overcame her she finally gave in to it.

  + + +

  When she finally opened her eyes it was daylight. She slid her hands along the cool, soft sheets and pushed her head against the springy pillow. There was a scent in the air of freesias, her favourite flowers. The sweet smell had always reminded her of her grandmother. She looked up slowly, her head spinning as the bright light filtered through the blinds at the window. She saw the intravenous drip, the monitor, and moved her hand to feel the tabs on her chest, recording her heart rate. Beside the bed stood a glass and a jug of water. The liquid sparkled in the light, like a container of diamonds.

  “Water,” she croaked.

  A nurse was immediately beside her, lifting her head and dropping a few drops of the precious liquid on to her tongue. Never had a sip of water tasted so wonderful. With the coolness of the water soothing her stump of a tongue, Miranda slept.

  + + +

  It was two weeks before she left hospital. Her bruises had dulled to a deep yellow, the cuts and scratches were healed, although she may be left with a few scars, she had been told. It was the emotional scars that would take longer. Maybe they would never go away.

  Her boss had been to visit, and his words were ringing in her ears. Simon Buller was dead, killed because he had been careless. She remembered the big black Jamaican with the dreadlocks and the way he had thrown her into the ground. She remembered his yellow teeth and the whites of his eyes, and the hiss of his breath. The threats were real, and they had to act on them. It was his words that were going to change her life forever.

  Whilst he was being interrogated, he had said

  “Tell Miranda Bell to remember me. Because I will remember her, and I will find her and make her pay.”

  They couldn’t ignore it. He was the head of a huge gang with influential connections. They had to break them down one by one. The capture of the big Jamaican was a star
t, but she was no longer safe.

  As soon as she had given evidence at the trial, Miranda Bell had to disappear. She would be given a new identity and a new life. She could only ever contact them again if the drugs gang found her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Less than a month later, Samuel King was at the Court House in Jamaica. Security had been tight for such a notorious prisoner. He had been held at Tower Street because it was felt the most secure of the Adult Correctional Centres on the island. Lawyers and Court clerks had worked long and hard to facilitate an early trial date because of the risk of escape. The date had also been kept secret, so that no-one on the outside knew when he would be transported to the Court House.

  His trial had been a farce. He didn’t realize it was because he had refused to say a word, so the Court had assumed he was pleading Not Guilty and had to schedule a full blown trial. He blamed the Court and the lawyers and the legal staff and every other official who ever walked the planet. But most of all he blamed the female agent whose actions had led to his capture. He glared at her as she gave her evidence, and he took in every feature of her face, listened to the tone of her voice, and absorbed every word that she said. His anger boiled.

  The trial had been swift and the guilty verdict unavoidable especially in view of the fact that the defendant failed to say anything in his defence. His attorney had been unable to take a statement and had to wing it on the overwhelming evidence against his client.

  Samuel King was very annoyed. So annoyed, in fact, that he was grinding his teeth and digging his nails into the palms of his hands, even though they were in handcuffs. All he could see was orange. The orange jump suit he was forced to wear covered him from head to toe and he hated it. He hated the way it made him look just the same as all the other losers waiting at the court house. He hated the stupid smirks on the faces of the guards, and he hated the smell of the whole building.

  He and six others were sitting on a wooden bench their feet shackled and their hands in cuffs outside court one. It was only when the door to the court opened and a suited clerk nodded to the guards that they were allowed to stand. As he towered over the other prisoners and guards the corridor became quiet and the other prisoners dropped their eyes immediately to their feet. Samuel King was in their midst. They were in awe.

  They shuffled into the court room as Samuel King strutted ahead. He was led to the front row of seats and the other prisoners sat behind him. From the day he had been captured, throughout the trial, whether in court or in a cell, he had not spoken a word. He glared at the judge as his sentence was pronounced.

  “Fifteen years.”

  The judge appeared not to be intimidated by Samuel and met his glare.

  “Do you have anything to say before you leave the courtroom?”

  “Oh, ya,” said Samuel, his voice deep and raspy, “ I just wanna say that I know where ya live, Judge Hopkins, and I’ll find ya. I always pay ma debts, as you may’ve heard.”

  Then he spat at the judge, at his Defence lawyer, and at the court clerk before three security guards tackled him to the floor. They restrained him by sitting on him whilst the judge listened to the prosecution’s request that he be moved from Tower Street, which was totally inadequate let alone insecure for such a high profile prisoner, and sent to a prison as far away from the island as possible. They requested special dispensation to send him to San Quentin, and the judge agreed.

  * * *

  Samuel’s cell was located in West Block. It was, literally, a block of cement. Each side was five stories high and each level had a walkway lined with iron railings. The windows at each end of the block were protected by iron bars and barbed wire. The floors were hard and cold and the constant noise of doors clanging shut, inmates shouting and footsteps trudging backwards and forwards often made Samuel want to kill someone. Despite his criminal history he had never been incarcerated before and there were occasions, when he was alone, that the isolation got to him. He had grown up in Jamaica, where the warm winds caressed the skin and the ocean dazzled and the women were easy. Shut away for long periods of time in a room barely eight feet square gave him too much time to think. If it hadn’t been for Miranda Bell he would be back on his island now, and those thoughts kept festering inside him like a tumour, growing and growing until vengeance occupied every waking moment of his day, and every dream.

