Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  Disgusting.

  The attorney, of course, would not engage with the blue-collar shenanigans of the cops. Too much school, too much education, too much “refinement” for that. No, sir. He or she would look at them with a certain mixture of forced camaraderie and secret disdain, knowing working with cops was a necessary evil, but not wanting to get too dirty while doing it. And the lawyer would be drinking a no-fat latte, and be more concerned about wrapping whatever this was up, and getting out on the links by one o-clock.

  For an instant, Rudy considered whether or not that fucking narc cop would be in there. What was his real name? Oh, yeah. Reggie.... something. Then he decided probably not. If Reggie had any smarts at all, and Rudy had to begrudgingly concede that he probably did, then Reggie had gone to ground until the other cops could figure out a security plan for him, and rounded up more guys like Rudy.

  Moments turned into minutes. Rudy tested his chair. The legs were level. Sometimes the cops would adjust one leg to make it shorter than the others. Then the suspect was off balance. They spent most of their time while being interrogated mentally distracted because their chair was wobbly. And all humans have an instinctual fear of falling.

  Sort of a poor man’s jedi mind trick.

  But that was not going on here this morning. The temperature and humidity in the room had not been cranked up. In fact, it felt quite pleasant. So this was not going to be a high-intensity interrogation. Rudy’s mind rocketed to the inevitable question, what exactly was going on here?

  The door in the wall opened inward. Rudy watched as a thin, balding, middle-aged man shuffled through the door, hunched over. The man, who looked like a bird or something, dressed in corduroy pants, shirt and tie and pullover sweater, carried a relatively light, but unwieldy load. Essentially, he brought something in that looked like a miniature typewriter supported atop a thin, pedestal stand and would be stabilized by a broad base plate. Rudy recognized the contraption as a portable stenographer’s machine. In the stenographer’s other effeminate, untanned hand, he carried a cheap collapsible stool. The stenographer, whose brown hair never made it past his forehead and whose bushy moustache could have used a trim, nodded towards Rudy, but did not speak.

  Rudy nodded back, almost without thinking.

  The stenographer put the stenograph and stool down, then uncoiled the electric cord attached to the base. He glanced around at the lower area of the nearby walls, looking for an electrical outlet. He saw one, moved towards it. The cord went taut, the base rocked a bit. Embarrassed, the stenographer grabbed the stenograph by the thin pedestal stand underneath the machine, and moved the whole thing closer to the outlet. He plugged the machine in, and unfolded his stool.

  “Hey. Buddy,” Rudy called.

  The stenographer looked at him as he put his weight on the stool. “Yes?”

  “What’s going on?”

  The stenographer looked surprised. “They didn’t tell you?”

  Rudy shook his head.

  The stenographer glanced at the one-way glass, then leaned towards Rudy, as if about to reveal a deep dark secret. “I really shouldn’t be the one telling you this, but you’re getting arraigned this morning.”

  Rudy frowned. “On a weekend?”

  “You must have some pretty important friends.”

  Rudy sat back in his chair. Michael C. Law, Esq., had come through. A pleasant warmth spread over him. Once bail was set, he’d be out of this motherfucking place.

  A contented smile spread across Rudy’s lips.

  The stenographer’s fingers probed on the underside of the machine, clicking the ON button. He then gazed down at the machine and began typing, peering intently at the resulting code being created.

  Testing the equipment, Rudy assumed.

  The door opened again. This time, Rudy Michael C. Law, attorney at law, squeezed his girth through the narrow doorway. Dressed casually in a pullover sweater that barely covered his massive belly and a pair of jeans that looked like they had been constructed from a circus tent, Law hoisted his briefcase onto the table next to Rudy. He began to immediately shuffle papers.

  “Counselor,” Rudy said, perfunctorily.

  “Morning,” the attorney responded, not looking away from what he was doing.

  “Would you like a seat?”

  “Nah,” Law said, finding what he was looking for. He grabbed a document out of his briefcase. “We won’t be here long.”

