Bad Penny

by John D. Brown

  The judge motioned at one of the corrections officers that had come in with them. “Officer, you may remove his cuffs. Mr. Cartwright, you’ll travel back to the justice center. They will return your clothes and belongings and you will be free.”

  The officer moved forward with a key and unshackled Sam who rubbed his wrists like the cuffs had burned.

  Sam and Ms. Cross turned and walked toward the courtroom’s main doors, Sam a free man. Frank was led out of the side door back to a holding room with the others. About fifteen minutes later Ms. Cross found him. She was accompanied by a guard.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  “We got to the DA early,” Mr. Shaw. “It didn’t hurt that the police have been investigating the Goroza’s for some time for drugs. You blew the lid off, which, I think, disposed the DA’s office toward you. But even that isn’t the whole story. Late yesterday evening, I came into possession of a trove of well-detailed documents. Somehow that information was not only sent to the DA’s office, but also to a number of activist organizations and news outlets. The Governor started receiving calls. It appears a friend rallied the troops in your cause.”

  “Who gave you the documents?” Frank asked.

  “Who do you think, Mr. Shaw?”

  There was only one person he could think of. “Carmen,” he said.

  Ms. Cross shrugged. “I went out to the restroom, came back, and they were sitting on my secretary’s desk.”

  “The Matanarcos,” Frank said. “I think I’m in love.”

  “They’ve also released your friends in the plane. The question now is whether you can post bail.”

  “It depends,” Frank said. He couldn’t, but Kim could. The question was whether she was inclined to save his hide. “I need to make a call.”

  “We’ll work on this charge,” Ms. Cross said. “I’m thinking we might be able to talk the DA into probation. Of course, you have another DA with charges to clear in Weld County where the Goroza’s house went up in smoke. I’m going to make sure he gets this information; I think it’s going to help the DA up there.”

  Frank nodded, but knew this wasn’t over until it was over. Ms. Cross left. The others that had filled the jury seats with Frank joined him one by one. Then they were all led back to the jail bus and traveled back to Aquaman’s lair.

  He might not survive the hit that would be put out on him, but the others were all free. And that was a positive thing.

  33

  Crème Brûlée

  FRANK POSTED BAIL the next day with Kim, Tony, and Sam sitting in the courtroom seats. Ms. Cross revealed that upon consideration the DA in Weld had decided not to press charges. He had decided Frank was not trying to hide evidence of the killings, but calling for help.

  “Was that DA conducting an investigation against the Gorozas as well?”

  “District Attorneys have a lot of discretion in what cases they will pursue and what charges to bring,” Ms. Cross said. “Slaves fighting for their freedom isn’t the kind of thing most law and order types are going to go after.”

  “I just don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” Ms. Cross said. “It’s the American justice system. And the media. And politics. Remember: this case came to the attention of the governor.”

  “And you didn’t have anything to do with that?”

  “Your sister will get my bill,” she said and smiled. “And the governor and media will continue to hear from the advocacy groups.”

  “Has Carmen come in?” Frank asked.

  “Carmen is a ghost.”

  That was good. That meant the cartel couldn’t threaten a reporter or Ms. Cross here to make them divulge Carmen’s contact information.

  “You are not a ghost, Mr. Shaw. I think you need to go into the witness protection program.”

  “I’m not going to hide,” Frank said.

  “Famous last words,” Ms. Cross said.

  “I’ll think about it,” Frank said.

  They walked out of the courthouse. A gaggle of reporters with cameras and microphones turned toward them, then came up and got in his face.

  A woman reporter asked, “Mr. Shaw, is it true you saved five young girls? Can you tell us what happened?”

  “No comment,” Frank said and tried to push past.

  “Mr. Shaw,” another reporter said, “some people are saying you’re a hero.”

  “No comment.”

  A reporter stuck a microphone in Sam’s face. “What about you, sir? The public needs to know.”

  Inane questions from inane minds.

  “The public doesn’t need to know anything at this time,” Ms. Cross said.

  Frank gently pushed through. It wasn’t Frank’s humility that was bugging him; it was all those cameras, all of them capturing his face, clear as day. Capturing Sam’s and Tony’s and Kim’s as well. Were they streaming this live? There was good reason why the identities of Special Forces, Rangers, and SEAL teams were kept hidden. There was a good reason why those who killed people in criminal organizations should be too. Flor was going to get a hold of this tape. Flor or someone who owed her a favor.

  Earlier this morning, the state and federal prosecutors had met with Frank and asked him if he would testify in court against the Gorozas as well as officers Lyman and West. He’d agreed. They’d offered him witness protection. He was beginning to think it might be a good idea.

  The reporters began to follow them, and then Ms. Cross announced she would make a statement about the case. All cameras and microphones turned toward her. It was enough of a bone to distract the dogs; enough to let Frank and the others escape. The four of them hustled to the parking garage where Kim’s rental car was, got in, and drove out the exit on the far side.

  Frank looked at Tony in the front passenger’s seat. He had agreed to testify against the Gorozas as well. “How you doing, buddy?”

  “You think the Gorozas will come after us?” he asked.

  “I think it would be wise to take precautions.”

