Raylan Goes to Detroit

by Peter Leonard

  •••

  Six that evening, Raylan stopped by the hospital to see Bobby. His eyes were closed and his head was propped up on pillows. The poor guy was hooked to machines that were beeping and blipping behind the bed. Raylan introduced himself to Nancy Torres, a petite blonde who looked like she’d been crying. “How is he?”

  “Bullet shattered his clavicle,” she said, tears sliding down pale cheeks she dabbed with a Kleenex. “But the doctor says after surgery he’ll be good as new.” Nancy Torres took a breath. “Bobby said you saved his life. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  She put her arms around Raylan, gave him a hug, and held on for several seconds before letting go.

  “He’d have done the same for me.”

  “Hey, Raylan, you met my better half, huh?” Bobby said, weak-voiced, eyes open now. And to his wife he said, “Babe, this is who you want with you when things go sideways.” Bobby coughed, and his wife moved around the bed, picked up a cup with a straw angled through the top, and put it in Bobby’s mouth. He sucked some water and shook his head. Nancy Torres put the cup back on the table. “Babe, give us a minute, will you?”

  “I’m going to go down and get something to eat. I’ll see you in a while. Nice meeting you, Raylan.” Nancy Torres walked out of the room.

  Standing next to the bed, Raylan said, “You okay?”

  “You know the CIRTs are gonna ask me if I can still cut it, tell me I don’t have to go back out. I can take a break from the task force for a while or forever. Nancy wants me reassigned. Said she can’t go through this again.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now.”

  “You see me doing admin, a deputary?” Bobby frowned. “I’d lose my mind.”

  “Getting shot has a way of changing you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen what it can do. Deputy marshal in Harlan, tough dude, went to arrest a fugitive bank robber, was shot twice. Vest saved his life but being shot had a profound effect on him and he never went back in the field again.”

  “You think it’s gonna change how I do things?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll find out when you go back, if you do. You don’t, no one’s gonna think any less of you.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “It’s Marshals Service protocol. So just accept it,” Raylan said. “And take it easy, will you? You’re supposed to be relaxing, getting better.”

  “What happened to Diaz?”

  “He was DOA.”

  “Deserved it, no doubt about that. But how do you feel taking another man’s life?” Bobby said, giving it to him now. “I can see them checking you out. Maybe this traumatic event will prevent you from doing your job.” Bobby smiled. “How do you like it?”

  “Want me to answer your question? Diaz chose a high-risk profession, and there was no other way to handle it.” Raylan had justified shooting Joaquin Diaz as he had the other men he’d killed. It was called in the line of duty.

  “What else you got?”

  Raylan didn’t want to do anything to stress his partner, but Bobby was gonna hear it sooner or later, so why not get it out of the way?

  “Jose Rindo escaped again.”

  “Don’t tell me he switched bracelets.” Bobby tried to sit up, groaned, and made a face.

  “No, it wasn’t the bracelet this time.”

  “How’d he do it?”

  Fourteen

  Barry Brink, his lawyer, told Jose he was going to be transferred to another facility. He’d been in isolation for a week, locked down in a six-by-eight-foot room twenty-three hours a day, going out his mind. Dudes was watching, had a camera pointed at him 24/7. Watching him piss first thing in the morning. Watching him take a dump, Rindo waving at the half-moon-shaped lens in the ceiling, saying, wanna see what I made? Watching him under the bright, never-ending lights. How’s a motherfucker sleep with that shit on?

  Sitting across the table from Barry, Rindo said, “Yo, you gotta get me bail, man. Gotta get me the fuck out of here.”

  Dude in his kick-ass blue suit looked at him like he was a seven-year-old, said, “Get you out? I’m trying to save your life.”

  “Yo, what you got on there, that custom?”

  “Are you referring to the suit, or what?”

  “Yeah, motherfucker, the suit, what you think I’m talking about?”

  “The trouble you’re in, you want to talk about my suit? Yeah, it’s custom. I pick a fabric, tailor makes it up for me.” Barry Brink turned his sleeve toward him. “Real button holes, how about that?” Barry Brink nodded.