  Rudy turned this over in his mind. “Should I be worried?”

  Law looked down at him, and smiled. The smile was intended to infuse Rudy with confidence. But Rudy had been in too many situations too many times in too many places on the planet to feel any new confidence infused.

  The door opened yet again, and a short, harried young woman, wavy red hair severely pulled back in an exaggerated bun and poorly dressed in a crumpled suit that looked like it had been slept in, spilled inside. She teetered on heels too early in the morning. She yanked on a small aluminum handle gripped in one hand behind her, pulling a small professional document carrier. Her bleary eyes scanned the tiny room with growing alarm.

  “Where the hell am I supposed to set up?” she asked to no one in particular.

  Rudy indicated one side of his desk that was unoccupied. “Open space here, Counselor.” If he remembered correctly, her last name was Russell.

  Russell hesitated, looking at Rudy like he had leprosy. The moment lasted, Rudy and Russell staring at each other. Finally, Rudy simply shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away from her, disinterested.

  Realizing she had no other choice in this outrageous situation, she sighed with exasperation. She opened her document carrier and began slapping case files onto the other end of the desk.

  “I don’t know what strings you pulled or whose palm you greased to pull this off, Michael” she growled.

  “Counselor, I am injured,” Law replied, feigning hurt feelings.

  “Oh spare me, Mike,” She spat. “An arraignment on Saturday? Unheard of!”

  “It’s highly irregular, Stacy,” Law grinned. “Highly irregular.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But not illegal,” he said, shutting her down. Stacy knew he was technically correct. As long as the legal requirements were met as far as procedural matters and parties present and represented, an arraignment could be done whenever a judge felt like it.

  “It’s all in the interest of justice,” Law grinned. His trademark sleazy smile.

  Stacy cringed. Remnants of breakfast clung to his teeth.

  The far door opened yet again. An older man, gray hair and matching moustache, heavy set beneath black robes, entered. He carried a laptop computer scooped up under his left arm.

  “Judge Mauser,” Law said. “Nice to see you.”

  Mauser threw him a poisonous glare. He harrumphed under his breath, threw an eye dagger glance at Rudy, and set his computer down on the table in front of the defendant. He opened the lid and hit the on button.

  “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  “Your Honor, please,” Law protested, his flabby arms spread wide. “I hope your early morning mood won’t adversely your judgment when it comes to my client.”

  Anger flashed in Mauser’s eyes. “I know my job, Counselor. You just do yours.”

  Law put his hands up in acquiescence. “My humblest apologies, your honor.”

  In the Observation Room, a door opened from the hallway outside. Horn stormed in, followed quickly by Castle, who closed the door behind them.

  Horn stared through the glass, recognizing all the players. “What the hell are they doing?” He flipped the intercom switch, and the voices from the Interrogation Room filtered in.

  “Your Honor, we request remand...” Stacy announced.

  “Your Honor, my client has never...” Law countered.

  “I still want to know how the hell got an arraignment on Saturday morning,” Castle said.

  Horn shook his head, feeling defeated. “M
oney. Power. Blowjobs. Grease the right skids the right way, you can get anything done.”

  “Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars, cash or bond,” Mauser decided. “Court is adjourned. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Through the glass, they watched as Mauser unzipped his robe and headed towards the door. Stacy threw document folders back into her pull-along mobile office case. Law closed his briefcase while Rudy sat where he was.

  “I can’t believe this,” Horn muttered.

  “The universe just served us a shit sandwich, boss,” Castle said. “We have to take a bite.”

  Horn lunged to his left and opened the door leading into the interrogation room. He did it so fast, Castle had no time to react or hold him back. He was striding into the next room before Castle could even realize a big man could move that fast.

  The door swung open and banged against the wall. Horn found himself staring into the pale, troubled eyes of Judge Mauser. He could tell by the look on the judge’s face that the judge was in no mood to be trifled with. Well, fuck that, because neither was Horn.

