Brownie was in Warden Todd Frenkel’s office at the detention center. His handcuffs had been removed, and there were no guards present. This was a private meeting between two old friends.
“I’m so sorry about this, Brownie,” Frenkel said. He was a paunchy, acne-scarred civil servant, shocked that Brownie was his new resident.
“Not your fault,” Brownie replied, visibly shaken but calm.
“I’ve got to make some decisions about your… living arrangements.” As a charged felon on no-bond status, he was supposed to be kept under heavy security. “I suggest first off that we keep you in protective segregation.”
Brownie shook his head. “No.”
Frenkel frowned. “No? We got a hundred twenty-two inmates in here now, and by my count you turned the key on at least fifty of them. You’re not good cellmate material.”
“I don’t want segregation,” Brownie said. “I can handle it.”
The warden sighed. “A shiv could come from any direction, at any time.”
“I know.”
“And we can’t protect you fully if you’re in general population.”
“I understand.”
“So why don’t you let us keep you safe?”
“No,” Brownie repeated. He had the right to decline secure lockup; that was one of the few choices a prisoner could make.
“You’re sure about this?” the warden asked.
“Absolutely.” If word got out that Brownie was in segregation, he’d be in even more danger. The animals would sense fear and attack for sure. No, Brownie had to go into the jungle and take a stand. And he had better access to information there. The thug network was plugged in to a lot of county secrets, and Brownie still needed answers.
“All right then,” Frenkel said reluctantly, “you’re going to have to sign a release that we offered you segregation and you declined it.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help you get through this?”
Brownie leaned forward in his chair. “There is one thing.…”
“Say the word.”
“I might need a secure phone, computer, and fax machine from time to time. Think you can arrange it?”
“Done.”
“Thanks, Todd,” Brownie said.
“If you need anything, Brownie, anything at all, let me know.”
“I will.”
“And for God’s sake, watch your back.”
Gardner leaned across Tanya Peters’s desk. “I don’t care if he is in conference, I want to talk to him now.”
Kent King’s dark-haired secretary tried to smile. She had been with King for three years and was stronger than her hundred-pound body implied. “He’s not to be disturbed.”
“We’ll see about that.” Gardner flanked her desk and banged on the inner office door. “Get out here, King!”
Tanya tried to block him, but Gardner’s eyes stopped her. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police,” she warned.
Gardner turned. “Go ahead. They’ll be most helpful after last night.”
Tanya suddenly realized that was a bad idea. The cops had no love for King as it was, and with a fellow officer under arrest they’d probably be hostile. “I’ll talk to him,” she said, lifting her phone. “It’s Mr. Lawson,” she whispered. Then she hung up.
Gardner stood by the door with his arms crossed. In a moment, King emerged. “What’s going on?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Step outside,” Gardner said.
King nodded and opened the door to the hallway.
Gardner followed, and they walked outside to the parking lot. It was morning, and Gardner’s breath showed in the chilly air.
“Let me have it,” King said.
“You made a big mistake last night.”
King hitched up his collar. “Pardon?”
“Brownie didn’t kill anyone, and you know it. The case is bullshit.”
“You’re wrong.”
“How can you go from appointment to indictment in two days? That’s ridiculous. It takes time to put together a case.”
“You ought to know,” King retorted.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You were taking all the time in the world now, weren’t you? That’s why they appointed me. They wanted to get something done. You didn’t have the guts to do it, but I did.”
Gardner gritted his teeth. This was playing like a thousand other confrontations with King. “Brownie did not kill Ruth. It was someone else.”
King put his hands in his pockets. “Have you seen the evidence?”
“Some of it.”
“Your friend is guilty. Two days or two years in the investigation would not make a difference. I have motive, opportunity, means, eye witnesses, fingerprints…. It’s a dead lock.”
“There’s an explanation for those things. He was working on the case, trying to solve it. He didn’t do it. The real killer is still out there.”
King laughed. “How does it feel?”
“What?”
“How often did I tell you ‘My client is innocent’? And how often did you throw the evidence in my face?”
“Is that what this is about? Revenge on me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” King said. “I couldn’t care less about you and your pathetic little life. This is about law. As a defense attorney, I defended. And now as a prosecutor, I’m going to prosecute. It’s as simple as that. You have anything else on your alleged mind this morning? I have state business to attend to.”
Gardner looked him in the eye. “You have to set bond.”
King feigned alarm. “I do?”
“Goddamnit, Kent. You cannot keep Brownie in with the criminals he’s locked up!”
“Brownie’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Gardner put his finger on King’s chest. “Set a bond, Kent.”
King squared his shoulders. “Or what? You have no jurisdiction anymore.”
The realization that he could do nothing was beginning to seep through, and Gardner dropped his hand.
“I suggest you back off until the case is over,” King said. “I’ve got it under control.” He turned toward his office.
“Kent.” Gardner had finally regained his voice.
King stopped.
“If anything happens to Brownie in the lockup—anything—I don’t care who’s on what side or who’s got what title: it’s between you and me.”
King turned and smiled. “That’s not a nice thing for a fellow prosecutor to say.”
