She had a vague recollection of her final conscious moments at The Fed. She knew he’d done his best. How could she get mad about it? She was alive, wasn’t she?
“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” She tried to smile. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you, I’m sure.”
“How does your back feel?” he asked.
Now that she thought about it, that was the part that hurt the most. She flashed back to her torturer holding his belt in his hand. Her former colleague and fellow member of Congress turned Santos ally. Jeffrey Murdock, ready to strike. She quickly tucked the vision away. None of that. Not right now.
“It feels warm,” she said.
Crunch automatically put a hand to her forehead. “You have a fever,” he said. “Battling some infections, I suppose.”
He was doting and protective. It was rather touching. But she had to figure out who she was dealing with. “Are any of you doctors?” she asked.
“No.”
Of course they weren’t. Had she expected a bunch of educated professionals to bust in and carry her to freedom? Some highly skilled A-Team coming in with guns blazing to break her out and liberate every other political prisoner at the same time? No, those people were looking out for themselves and their privileged friends.
Crunch started to talk again before she could speak. “I cut your hair too. It was such a mess and I knew it was a lost cause. I couldn’t get the tangles out. I’ll clean it up a little once you can move around better. Make it smoother.”
She reached up to check. Oily and disgusting like the rest of her. She wondered when she’d be physically able to bathe. The cut was short and uneven, but manageable. Just below the ears. Like she gave a shit about that. What did hair matter when her body was in such disarray? But her default was politeness, even now.
“Thanks,” she said. “Who else is here? I feel like I’ve been hearing more than just your voice.”
“There are three of us,” he explained. “Me, Jones, and Gabe. Jones and Gabe got you out and I helped them with transport. We all live here.”
He’d answered one question. But she had so many more. “Where are we?”
“Outskirts of the District. Nothing fancy. You and I share the basement.” He looked a little sheepish. “I hope that’s okay.”
Caroline stared at the machine monitoring her blood pressure. Surprisingly normal even though she felt increasingly unsettled. “You seem all right,” she said, trying to encourage him.
Crunch rose to stretch his arms. How long had he been at her bedside, feeding her and reading her books? Probably longer than she thought.
“I’m gonna get you something to eat. Jones and Gabe will be home soon. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to meet them,” he said.
She didn’t have much choice, did she? And right now the prospect of food, any food, calmed her down a little. “Sure,” she said.
* * * * *
Crunch gave her some saltines and soda. Didn’t want to chance anything else, he told her, after she seemed so disappointed at his selection. As they continued to talk, her unease began to fade. Maybe it was just three random guys who had gotten her out. And maybe they were more than they appeared. Caroline had to trust that things would work out. Her situation had vastly improved and she knew she shouldn’t complain.
He yawned a few times and she feared she was boring him until he told her he was tired. He tried to sleep whenever he could but the past few days had drained him. She hoped he’d let her tell him to get some sleep soon. There was no point in him fussing over her if he was suffering for it.
Flimsy drapes shuttered the windows in the basement and she had no concept of time. When Crunch pointed out that it was the middle of the night, she believed him. As long as he didn’t leave her in complete darkness, she’d be fine. Embarrassing to admit but he didn’t seem to judge her for it, just gestured at the light on the table next to the bed. He’d leave it on all the time, he said. Crunch seemed unfailingly polite, kind, and generous. She hoped that her initial impression of him held.
He’d begged off to search for his own food when she heard a commotion coming from above. Voices speaking excitedly. A profanity or two. Seconds later an African American man wearing a huge grin tromped down the stairs, a sidearm on his belt. He had a downright joyful look on his face and for once the sight of a gun was encouraging, not frightening.
“Well, look who’s awake,” he said, pulling up the chair by the bed and plopping himself down. He patted her splinted hand. “I’m Jonesie. You’ve been asleep for a while. Crunch been feeding you?”
She tried to smile at him too. She needed to be friendly. These men had saved her. Caroline gestured toward the empty plate on the side table. “I had some crackers.”
“Shit, that’s boring. That guy says he can cook but I haven’t seen it. You want something else? I can make you some pancakes. I got the mix and syrup and everything.”
“She doesn’t want fucking pancakes.” Crunch had magically appeared behind him. He punched the other man’s arm. “Give her some space. She just woke up.”
“How do you know she doesn’t want pancakes? You ask her?”
Caroline felt a laugh bubbling up in her throat. An unfamiliar feeling. It was funny watching these two guys banter back and forth. Their easy relationship shone through despite her fatigue.
“If she wants pancakes, I’ll make her pancakes.” Jones straightened his shoulders, practically taking a fighting stance even while sitting down. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re gonna turn into a goddamn pancake,” Crunch said.
“Do you want some pancakes?” Jones asked Caroline.
“You gotta take it slow.” Crunch frowned at him. “She just graduated to solid food and I’m sure she doesn’t wanna puke it all back up.”
“Fine.” Jones jabbed a finger at Crunch. “This guy sucks the fun outta everything. I get the feeling you’re gonna hate being stuck in the house all the time with him. I’m much more entertaining,” he announced.
“No pancakes,” Crunch said.
