by Jane Seville
The jury was smiling and tossing nyah, nyah glances at Carlisle, who had clearly not endeared himself to them with his grandstanding. The gallery was tittering. Brad Salie was turning purple with suppressed glee. Carlisle turned to face him, the only sign of distress a slight blush around his ears. “No further questions,” he said, and went back to his table.
Brad stood. “No redirect, Your Honor.”
Petersen nodded. “The witness is excused.”
~~~~~
Jack had to wait until court was adjourned in case he was recalled, but just after four o’clock Brad came hurtling into the witness’s room and made a beeline right for him. He grasped Jack’s shoulders, beaming. “You. If it weren’t really inappropriate I could tongue-kiss you right now.”
“Uh, that’s okay.”
“That was brilliant.”
“I can’t believe he made that shit up about a male prostitute and a blow job!”
“Oh, and I intend to follow up on that, believe me. I want that jackass at least censured for making shit up. But it might actually have worked in our favor.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. The fact that the jury found out he was inventing all that just made it very clear to them that he is absolutely terrified of your testimony, or else he wouldn’t go to such lengths to discredit you. So what you said must be pretty important.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Well, Jack, you’re done! How does it feel?”
Kinda shitty, actually. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about giving this testimony for so long, now that it’s over… I’m a bit lost.”
“When are you going into Witsec?”
“I don’t know.”
“As soon as possible,” said Churchill, who had just entered the room. He came up to Jack and shook his hand. “You were really great up there,” he said. “Told you. Prosecutor’s wet dream.”
“Well, he’s at least got time to come out for a drink,” Brad said.
Churchill looked at Jack. “I don’t know. I need to keep him secure.”
“There’s a bar on the next block that we can get to with the tunnels; we go there all the time. Come on, Churchill! The brothers aren’t going to waltz up and pop him in a bar full of witnesses!”
Suddenly, Jack wanted to go out for a drink with the boys. Badly. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he said.
“Jack—”
“I’ve been stuck in that hotel room for almost a week, and I’m going to be there all weekend, right?”
“Yeah,” Churchill said, looking glum.
“It’ll be fine. One night. Let me celebrate getting all that shit into the court records.”
Churchill thought for a moment, and then gave a reluctant nod. “All right. But I’m coming too, with a couple armed marshals.”
Jack grinned. “Great!”
Brad clapped Jack on the shoulder. “I’ve got to file some paperwork and meet with Linda just for a moment. Wait here? I’ll come get you within the hour.”
“We’ll be here.” Brad left and Jack settled back into his chair, feeling like he might be rejoining the human race, if only for a few brief hours. Normal people didn’t live in hotel rooms and hide in other people’s brothers’ houses for months on end; they rode the subway and ate lunch in restaurants and went out for drinks with friends.
And their boyfriends.
Jack shut his eyes and pictured himself in a bar. Churchill and Brad were there, and the marshals who’d been guarding him… and he turned his head and there was D, smiling and drinking beer and plugging quarters into the jukebox, even laughing at the off-color jokes and fending off advances from women.
He rubbed his eyes and banished the vision. D was far away, and thinking of him now could only hurt.
“Jack, I’ll be back in a minute,” Churchill said. “Got to make a phone call.”
“Okay,” Jack said, barely noticing. He put his head down on his arms, folded on the tabletop, and let his eyes fall shut again, the background noise of conversation and people coming and going fading away. Just a few quick winks….
He was asleep within a minute.
Chapter Twenty-three
D’s phone had rung three times before he answered, a measure of his distraction. “Yeah?”
“It’s Churchill.”
“Yeah?”
“Um… well, Jack’s done testifying.”
D exhaled. “Good.”
“The prosecutor invited Jack to come out for a drink, and me too, and… well, we’re going.”
He sat up straighter. “I swear it sounded like you jus’ said you was’ lettin’ Jack go ta some unsecured location where he could be shot or poisoned or God knows what.”
“He isn’t a prisoner, D. He’s performed a heroic civic service. The man deserves a little… relaxation.”
“He’ll be real fuckin’ relaxed when he’s dead!” D exclaimed.
“I think you’re being overly paranoid. We will be in a public place in front of many witnesses, most of whom will be lawyers and police officers, we can get there through the tunnels to minimize his exposure, and he will be guarded.”
“That don’t make it safe. If he were my mark I can think of a half-dozen ways ta kill him in them circumstances and you’d never know it was me or even realize it was happenin’ ’til it was too fuckin’ late.”
“D, Jack wants to go. He’s frustrated and he’s got cabin fever and he misses you. He deserves some socialization.”
That gave D pause. If it were up to him, he’d keep Jack locked in a cage forever, where no one could get to him and he’d always be safe. But much as he might want to, much as he’d sleep better knowing that Jack was safe, he couldn’t do that. “Safe” could quickly come to mean “trapped.” And trapped things tended to want to escape. “Guess I ain’t stoppin’ ya,” D grumbled. “But I’ll be watchin’.”
“You do whatever you feel you have to do,” Churchill said. He sounded annoyed.