“I mean it,” Gardner continued. “You want to get personal, I’ll get personal.”
“You’re deluded,” King said. “Go home.” Then he disappeared into the building.
“What did I tell you about the equation?” Paulie Brown asked as he handed a book to the youngster seated on his couch. The boy’s name was Joey Sill, and he was Paulie’s “little brother” in the outreach project.
Joey ran a finger along the side of his shaved head. He was thirteen years old, groomed and dressed like a rap musician. “Where it came from?” Joey asked.
“Yes. Look it up again.”
Joey opened his book, titled The Fountain of Knowledge. On the cover was a black-over-green outline of Africa. He turned to a section and read to himself.
“What does it say?”
Joey looked over the page. “That we invented it.”
“Who is we?”
“The people who lived in Egypt a long time ago.”
“That’s right. That formula came from our ancestors, so don’t give me no BS ‘bout not being able to remember it.”
Joey’s face went blank. “But I—”
“No but-buts!” Paulie replied. “If you have to stay here all day, you will memorize it. You got that?”
Joey nodded. This man who called himself Katanga was a great guy. He helped Joey with his tests and kept him out of trouble. He was more than a big brother. He was a dad.
> “Here it is again. The square of the length of the hypotenuse.” He pointed to a diagram in Joey’s math book laid out on the table.
“That’s this thing here. The square of this length is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. You take the squares of these two…” He pointed again. “Add them up, and it comes out the exact same as this.”
“The hippopotamus,” Joey said.
“No,” Katanga corrected, “hy-pot-e-nuse.”
“Hippopotamus comes from Africa.”
“So does hy-pot-e-nuse.”
“Hy-pot-e-nuse,” Joey repeated.
“That’s it.” Katanga laughed.
The phone rang and Katanga picked it up. “Yeah?”
It was his mother, and she was crying.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
“Joseph Junior’s been arrested. They say he killed the CAIN preacher. He’s in jail!”
Katanga stopped breathing for a second.
“Paulie, are you there?”
“I’m here, Mama.”
“Gladys says you know something about this. That Joseph was asking questions about what happened. What’s going on, son?”
“Nothing, Mama.”
“If you know something, you have to speak up!”
“I do not! What’s the matter with you all? Don’t you remember anything? When I needed help, Big Brother sure as hell didn’t help me!”
“He couldn’t,” Althea sobbed. “And you know why.”
” ‘Cause he was a cop? Mama, I don’t accept that. He could have done something!”
“Joseph had no control over that situation. He suffered as much as you did. I know.”
“Let him suffer some more.”
“Please, Paulie.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“You’re not going to help?”
“I can’t.” The history was written; the arrest couldn’t change it. Katanga said good-bye and hung up the phone.
“What’s the matter, man?” Joey asked.
His mentor slowly emerged from his trance. “You got that equation yet?”
“Think so.”
Katanga put his arm around the boy. “You better,” he said, “’cause I’m gonna quiz you, and if you don’t get it right, I’m gonna kick your little butt.”
The judges were in a special meeting. The decree unleashing the special prosecutor had just been issued, but he had moved faster than anyone had expected. The indictment had suddenly made the case a court matter. And the bench was not prepared to handle it.
Judge Danforth surveyed his colleagues. “We have to reach a decision,” he said. “Do we keep the case or assign it out? I for one am going to withdraw.”
The judges looked at each other. They all knew Brownie. He had testified in their courtrooms hundreds of times, and they’d seen him around town. No one wanted to preside at his trial.
“I won’t do it,” Judge Simmons said.
“Me neither,” added Harrold.
“Count me out,” Hanks said.
Everyone looked at Judge Cramer. “No way,” he replied.
“That’s what I thought,” Danforth declared. “We can each formally withdraw, citing our relationship with the accused. We have no choice, as I see it. This thing started because insider corruption was alleged. And now we have to protect ourselves. If we ruled in Sergeant Brown’s favor at trial, we could be accused of collusion. It’s better if we all back off.”
There was agreement around the room. The case was poison. Anyone who touched it was bound to get hurt.
“All right,” Danforth said, “let’s check the roster to see who gets the honors.” He pulled a folder from his desk drawer. In it was a list of state judges on standby for just such a contingency. Their schedules permitted reassignment in conflict-of-interest situations.
“Let’s see.” Danforth ran his finger down the October column. When he stopped, his face paled.
“Who is it?” Harrold prompted.
“Judge Rollie Ransome,” Danforth said.
A murmur of surprise ran around the table. Rollie Ransome was a judge from Baltimore. He was fat, crude, and bullheaded. And he had once shared office space with a streetwise legal gunslinger named Kent King.
Brownie had maneuvered Henry Jackson against the wall of the prison gym and was blocking the twenty-two-year-old inmate’s exit. Recreation time was over, and the other prisoners had vacated the area. Brownie and Jackson were alone. It was thirty feet to the door, and another fifty to the guard on the other side.
“Let me go, man,” Jackson pleaded. He was a two-bit punk from the Blocktown fringe, a thief who specialized in luxury cars and electronic equipment. Brownie had busted him at least three times, but the little punk kept coming back.