  Horn stood his ground, filling the doorframe. “Judge Mauser.”

  The judge squared his shoulders and nodded. “Captain.”

  They stood there for a moment, silent, staring at each other.

  The judge gestured at Horn and beyond through the doorway. “May I?”

  “What the fuck, judge?” Horn blurted.

  Mauser stiffened.

  “I mean it. What the fuck just happened here?”

  Mauser, fighting his own conflicting emotions, calmed himself. “We had an arraignment,” Mauser responded.

  Rudy sat still, watching intently.

  Horn cocked his head. “You know,” Horn continued after a pause, “I’m thinking someone high up pulled a lot of strings to arrange an arraignment for a low level foot soldier of a dead mid-level drug dealer on a Saturday morning.”

  Mauser pursed his lips, as if in thought. It did not wash with Horn, though. He knew the judge was simply buying time, trying to diffuse this situation, and beat a hasty exit. Well too fucking bad.

  “ I think it best we don’t speculate on hypothetical matters,” the judge responded.

  “But it makes me curious who has that kind of influence over a garden variety case like this. And it makes me wonder who has that kind of influence over you?”

  The tiny room immediately went dead quiet. The air became heavy. Neither attorney spoke, moved, or even breathed as Horn and Mauser stared each other down.

  Mauser, his face awash with rage, stepped forward one pace, entering Horn’s personal space.

  Horn made it a point to remain precisely where he was. He did not budge an inch.

  “Shut the fuck up, Horn,” he growled under his breath. “Or you’re gonna find yourself in deep shit with me.”

  “Are you attempting to threaten and intimidate a sworn peace officer – Your Honor?”

  “Get the motherfuck out of my way.” Mauser shouldered past Horn and stormed out.

  Both attorneys seemed shell-shocked by what had just transpired.

  “Well. That was entertaining,” Rudy chimed in, loud and brash and breaking the silence with the subtlety of a turd in a punchbowl.

  Everyone turned and stared at Rudy, drop jawed. It was as if he had just spoken Swahili.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

  Michael Law gently placed what he hoped would be interpreted as a comforting hand on his client’s shoulder. “We’ll post bail immediately,” he said.

  Staci felt completely defeated. How had she so completely botched what should have been a slam-dunk arraignment with this creep getting remanded right back to his cell? She left wondering how she was going to explain this to her bosses Monday morning. Her next thought was whether or not they would still be her bosses come Monday morning.

  May be time to shake the dust off the old resume, she thought to herself.

  “Guard!” Law yelled out. “I’d like my client unlocked immediately, please!”

  Horn and Castle watched in impotent muteness as a young Corrections Officer appeared in the doorway and entered the room.

  This was a different young recruit from earlier, Rudy observed. His ID badge identified him as Treese.

  Treese probably barely out of Corrections Officer Academy, just a few years out of high school, tried to assume an air of control. He was slender and smooth shaven, boasted youthful features, but built with strong, broad shoulders. With skin a caramel brown and naturally curly hair cropped close to his scalp, Treese wore his uniform with pride: a cleaned, pressed shirt, crisp straight creases down both the front and back of the legs of his trousers, shoes buffed and polished to a high gloss.

  Treese pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. They jangled as he looked for the right one.

  Rudy sized him up rapidly. Muscular underneath his uniform. Moving with grace and an understated agility. Calluses on the guard’s knuckles and along the outside border of his hands. Rudy concluded the guard was into martial arts. Classical karate training for sure, mostly likely as a child. Maybe he dabbled in MMA these days. A lot of athletic young guys did. Smart for Treese, considering his line of work.

  Corrections Officers did not carry guns.

  Treese found the key he was looking for and slipped the key into the lock. “Hold still a moment, and I’ll have you out of these things.”

  “Okay,” Rudy responded pleasantly enough.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Horn yelled as Treese turned the key in the lock and the handcuffs cracked open.

