Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Finn smiled and lifted the glass to the elder Meek, "Cheers.”

  “Thanks,” Tonic offered, and after a sip, got back to business. “Mr. Meek, we’ve been involved with your son’s case from the very beginning. We were the detectives on the scene at his home in Arlington Heights, and have been assigned to investigate since that time.”

  Whitaker leaned back in his chair, the panorama behind him a fitting backdrop. He hadn’t been a regular on the television during his tenure with the government so there was little celebrity about him, though like most men who can jot Presidential Appointee into their resume, he carried himself with a confidence that was hard not to admire.

  “With your permission, we need to ask a handful of questions,” Tonic wasn’t bad at being formal when formal was on the menu, but he’d never been faced with questioning the likes of Whitaker Meek.

  “By all means.”

  “Do you have any idea of how we might reach your son?”

  “You mean to arrest him or to question him?”

  Tonic had already decided that he would be fairly straightforward with Mr. Meek. "Both.”

  Whit smiled. "No.”

  The two watched one another for a few moments. "How about just for a little chat on the telephone?” Tonic concluded.

  “Not even that I’m afraid. He hasn’t been answering his cell.”

  “We’ve noticed that,” Finn said but Whitaker didn’t shift his gaze from Tonic.

  “What exactly would you be arresting him for detective?” Whit asked.

  “We believe that your son may be involved in the kidnapping of two young men from the city,” Tonic said. He thought that it might be best to save the fact that they had been witness to said kidnapping for a bit.

  “Why would he do that?”

  This wasn’t at all how an interview generally went, and though this was a man who had been roped to a chair in front of many a Senate Subcommittee after the air strikes in Libya, he probably wasn’t going to play by any pre–determined game plan. To say the least, he was tough to read. Tonic was working under the assumption that he would lie about everything. Finn would assume that he was telling the truth. Later they would compare and beat up one another’s theories. So, by Tonic’s theory, Meek had already said a great deal. One, he knew where Seth was, and had a good idea of what he was doing.

  “We were hoping that you could shed some light on that for us,” Tonic said.

  “No. Though if he calls would you like me to give him your number?”

  Finn smiled at this, the guy was fucking impossible not to like. “I think he’s fairly well connected.”

  “Indeed.”

  “When did you last speak with your son?” Tonic asked. He finished off his mug of coffee and started on Ray’s, which had remained untouched.

  “He called me from the hospital and asked me for a favor or two.” Whit sat forward. It wasn’t unusual for a person being questioned to do this in anticipation of a question, but rarely had Tonic seen the posture in just this way. Whittaker Meek was doing it on purpose, just as a man being subjected to a polygraph might conjure up terrible mental images in order to throw off the baseline questions.

  “And would you be willing to talk to us about the substance of his requests?”

  “Of course. He asked me if he could come here for the evening, and if I would send my aircraft overseas so as to draw the media off of his scent.”

  “And you did this for him?”

  “You know that I did,” Whit said.

  “We knew that it flew there, but there was a time when we had to assume that he was, in fact, on board that aircraft just like the press did.”

  “That’s exactly why I have my own aircraft. Private is private,” Whit said, and then asked. "Another coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Tonic said, and shoved Ray’s mug back to him.

  Sasquatch arrived within the minute with replacements all around as Tonic continued with his questions.

  “And you knew that this could potentially impede our investigation into what happened to your son’s family?”

  “Of course.”

  Finn, still nursing his first drink asked without preamble, "Why?”

  Meek was very much ready for the question. "Do either of you have children?”

  “No,” Finn said, but Ray over there made up for our shortcomings, you should ask him.”

  “You have children young man?” Whit asked.

  Ray cleared his throat as if beginning to testify but then only nodded.

  “Well then, you know. They’re your children. Maybe I was trying to make up for lost time. Maybe it was instinct, though I’d bet on the former. My track record as a father isn’t one that I’m terribly satisfied with as a whole. My instinct has been somewhat lacking I’d say, and my son had been injured in a way that I was not able to easily mend. I wanted to help him. If that meant that I’d have to chaff the system’s ass a little, then I was certainly prepared to do so. I’ve done it before.”

