Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  Chapter Fifty–One

  Tompeates

  “So you think this is a good idea?” Tonic asked.

  “Wait a second, this was your idea, don’t be trying to put it back on me.”

  “I don’t wanna go.”

  “At least here we don’t need the Silly String,” Finn said as he opened the car door. The sun had come out but it evidently had no intention of actually heating the air between the car and Ray’s front door. There would be more snow.

  Ray and his brood lived in a shack compared to Meek. In fact, it was kind of a shack in comparison to Tonic who actually lived in a shack. A love shack, yes, but Tonic was single and had hefty car payments so that he could impress his girl. Truth be known, the two of them lived in his car far more often than he lived in his ratty apartment. But poor ol’ Ray, non–single and working hard to feed the baby birds, was obviously having a rough go of it.

  The neighborhood was suffering through the winter with scorched lawns that had been seared in the Cherry Blossom sun, and then simply frozen in place. It was a place from which people would have moved from if they could have, a sort of suburban Levittown which had reached the height of its mass–produced glory and now faced the inevitable decline into a shantydom. The one thing that they had going for them, Finn thought, was the fact that they weren’t piled on top of one another like everyone in the city. These were individual homes, more like cottages, but each with a yard and a fence, and their own crooked mailboxes.

  “You know,” Finn said as they walked up the driveway. “I actually do feel better.”

  “Want me to schedule another visit?” Tonic hopped up the steps and knocked on the door.

  Finn worked his shoulders around and was going to reply when a cacophony of bawling erupted from within the house.

  “Jesus Christ,” Finn said instead. "My cats never do that.”

  Tonic took a step back from the door, “Uh oh.”

  “What uh oh?”

  There were four loud steps by way of warning and then the door swung open. A woman stood there behind the screen, lips tight in a bloodless jeer, eyes wide as if hoping to absorb some ambient wrath. Finn took a step back too. There had been no pause to check through the peephole – she’d just stomped up and yanked back the door looking for someone to lynch.

  “Heya,” Tonic tried his old standby. The screaming quartet of babies and toddlers filled the little house, and spilled out at their feet.

  “What?” the woman hissed.

  “Heya?” Tonic repeated.

  “You’re fired,” Finn told him and then turned to the woman. “Mrs. Ramadeep?”

  “Yes.” She was poised to slam the door, and just as Finn opened his mouth, she did. Whamp. It wasn’t a solid door, and it rebounded back open, revealing her shocked and infuriated face. She scowled at the door, at them, and then… whamp. Recoil. Whamp! Each time the screaming increased, and each time she slammed the door harder until there was a clink and something inside the latch tumbled down the against of the screen. Finally, she closed it hard and pressed her body up against it from the inside.

  “Heya? That's all you've got?” Finn asked.

  “Maybe this is a bad time…” Tonic said.

  “You think?” Finn said as he tapped once again.

  “What do you want Mi’ijo?” she said from inside.

  “Just a few moments…” the door flew open again.

  “You woke ‘em up, I just got ‘em to sleep.”

  “Yes ma’am. We’re sorry about that. My name is James Finny and this is my partner…”

  “Is this about Ray?” she pressed her belly up to the screen, but didn’t move to open it.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Me vale madre!” Ray’s wife had none of the accent that Ray had made charming in the would you like a Big Gulp with that sort of way. In fact, she sounded like she might have lived somewhere south of Arizona for a spell.

  “He just left last night.” She didn’t seem overly concerned. And obviously, she’d not seen the television… but generally having the police at your door threw up some red flags. This gal was just pissed.

  “Mrs. Ramadeep, your husband is fine.” Finn explained for two minutes, during which time she exited her home, struggled with the screen door which was on only one hinge, and again slammed both shut. This made it somewhat easier to hear, but made the porch considerably less comfortable.

  “You mean he’s been out working all night again?”

  “Well ma’am, I’m not sure that I’d consider it working really,” Tonic ventured.

