They walked into the concrete shell of the building, the fading daylight barely coming through the gaps in the walls, and into the center room of a ground-floor apartment, designed to be a dining room in the future. As he stepped inside the room, Hunter saw it was a makeshift office—one foldaway table in the middle, two office chairs on either side of the table, and three lights powered by a generator outside the room. This was no regular office, and this was no friendly get-together.
Kenneth Chow sat behind the table, his expensive leather shoes resting on the plastic tabletop, his relaxed pose stating he was in charge. He was a small man of Chinese descent, thin and wearied. His hair was cropped short, his skin wrinkled, and his shoulders looked weak. He was in his late-fifties, but he hadn’t aged well.
“Thank you for meeting with me.” Hunter offered his hand to shake but Chow waved it away, feet still up on the desk.
“It seems I didn’t have much of a choice.” Chow’s voice was loud, his accent a grating mixture of Chinese and Chicagoan. “Have a seat, Mr. Hunter, and get straight to the point. I don’t want to waste time here today.”
Hunter folded his tall frame into the office chair, his body barely fitting between the arms.
“What was your relationship with Sidney McCann?”
“Pardon?” Chow sat up straight, taking his feet off the table. “I’m confused. I thought you were here to discuss the woman who stole my car from outside these gates, and then torched it. I thought this was about the case with Mary-Ann Steele.”
“It is.”
“And what does Sidney McCann have to do with that?”
“He’s connected to Mary-Ann Steele.” Hunter leaned forward. “Like I said over the phone—you can either answer my questions here, or in court. That choice is yours.”
Chow paused and looked at the closed door. He took a few moments to compose himself, flared his nostrils, and grunted. He’d been in enough courtrooms to know that he wasn’t a fan of them.
“I knew Sidney McCann.” He looked around the room, which had holes in the walls for the future plumbing. It was cold, no windows, and had one small door. It felt more like an interrogation room for the CIA than a future area for families to gather. “McCann was a detective around this area for a while, and I built a lot of the apartment buildings around here. Our paths crossed occasionally.”
“Did you ever pay him bribes?”
“What?” He laughed, slapping the table with his hand. “You can’t prove that. The man’s dead, I’m sure he won’t be making a testimony against me.”
“He was going to make a testimony against you. He’d worked out a deal with the Department of Justice to expose your practices.” Hunter’s voice was firm. “You paid him bribes to look the other way when your unsafe work practices were reported as illegal. He made those reports in your favor, and you paid him for it. McCann signed off on Anthony Steele’s work accident report. McCann stated there were no unsafe work practices leading to Steele’s death.”
“Sidney McCann signed Anthony Steele’s document because it was the truth. That report is more than two years old, and you have no evidence he ever received a bribe.” He continued laughing. “If you did have evidence that I paid bribes to the police, I would’ve been arrested a long time ago.”
“I’m getting closer to uncovering your practices. They’re going to be exposed—loud and clear for everyone to hear. We’ll be reviewing the report on Anthony Steele’s death as part of this trial, and we will also be reviewing Sidney McCann’s bank accounts.”
“Did McCann’s wife tell you this? Because she came to me and said she was against Sidney exposing all his corrupt behavior. She didn’t want him talking. Of course, I didn’t know what she was referring to.”
“Li McCann came to see you? Why?”
“She said she didn’t want Sidney telling anyone about his old ways. She didn’t think she could take the pressure of exposure. She mentioned Anthony Steele’s report—I could only imagine that she’d been talking to that stupid old woman, Mary-Ann. Do you know that stupid woman protested outside my work sites for two years? Can you believe that? Two years of harassment. Doesn’t she have anything better to do?”
Chow held Hunter’s stare for a moment, and then flinched. Under the power of the stare, he broke first, leaning back in his chair, spreading his arms wide.
“If you paid McCann to sign off on that accident report, then I will find the money trail.”
“Let me tell you something.” His voice snarled. “My grandparents were victims of World War ll. The stories, the atrocities that the Japanese soldiers did, prepared me to play in this world, here in Chicago. But the pain that war caused, the horrors it created, have nothing on what I can do to you.”
“Don’t threaten me.” Hunter leaned forward, his face shadowed by the lack of light. “Or I’ll make it my life’s work to bring your world of corruption crashing down on top of your head.”
“You’re a brave man, Hunter, very brave. Walking into a construction site where the foundations of concrete are still being laid, and making threats.” He laughed nervously. “You’d be surprised what is buried under the foundations of a building. Concrete covers most things.”
“Nothing would surprise me with you.”
“The truth is that old woman protested too much outside my apartment developments. She was disrupting the workers! Once I told her to move on, she stole my car and burned it, all because her son was stupid enough to have an accident on my work site. That’s what you’re here to talk about, and that’s all I can tell you about. I parked my car outside my worksite, and I left my keys in the car, which I often do. That old woman took advantage of me, stealing my car. She then had the nerve to drive the car out to a reserve and burn it. What a crazy old woman!”