Brownie put an arm on either side of Henry’s head. “I want to talk.”
“You ain’t a cop no more,” Jackson responded nervously. “Leave me alone.”
The arms stayed in place. “Talk to me, Henry.”
Jackson considered his options. Brown was a hard-ass, now an accused murderer. No telling what he might do. “What do you want to know?” he finally asked.
Brownie dropped one arm to his side. “You were in Blocktown the night the man from CAIN got burned.”
“Yeah,” Henry said cautiously.
“And you were hangin’ outside Reverend Taylor’s church.”
“Maybe.” Henry was not sure how to answer. Was Brownie still trying to pin something on him?
“How long were you there?”
“Didn’t say I was there.”
Brownie put his arm back up again. “You were there and you were casing cars, weren’t you, Henry?”
Jackson puckered his lips. “Fuck you.”
“Take it easy. I don’t give a shit if you stole a whole goddamn fleet. I just want to know if you saw a particular car in the lot that night. That’s all.”
Henry stared at him skeptically. “What car?”
At the end of the room, the metal door clanged open and six inmates entered. They were brawny, white, and out for blood.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bobo Hynson twanged through his fight-flattened nose. “You playin’ button, button, which nigger’s got the button?” Bobo was a cycle jerk who fancied himself the prison godfather. He was ugly and mean-tempered, and Brownie had added at least two pages of arrests to his rap sheet.
Henry’s face went stiff with fear. If he got pegged as a collaborator he was as good as dead. “He’s trying to hurt me!” he yelled suddenly.
“Let him go!” Bobo ordered.
Brownie lowered his arms and moved against the wall. Henry ran out, and Bobo grabbed him. “What was he doin’, tryin’ to get a piece?”
“Yeah,” Henry gasped.
Bobo pinched his shoulder. “Did you suck him?”
“No! I swear!”
“You sure about that?” Bobo was gripping hard.
“He refused my advances,” Brownie interjected.
“Yeah? Is that right, pig?” He released Henry and turned his attention to Brownie.
“That’s right,” Brownie replied calmly. “He said I wasn’t his type. Said he was your girlfriend.”
The others formed a V, with Bobo at the point. “That’s real funny,” Bobo snarled, “but I don’t do black meat. We got to reprimand you anyway.” Bobo led the V forward. Brownie made two fists.
“What goes around, comes around.” The V took another step.
Brownie figured he had three seconds, no more.
“Gonna fuck you up—” Bobo hissed, but the words were cut off by a savage pivot-punch to his nose. The leader gurgled and lurched as Brownie struck, swinging his own fist into nothing but air.
“Get him!” a sidekick screamed. The V became a semicircle.
Brownie lowered his head like a fullback and raced for the door, slashing and flailing at the men in his way.
“Motherfucker!” Bobo bellowed. He’d recovered enough to get ba
ck in the chase. “Grab the motherfucker!”
Brownie had almost reached the door when he was caught from behind and tackled. He fell against the hardwood with a thud, tried to crawl forward but couldn’t. He was trapped.
“Hold him!” Bobo wheezed.
Brownie struggled to get up as Bobo moved into place above him.
“You’re mine, motherfucker!” Bobo stomped his foot on Brownie’s neck and raised a sharpened five-inch nail he’d stolen from the machine shop. “And you’re fuckin’ dead!”
Brownie twisted as the nail came down and it hit the fleshy part of his upper arm. “Aaaaaah!” he screamed.
Just then the alarm sounded, the door flew open, and guards flooded the room.
“Drop it, Bobo!” the captain hollered, brandishing a baton. The nail clanged to the floor, and the prisoners were subdued.
Bobo’s nose was bloody and even more misshapen. He glared at Brownie as he was escorted to detention and mouthed Kill you with his fattened lips.
“Any time,” Brownie snarled back.
Brownie was taken to the infirmary, medicated, bandaged, and released. On the way back to his cell, Brownie encountered Henry Jackson on the tier. “You okay?” Henry whispered. He was grateful that Brownie had taken the heat off him. It had given him a chance to escape.
“Doin’ fine,” Brownie said. “Guess you rang the alarm.”
Henry glanced around. “Yeah,” he replied.
“Thanks,” Brownie said.
Henry hesitated before walking on, as if he still had something on his mind. Brownie began to move, but Henry blocked his path. He pressed close to Brownie’s ear. “The car you were looking for,” he asked, “what kind was it?”
Gardner was distraught. He’d returned to his office after the confrontation with King and found a very different woman where Jennifer should have been. Lin Song had presented her credentials and an amended court order from Judge Danforth spelling out the awful truth: the State’s Attorney’s staff was at the mercy of the special prosecutor.
“Can’t get a goddamned thing done around here,” he told Jennifer when he’d located her in the law library. So they fled the building and tried to regroup. Gardner suggested jogging to clear their minds. But even that failed to work. Gardner quit halfway through the course and sat on a rock, and that’s where he stayed while he sorted things out.
Raising Cain Page 17