  Finn watched with more than a little respect for a man who could compare drawing up plans to drop a two thousand pound bomb down Uncle Muammar’s chimney to chaffing the system. “Would you be willing to go through this all again without the microphones?”

  “Yours or mine?” Whit asked.

  Finn laughed, tossed back the last of his drink and set it on Whit’s desk. He then drew out his digital recorder, removed the batteries, and laid it all out next do his empty glass.

  “Aren’t you supposed to tell me if you’re taping detective?”

  Finn shrugged. "It doesn't work very well, I'm not sure it was even on."

  With a chuckle, Whitaker pressed one of four small buttons on his desk. “Fine, ask what you like detectives.”

  Tonic picked up where they'd left off, "We think that Seth found the guys who did this and kidnapped them.”

  “So do I,” Whit said.

  “These are some bad, bad people,” Tonic threw a line.

  “Hasn’t Seth taken care of himself thus far?”

  “Has he?” Finn asked.

  “I was asking a question, not making a statement detective.”

  “Ah,” Finn said. “You see, it sounded a little like you know more than you’re telling us.”

  “It did sound that way didn’t it?”

  “A little.”

  Whit and Finn were smiling.

  Tonic broke the silence. "Do you?”

  “No, not past what you already thought to be true.”

  Tonic remained silent, and Whit went on, “That I’ve talked to Seth, that he told me what he wanted to do, and that he went off to do it.”

  “By some definitions, this makes you an accessory Mr. Meek,” Tonic said.

  “Only if I offered more than moral support.”

  They all knew that this wasn’t entirely true, but the point was made – Whitaker Meek was playing ball, and if they wanted him to go on, they would need to throw a few slow pitches.

  Tonic sat back, expecting the chair to give a little. It didn’t and the jolt interrupted his sentence, “He has a hell of a good reason… to go out and castrate the fuckers that did this to him.”

  “Again, I agree. May I ask the three of you a question that may help to clarify my own stance?”

  “Sure,” Tonic said.

  “Deep down, don’t you want him to succeed?”

  “You’d better ask Ray,” Finn said. "It doesn’t matter what we think.”

  Whit grunted. "Humor me.”

  Finn set his drink down. “I guess that depends on what you mean by succeed. If you mean tickle them until they bleed from every hole, then yes, I think we agree.”

  Finn passed the question to Tonic who said, "Without question.”

  “And Mr. Ramadeep?” No one was surprised that Whitaker had a handle on Ray’s identity. “And don’t quote the party line about having a system to handle such things like a good little reporter. No bullshit.” Whitaker was squeezing Ray a little, but
that was all in the cards. Undoubtedly Whitaker didn’t hang a stocking on his gate for the press at Christmas time.

  Again, Ray cleared his throat. "There are some problems though.”

  “Do tell,” Whit said, and all three watched Ray.

  “Well, the Constitution says that everyone gets a trial, period.” Meek began to speak, but Ray was a breath ahead and continued, “And the Constitution isn’t bullshit. Without free speech and a trial for everyone, the system means zip.”

  “Three cheers for the Constitution,” Finn said and picked his drink back up.

  “And if your wife and children were raped and murdered? Tortured?”

  “I’d hope I had the guts to do what your son’s doing,” Ray said.

  Meek nodded then rose and invited them all to the windows behind his desk. They stood looking out over the sun–dappled acres of woodland.

  Tonic was standing nearest Whitaker, and his voice was soft, “If you know where he is, we can stop all of this, keep everyone safe, and let the system sort it out.”

  “I know. But truthfully son, I don't know where he is and I don’t want everyone safe. Even my son. He’s earned this, don’t you think?”

  Finny, who had said the same thing just the night before, repeated, “Doesn’t matter what we think.”