  “I want me one of them.”

  “That can be arranged. Trade in your fatigues, you’ll be styling.”

  Jose pictured himself in a suit like that, but without the tie. Wearing a hand-tooled holster underneath to hold his SIG forty. Now his mind went back to Barry’s opening remark. “Why they gonna transfer me?”

  “You’re a security risk. You’ve escaped twice.”

  “Gonna escape again, I get the chance.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where they gonna move me to?”

  “Ionia. Also known as I-Max. It’s a hundred and thirty miles from here. They’ll probably put you in segregation awaiting trial.”

  “Trial for what?”

  “Trafficking a Schedule I narcotic, for starters. Which, if convicted, would put you away for life.”

  “The fuck you talking about?”

  “Your heroin operation.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then there are the warrants for the contract murder of an FBI special agent in Tucson, Arizona, the three felony murders in Detroit, the murder of an Ohio state trooper, and the two escapes from custody.”

  “They gotta prove it, don’t they? Why I hired you.”

  “I’ll be fighting for you, but the evidence on two of the five is overwhelming. People in your heroin operation are offering to turn in exchange for leniency.”

  “Who you talking bout?”

  “Their names haven’t been disclosed.”

  “When they are, I want you to give em to me.” Rindo paused. “Anything I say to you is just between us, is that right?”

  “It’s called attorney-client privilege.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Listen, I need you to do something for me, make a phone call, okay?”

  •••

  Twenty-two hours later, Jose Rindo was in the Wayne County Jail sally port in yellow jail fatigues had Wayne County Prisoner in black letters going down one of the pant legs. He was also wearing a three-piece suit: hands cuffed to a transport belt, leg restraints, and a fifteen-inch ankle chain. He was escorted by a Wayne County sheriff’s deputy, hopping toward a blue Chevy van said Sheriff on the side in gold letters, and had mesh screens over the windows.

  There were two deputies up front separated from the three prisoners by a steel cage. The other two dudes were black and seemed like they cool till one looked at him, grinned, and said, “Got a beaner with us.”

  Jose, half black, got his looks and light skin from his Mexican momma, and his surly disposition and quick temper from his father, a big mean Detroit jig, name of Leroy Blakey, everyone in the hood called Do—cause he did.

  Rindo’s memory of his father was hazy, like looking at an old photo that was out of focus. What he did remember, Do would whip him with a belt when Jose acted up, and would push his mother around she didn’t have supper ready when he walked in the door. One day Do took off, they never saw him again, and it was a blessing.

  Now Rindo glanced at the black con who’d dissed him, and grinned. He had more important things on his mind.

  The black con said, “Got something to say, motherfucker?”

  Rindo ignored him, looked out the rear window, saw the Audi SUV a couple cars back, following them throug
h the city.

  The black con said, “I dint think so.”

  Rindo waited till they were on the freeway before he started pulling on the mesh screen over the side window. Pulled hard as he could with his cuffed hands attached to the transport belt—not much room to move.

  He’d take a break, look up front at the deputies. The one in the passenger seat saw what he was doing, got up, and stood at the entrance to the cage. “Hey, get away from there. Sit down.”

  Restrained or not, Rindo knew the deputy wasn’t coming back there with three prisoners. He said, “Why don’t you come and make me?”

  “I’m gonna Tase you, you don’t sit.”

  Rindo gripped the screen with both hands and yanked till his fingers burned and thought his shoulders were gonna come out their sockets.

  He felt the screen loosen, saw a screw pop out, and another one.

  “I’m not gonna tell you again,” the deputy said. He was at the cage door, a Taser in his right hand. The black cons had an interest too, waiting to see what was gonna happen.

  His fingers were all cut up, but he went back to work, grabbed the mesh, and with everything he had, he pulled it away from the window. Now the deputy was on the phone. “We’ve got a situation. Prisoner’s trying to escape. We need backup.” The deputy listened. “Yes, he’s restrained for transport. We’re on I-Ninety-Six approaching Novi.”