  “Lord,” Kim said. “Is your crap ever going to end?”

  “That’s a hard one to call,” Frank said.

  * * *

  Frank went with Sam to retrieve his minivan from the police. Someone had changed the tire. And despite the broken glass and bullet holes, it was drivable. Sam sighed about the van, made a joke about it being well-ventilated, then called a glass company who came out and installed new glass in two sides while they waited. The glass guys couldn’t install glass in the back window because too many bullet holes had damaged the frame, so Frank and Sam went to a Walmart, asked the folks for some old boxes, and duct-taped a piece of cardboard across the back. They used the pink tape. They used it on the bullet holes as well. When they were done, the baby blue minivan looked like it had chicken pox.

  And that’s how they drove home, the wind whistling through a number of bullet holes anytime they went above fifty. About eight hours later they rolled into Rock Springs. Sam drove into the gas station where the Nova was still parked and pulled up alongside the old car.

  Sam said, “There she is.”

  “You were a lifesaver, buddy.”

  “I was the chauffer.”

  “You were more than that.”

  Sam shrugged, took on a lofty tone of false humility. “I suppose you’re right. I was rather spectacular.”

  “Watch it,” Frank said. “Cockiness kills.”

  “Small doses also attract women.”

  “You’re married.”

  “That’s right, and my wife’s going to kill me. I’m going to need all the alpha male aura I can get.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I’m thinking I should butter her up first with chocolates and roses.”

  “You’d better get a lot of them.”

  Sam nodded, then got this wise look. “Maybe you go in first, pave the way.”

  Frank shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “That’s way above my pay grade.”

  �
�I thought you military types never left a man behind.”

  “Sometimes the Lone Ranger has to go solo. Tonto will be by to pick up the pieces. But you can tell her I accept full responsibility for the van.”

  “I enlisted the van willingly.”

  “I still owe you a van.”

  “You’re handy,” Sam said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  They said their good-byes, and then Frank climbed out and stepped over to the Nova. He unlocked the car, slid in, and put the keys in the ignition. She started up with a roar.

  He drove home and found the light on. He opened the door. Tony was sitting at the table eating a mixing bowl full of Golden Grahams cereal.

  “Do you know how good this is?” Tony asked around a mouthful of the cereal. “I’ve been craving the grahams.”

  “Where’s your Mom?”

  “She stepped out for some groceries.”

  Frank walked over to the table and grabbed a couple of grahams out of Tony’s bowl. Then he sat down across from him, watched him take another spoonful.

  “Buddy,” Frank said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am you went through that.”

  Tony shrugged. “Things happen,” he said and kept munching. After such an experience, many folks would be traumatized. Afraid of shadows. Frank didn’t see that. What he could see were gears whizzing in the boy’s head. They were doing calculus.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Tony poked his cereal down into the milk. “Mom says we should un-list our phone number.”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Maybe move.”

  Frank sighed. He truly had thrown a wrench into their lives. “I don’t think anyone knows where you live, but we don’t know what Ed left behind.”

  Tony said, “These morons piss me off. They drag me into their crap, and now I’m the one that’s got to run and hide?”

  “That’s life sometimes.”

  “Who says?”

  “Thousands of guys willing to cut your head off.”

  Tony shrugged.

  Frank said, “You don’t want to take them on mano a mano. One guy against who knows how many. Sometimes the best action is to exfiltrate and retreat. In a couple of years you can join the FBI.”

  Tony shook his head. “The FBI didn’t break this case.”

  Frank saw where his teenage white hat calculus was leading him. “You’re not Batman.”

  “No,” Tony agreed. “Batman’s a fiction. But the Yeti—who knows what he’ll do?”

  Frank chuckled. “Right.”

  But Tony was not laughing. He pulled a black jump drive out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “It was on Ed.” He pulled another drive out of his pocket and placed it next to the first. “That one was in the stash house.”

  “And?”

  “Mostly crap.”

  “But not all?”

  “We’ll see,” Tony said.

  “Dude,” Frank warned.

  “Look,” Tony said. “I’m not going to be a victim. You’re either playing offense, or you’re playing defense. I intend to be the guy who is a step ahead.”

  “At this point, you are not on their radar. You’re not a target. There isn’t any offense or defense to be played.”

  “Oh? Then why am I changing my address?”

  “Because Flor might want to use you to get to me. But you start messing around, and you’ll be the one they’re coming after.”

  “Bring it on,” he said.

  The boy was going to get himself killed. Frank was about to explain that fact in baby letters when he realized what was going on. “Tony, you listen to me. You weren’t a victim. You were a prisoner of war, a soldier caught by the enemy. You performed your duty heroically.”

  “Heroically? I was helpless. A big wuss who couldn’t do anything without his computer.”

  “Oh? Well, who was the one who originally freed Carmen? What have they identified now—thirty-seven slaves? None of them would have been freed without you. And who was it in that field that placed himself between the pickup and Carmen fleeing with the children on that snowmobile? If you hadn’t done that, Ed would have caught them. He would have taken Carmen and the kids right there and driven off; those children would still be slaves, and Carmen right now would be dead. Do not disrespect your service.”

