by Jack Flynn
If not I, then who?
Days like today justified that conceited obstinancy. Today he would stand as the protector of the greatest judicial system ever created. In his heart, he knew that Vincente Carpio was guilty, and deserved the harshest punishment available to a civil society. In his head, though, he knew that it was not his job to take sides. It was his job to hold the prosecutors to their burden, and ensure that any verdict reached was the product of a fair and balanced process that protected every man or woman accused of a crime, even the most heinous crimes – especially the most heinous crimes.
Baylor looked out his window, across a construction site out toward the water. It was nearly eight o’clock, and six stories below he could see two workers climbing over their rigs. They were dressed in bright yellow sweatshirts with the name of their construction company stenciled on the chest, and hardhats decorated with decades of stickers. They were talking and laughing with each other as they inspected their machinery to make sure that it hadn’t been damaged by the cold. Safety – as always in this new world run by insurance companies and plaintiffs’ lawyers – was priority one. And the insurance companies and plaintiffs’ lawyers would make sure that the workers were safe as they constructed the next great gaudy monument to the ego of some rich developer.
He sighed again. He would never hold back the progress of a world that refused to recognize the importance of tradition. He would, however, do his part to keep some of those traditions alive in a world that seemed determined to desert them.
He’d heard many in the courthouse whisper, often with a tinge of malevolence, that F. Barton Baylor was sure to die with his robe on. They might be right, he secretly conceded. And perhaps that would not be a bad thing. He could imagine many worse ways to die than from a massive coronary or stroke as he presided over the courtroom he loved so much. But he had no intention of allowing that to happen before he saw that the judicial system’s treatment of Vincente Carpio lived up to all that it promised to the world.
Until he made sure that was the case, he believed nothing could kill him.
* * * * *
Javier Carpio looked at the other two men. They were in a small warehouse just off Clipper Ship Drive in East Boston. There was a construction site next to them, where new condos were going up. It seemed as though there was no area of Boston that was immune to the creep of gentrification. Fortunately, though, the site was not active – the impact of the cold snap was still being felt across the city, and it would be days after the thaw before much of the construction began again in earnest. The attack boats had been delivered, and were tied to the dock near the warehouse, covered in tarps to avoid attention.
T’phong Soh and Juan Suarez were going over the plan once more. This would be the last time they would see each other before their mission. Soh and Suarez would go from here to meet their men and then set out for the Courthouse.
‘Call me as soon as my brother arrives outside of the courthouse,’ Carpio continued. ‘Even with the traffic on the water, it should take us no longer than five minutes to cross the harbor, and that should be just enough time.’ He looked at Suarez. ‘You and your men are in charge of the distraction at the front of the courthouse. That will keep the attention of the police focused there. It will also make them over-confident when they are able to turn off Northern Avenue and onto Courthouse Drive.’
Suarez nodded grimly. ‘The police will be violent in chasing those of us in the front of the courthouse,’ he said. ‘We will lose some of our men.’
Soh frowned. ‘We will make sure those who carry out the main part of the plan are dependable,’ he said. ‘Even if they have to be sacrificed.’
Suarez said nothing. Soh knew he would carry out his orders, though, no matter how unhappy he was about them. He was a good soldier.
‘You may have the most important role,’ Carpio said to Soh. ‘We will be firing the missiles from the water, and the targeting must be precise.’ He handed Soh a device that looked a little like a large garage-door opener. There was a button top the top of it, and when he pushed it, a red beam came from the clear portion at the top. ‘This will paint the target, and allow the missiles to strike where we need them to.’
‘I understand,’ Soh said, slipping the device into his pocket.
‘Do you have a place identified where you have line of sight?’
Soh nodded. ‘Bond Drive is right off Courthouse Way, and it has a view of the garages. They will have some security to keep cars and the crowd from the courthouse, but there will be fewer, and they will not shut down the street some distance from the building itself. I will have a clear line of sight.’
‘Good.’ Carpio seemed satisfied for the moment.
‘What happens after the missiles hit?’ Suarez asked.
Carpio and Soh looked at each other for a moment, and then Carpio shrugged, giving Soh permission to share the rest of the plan.
‘We have a man on the inside who will free Vincente,’ he said. ‘All he has to do is make it to the shore and Javier and his men will be there to pick him up.’
‘What then, though?’ Suarez pushed. ‘How will you escape on the water? They will be able to follow you.’
‘We have arranged for there to be enough traffic on the water to make it impossible to keep us in sight. And we will have another boat in the harbor that we will be able to transfer to once we are lost on the water, so that by the time the police locate our attack boats, we will be gone.’
Suarez raised his eyebrows. ‘That seems risky,’ he said.
‘It is,’ Javier agreed. ‘But it is the only way. And he is my brother. If you both do your jobs, there will be such chaos on the shore that the likelihood that the police will have a boat on the water in time to catch us is very low. If they do manage it, we will fight our way through.’
Soh nodded. ‘We will do our jobs. And when this is over, you will make good on your end of the bargain.’
Javier Carpio nodded. ‘I am always true to my word,’ he said. ‘You will control the harbor.’