“Her son had worked five eighteen-hour shifts in five days, that’s not an accident. That’s unsafe work practices and an unsafe worksite, making you responsible for his death.” Hunter growled at Chow. “That’s going to come out in court.”
“The police report doesn’t agree with you.” Chow smiled. “Anthony Steele is on the books as working five ten-hour shifts over five separate days, which is perfectly legal. He signed those pay-slips as having worked those hours. If he made a personal decision to be onsite for longer than that, that’s something outside of my control, but legally, we only asked him to work those hours. He showed signs of a suicide risk in the days before the event, and then he fell off the fifth level of the apartment building. I can’t help that. That’s not my fault.”
“He was working unpaid overtime to try and keep his job. You know that. That’s what your entire business is built upon—preying on those that are desperate to keep their jobs. Working them to death. You’re a vulture. Anthony Steele never had an accident before his death. He slipped and fell due to fatigue caused by your unlawful work practices.”
“Money can make amazing things happen,” Chow stood and circled around the plastic table. Even standing, he was barely as tall as the lawyer sitting down. “Do you have any more questions about the case where Mary-Ann Steele stole my car?”
“What did you burn in the car?”
“Pardon?” He laughed at Hunter’s abruptness.
“When you burned your car, you burned the evidence in the back. There’s evidence something heavy was dragged out of the trunk. You made it look like a stolen car, then you dumped the car in the reserve near Mary-Ann Steele’s house. Not only did you take her son away from her, but then you rubbed it in her face by framing her for stealing a car. That’s low, even for scum like you.”
“Interesting theory.” Chow raised his eyebrows. “But you have no proof. I wasn’t there. My solid alibi will tell you that.”
“You didn’t steal the car, but you paid someone to move it for you.” Hunter pressed his finger into the table. “And I’m going to find out who.”
“It’s time for you to go. I don’t want to listen to this anymore.” Chow walked to the door o
f the dark room and opened it. “Watch your step on the way out, Mr. Hunter. This is a worksite, and I would hate it if you fell over and broke a rib.”
Chapter 15
As Hunter began to exit the future dining room, he stood next to Chow for one long moment, dominating him with his height. He lingered at the door, groaning deeply, staring at the businessman, before turning to the construction site. The biggest of the men was standing near the entrance of the building, Chow providing him a small nod.
That wasn’t a good sign.
As Hunter began to walk out into the yard, he saw the other three men waiting for him. Over his shoulder, he saw the first man give them a nod, and they did the same in return.
Definitely, not a good sign.
Hunter looked towards the gates at the entrance to the site, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet away.
They were locked.
The chain had been wrapped around the inside of the gate, with the heavy padlock holding them together.
The men stepped closer.
There was no use yelling for help. Hunter had no doubt that on the other side of the chain was Detective John Yates, waiting to take the case if someone called in Hunter’s yells.
The first fights Hunter became involved in were stuck in his mind. At ten years old, he was the target at school and his first fight was hopeless. There were five boys from an older grade, holding him down while they punched him in the face and ribs. When a teacher cleared them out, she helped him up and warned him that he’d better get used to it—there was going to be much more of that to come, and the teachers couldn’t protect him all the time.
She was right, of course.
It became almost a weekly ritual.
And those were the days when Hunter began to learn to fight. He watched hours and hours of boxing videos, watching the greats move with ease—their evasive head movement, the quickness of their hands, the lightness on their feet.
He read the training manuals of the great boxers, the notes from the great trainers, the biographies of the fighters; the start of one of his life’s great passions. At first, he would only land one or two punches on the attackers, and that would only make them angrier, but after a few months, he started to land more punches than they did, and after a year, it was a brave person who dared to fight Tex Hunter.
At twelve, he walked into the boxing gym close to his house, begged to start training, and they took him under their wings. There, in the concrete shell of a gym—full of sweat, loud music, and grunting—he found a brotherhood, a gym full of future delinquents, felons, and gang members. It was a place where people accepted him for who he was.
As he stepped out onto the mud in the construction site, the men moved closer. It was dark, only the single light next to the fence providing any illumination. Hunter calmed his breathing, checked he could see all the men in his peripheral vision, and continued walking.
Ten feet to the locked gate.
After years of boxing, Hunter began to expand his training into Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu-jitsu. He respected the moves and awareness those sports gave him, but it was always boxing that had his heart.
“Gate’s locked.” One of the men stepped closer. “Can’t get out that way.”
“Which way is out then?” Hunter turned.
“Through us.”
The first swinging fist came from the left, and Hunter’s head movement easily evaded the punch. The second fist came from another man, throwing a wild hook, and Hunter’s foot movement placed him out of range.
“Bit of a fighter, eh?” One the men smiled. “You’re going to regret that.”
That smile was wiped off by Hunter’s solid straight right, slamming the guy into the mud. The second man charged at Hunter, but a swinging left hook took care of that problem. The second man wobbled and leaned against the fence.
He came back at Hunter, swinging wildly again, but Hunter’s feet were still quick, placing him in the perfect position to land a right hook to the man’s ribs, followed by another left hook to the man’s jaw. The man fell heavily into the mud.