“Did I say I was gonna make the pancakes? Shut the fuck up. You want some cheese and a few more crackers?” he asked Caroline before turning back to Crunch. “Surely she can handle some cheese.”
Caroline managed to find her voice. “Cheese sounds awesome,” she said.
Jones stood up and shoved Crunch in the shoulder. “I’m gonna get the lady some cheese. You look tired. Take a break. We’ll have a little wine party while you’re taking a nap.” He put the last phrase in air quotes.
Crunch laughed. “Say what you mean, Jonesie.”
Jones grinned. “We’ll hang out while you’re jacking off in the shower. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your nightly routine.”
Crunch tried to look annoyed, but failed. “We weren’t going to reveal our bathing proclivities until after she got comfortable with us.”
Caroline gawked at them both and a tinny laugh broke through. They turned to stare at her. “Sorry,” she said. “You’re kind of funny.”
“We’re gonna take our act on the road,” Jones said. “Soon as you’re strong enough to travel.”
She’d pursue that later. Conversing and eating had made her punchy and she settled back on the pillow listening to the two men continue to tease each other as they shoved their way up the stairs. More than a few minutes passed before Jones came downstairs with a fresh plate of cheese and crackers in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was starving. Wolfed down some food real quick.” He tipped the beer at her. “I’d offer you one of these but Crunch would probably beat me up.”
She didn’t want any alcohol. “You don’t have to alter your routine for me,” Caroline said. “If you need to eat, eat.”
“It’s all right. You’re our priority right now.” Jones smiled at her again. “Gabe will be down later, I suppose. He’ll be real happy to see that you’re awake.”
The elusive Gabe. Both
Crunch and Jones spoke of him as if he were the one in charge. Strange that he hadn’t been the first one to greet her.
Crunch was a sweetheart, there was no doubt about that. And Jones was so easygoing…in an extremely familiar way. It sounded terrible, but she didn’t know many black men his age. She’d had plenty of minority interns and staffers, almost all female. It hadn’t been an intentional move, it had just worked out that way. Women of all backgrounds applied and she hired them. She didn’t think much about it beyond that.
The odds were good that she knew him from circumstances that were less than favorable for either one of them. She thought it might sound racist to point that out, so she kept it to herself. But she felt like she knew him.
He put the plate down on the table next to her. “You recognize me?” he asked.
Good. He’d addressed it first. “Should I?” she asked.
“If you do, I’m impressed. It’s been a while.”
Oh, shit. That meant... “I prosecuted you.”
He laughed. “You sure did.”
Was the laugh a good thing or a bad thing? “Did I-?”
“You were very fair.”
It couldn’t have been too long ago. He didn’t look that much younger than her. But she was never all that skilled at picking out ages. She’d guess he was in his early thirties. Jones smiled at her again and the memories came rushing at her so fast that she almost pressed her index fingers to her temples to keep them from falling out of her head.
He’d been just a kid, really. Dealing crack cocaine on some street corner in one of the rougher parts of Prince George’s County. The drugs hadn’t been the issue. They were some small weight shit, didn’t even meet a federal threshold. But he had a gun on him and was under indictment on a state charge at the time, which meant he was prohibited from receiving a firearm. The detectives elicited his confession quite effectively, as was their job. He was young and dumb enough to tell them exactly when and where he’d gotten the gun. The gang units in his neighborhood wanted to send him a message, so Caroline adopted the case and took it federal.
She could tell right away that he wasn’t as bad as she’d been told. She could have jacked him up, moved for a higher sentence, done any number of tricks with the federal guidelines, but she didn’t. Caroline thought there was hope for him. When his attorney asked for a lower sentence than usual, she didn’t object.
His mother cried at his sentencing, her sobs echoing through the courtroom as the judge announced the length of his prison term. She had her boy at a very young age and was only a few years older than Caroline at the time her oldest son was sent to federal prison. He’d been young at the time of his offense, barely eighteen. One of the youngest adult defendants Caroline had ever prosecuted and one of the last cases she handled before she took a leave of absence to run for Congress. She remembered almost every detail.
Jones stared into his beer bottle. “You visited me in jail,” he said quietly.
A horrible, dingy, depressing place. Most federal pretrial facilities were. “I remember.”
He raised his head. “You and my attorney sat there for hours, reasoning with me, asking me questions about my life. You acted like you gave a shit. Treated me with respect. I’ve never forgotten that.”
Caroline felt so dirty afterward that she took the rest of the day off and went home to take a shower. The conversation was uplifting in a surreal way, but the setting did her in. It was her first real experience spending time in a facility meant to confine human beings. Defense attorneys did it all the time and would tell her horror stories but there was nothing like experiencing it for yourself. She never wanted to repeat it again.
Funny how life worked. That jail conversation and the environment in which it took place seemed rather tame now.
“Where did they send you?” Caroline asked.
“Bastrop,” Jones replied.
That place was in Texas. Nowhere near Maryland. There were plenty of closer facilities. “How the hell did that happen?” she asked. “Your attorney asked for you to be placed somewhere near your home and I didn’t object.”