  “What would you call it?”

  Tonic considered different ways to angle the word hostage back into the sentence but finally gave up. “Yes ma’am, well… has he called here?”

  Her stare made it clear that he hadn’t.

  Finn reached for one of his cards and then made a show of being all out. "If he calls, would you please make certain to let us know. We believe that he’s safe at the moment, but we’d very much like to talk with him. Give her a card Spencer.”

  Tonic scowled at his partner and reluctantly handed over one of his own cards. One with his number on it.

  “Whatever… poca madre.” She looked beyond them at the street as another descript non–descript government sedan pulled up, brakes squeaking to an agonizing stop. The only two vehicles on earth that had this built–in squeak were UPS trucks and FBI sedans.

  “Well, we should let you get back to… yeah,” Tonic said, and stepped off of the porch. Finn did the same, leaving the wailing behind. Two men exited the sedan, their sunglasses and long coats hiding quick eyes and well pressed suits.

  Finn decided to start things out on the right foot as the two pairs drew near in the driveway. “You can’t see me, I’m not here.”

  “Who are you?” agent number one said. These were the same two from the hospital, so everyone knew who everyone else was, which was exasperating, but playable.

  “Cake or death?” Finn said instantly.

  This puzzled the long coats for a moment, but they recovered with a line of their own that had shut down countless conversations – their equivalent of yelling cock in the middle of dinner with the in–laws:

  “I’m agent Miller, and this is agent Dupree, FBI,” Agent One said.

  “Well I’m James Finny. This is my partner Spence.”

  "We were under the impression that you were with D.C.P.D. Mr. Finny. Is this so?”

  “You're lucky that I'm Church of England.”

  “This is unhelpful,” Agent One said. Agent Two lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Heady emotion from the FBI.

  Tonic said, “He tries, he really does.” Finn suddenly seemed preoccupied, so Tonic continued to stall. "We're going to run out of cake at this rate.”

  The agents ignored him. "Do you have business with the Ramadeep family?”

  “Just checking in,” Finn said. He’d noticed a tiny reflection on Agent One’s lapel. It came from the cell phone at their feet, almost exactly equidistant between the four of them, lying in the crunchy grass. It was silver, and signaling for help like a downed pilot.

  “Unless you have official business with the Ramadeep family, let me suggest that you allow us to work the case to its conclusion.” The reflection bounced on his coat. “There is a kidnapping involved, and you are well aware that kidnapping falls under Federal jurisdiction…”

  Finn took one long step forward and said, "Well, I'm afraid we're all out of cake." The agent instinctively stepped back.

  “What?” Agent Two said.

  “Oh shit,” Tonic said. "Dropped my phone.” He bent down, scooped it up, and flipped it open as if he were checking for calls, then pocketed the phone.

  Suddenly Finn was friendly. "Welp, we should be going. Good luck up there.”

  “Knock hard,” Tonic said as they walked to their car. "She’s a little hard of hearing.”

  Chapter Fifty–Two

  Taurine

&nbs
p; Once they were armed with a physical address, it was a simple footrace for the news crews. Those who opted for a technological approach and plugged the numbers into Google Earth, ultimately came in second – later though, they agreed that second place wasn’t always a bad thing.

  The local crews had a small advantage in that they knew which streets down in Widmore were actually open to thru–traffic, and which were literally dead ends. Still, this shifted on a day–to–day basis, and once a crew spotted another satellite van cruising a block away, they would simply follow one another about until a suitable street could be found. It was daylight, but there was still safety in numbers. Or the semblance thereof.

  FOX found Saul’s home address first. At least they found the address of a three–story brick apartment house. After the suggestion of ‘rock paper scissors’ was dismissed in favor of everyone sharing in the suffering, the crew loaded up their gear and with the practiced confidence of Homecoming royalty, simply walked in the front door. They were met with a stairwell which was occupied by no less than six sleeping men, sprawled at all angles up and down the flight. The rock paper scissors option was reinstated, and the sound guy was chosen to negotiate the stairs and try to bring Mrs. Brown down for an interview. He failed, but not for lack of trying. They could all hear him pounding on the Brown’s door, but with less enthusiasm as tenants began to complain from behind the thin, stained walls.