  Tony took another bite. Mulled it over. Took another.

  “Don’t go wasting yourself on some futile charge into the enemy’s machine guns just to prove a point. You’re a soldier. Get trained. And when it’s time, you go into battle with intelligence and a team to back you up.”

  Tony munched.

  “You listening to me?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said.

  That was not quite the commitment Frank was looking for.

  * * *

  Later that night Sam called to report that Pinto and Heber were home and doing just fine. Then he invited Frank and family over for barbeque. Frank and family went. It was an ambush. Julie, Sam’s wife, ganged up with Kim, and the two of them gave Sam and Frank the third degree. Frank told them they could slap him if it would make them feel better. They opted to chew him and Sam out some more. When it was over, they all played Canasta, Sam’s kids running around and making a racket. Frank told himself this is what happens when the Lone Ranger settles down and gets married.

  When it started getting late, Frank scooted his chair back from the kitchen table and stood to excuse himself.

  Sam walked him to the front door, then said, “Hang on. I’ve got something for you.”

  “Does it involve sprinkles?”

  “It’s way better than that,” Sam said. “Don’t move.” Then he walked down the hallway to his den, retrieved his surprise, and came back carrying something in a closed fist. He held out his hand. “I want you to have this.”

  Frank looked down. It was not a plate of baked goods. It was about the size of a golf ball, brown with a white stripe running through it. He said, “You want me to have a rock?”

  “I want you to have a rock,” Sam said.

  “You’re feeling pastries are now too close to the dark side?”

  Sam smiled. “You put it on your pillow or chair. You get up; you go to bed; the rock is there. It reminds you that God is happy to chat.”

  “Yellow trucks?” Frank offered.

  “Yellow dump trucks,” Sam said. “Full of rocks.”

  Frank sighed. “It’s always something with you, Cartwright, isn’t it?”

  “Take it.”

  Frank took it and slipped it into his pocket.

  “You know, the Lord worked through you.”

  “Really?” Frank asked. “I don’t remember getting any instructions or a contract.”

  “Why would he give you instructions when he was confident you knew what had to be done and would take care of it? It’s like World of Warcraft; you ever played that game?”

  “No,” Frank said.

  “It’s on the internet. You’re playing against people from all over. China, Bulgaria. You’ve got opposing players from all over with virtual armies of orcs, elves, men, or trolls. All those fantasy races. As a player you set your orcs or men to a task, and then let them do their stuff. They go off and fight, build, whatever. You only redirect when they’re out of line or doing something useless. Or you need resources to take care of something quick.”

  “You’re telling me life is like a Play Station?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “We’re all little orcs and humans running around with no will of our own?”

  Sam thought for a moment, rubbed his chin. “Maybe life isn’t totally like World of Warcraft.” Then his eyes lit up. “Maybe it’s like a bakery.”

  “Oh, brother,” Frank said.

  Sam grinned. “Enjoy your rock.”

  When Frank got home, he walked over to the shelf in the kitchen where he kept the jar of blood money. He set the rock next to the jar.
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  The next day Frank called Walmart. They said he’d been put on probation and to get his lazy butt into work. He reported to the Wally man that evening. He took a couple of Tylenol for the pain and worked his shift the best he could.

  During the weekend Frank relaxed. On Sunday night, he came home to find a big squarish envelope and three red roses tied with a pink ribbon on his kitchen table. He opened the envelope. It contained a photograph of five girls and a little boy lined up in a row in front of some building. They were laughing, smiling, looking at someone just outside the frame. All he could see of that person was her arm and some of that dark lovely hair done up in a braid. Frank knew those children. He knew that hair. He knew that arm.

  He turned the photograph over. It said in pencil, “You came for them.” Underneath that was today’s date. Underneath that was a capital C with a period.

  Frank went outside, looked up and down the street, looked around the house to see if the rose-bringer was there, but she was nowhere to be found.

  He walked back into the house and stood the photograph next to the rock which sat next to the jar. He stepped back and looked at the trio of objects catching the kitchen light. He stood there for some time.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Frank called Cowboy Donut, just as he said he would. Ms. Mary Rogers invited him down for a second interview. His face looked like marbled meat, but he’d made a promise, so he drove down in the Nova with Tony riding shotgun.

  Frank left Tony in the car, walked in, and smelled the fine doughnuts and coffee. He told the gal at the counter he was there to see Ms. Rogers, and she pointed him to the back office.

  The door was open. Frank cleared his throat and knocked.

  Ms. Rogers looked up. She examined him up and down. She shook her head. “Your face looks like a train wreck. What is it with you? The ex-con gig wasn’t bad enough? Now you want me to hire Frankenstein?”

  “This face will be a hit at Halloween,” he said. “And that’s prime doughnut time. My good looks are going to make you a million dollars.”

  “So what happened?”

  Frank shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  “Is that so?” she asked. She hit a few keys on her keyboard, then turned the monitor so he could see it. It was a news website. The headline said “Ex-con Becomes Hero.” Right below it was his picture. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit outside the Colorado Springs court house. Along with the fine photo, the first paragraph told everyone who read it the city and state he lived in.