  The Audi SUV was still a couple cars behind them. He head-butted the window. “Get the hell away from there,” the deputy said. Rindo drove his forehead into the glass a couple more times, felt something wet on his face and saw blood smeared on the window, banged into it again, and now it was loose. He knelt on the seat and pushed the glass out of the window frame and watched it fly off.

  The driver was pulling the van over to the side of the freeway when Rindo went headfirst through the opening, the van still moving when he dropped, hit and rolled on the gravel shoulder, dazed, the wind knocked out of him, trying to breathe.

  The van slowed and stopped. The front passenger door opened and the deputy ran toward him. Rindo tried to get up and the deputy was on him, man kneeling on his chest. “Stay the fuck down.” The deputy didn’t see the Audi pull up behind the van.

  Thunderbird, carrying a shotgun, and Mr. Boy, with a .45, got out and walked toward them. “Yo, Officer, look like you need some help,” Thunderbird said, aiming the shotgun at him. “We take him off your hands, let you be on your way.”

  To the deputy, Rindo said, “Where’s the key at?”

  Now the driver came around the front of the van with a semiautomatic in his hand. Aimed it at Thunderbird till the dude saw the shotgun. The driver froze, didn’t know what to do, young guy trying to stay strong, stay tough, but outgunned and beyond his experience. “Yo, put it down, I come over there, blow you in half,” Thunderbird said.

  The black con that had dissed him was staring from the empty window, watching the show. Rindo made a gun with his hand, index finger and thumb, shot the motherfucker.

  “Not gonna say it again,” Thunderbird said to the driver.

  “I can’t do that,” the young red-haired dude said, like he was apologizing.

  Mr. Boy came over and put the barrel of the .45 on the other deputy’s temple. “Better do like the man say,” he said to the driver.

  Thunderbird said, “You gonna lose respect, but you be alive. Want to play it another way, tell me.”

  “Need the key,” Rindo said. “Get all this off me.”

  “Give it to him,” Mr. Boy said to the driver, taking the pistol out of his hand.

  The driver, unarmed now, handed the keys to Jose. He unlocked the cuffs and ankle restraints and tossed the key to the black cons, let them take off, create a diversion.

  Thunderbird cuffed the two deputies together wrist-to-wrist and the driver to the steering wheel, took the keys to the van and their cell phones, and yanked out the radio handset. Rindo watched the black cons, in their yellow outfits, running toward the snow fence fifty yards away.

  Mr. Boy took the first exit and crossed over the freeway. Rindo looking at his massive shoulders that overlapped the seat on both sides. He was in the back of the SUV, changing, taking off the jail fatigues, putting on his own clothes, when he heard the sirens and saw police cruisers on the other side of the freeway. He could always rely on his boys from the old hood no matter what. “Yo, give me a blast.”

  Thunderbird reached over the seat, handing him the vial. Rindo unscrewed the cap, brought the spoon to his nose, slammed it twice, and felt the rush, closed his eyes, and let out a breath.

  “Feel better, motherfucker?” T-Bird said.

  •••

  First stop was the storage place in Auburn Hills. They loaded half a dozen banker boxes—each filled with money—in the back of the Audi. Rindo had to get out of Detroit permanently and was working out a plan in his head.

  They pulled up to the house in Oakland Township he had purchased in his sister’s name. It was in subdivision full of mansions out in the middle of nowhere. Jose was surprised to see Caroline’s BMW in the driveway, wondering what she was doing here. He hadn’t talked to her since he was arrested in Columbus.

  There were moving boxes in the kitchen filled with his shit. One had the Astra A 2000 One-Touch espresso/cappuccino coffee maker, cost seven grand. Caroline came into the room, a stunned look on her face, but recovered fast, said, “Baby, I been worried sick about you.” She ran across the kitchen, put her arms around him, and held on tight. “I prayed you’d get out and here you are.”

  He didn’t return the hug. “You’re the one told the marshals where I was at, didn’t you?”

