by Mike Gomes
"No! Come on man, just come in for a few minutes and have some coffee."
Tyler wrapped his arm around his friend and led them into a hallway now half covered by the coffin that had been in the back of the hearse.
"Is he in there?" asked Tyler.
"Yeah. He started to stink."
"I know. It's disgusting. But that's what happens."
Tyler placed his hands on the coffin, pushing it off its perch on the rollers. The wooden box hit the floor, smashing on the concrete before the body of The Butcher tumbled onto the floor.
The killer's eyes locked on the men around him as he struggled to get free of the bonds that tied his hands and feet. His mouth was covered in duct tape.
"Men, take out the trash to the main room. It’s time for trial."
"Trial? Now?"
"Yeah, the judges are here. This will all be over in just a few minutes. By the way, everyone is very impressed you used one of his smuggling coffins to ship him back."
"I thought it was a nice touch,” said Falau with a smile as they walked to the open door at the end of the hallway.
Chapter 20
THE ROOM WOULD NORMALLY hold wakes, but had been cleared of the normal chairs and tables. Under where the casket normally sat there was a single chair The Butcher was positioned in. A single muted light bulb shone down upon him. A crucifix hung on the wall behind him, looking down on him during this time of his judgment. To his right along the wall sat nine empty high-backed chairs, but none of the people in the room made a move to occupy them. Clearly they were for the judges.
On the opposite side of the room were a few people in attendance. Falau, Tyler, four other men and two women, who made no attempt to interact with anyone at any time. The operation was all business... there was no time for anything but the task at hand.
One of the larger men walked over and ripped the tape from The Butcher's mouth, taking part of his facial hair with it.
"Fuck you!" screeched The Butcher, spitting on the man who ripped the tape from his mouth. "Let me go, I swear I will kill you all. What the hell is this, playtime for you people? Get me the fuck out here!"
"Silence. You will have your chance to speak,” responded the man now covered in spit.
"Let me go!"
In one smooth motion, the man spun back to The Butcher and jammed a revolver into his mouth. "I asked you to be silent, and told you you would have a chance to speak. Do you understand me this time?"
The Butcher nodded as his eyes focused on the man's finger lightly dusting over the trigger.
"Good. Thank you."
Removing the gun from his mouth the man walked away as The Butcher took a deep breath and examined the room. Making eye contact with Falau at the far end, he stared hard.
Falau lifted his glass, as if he was toasting the man. "I don't think he likes me."
"Think you're right. But he seems like he could be a hard guy to get along with," Tyler responded with a smirk.
On the far side of the room a door slid open, and silence fell across the room. All eyes moved to the door, waiting with anticipation. Falau did as all the others did, but had no idea why. The feeling that something would be missed if he looked away was overwhelming.
One by one nine people entered the room. They ranged in height and weight, but they all had one thing in common: you could not see any part of their bodies. All the judge’s robes covered them from their neck to their feet, including their arms. It was impossible to see their hands. A hood even covered their hair, while black and white masks covered their faces. Falau thought they looked like the comedy and tragedy masks you’d see at the theater. The difference was, these masks all had different expressions on them, everything from horror to happiness. It was impossible to detect any real emotion from any of the judges wearing the uniform they had devised.
The judges found their seats and sat down, and still they didn’t speak. They looked straight ahead and interacted with nobody in the room. Falau knew without being told that the judges were off limits. There was to be no friendly chitchat. No asking how the family was, or if they're enjoying their stay. Their anonymity was paramount and, nobody was going to get in the way of that.
"Step back against the wall,” requested Tyler. "We can’t interfere in any way or he goes free. The rules are very strict to make sure everything works out for the best."
Leaning back against the wall, Falau thought if they let the sick piece of garbage go after all he went through to get him, and especially after Carla died, he would lose his mind.
A man in his late 50s stepped to the center of the room. He wore a well-fitting suit that looked to be in the $300 range. Nice, but off the rack and not custom-made. Life had taken its toll on the man. He bore deep wrinkles and thinned hair that was approaching fully gray. He stood with a slight hunch and needed reading glasses, the kind that many old folks wore in the movies that sat at the end of their noses. Despite running over the various situations in his head, Falau could come up with no reason that would explain how this man ended up working with this kind of group. How was he involved with the judges and bringing people to justice?
The man cleared his throat and raised his hand, showing that he wanted silence in an already silent room.
"Good evening. You have decided to bear witness to the trial of Roberto Mallarino, otherwise known as The Butcher." The man moved his hand, indicating the man tied up against the wall.
"What kind of shit is this? I had a trial and was found innocent,” squawked the stone-cold killer.
"Sir, I informed you that you will have a chance to speak. I do not want to have to muzzle you for the rest of these proceedings."
The Butcher snorted with contempt, but resisted speaking out again. Falau was impressed this man could shut him up with words, and not the insertion of a pistol into his mouth as the other man had used.
"Sir, you are hereby charged with drug trafficking, murder, murder by drug trafficking, criminal conspiracy, corruption of government officials, and you are fully responsible for the deaths of 384 Floridians in the last two years, due to drugs you bring into the area cut with Carfentanil, and countless deaths in Columbia. How do you plead?"