  Outside another local crew was dealing with a growing crowd. They had a brand new truck emblazoned with their logo, and bringing it down into the Wild West was less cost effective than having it parked out in front of the Capitol Building.

  “Nice ride,” a kid said.

  Karma was against this news crew's sound engineer as well, and he stood guard at the side door. “Yeah,” he allowed.

  “You gonna put us on TV?”

  “Not unless you know where Saul Brown’s mom is,” the guy stalled.

  “Fuck man, she right up the street.”

  “Where?” the pretty anchor put down her makeup kit and rolled the passenger window down half an inch.

  “Gonna put me on TV or what?”

  “Sure, what’s your name?” the anchor asked as she furtively searched through her purse.

  “Jonquez, call me Quez.”

  “Alright Jonquez,” she fished a bill out through the narrow opening. "How about for ten bucks?”

  “Fuck that, how ‘bout a hundred?”

  The crew retreated inside the van, pooled their funds behind closed doors, and struck a deal that led them four blocks down to a kid named Andy. They scooped the FOX crew who had to pay two hundred for the same pre–owned information.

  Negotiations with the skinny white kid proved less expensive, but more complicated. The guy had popped up from inside of an upright dumpster like a weasel at the county fair when they’d called his name. He was tweaking, which made him happy to divulge all sorts of happy horseshit, very little of it relevant to the situation at hand.

  “Dude it’s easy dude, just come up through the back of the front street and then stroll over to that one place. You’ll see it all plain as day dude, just watch out for that chick’s dogs because they’re mean as hell. Have a spot of coffee? No? Alright,” his voice floated about from patrician to beach stoner with ease.

  The crowd, of course, followed along to watch. They didn’t try hide their glee at watching the crews falter and stumble, and were glad to add their own overlapping sets of instructions until Andy overloaded and sank back down into his hole.

  The anchor turned on the crowd. She was pissed, but put on a beaming on the air smile. “Who wants to be on TV?”

  Silence. Sudden and complete. The smiles stopped.

  She tried again. “Come, on… someone must know. We’ll put you on at five o’clock.”

  More stares. They were playing with her.

  The FOX van rushed past, the driver was smiling, and in seconds the local crew left this mess behind and was in tow.

  They found Mrs. Brown covered in lint.

  She wasn’t a large woman, but appeared even smaller when the crews flooded into the Laundromat and one by one lit the place in a bath of orange light. Her willowy arm was hidden behind a stack of dryers as she struggled to clear the ducts, and when she jerked it free, she managed to open an inch long slit on the pad of her thumb. She gripped it in her fist as they ignored the wound and fired off question after question.

  It was clear by the look on her face that she knew nothing of her son’s peril. The lines of anguish etched into her face long ago, deepened as she deciphered the meaning of their visit.

  “What’s wrong with my baby?” she asked as the crowd outside began to fill every empty spot. “Where’s my baby?”

  There were no answers, just more questions.

  “Do you even know where your son is?”

  She cried and looked from face to face, bleeding and wailing on the verge of hysterics. She begged for information – thoroughly confused, exhausted at the end of a long night’s work, and obviously every bit the distraught mother. All in all, it was probably worth a hundred bucks.

  Siclo’s family would have been worth a thousand.

  The first crew to arrive made the assumption that the kid had been lying on the videotape. The apartment building looked as if it had been bombed, the overpressure having atomized all of the windows and blown the drapes out into the wind. Hundreds of wisps of material now fluttered from Manor Court, though in warning or distress, no one could tell. The crew parked, rechecked their map, and even called to verify that this was the place; but in the end, they left it there without going inside. It was dangerous they reasoned, and accurately.