* * * * *
Toby White sat at the desk in the union office overlooking Boston Harbor. He had watched, over the years, as Cormack O’Connell sat in this very spot, looking out at the ships and the shore as though he owned all he could see. And in a sense he had owned it all – at least a piece of all of it. Everything that moved on the shoreline or flowed up through the harbor’s waters owed something to Cormack.
Now, though, it would be Toby’s. Soh had promised him that. Soh had offered him the world, and Toby had taken it, abandoning the loyalty he had once pledged to Cormack for the chance to be boss.
Toby had thought that would make him whole. If he was the boss, it would be as though all of his physical weakness would fade away. No one would see him as a cripple anymore. He would be respected and feared, and the power would flow through him, healing his deformities if not literally, at least figuratively.
And yet, as he sat there, looking out at all that he had been promised and would soon receive, he knew it was an illusion. He could already feel that what he had been promised was a lie. No one would respect him, and to the extent that he would be feared, it would only be because of Soh’s backing, and the threat of what he and his men might do. But Soh’s support could be withdrawn at any time, and if that happened, as it inevitably would, he would be thrown to the sharks without hesitation, and there was no question in his heart that the sharks would devour him. He would never rule over this domain in the way that Cormack had, and it suddenly occurred to him that it wasn’t his physical weakness that would hold him back; his true infirmity ran deeper than flesh and bone. The true defect lay in his soul.
His cell phone buzzed on the desk in front of him, and he looked at it with dread. He considered not answering it. Perhaps he should avoid the illusion and simply walk away from the pretense of power before that pretense was exposed. He wouldn’t, though. The defect in his soul was too powerful.
He picked up the pho
ne. ‘This is Toby,’ he said.
‘This is the day.’ Soh’s voice was clear and commanding.
‘I know.’ Toby could hear the contrasting weakness in his own voice. He hated it.
‘Everything is set?’ Soh asked. ‘There have been no changes?’
‘No changes,’ Toby confirmed. ‘The schedule is still the same.’
‘Good,’ Soh said. ‘And O’Connell knows nothing of this?’
‘Nothing,’ Toby said. ‘He hasn’t been in the office for days. I can’t guarantee that he won’t be in later today, though. And if he does stop by, there isn’t anything I can do to keep him from seeing what’s happening.’
‘I understand,’ Soh said. ‘There is nothing that he will be able to do at that point.’
The line went dead. If there had ever been any question in Toby’s mind who was in charge, that question had been answered. Toby looked out at the harbor. The traffic was already starting to choke the waterways. Shipping had slowed during the cold spell, and once shippers understood that the worst of the weather was over, the number of ships seeking entry had grown exponentially. Normally, Cormack and Toby would have facilitated an orderly process that kept traffic on the water manageable. Instead, Toby had scheduled all of the ships to arrive in a two-hour period. It was already causing confusion and anger among the captains. The radio on the desk blared continually with skippers seeking clarification.
Toby had betrayed them all, he knew. He opened a drawer and pulled out a hammer. He looked at the radio and slammed the hammer down on it, cracking it. He took three more swings until it lay in pieces. It was just as well, he thought. At least he wouldn’t be tempted to bring order to the situation.
Sixty-Four
Soh pulled Juan Suarez aside after the meeting with Javier Carpio was over. ‘There is something you need to do,’ he said.
‘After the attack is over?’ Suarez asked.
‘No, now.’
Suarez looked confused. ‘But we are headed to the courthouse now. I am in charge of those with the backpacks.’
‘I will oversee the boys with the backpacks,’ Soh said. ‘That is not a problem. I can see to that and still make sure that the courthouse is targeted. There is something that is even more important that I need you to do.’
‘What is it?’
‘I am concerned,’ Soh said. ‘Even after we are successful, it will take weeks before the shipments from Carpio’s contacts begin to arrive. And it will be weeks after that before we have the kind of money that we truly need to make sure that no one can challenge us along the water. If Cormack O’Connell is still operating during that time – still fighting – we are not assured of what we need.’
Suarez still seemed doubtful, and Soh understood why. It was true that Soh was concerned about O’Connell. But he was also concerned about Suarez. He saw the man’s face when the full plan was laid out, and saw his resistance to deliberately sacrifice his men in the cause. Soh knew Suarez was an excellent soldier, but Soh was an excellent leader. And sometimes the most important skill in being an excellent leader was knowing how far men could be pushed. He thought, perhaps, Suarez had reached his limit.
‘What is it that you want me to do?’
‘There is only one true way to get to O’Connell. Do you understand?’
Suarez considered this for a moment before nodding slowly.
‘Good. Then take care of it. That way, O’Connell will cease to be the problem he otherwise might be.’
* * * * *
By ten o’clock the crowds in front of the courthouse were as thick as Cicero Andolini could remember ever seeing on a Boston sidewalk. It was like the 1970s, when residents of South Boston were confronted with the prospect of school bussing. There were signs and chants, almost all demanding justice – an accounting for the lives taken by the butcher Vincente Carpio. There were a few social justice warriors in attendance, protesting the potential imposition of the death penalty under federal law, but they were drowned out by those calling for blood.