The Butcher squinted his eyes and tilted his head to the side. "How do I plead? You want to know how I plead? I was tried by my home country of Colombia and found innocent. This isn't even a courtroom! You have me in a funeral home for the trial, so you can just kill me and dump me in a grave! Well, screw you all!"
"Sir, do you plead innocent or guilty? If you do not provide a plea, we’ll take your silence as a plea of guilt."
The man in the suit stared at The Butcher. "Your answer, Sir? Now."
"You people are insane! I'm innocent! Innocent of everything they say I have done!" snapped The Butcher, struggling to break the binds that held his hands.
"The plea is innocence. The questions will now start." The man in the suit walked over to the judges and made his way to one that sat last in line. A gloved hand slid out from under the robe holding a stack of index cards, and handed them to the man, pointing to the top one. Without any conversation, the man in the suit moved back to the center of the room and faced The Butcher.
Falau watched the interaction intently and realize in the judges spoke to nobody. Nothing about their identity was going to be known to anybody even the sound of their words. He wondered if Tyler was the only one who had any real contact with the judges.
"Sir. Have you ever trafficked drugs to the United States?"
"Ever?"
"Sir, please answer the questions as they are asked. Have you ever trafficked drugs to the United States?"
"Yes. I was a young man. Just one time. My family needed the money for—"
"A simple yes or no will do,” interrupted the man in the suit.
"Did you traffic drugs into Miami?"
"Yes, the one time—"
"That's good,” interrupted the man in the suit again.
"Did you ever cut you
r drugs with Carfentanil?"
The Butcher looked over to the judges and then scanned the room. His face hardened as he nodded. "You all think you’re so much better than me but I do what I have to to survive. I pulled myself up from nothing and look what I have achieved. Now you think you can pass judgment on me?"
"That's exactly what these judges are here to do,” snapped the man flipping to the next card. “Did you sell your drugs to Juan Martinez in Miami?"
"Yes! So what? What does it matter if I did? It was his choice who he sold the drugs too. He was the one killing people by pushing it on the streets."
"Martinez is dead. He tested his shipment. Not even a large amount, but it killed him."
Watching The Butcher's face go blank Falau could see for the first time he had been shaken.
The Judge who had given the index cards raised his hand into a ‘stop’ position. The man in the suit walked back to the judge and handed the index cards to him. He also handed a small piece of paper to each judge and returned to the center of the room.
"The judges will now deliberate, and we will have a verdict momentarily."
"Wait a minute! He said I would have a chance to speak. I want to say some things!"
"You did have a chance to speak. You had your say when you answered the question. That's all they needed to hear from you."
A tapping sound emanated from the head judge as his foot repeatedly hit the floor, stopping the conversation. The man walked back over and collected the paper from the judges. Placing himself back at the center of the room, he held the card in front of him looked down his nose through his glasses to read the fate of The Butcher.
"The judges have come to a unanimous verdict."
On those words, the judges stood up in unison and marched single file out the same door they entered through. Falau was sure they would be gone from the premises well before any action was taken.
"On all accounts, you have been found guilty as charged. Sentence will only be carried out on the charge of the deaths of 384 people as a result of drug trafficking, and of cutting the drugs with a known lethal substance."
"You can't do this! You have no right to find me guilty of anything! I want a lawyer!"
"You are hereby sentenced to death within the next hour, and may God have mercy on your soul."
"What? No! You can't—" The Butcher was silenced by a strip of duct tape over his mouth. Struggling back and forth, he fell to the floor in a panic and several men converged on him and removed him from the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man in the suit. "Justice has been served. Let's go now and forget anything ever happened here. Take care."
The man with the simple suit and years of work etched into his face tucked his glasses into the front pocket of his jacket and walked out the door.
Chapter 21
THE DOOR OF THE COFFEE shop two buildings down from Falau's apartment swung open with a hard push from Falau.
Entering the shop he ran his eyes over the room and saw Tyler sitting at the furthest booth. Tyler always placed himself in a position of power by facing the door and having his back to the wall. Nobody could sneak up on him from that position. Was it intentional, or was it just habit at this point for his friend to be on high alert?
Scanning his eyes over everyone in the room, Falau felt his senses were once again alive. He was running on instinct, and the sharpness of his mind was fantastic. The room was safe and he knew it. He knew the people who were the greatest risk, and he knew those who were not. He knew who had a gun and who didn't. He was back on track in every sense of the word, despite the difficulties of he'd witnessed.
"How are things going?" said the big man, sliding into a seat opposite his old friend.
"Things are always great when the world becomes a safer place overnight," smirked Tyler as he raised a cup of coffee, using it point at the TV set high above the counter.
The national news was showing a smiling man standing in front of a mountain of cocaine. He held up two automatic weapons and was awash in the flashes of camera bulbs exploding in his face. Across the bottom of the screen a banner with yellow letters surrounded by red, read: ‘Lt. Carlos Rivera of the National Police of Colombia makes the biggest drug arrest in the history of South America.’ A handsome man came back to the TV broadcasting live from Colombia. "More than 2000 kilos of cocaine and over 100 kilos of heroin were confiscated in the early morning hours at the Jet International import and export facility in Bogotá, Colombia. The result of this massive confiscation could limit the sales of drugs all over the United States and Europe."