  “I think it does,” Whit said. “Because it matters what you do. You won’t find my son until he wants you to find him. He’s going to do this, and he’ll do it right. He’ll do it in a way that no one will ever forget, and it’ll change the world in a way that I’ve never been able to change it.”

  “Whoa now, what's that mean? The world?” Tonic said.

  Whit looked at him. "He wanted you to have this.” He produced a slip of paper about the size of a fortune out of a cookie.

  “And this is what?” Tonic asked as he unfolded the scrap. Inside was a web address, http://juryofpeers.us, a date, and a time. Soon.

  “I think that’s Seth’s way of giving you a direct line to the five o’clock news.”

  “Nice of him. What is this?”

  “It's more than you know,” Whit said. “Well Gentlemen, if there’s nothing more, I think I’ll take a nap. This promises to be a long few days. Might I suggest that you all do the same?”

  "No matter what, this is going to end badly," Finn said.

  Whit seemed to consider that for a moment and then replied, “Let’s let the jury decide, shall we?”

  "If things keep heading this direction, I doubt this will make it to trial," Finn said. Maybe a little parental anxiety would help motivate the elder Meek.

  But strangely, Whitaker said nothing; instead, he simply stared out over the trees wearing his confident little smile. The interview was over.

  Chapter Thirty–Six

  Taal

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Salt asked.

  “Well…” Seth began. "Once you’re arrested in connection with a crime, you’re usually confined.” He gestured to them, then around the room with his sandwich. “Then there’s an arraignment. That’s where you hear the charges against you, and get to enter a plea.”

  Salt was sweating. It was running from his matted hair and into his eyes, further exacerbating the lingering pain. “Fuckin’ shit, bullshit,” he jerked at the tape and ropes again, the veins in his neck bulged. “Fuck… fuck!”

  Meek suppressed a smile. He'd seen what they'd done, all of it, not just what his mind had selected for him to review again and again in these past days… and now he would exact any sort of revenge that he desired. Anything at all. It was about to begin. "We’re going to have to work on that vocabulary before your opening statement I think. You’d better start thinking about that.” He shifted his focus to Pepper. "What about you? There’s not much talk coming out of you.”

  Saul blinked away the sting and tried to think. His body had already confirmed what his mind was coming to grips with, namely that he was fucked. Alternatives began to appear: Bluster, bluff, beg, negotiate, keep quiet. None seemed particularly strong options at the moment, but he could hear his momma saying, "Even a shithead seems smart if he stays quiet." This was the guy from the house, there was no doubt, and he held all of the cards. There was no way out, period. He was dead.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “I don’t get what’s goin’ on,” Saul temporized. He needed time to think.

  “I’ll explain it to you both,” Seth said as he rose and stretched. “But listen, because I’m only explaining it once. We clear?”

  Of course, there was no answer, so he went on, “We all know what you did to my family. You,” he pointed at Salt. "Killed my wife. My daughter. My baby. And you,” he turned to Pepper, "tried to kill me, and stood by while he did what he did. I think that’s clear. I think that based on the evidence, I could probably just blow you both in half right here and now and someone would pin a medal to my chest. But I’m not going to do that yet. It’s not enough.”

  Fear rose up in both sets of eyes, not enough sounded like a round about way of saying torture. It pleased Seth, and angered him at the same time. They were the torturers, the rapists, killers without remorse, and yet they were judging him by what they themselves would have done. His rage gurgled in the pit of his stomach and he swallowed hard to hold back the acid that churned.

  “So you’re going on trial. I’m the judge, and you’ll meet the jury tomorrow. Tonight, there will be an arraignment, and a preliminary hearing to determine if there’s enough evidence against you to warrant a grand jury. I’m guessing there will be.”

  Salt burst out, “You motherfucker I should have off'ed you right then, just beat your fucking ugly face in with my kicks you piece of fuckin’ shit…”

  Seth lifted the radio transmitter, dialed it to 2 and pushed the button, which effectively ended the tirade. Salt’s eyes bulged; he was gathering breath for a scream when Seth again pushed the button. “What did I say about manners?”