  The second crew decided to take the chance. They hoisted their gear, picked their way through the rubble, and ventured into the building from the end that looked more structurally sound. Inside, it was dim as they had expected, but the halls were wide and mostly clear of debris – the doors were even numbered. #230, curiously, was not on the second floor, but they overlooked this and ventured a knock. When there was no answer, they tried again, and had nearly exhausted their reserve of courage when the peephole darkened and a voice said, “What?”

  “I’m Doug Beeman,” the reporter said reflexively. He realized that there was no glass in the peephole… just an inch of open air and an eyeball.

  “So?”

  “We’re from FOX news. We were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “No.”

  They were ready for this, and placed a hundred dollar bill betwixt them and the eye. The door opened, and a skinny arm snaked out reaching for the bill. Beeman held it back. "Are you Derek Siclo’s parent or guardian?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Which?”

  A face appeared, drawn and stubbled. "Why? What’d he do?”

  “He’s been kidnapped.”

  The door came open the rest of the way. This was the man responsible for Derek ‘Bolo’ Siclo, “I’m his daddy.” The hand waited for the bill, and then waved them inside after it was firmly in hand.

  Everyone was forced to stoop through the opening, and remain so after they were inside. The room slanted downward, away from the door, and most of the grimy furniture had collected against the opposite wall. This was odd indeed, but all but ignored by the crew who were being forced to hunch down under ceilings that were no more than five feet high. It was as if a giant had pressed his palm into the roof, effectively making the apartment into an accordion – there were cracks and fissures that ran unevenly along the outside walls. Bricks protruded, and paint was squeezed into tight lines.

  Siclo himself seemed to have been crouched all of his life. He moved within the claustrophobic confines like a beetle over dung, perfectly happy in his squalor.

  “So whatcha want?” he said as he crawled into an old recliner.

  Everything in the single room was covered in dark grime. Outwardly the blackness looked dry, like soot baked onto a kettle, but it was
slick and oily to the touch. In places, it appeared to have turned to sludge and dripped down the sides of whatever it clung to – oozing ever downward toward the canted floor. The handle to the refrigerator was clean, polished by the touch of hands, likewise were the two doorknobs that lead into other rooms. They seemed to gleam in the dismal chill.

  “We’d like to interview you regarding what’s happened to your son,” Beeman said. He’d touched the ceiling with his head, and was now working to squeegee the filth out of his hair between a finger and thumb.

  “Why, what happened?” the spindly man asked from his tilting throne.

  Beeman repeatedly flicked the goo off of his fingers, but it resisted. "He was kidnapped.”

  “Who was?”

  “Your son, Derek.”

  “Oh. Right. Him.”

  “So will this be alright with you,” Beeman asked.

  “What?”

  “An interview.”

  “Oh.”

  The cameraman decided that this constituted enough of an okay to flip on his camera and start filming. Siclo’s eyes bulged in the sudden light and he actually hissed.

  This caught Beeman off guard, but he recovered and brought his microphone around. “Mr. Siclo, would you please tell us a little about your son?”

  The man’s eyes stayed wide, wild and fixed. Under the harsh lights he seemed even more gaunt – his face tight as if someone were trying to lift him high into the air by the nape of his neck.

  “Sir?” Beeman said again.

  Suddenly, the invisible hand that held Siclo back let go, and he surged forward at the microphone. The cameraman caught it all: From the stunned look on Beeman’s face to the moment where Siclo’s toothy maw closed down over the foam microphone cover and wrenched it away like a shark chomping down on a seal.

  “Oh god,” Beeman said as he heeled back toward the door. He reached for the frame, missed, and then found himself without firm footing on the slick floor. Like a kid on a waterslide, he thumped to the ground and skidded down into the apartment. He came to rest against a doorjam, thoroughly filthy, and was just scrambling back up the slope when the door flew open.