"That's one happy cop,” said Tyler with a smile. He took a sip off his coffee and placed it on the table.
"National Police. I hear they are touchy about that kind of thing..." said Falau.
"That should put him on the fast track to the top command. He could be a good man to know if you're ever in that part of the world. Who knows what he could help a guy with in the future?"
Tyler was right. Rivera was now a major contact and someone who was willing to work with him if the price was right and if Falau could provide him with another big bust. If the judges were big on getting smugglers in Colombia, this was going to be an outstanding contact.
"Yeah he would be."
Tyler shifted in his seat and reached for his briefcase. Flipping the locks to open it, he removed a plain brown oversized envelope, the kind that most offices use for interoffice mail. He placed the envelope on the table and slid it across to Falau.
The envelope was thick, and sealed closed with red twine that linked around two red circles attached with string.
"This is for you."
Picking up the envelope , Falau opened the top and could see inside several small packs of money. All US currency, in denominations of $10, $20, and $100 bills that all looked used and dirty. There was no way they were counterfeit or had markings of any kind of sequential order. Nothing about the money would link him to the judges in any way. They were perfectly random.
“Thanks," said Falau, wrapping the red string around the circles again. "Feels good to be on the side of the good guys. I was starting to wonder if I was still one of the good guys now."
"Falau, there was never any doubt in my mind that you were still one of the good guys."
A large heavy-set waitress wearing a nametag reading Helen stood at the end of the table. "You want something to eat?" she grunted at Falau.
"Tell me something..." Tyler glanced up to read the nametag. "...Helen. Looking at this guy right now, would you say he is one of the good guys?"
"My name ain’t Helen. It's Ruth. I forgot my name-tag today. He’s a good guy if he leaves a good tip. Want coffee or food?"
"Coffee is fine,” said Falau with another smile.
"Great, I’m sure there will be a good tip on a $.99 cup of coffee,” moaned Ruth as she walked away from the table.
"See, even Ruth knows you’re one of the good guys, and you always have been. You’ve just had some tough times."
"Wish I could believe that. Maybe in time I can see things right."
"You can do it with us. If this is the work for you I've been told it's okay to give you more assignments. You wouldn’t exactly be part of the inner circle, but you would play a vital role in the success of the operation."
Falau looked down at the table and placed his hands behind his neck. He rubbed hard, as if he was trying to ease away a muscle knot.
"I don't know. I almost got myself killed down there. If not for some luck I would've failed."
"But you didn't. You succeeded. For whatever reason, you came out on top. That's all that matters. You're getting your chops back. You’re like a great jazz musician. You just can't pick up from where you left off after not playing for years and try to sit down with Miles Davis and knock out a few tunes. It takes time. I know you don’t like to talk about your past but you need to accept it. It’s who you are."
"I don't know what to tell you."
; "Tell me you’ll think about it. No need to decide here and now. Just call me if you could use some work, even if it's only part-time." Tyler reach into the pocket of the suit jacket and pulled out a card very similar to the one he gave Falau before. The only writing on it was the phone number.
"Take care of yourself, my friend. Was great seeing you again," said Tyler as he stood up and placed his hand on Falau’s shoulder, squeezing it while looking down into his eyes. “Just don't wait too long if you want to be on the job. My bosses tend to like consistency, and to know what's going on all the time. I will hold the spot as long as I can. The fixer can’t take forever."
“Is that what the judges call me? The fixer.” Falau said with a wide smile.
“No. I am the fixer. I fix problems and I can’t take forever to get back to them.” Explained Tyler with a slight laugh. “Take care.”
Tyler patted Falau’s shoulder one last time and walked towards the door. Falau looked at the card in his hand and spun it between his fingers. Even with all the risk and Carla’s death, Falau was feeling better now than he had in years. The flashbacks had been gone for almost a week and his drinking had slowed. He felt like he had something to live for, and that was a feeling that had left him a long time ago.
"Where did your buddy go?" Ruth said, placing the coffee in front of Falau with a small splash. "Hun. He didn't even leave you with a few bucks to cover the cost of his coffee. Some friend he is."
Ruth rumbled away, her words echoing in Falau's ears. "Some friend he is." And she was right. He is some friend. The kind of friend that looks after you when you're at the worst point in your life. One who comes in and bales your ass out when you’re getting ready to end it all.
That kind of friend is a best friend.
Pulling the cell phone from his pocket the big man quickly dialed the number on the card, stopping Tyler right outside the coffee shop.
"Ya... Tyler."
"Falau. Stay there."
Falau shoved some money on the table and jumped up, moving to the door as fast as he could. Pushing the door open, he tried not to run to Tyler and cause too many eyes to look at his old friend. Falau detected at least two cars in the area he was sure Tyler would soon be followed by. Quickening his pace, he reached Tyler and caught his breath.