“What I done ta piss you off, now?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do I sound pissed off? Maybe it’s just looking at that man’s face day in and day out, that hangdog look that says he thinks he’s never going to see you again, when all the time you’re right here and you could be spending this time with him instead of watching him day and night. Stalking isn’t usually recommended as the basis for a lasting relationship, you know.”
“It’s too risky fer him ta know—”
“Too risky, yeah. Risky for him, or for you?”
“Huh?”
“I know why you won’t let me tell him you’re here. Because he’d insist on seeing you, and you can’t allow that, can you?”
“No, I fuckin’ cain’t!” D shouted. “I cain’t be distracted. I cain’t let my guard down fer a single second and Jack is the damn national champion a distractin’ me! I gotta concentrate if I am gonna protect him.”
“That is my job now, D, and I wish you’d let me do it.”
“Fer how long? How long you gonna watch over him, and anticipate any threat that might come? I’m prepared ta do it forever; how ’bout you?” Silence. “Yeah. It’s my job ta protect him. My only job. And I aim ta do it.” He hung up, fuming.
Fuckin’ guy. Tellin’ me what’s what.
Except he’s right and ya know he is. Jack would insist on seein’ you if he knew you was here and you cain’t stand ta see him when all you’d be thinkin’ ’bout is having ta leave him again, for a lot longer this time.
God. I cain’t go on this way. I cain’t live like this. I cain’t do my fuckin’ job.
I cain’t protect him like this. I’m too damn… involved. I think a somethin’ happenin’ ta him ‘n’ my guts get all twisted up ‘n’ I cain’t think. I ain’t no good ta him like that.
I gotta do somethin’.
~~~~~
The bar was full of the after-work happy-hour crowd, ties loosened and hair down, smiling and ordering margaritas and Cosmos and martinis. A lot
of them seemed to be lawyers, and all of them seemed to know who Jack was. He wouldn’t have to buy a drink for himself for the next twenty rounds, if he didn’t pass out first.
Everyone seemed to have heard the story of Carlisle’s disastrous cross-examination. “Did you really tell that Armani asshole he was wearing colored contacts?” some lawyer asked Jack.
He nodded. “That color blue does not exist in nature.”
“Goddamn, I’d’ve paid good money to see that.”
“Shove off my witness, Byron,” Brad said, returning to Jack’s side. Churchill was sticking close to him without being too obvious about it, and his two marshal keepers were bellied up to the bar. Jack didn’t care. He was riding so high he felt like calling up Raoul Dominguez and telling him to do his worst. “You’re quite the folk hero, Jack,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“You made a lot of friends today among the law-and-order types. You’ll sure as hell never get a speeding ticket in Baltimore ever again.”
“Not as if I’ll actually be living here anymore,” Jack said.
Brad sobered. “I’m sorry that has to be part of this.”
“Don’t be. I knew what I was getting into.” Jack drained his gin and tonic. “Hey, let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did Carlisle risk such a showy maneuver with that eye-color thing? Seems like it was pretty fair odds I’d have noticed his eye color.”
“It was a risk, yeah. He’s pulled tricks like that in the past, although this particular one was new to me. It’s a pretty safe bet for him, though. Witnesses are anxious, they’re under pressure, and on the stand they’re usually looking at the defendants, into the gallery, at the prosecutor… and if they look at Carlisle, they’re not really seeing him. I’m guessing after today he’ll think twice before trying that again, though.”
Jack laughed. “Maybe.” He stood up. “I’m gonna go get a bottled water. Don’t feel like getting hammered tonight.”
He headed through the crowd toward the bar, craning his neck over the thickening crowds of off-duty lawyers. People brushed by close, and it felt a little claustrophobic. Perhaps he’d gotten used to solitude after all.
Suddenly, he felt something pressed into his hand. He looked around, but no one met his eyes, and it could have been anybody. He made his way to the side of the bar and looked down at the folded-up note in his palm. Jack’s eyes narrowed and he looked around again. No one was paying him any particular attention. He set his glass on the bar. Churchill was over with Brad. The marshals were both flirting with pretty women in power suits.
He hunched over a little and made his way to the men’s room, pardon-meing through the crush of people, growing more crushing with each minute. He shut himself in a stall and sat down to read the note. His fingers shook as he opened the careful folds. Threat? Request? Fan letter?
We have D.
Jack’s insides went cold and slippery, like a fish fresh from the water, flopping on the boat deck and gasping for breath where there was none to be had, the strange sun blinding and burning. “Shit,” he muttered.
Come to the alley behind the bar. Come alone. We are watching. Alert no one or he dies.
You have ten minutes.
Jack read the note three times. It was handwritten in generic block letters.
They can’t possibly have D. He’s far away from here.
And what, they’re incapable of finding him and bringing him here? They found you in Vegas, didn’t they?
There’s no way they captured him. He’s too smart. He’d never allow it to happen.
He’s human. And he’s not exactly on his A-game, is he? You know how distracted you are; don’t you think he might be too?
But I’m just me. He’s… D. He’d never let himself get that distracted.
Do you know that?
Jack knew that this internal argument was futile, because even if he was ninety-nine percent sure that they were bluffing, that one percent doubt that they might not be wouldn’t let him do nothing. He couldn’t just throw the note away and dismiss it. What if they really had him? They probably didn’t. What if they did? What if he did nothing and they killed him?