That’s when Hunter saw the gun.
A Glock pointed at his face by the third man.
As much as he enjoyed fighting, as skillful as he was, he wasn’t going to evade a bullet.
The first man, wiping the blood from his jaw, stepped closer to Hunter. “I’m going to punch you six times in the ribs, and you’re going to enjoy it.”
Hunter stepped back.
“Or we can sort this out another way.” The man indicated towards the gun. “Things get buried at construction sites. Buried for good.”
The Glock looked steady in the man’s hands. He wasn’t nervous and he’d clearly shot a weapon before. At five feet away, the man with the gun was too far away for Hunter to run at, but close enough not to miss a shot.
One of the other men walked closer to Hunter, gripping his fist tightly, making a snarling face as he took a long wind-up, landing a smashing right hand into Hunter’s ribs. The wind was knocked out of Hunter, the pain echoing through his body, hunching him over. The second punch landed in the same spot, smashing more pain through his body, and Hunter could already taste blood.
The next four punches all landed in the same area.
Hunter desperately tried to suck in the air, leaning forward to draw it in, while at the same time, tried to cough up the blood that was pooling in his throat.
The men stood over him, watching him suffer, and it was the kick to his ribs, landed with a steel-capped boot, that sucked all the resistance from Hunter. He fell to his side, gripping his left ribs tightly, providing his chest any defense he could.
On the ground, shattered but not beaten, Hunter looked at the gates, slowly being opened by one of the men. And there, waiting for him on the sidewalk, was Detective John Yates.
“What happened here?” Yates asked as he stepped into the construction site, puffing hard on a cigarette. “Looks like an accident to me.”
“The lawyer fell over on the way out. We all saw it.” The first guy rubbed his jaw. “It sure is slippery out here. We warned him to watch his step, but he slipped and fell over. I think he might’ve hurt his ribs pretty bad in the fall.”
“That’s no good.” Yates blew a large puff of smoke. “But Mr. Hunter, if you want to file a police report, I can be a witness for you. I’ll state that I was here to see you slip.”
Chapter 16
When they called her name for the mail call, Nina Aisha didn’t respond.
It was not only the first letter Nina Aisha had received in prison, but the first she could remember receiving for many years on the outside. She couldn’t imagine who it was from. She figured if someone was sending her a letter, then it couldn’t be good news.
She sat in the beige colored mess hall, row upon row of tables behind her, and with the cold meats sitting on her plastic tray, she stared at the barely edible substance until her name was called again.
She understood the authorities painted their environment in such plain colors to sedate them, but before she came into prison, she’d been reading about how colors can impact a person’s mood. She stumbled across an internet site detailing the powers of choosing the right wall paint for moods—a yellow colored wall was preferred for happiness, red for motivation—and the more she read about it, the more she felt color had an impact on her mood. Too much color in a place made her feel overwhelmed; too little and she felt tired, rundown, and depressed.
“Nina,” Denise leaned over. “They’re calling you. You’ve got to go up and collect the letter once you’ve finished your food.”
So far, the food had been a culinary nightmare. Nina picked at her mash potato again. It was pure white, almost glowing, and she couldn’t figure out what the black specks in it were. She hoped it was the ash from the pots. She hadn’t eaten much since she came into prison, and the weight loss was starting to become noticeable. The food was repulsive, but that wasn’t the problem; it was the stress, the tension
that continued to build every day. This was her life now, no longer was she studying to complete high school, no longer was she looking for a job, no longer was she thinking about the future, her life was now all behind solid twenty-five-foot-tall walls, with a cold bed and not much else.
She wondered what they would think at the shelter she stayed at—whether they would even notice her gone. Her backpack was still there; her bed was still made. They would’ve thrown out her backpack already, she reasoned. Someone else would have already moved into her room.
After staying with Mr. Bishop, she never thought life could become much worse, but every day in prison, she was being proven wrong. Life, as she had known it, had completely changed.
When she had picked at enough of her food, she took the tray to the counter and placed it on the dishwashing rack. There was a chill in the air, a sense of lost hope, and Nina felt it creeping into her soul. She walked to the guard, provided her name, and the guard handed her a letter.
The top of the letter had been opened already, stuck back together with tape, and the contents had surely been read. She wasn’t sure who would want to read it, but she knew it would be trouble.
Guardedly, she sat down on a plastic chair and read the letter:
*****
Dear Nina,
I hope this finds you well. I hope prison isn’t too bad and you can find something positive from the experience.
My name is Li McCann and they say you killed my husband, Sidney McCann. If you did kill him, I forgive you.
I know my Sidney wasn’t a nice man for much of his life. In fact, for a long time, he was quite horrible. He used to beat his son and I regularly.
But my Sidney changed. He had a heart attack a year ago and tried to change his life around, he tried to make things better in the world. He wanted to leave a positive legacy behind. He struck a deal to expose all the wrongs he had done in the past.
As a part of redeeming his past wrong doings, he went looking for you. He told me he had to say sorry to Antonina Aisha. I didn’t know what for, and I didn’t ask. I never asked about his work.
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