  “They had surveillance footage of you driving my Jeep out of a parking garage in Detroit, and they knew you shot the trooper. Shoot a cop, they come after you. I didn’t have to tell them where you were, they knew. Marshals kept me in a holding cell for two days so I wouldn’t try to call you. And you’re accusing me?”

  Caroline should’ve been in Hollywood. She was a natural. “Okay. What you doing here then?”

  “I left some clothes. Came to pick them up. I was looking around and thought: nobody’s going to be using this stuff, so I might as well.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s see what you got there.” Rindo didn’t like the situation. How could he trust her after she talked to the marshals? He could see her making a deal. “Ms. Elliott, we know you’ve been talking to Jose Rindo, tell us where he is, we’ll release you, let you go home.” He could hear someone in law enforcement saying that to her. And her going along with it.

  He didn’t want to pop Caroline—Rindo liked her—but under the circumstances, how could he let her leave? He could give her to Thunderbird and Mr. Boy, have them keep an eye on her. Or he could take her with him. But that wasn’t gonna work either. No, there was only one way out of this.

  Fifteen

  Thirty-two years in law enforcement, I’ve never heard of this,” Chief Wayne Broyles said. “Handcuffed man pulls off the mesh screen that’s screwed into the sheet metal. Then he head-butts the window out. This guy Rindo’s a fifty-one fifty.” The chief sipped his coffee that had a marshal’s star on the mug. His sleeves were rolled back twice. He had the big hands and thick wrists of a hockey player.

  “Man looking at four life terms without the possibility of parole will do anything to escape,” Raylan said. “What’s he got to lose?”

  “These are the two that picked him up and drove him away. This is movie stuff. If I hadn’t seen the photographs, I’d have trouble believing it happened.”

  “Where were the sheriff’s deputies?”

  “One was trying to subdue the escaped fugitive when these two pulled up in an SUV. The driver got out of the van and was summarily relieved of his weapon. The other prisoners escaped but have since been apprehended.” Chief Broyles slid a wanted poster across the desk. Raylan studied it whil
e the chief summarized Melvin Gales’s criminal history.

  Name: Melvin Antwan Gales, Jr.

  Race: Black

  Gender: Male

  Hair Color: Black

  Eye Color: Brown

  Height: 5’ 11”

  Weight: 315

  DOB: 8-16-87

  MDOC #: 753 549

  Status: Probationer

  Assigned Location: Wayne/Detroit Eastern district/Probation

  Security Level: N/A

  Aliases: Mr. Boy/Fat Albert

  Scars/Marks/Tattoos:

  Scar: Lower Back—Gunshot wound

  Tattoo: Left Bicep—Jr.

  Tattoo: Right Bicep—Mr. Boy

  Tattoo: Right fist—Smiley face

  Tattoo: Left Arm—Fat Albert

  Body Piercing: Right ear

  Body Piercing: Left ear

  “Has two warrants against him: assault with intent and assault with a dangerous weapon. And one inactive sentence for possession of a controlled substance. He was arrested with fifty grams of heroin.” The chief sipped his coffee. “Weighs three hundred and fifteen pounds. How’s a person get that big?”

  The chief handed him the second sheet.

  Name: Demarco Hall

  Race: Black

  Gender: Male

  Hair Color: Black

  Eye Color: Brown

  Height: 6’ 1”

  Weight: 155

  DOB: 10-12-86

  MDOC #: 846 903

  Status: Probationer

  Assigned Location: Wayne/Detroit Eastern district/Probation

  Security Level: N/A

  Aliases: Thunderbird, T-Bird, Marco, Slim

  Scars/Marks/Tattoos:

  Scar: Left Bicep—Long scar from a knife

  Tattoo: Center Chest—“What goes around comes around”

  Tattoo: Right Bicep—Valencia

  Tattoo: Left Shoulder—Skulls facing each other

  Tattoo: Back Left Arm—Slim

  Tattoo: Left Forearm—Stick figure and “OUCH”

  Marks: Mole Right Face

  “Demarco Hall also has a prior for possession—seventy grams of heroin. And two warrants. One for homicide and the second for possession of a firearm by a felon.” The chief sat back in his chair. “Couple of beauties.”