  Salt groaned. "You fuckin…” Another push of the button ended this outburst as well.

  “Stop man,” Pepper finally said. “He’ll shut up.”

  “You’re his boss?” Seth asked, still holding the radio out before him.

  “Yeah man, I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t mention that during the trial.”

  “Whatcha doin’ to him?” Saul asked. He was casting nervous looks at Bolo, wondering what was making him jump.

  “Can’t you feel it?” Seth asked.

  Saul searched his senses and found what he feared, there was something strapped up tight around his nuts. “What is it?” he asked, working to keep his voice level.

  “A dog collar. A pet containment system I think it said... I decided on the ones that said for large or stubborn dogs. There are two little prongs that stick out of the collar and both of those are jammed right up between your sack and your asshole. And that was a pretty low setting. So, watch your manners,” he pointed at Salt.

  “Alright man, be cool,” Saul said.

  “So you’re going on trial for murder and whatever else I can think of. You can help yourselves now by being nice. If you can’t do that your lives will become considerably less pleasant… and if you've been keeping score, you two haven't had a great third quarter.” He watched them both adjust to the idea. His hope was that by giving them a sliver of hope, they’d come alive instead of just sitting there like remedial students.

  It was clear which of them was more intelligent. He looked at Saul. "What’s your name?”

  There was some hesitation, but not much. “Saul.”

  “What about him?”

  “You shut your fuckin’ hole you little ape,” Bolo spat. “I’ll fuckin’ slit your throat you say anythin’.”

  Seth sighed, “Your friend learns slowly.”

  “Bolo,” Saul said. “His name’s Derek, but we call ‘em Bolo. Always have.”

  Bolo fumed, still twisting his fingers and straining at the tape. The hate on the kid’s face filled the room, and for
a moment Seth’s wanted to just open a hole in his gut and watch him die. He looked at the gun. He let a finger trail over the checked grip but knew that if he picked it up, all of this would come to an end. A premature end. There was still much to be done.

  One of the laptops chirped to indicate an incoming message.

  Seth let the computer decrypt it and then read:

  I found the man you need.

  Ravish M. Ramadeep

  Came to my house today with two detectives. I ran him up. He’s been working computers in your case, but he’s feeding info to a metro paper as well. He’s an entry–level staffer at the John Hancock Standard. Smart guy with some computer experience – worked for a cable company while he went through a year or so of law school on full scholarship, dropped out and switched to journalism. Speaks a couple of languages. Wife and kids. Living off of savings. Sounds like an idealist who needs to make ends meet. He’ll do it. It’ll make his career.

  I thought this might be helpful as well.

  I looked up the two detectives who came to the house as a matter of course. They’re running your case for the city, though soon the FBI will be involved and they, as a rule, are harder to pin down.

  Tonic , Spencer C.

  A half-dozen years as a cop, the last three in D.C.. Twice deployed in Afghanistan. His official military records I can get to, but it takes time. The lack of accessible information generally indicates some sort of SF unit, Civil Affairs or an Operational Detachment in his case – Army. Small world, he and I have crossed paths before, though he wouldn't know it. No wife and no kids. Once decorated as a cop. Twice decorated in the Army. No black marks on his record. He’s moved up fast.

  Finny, James B.

  Been a cop for a couple of dozen years almost exclusively inside of the Beltway. He’s worked narcotics and homicide, has zero black marks on his record which means that he’s either squeaky clean or knows the system inside out. No wife, no kids. Twice decorated, and once shot. He was treated and released last night due to a gunshot wound to the chest. Consider the timing, I don’t know the whole story.

  Whit concluded the bios with the date of birth, social security number, emails, home phone, home address, and cell numbers of each. He was very good at what he did, and it felt good to know why he was doing it. He'd tacked on one last thing.