He started tearing at the label on the bottle. “I don’t know. Overcrowding or something.”
That was complete bullshit. East Coast guys suffered major culture shock when they were shipped out to unfamiliar places. It did little to help with morale or rehabilitation. “How long did you end up staying there?”
“With good time and the credit for when I was in jail before I pled, maybe two years. I didn’t see my family again until I got out.”
Caroline didn’t like that at all. Some folks advocated sending convicted felons far away from their bad influences but she was inclined to believe that family support was better in the long run than complete isolation. She knew her next words would seem empty but felt compelled to say them anyway. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jones said. “I wrote to you a few years after I came home. Do you remember?”
Another connection clicked in her head. “You did, didn’t you? You asked me to help you get a pardon. What happened on your state case?”
“They junked it. Made it a misdemeanor or something.”
Wasn’t that another pile of bullshit. “My case was your only felony.”
“Yeah.”
Caroline shivered, not sure what to say next. She’d been goaded into indicting a kid who didn’t get a second glance from state authorities after she’d gotten ahold of him. One more shift in responsibility. She was only a tiny cog in the machine but she didn’t have to be happy about it.
“You cold?” he asked. “I can get you another blanket.”
She shook her head. She was actually quite warm. “It’s fine.”
“You wrote a letter to the president,” he said. “I think that’s the main reason I got my pardon.”
Caroline pointed to the gun on his hip. “So you’re carrying that weapon legally?”
Jones grinned. “In a manner of speaking, seeing as I’m sitting next to a dead woman who’s Public Enemy Number One. But yeah, I got no restrictions. For now. Never know what these assholes are gonna do next, you know?”
He’d heard the rumors too. It was all pretty damn relative, given their present situation. “Point taken,” she said. “I hope that firearm is of higher quality than that piece of shit you had on that street corner. A Davis, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He removed the gun from its holster and presented it to her. “This one’s a Glock.”
She took another look at her bandaged hands. “I’d better not.”
“Don’t worry.” He kept one hand on the gun, maneuvering her splinted fingers on top of it. “Just wanted to remind you that it’s your friend.”
Caroline almost laughed at his turn of phrase. “I’m touched that you’d trust me with your piece.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” he said, taking the gun back and reholstering it. “Don’t tell Crunch and Gabe I did that. You probably shouldn’t be around guns just yet.”
If they kept her safe, Caroline would swim in a pile of firearms. “Probably not. That’s a good weapon, though.”
“Sure as fuck is. I bet there’s one just like it with your name on it. It’ll be a while before you can test your grip. How’s that trigger finger?”
She wiggled her right index finger. “Still works,” she said.
“Good. That’s all you got to worry about, right?”
What an optimist. “I guess so,” she mumbled.
Jones was quick to switch gears. “You got a good memory and you know a lot about guns. And you’re right. That pistol was a piece of shit. I don’t even think it worked.”
“The ATF couldn’t get it to fire, so you’re probably right.” Caroline shook her head. What a fucking waste all around. The more she thought about the case and the man sitting next to her, the angrier she became.
She stared at the gun on his hip again. Did he wear it all the time? She tried not to think abo
ut the last time she’d handled a gun. Her gun, with her initials scratched on the bottom of the grip. And she didn’t want to think about the man she’d given it to. That pain had to be pushed aside. Permanently.
“I used to have one of these myself,” she said, shaking off the foul memory. “Did Glock’s sterling reputation factor into your firearm purchasing decision?”
It had factored into hers. She had insisted that she and Jack buy multiple Glocks before it became impossible to do so. She liked the way they felt. They were smooth, slick, reliable firearms.
Jones laughed. “Nope. Gabe gave it to me when I got here. He’s got a stockpile upstairs. Can’t take them outside. Too risky. But I make sure I’m ready for anything once I get home from work.”
Caroline didn’t think that a single semi-automatic handgun would be any match if government agents came calling, but his willingness to put up a fight was admirable. He’d mentioned work. On the outside. In a city she wasn’t sure she’d recognize anymore. Her expression must have been one of thorough confusion, because he quickly spoke again.
“Gabe and I are the ones who got you out of that place,” Jones said.
“I know,” she said. “Crunch told me.”
Jones grinned again. “I guess Crunchy can get some credit too.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Thought Gabe would have come down here by now. He was real eager to make sure you were okay.”
So many questions and not nearly enough time to ask them. She was getting tired. “How did you get inside The Fed?”
“We work there.”
Again she was certain her hearing was failing. “You what?”
“I know it sounds bad,” he said. “But I can explain.”
“Please do.”
“We work in the morgue. Both of us. Not the best job in the world but they pay really well.”
Of course they did. There was no shortage of work. A tailor stitched up her stomach after two low level government employees rescued her from a federal torture chamber. The story kept getting better and better. “I see.”
He didn’t seem put off by her downright bitter response. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “Damn hard for a black man to get a job nowadays with a criminal record. Didn’t matter how piddly my shit was or that the pardon canceled out the bulk of it. I applied anyway. I was applying to anything I could get my hands on.”
The Bellator Saga: The First Trilogy (Dissident, Conscience, and Sojourn) Page 71