  He had a single cell, which was wise because probably any cellmate would have been butchered with Samuel’s bare hands in the blink of an eye. There was a bed, a table and chair, and a toilet. On the wall were two planks of wood posing as shelves. The shelves were empty. Samuel did not read books, watch television, paint, draw, use a computer, or otherwise entertain himself. He slept, he thought, he planned, and he slept again.

  Being located near San Francisco bay meant that often Samuel could smell the ocean. It brought a determination to him that once he was free he would return to Jamaica and never again leave the island. Before that, however, he had two scores to settle. Number one was Judge Hopkins. He would be easy to find and dispose of. A word or two in the right ear by his men and job done. But he didn’t want it done just yet, because he wanted to wait until they were all feeling safe and secure. Then he wanted it to send a message out that he was still the King.

  The second score to settle was Miranda Bell. He had promised her she would pay for her betrayal, and he was, after all, known as a man of his word.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Five o’clock in the afternoon and the exercise yard was crowded. Samuel would have preferred to stay in his cell, to not have to interact with the other inmates. But it was an opportunity to feel the sun on his face and to breathe fresh air. At first he used to sit and mope, refusing to talk to anyone. After a while, however, the sunshine started to work its magic and he began to jog around the exercise track.

  At first he jogged about fifty metres, stopped to catch his breath, and then jogged another fifty. So it went on day after day until gradually he found he didn’t need to stop and catch his breath any more. Within a few weeks he stopped jogging and began to run. Seven, sometimes eight times around the track, until his legs cramped and his lungs screamed.

  It was at the end of a long run one summer evening that he heard footsteps keeping pace behind him. Immediately, he tensed. He was used to having the track to himself. No-one ventured to use it until he had finished.

  He slowed, and then sprinted, but his follower stayed right behind him. Suddenly, Samuel stopped and turned. He looked into the eyes of Joe Wright, a black boy from New York. Samuel had heard about him. He had upset the governor of Sing Sing prison and got himself transferred to good old San Quentin. Joe had a loyal band of men who shadowed him at the jail, saw to his every need, got his cigarettes and dope when he needed it, and rumour had it he had a good network on the outside.

  Samuel waited for Joe to speak. Joe stared him fully in the eyes.

  “Word is,” he said, “you got some business on the outside.”

  Samuel said nothing. He had learned to trust no-one, to say little, and to learn from those who forgot to keep those rules.

  Joe stood rock still, his eyes sliding to the side of the track to make sure his men were close by in case the bear of a man before him tried to attack him.

  Joe tried again.

  “Thing is, I got contacts. I can help you.”

  “And why ya wanna do that?” Samuel asked, aware of the men watching but not wanting to cause a disturbance or draw attention to the little meeting.

  Joe smirked.

  “Well, see, I got myself a little problem. I need a supplier, and you need information. Seems to me we can help each other.”

  Samuel waited as rivulets of sweat from his exercise poured down his back and the beads of perspiration on his face began to dry as the sun beat down.

  “Just what information do ya think I need?” he asked quietly.

  Joe eased forward.

  “I hear you after a Judge. I got lots of people wa
nt to do a Judge. Cops too. Just give me the word.”

  Samuel beckoned Joe forward and he put his face against the New Yorker’s ear.

  “I gotta word for you,” he whispered, and brought his hand up behind Joe, placed it on his shoulders so it looked to the world like a friendly gesture, and then slid his fingers to the top of the man’s neck and drove his forefinger and thumb into the cavity.

  “The word is goodbye,” hissed Samuel.

  Joe Wright was still falling to the ground as Samuel jogged away.

  He expected some sort of retribution, but there was nothing. Months passed but no-one said a word. If anything, he was treated with more respect, if that was possible. Samuel didn’t care one way or another, he had no need of protection or special attention. He wanted to keep himself to himself until he was able to instigate whatever contact he wanted to achieve his goals.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Judge Peter Hopkins had been born in England. In Macclesfield, to be exact. His consistent childhood memory was being covered from head to foot in mud after the regular Saturday morning football match, trudging home head bent against the rain and wind, and his fingers so cold he couldn’t do up the buttons of his coat.

  His parents lived in a two bedroomed terrace house in a never-ending street where the roofs disappeared into the distance like a railway line. The rooms were small and dim and in winter they had to have the lights on all day. For the endless evenings he would huddle in bed with a torch under prickly blankets and read travel magazines.

  The dark nights of winter lingered long into what should have been spring, and he would often scowl at his own pale skin and that of his friends. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that when he became an adult he would leave England and move to a country where the sun always shone and where the skins were dark and blankets didn’t exist.