They couldn’t. He’d get away, or something. They can’t kill D.
He isn’t Superman, even if he seems that way to you sometimes. They could kill him. If they have him.
They don’t have him.
Jack pressed his balled fists to his mouth to stifle a cry of frustration. He struck the wall hard, hard enough to hurt and jolt him back to the situation.
Tell Churchill. Tell somebody.
They said not to tell. They’re watching.
They’re not watching. It’s a trap. They’re just trying to get you to come out there alone so they can grab you. It’s so obvious. It’s an obvious trap.
So obvious it might be real. But I have to walk into it whether it’s real or not.
D would have a seizure if he could hear you thinking things like that.
Fuck D. He isn’t here. I’m by myself and there’s nobody to help me.
It’s a trap. D is miles from here.
But what if he isn’t? What if he’s out there right now with a gun to his head?
Then he’s praying you don’t come out there. He wouldn’t want you to go into that alley even if they do have him.
That isn’t up to him. He might be willing to give himself up but I’m sure as hell not willing to let him.
He would yell at you until he was purple that it’s a trap, you should know it’s a trap, it’s obviously a trap.
Get help.
I can’t get help.
What would you do to save him? What would you give up?
Everything.
There is no one to help me now.
There is only me.
But I’m not going to just walk out there like a sacrificial lamb.
Jack flushed the note and slipped out of the men’s room. A quick glance out at the bar showed the marshals still chatting up the ladies. Churchill was still with Brad, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking around the room for Jack. Shit.
Jack ducked into the coatroom. He grabbed somebody’s baseball cap and jammed it on his head. He stripped down to his undershirt and put on someone’s leather jacket. His gun was in a holster strapped to his belt; he released the safety strap and checked its load. He pulled the cap further down on his head, ducked his chin down and bent his knees to take a few inches off his height. He slunk through the crowd, unnoticed, and went out the front door.
He walked casually down the sidewalk, heading for the alley. In fact, there were two alleys on this block, one cutting it in half east to west, and another one branching off in a T-junction to the north. It was this shorter alley that ran behind the bar. The bar had a rear entrance onto this alley; no doubt they expected him to use it, which he had no intention of doing.
He walked into the longer east/west alley and paused. He didn’t see or hear anyone. He needed a better lay of the land.
He jumped up to grab the bottom rung of the ladder on a nearby fire escape, dragged it down and climbed up to the roof. Crouching low, he slunk across the rooftops until he was over the bar. He took a deep breath and peered over the side.
At first he didn’t see anything, but then a slight movement drew his eye. A dark shape of a stranger, standing just to the left of the bar’s back door, a glowing cherry of a cigarette marking him. He had his back to the T-junction. Jack peered into the dimness, but didn’t see anyone else.
He went back to the fire escape and descended. He walked carefully to the T-junction, eyeing the ground as best he could so he didn’t step on anything noisy. At the corner, he shut his eyes and tried to compose himself, pull some of that silent-and-detached armor of D around him. Some of that had to have rubbed off on him, given all the rubbing they’d done over the past weeks.
What the hell do you think you’re doing, Francisco? Who do you think you are,
Action Dentist? What are you doing skulking around dark alleys trying to rescue a man who would be mad at you for doing it, can take excellent care of himself and probably doesn’t need rescuing in the first place?
Jack shut his eyes.
I know who I am. I put people’s faces back together. I once gave a man who’d fallen through the ice internal CPR for half an hour straight. I sat in front of ruthless mob bosses, told a jury what they’d done and sent their asshole lawyer to school. And I got a man with a steel-plated heart to tell me things he’d never told anyone.
I don’t know what I’m doing. So here we go.
He withdrew his gun, holding it low at his side, and then quickly slipped around the corner into the alley behind the bar.
~~~~~
D cupped his hand around the dim display of the tracking monitor to keep its glow from attracting attention. He’d found a perch on a fire escape that overlooked the street and had tucked himself into the shadows of a corner to watch Jack’s dot inside the building. This was as close as he’d been to Jack in a week, and watching him through a hotel window with high-powered field glasses just didn’t cut it.
He scanned the street, seeing nothing but pedestrians and cars. So far there wasn’t anything suspicious, but it was too goddamned exposed; he didn’t like it.
He stared down at the roof of the bar, the third rooftop up from the cross street beneath his feet, the demarcations between storefronts indistinguishable from above, just a knobby expanse of gravel-and-tar roofing with ventilation shafts, HVAC units, and random protuberances jutting up like gravestones. He’s in there right now. Havin’ a drink. Probly smilin’ that smile. Laughin’ and bein’ congratulated on a job well done. As he oughta be.
You could jus’ go down there and walk in. Surprise him. Imagine the look on his face when he saw ya. He’d grin so wide, and his eyes’d light up, and then maybe he’d even hug ya. You could have him in yer arms again right now. Jus’… go on down. It’s easy. Where’s the harm, really? He’s goin’ inta Witsec real soon. You ain’t got much time, so take some. Take some time with him.