The authorities, in their various incarnations, were out in force as well. Uniformed officers tried to hold a security line, keeping the crush of humanity at bay. What success they were having looked like it had more to do with the wariness with which the crowd regarded the federal officers clad in full combat armor with assault weapons. Cicero could also pick the plain-clothed cops out of the crowd with ease. It was clear that the security forces had not anticipated the size of the crowds, and Cicero could sense their frustration at having their attention turned from their primary task of protecting the courthouse.
Cicero and Buddy Cavanaugh were down at the courthouse to be Cormack’s eyes and ears. Cormack had intimated that something was likely to happen when Carpio was brought in, but he hadn’t been able to say what, exactly. Cormack was off working his sources for more information, but wanted to know what was happening at the scene as events unfolded. Cicero and Buddy had found a spot leaning up against a bank window across the street from the courthouse’s main entrance, right where Courthouse Way sprouted from Northern Avenue. From there, they could observe everything.
‘Christ,’ Buddy said. ‘I didn’t expect this many people.’
‘It’s as close to a public hanging as most of these people will ever come. How could they resist?’
‘You think people want to see that?’
‘You think they don’t?’
‘So, what are we supposed to do now?’
‘Not sure,’ Cicero said. ‘Cormack wanted a report about what’s going on down here. So I guess I’ll report.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Cormack’s number.
* * * * *
Cormack was at his house, sitting in the kitchen. He’d spent the morning working the phone, contacting anyone he could think of to get any information possible about T’phong Soh’s whereabouts. He’d talked to local cops he’d worked with over the years, and many of the men who ran aspects of Boston’s illicit businesses. No one had any useful information. He was frustrated, and he was thinking of heading into the union office for no particular reason other than to keep himself from going stir crazy.
His phone buzzed and he picked it up, recognizing Cicero’s number. ‘What’s the situation down there?’ he asked.
‘It’s not pretty,’ Cicero said. ‘I think the police may have underestimated the emotion Carpio generates among the good people of Boston.’
‘How many?’
‘Hundreds, at least. And growing, from the looks of it. Things could get out of hand very easily.’
‘I’m sure that’s what Soh is counting on,’ Cormack said. ‘The more out of hand things get, the more likely it is that he’ll be able to use the confusion to his advantage. I take it they haven’t brought Carpio in yet?’
‘If they have, they did it very quietly, which would probably be for the best. But I suspect they didn’t have that degree of foresight.’
‘OK,’ Cormack said. ‘Let me know if things get worse or anything happens.’
‘Will do.’ Cicero ended the call and Cormack placed the phone back on the kitchen table. His brow furrowed, and he ran his fingers through his beard. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt this helpless and uninformed about events unfolding along the harbor. It made him angry, and that anger made him feel reckless. He needed to do something, but he had no idea what that something would be.
His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up. The display indicated that it was a blocked number. His brow furrowed more deeply and he answered the call. ‘Yeah,’ he said simply.
‘Is this Cormack O’Connell?’ The man’s voice was soft and somewhat effeminate, with a slight lisp and an accent that could have been from somewhere in the Middle East.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Someone with information that you will be interested in,’ the man said.
‘I’m always interested in information,’ Cormack said. ‘What does this information concern?’
‘It conc
erns violence that I believe is going to unfold in your city today.’
Cormack paused, contemplating what to say next. ‘What do you want in exchange for this information?’
‘Absolution,’ the man said. ‘I know that you exact a tribute from those who do a certain kind of business in this city. I have done that kind of business, and I have not paid you that tribute. I offer this information as an alternative payment.’
‘What makes you think I would accept information in lieu of cash?’
‘I believe that you will find this information more valuable. It concerns the brother of Vincente Carpio.’
‘So, tell me,’ Cormack said.
‘Not on the phone. I will be at the far southern end of the Conley Terminal Facility at eleven o’clock this morning, just across from Fort Independence. If you are interested, you will meet me there, alone. If you are not there, you will not hear from me again.’
‘That’s a secure facility,’ Cormack pointed out. ‘How do you intend to gain access?’
‘I have my ways,’ the man said. The line went dead.
Cormack was unsure exactly what to make of the call. His instincts had been honed over forty years of illicit activity, and they had kept him alive against all odds through that time. He could tell that the man on the call had been serious, and should be taken seriously. But he also knew it would be foolish to accede to a request for a meeting like this one; for all he knew, the man could be setting him up for T’phong Soh. For some reason, though, he didn’t think he was.
He stared at his phone, debating whether to dial the number he had in his head. She had asked him to stay out of everything going on, but he simply couldn’t. He scrolled through his recent calls list, found hers and dialed.
* * * * *
Kit was in Warden Stevens’ office, going through the protocols for Vincente Carpio’s transfer one last time. Her head was buzzing, and she was having trouble concentrating. She’d had almost no sleep, and her exhaustion made her feel disassociated from everything around her. She’d lain down on a cot at around three o’clock that morning and closed her eyes for a bit. Sleep only lasted for a brief period, and it was punctuated by a series of vivid, disturbing dreams.