  Treese looked in Horn’s direction. “You talking to me?”

  “You damn skippy I’m talking to you. What the hell you gotta treat him so good?”

  “What, you mean by acting like a professional?” he asked. On the other side of the table, Rudy stood on stiff legs and rubbed his sore wrists.

  “He’s a criminal,” Horn said.

  “He’s still a human being.”

  “He’s a scumbag.”

  Law touched Rudy on the shoulder, and Treese motioned for Rudy to follow him. Treese stepped out the door on the opposite wall, followed by Rudy. Law smiled triumphantly in Horn’s direction, then closed his briefcase.

  “This isn’t over, Counselor,” Horn growled.

  Law looked up over his glasses at Horn. “No, it is not,” he conceded. “But that’s fine. I’m just going to trounce all over you at trial, just like I did in here today.”

  Blind rage flashed in Horn’s eyes. He lurched forward. Castle, alert and nimble, moved in a blur and grabbed Horn from behind, restraining him.

  Castle whispered into Horn’s ear. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Law picked up his briefcase and moved towards the door. “You should listen to your friend,” Law advised. “He seems to know more about the law than you do.” Then he was out the door.

  Horn pulled away from Castle. Castle did not try to hold on. Horn turned to Castle, furious at the situation. Looking at Castle, standing there so calm, so Zen like, his own anger began to dissipate.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Come on then,” Horn said. “Nothing we can do here now.”

  Treese walked down the corridor, Rudy in front of him. The only sound was the slap of their feet echoing off the tile flooring and bouncing off the cinderblock walls.

  Up ahead was the turnoff to go back to the cellblock. They got closer, and just as Rudy moved to go left down that way, Treese nudged him to the right.

  “Your dress-out cell is this way.”

  Rudy complied, with some internal consternation. This was not the way releasing a prisoner on bail usually went. Usually, they went back to their cell, gathered up their personal belongings in a pillowcase, then waited for a guard to take them to another cell or holding area where they could change into street clothes, then wait for authorization for final release. Rudy assumed now he was being set up for assassination.


  It probably wouldn’t happen here in the hallway. It would probably happen in the dress-out cell. Closed space. Nowhere to run. No other choice. Make a stand. Fight to the death.

  Live.

  Die.

  No middle road.

  Meet the Grim Reaper like a man.

  He wondered from which direction it would come. Probably not from the guard following him. Treese was a real guard. Young and idealistic. He was bright enough to get through training, and stupid enough to follow orders without question. A rookie, he did not yet know just how much he didn’t know about the job.

  Treese was no hardened criminal with a badge, Rudy decided. And he sure as hell was no assassin. This was an All- American kid. Probably had a girlfriend, some former high school sweetheart, a cheerleader, prom queen, whatever. He was planning to marry and have a gaggle of kids. Buy a home. Get a dog. Mow the yard. Invite friends over for dinner. Eat terrible backyard barbeque on the weekends, go to church on Sundays and pray for his sins.

  All that wholesome shit.

  Good thing for him, Rudy thought. Best thing for him.

  Sure, in normal circumstances, Treese could probably handle himself pretty well, but he’s no match for someone like me. He hasn’t had the kind of training I’ve had. I’d be able to tell. From his walk. His general demeanor. By the way he carried himself, that certain and unmistakable aura given off by professionals, for whom killing is simply a function they perform. Part of the job. Part of the Life.

  One on one, I’d kill this kid in less than sixty seconds.

  They continued walking down the unfamiliar corridor in silence. Rudy noticed a wall made of prison bars at the far end, embedded in both the flooring and the ceiling, with a heavy, locked gate placed in the middle. Rudy looked past the bars, and saw a guard desk lay beyond the wall on the left, which looked over a small antechamber. Rudy assumed this was a waiting area. He could make out a few chairs from his restricted point of view. No one waited. On the other side of the room stood a thick glass door leading to the outside.