One to Go

by Mike Pace

  “You searched my apartment?”

  “When the ballistics matched, we got a warrant, executed it this morning.”

  “Eva told me about LaRyn. How’s she doing?”

  “She’ll make it. Thanks to someone dialing 911 and leaving the phone near her face. Or maybe she dialed and dropped the phone. Anyway, they got there in time.”

  “What did she say happened?”

  “Didn’t say. May not come as a shock to you that LaRyn Walker has no interest in being fully forthcoming with the police. All she said was she remembered you coming over to talk with her about her case, she’d been drinking, and that’s it. I’m sure some pharmaceuticals will be implicated when it’s all said and done.”

  The door opened and Dr. Lin entered. Falsely cheerful, he nodded to Castro, then pulled a penlight from his vest pocket and shone it onto Tom’s eyes.

  “Sorry I was delayed. Heart attack patient had his appendix rupture right in the middle of an exam. Now, how are we doing?”

  Don’t know about “we,” Doc, but I ain’t doing too well. “Fine and dandy,” said Tom. His sarcasm flew over the doctor’s head.

  “Good, good. I think we can let you out of here, then.”

  Yippee.

  Castro escorted Tom from his hospital room to a squad car waiting outside. For no expressed reason, Castro waited until they were outside before cuffing him and helping him into the backseat. The drive from GW Hospital to the DC Jail at 1901 D Street in the farthest southeast corner of the city took close to half an hour due to typical midday traffic.

  There he was turned over to jail guards, who signed a receipt that the package had been received. Just like FedEx.

  Castro said, “Take care of yourself, Mr. Booker,” then drove off.

  A rather friendly comment from a cop who believed he’d murdered an innocent young woman in cold blood.

  Over the next couple hours, Tom’s mind was numb as he continued through processing. He was fingerprinted and strip-searched, which included a deep-cavity digital inspection. The attendant who performed the search referred to his rectum as his prison purse. Guess he needed to get used to the lingo. He received his orange prison jumpsuit, two pair of undershorts, two pair of socks, and what looked like rubber slippers. He signed an inventory of his clothing and personal belongings, then was escorted to the reception room to be questioned by a droopy-eyed, heavily jowled, African-American intake officer named Meriweather. His pallor matched the faded gray color of his uniform.

  Tom looked up at the clock. Almost three p.m.

  Meriweather ran down a checklist of questions. “Religion?”

  Touchy subject. “Unsettled.”

  “Food allergies.”

  “Will it really make any difference in what you serve me?”

  For the first time, Meriweather raised his head and offered a half smile, which communicated as clearly as if he’d spoken the words, “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “Food allergies.”

  “None.”

  “Gang affiliation.”

  “Democrat.”

  No smile this time. “Gang affiliation.”

  “None.”

  Meriweather asked another page of questions, then, “We got eighteen cell blocks, each with its own dayroom and basketball court. You’ll be assigned to intake Block, Northwest 3. Questions?”

  “Visitors?”

  “A to H, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Can’t wait till Tuesday. How about today?”

  “Tuesday. You can meet with counsel and clergy at any time. Shower twice a week, exercise twice a week for one hour. No more questions? Fine. Welcome to the District of Columbia Detention Center.”

  CHAPTER 39

  After getting outfitted in his orange jumpsuit, Tom was cuffed, then escorted to his cell by a single guard. Guess he didn’t appear to be much of a threat. To get to his new home they had to walk through the cell block dayroom, where about 100 inmates lounged, played chess, read, or watched TV. A long-term stay at the jail usually meant a year or two for a misdemeanor. But the jail also temporarily housed those awaiting trial for the most violent felonies; once convicted, they would transfer to the federal prison at Lorton, Virginia. Thus, Cellblock NW3, as the intake block, housed the most dangerous offenders in the facility.

  Tom could spot only a few other white guys. Most were Latino or African-American, and most were young. He could see why Officer Meriweather asked about gang affiliation. It only took a cursory glance to see the Latinos gathered in two groups on one side of the room, while the blacks congregated in a couple groups on the opposite side.

  As Tom passed through the space, his presence elicited catcalls from each of the groups:

  “Hey, New, welcome to paradise!”

  “Hey, New, Friday’s the day you suck me, and today’s Friday.”

  “Hey Briscoe, you bring us some Fresh? White meat, muthafuckazz, Briscoe bringin’ us some fresh white meat.”

  The guard, a huge African-American man wearing tiny, wire-rimmed glasses, whispered, “Ignore them, keep your head down and your mouth shut, no eye contact, and you’ll probably be okay.”

  As they passed through one of the Latino gangs, it was easy to identify the leader—a muscular, shirtless man in his early twenties with the number 14 tattooed on his chest, and a scar running from his left eyebrow to the spot where his left ear used to be. Number 14 thrust his foot out. Tom tripped and fell flat on his face.

  Sprawling awkwardly on the filthy floor, his nose and mouth pressed against the grime, the events of the past weeks rushed through his brain and funneled into one searing emotion—rage.

  He slowly gathered his feet under him, then sprang up with fury-fueled force. At the same time, he curled his right hand into a fist and, aided by the upward thrust of his legs, powered a crushing uppercut to the unsuspecting Latino’s jaw. The man crumpled to the floor unconscious.

  For a long moment, unable to believe their eyes, no one moved. Then Briscoe had his taser out and his whistle in his mouth a split second before the Latino’s brethren pounced on Tom like an angry wolf pack.

  “Don’t!” said Briscoe through gritted teeth. “You move, you go to the hole, and the whole block loses ball and TV privileges.”

  Cries of “That’s bullshit,” came from the black groups across the room.

  “Lopes tripped him,” said Briscoe. “The New acted in self-defense. Case closed.” Lopes regained consciousness, and his fellow gangbangers helped him to his feet.

  “Don’t say nothin’,” Briscoe said to Lopes.

  And he didn’t. Instead, he locked eyes with Tom, smiled, and slowly drew his index finger across his throat.

  The guard quickly escorted Tom through the day room and within a few minutes Tom was sitting on the lower bunk of cell number NW3-42.

  “You made a big mistake,” said Briscoe. “Lopes, he’ll come for you.”

  “When?”

  “Probably tonight. My advice—get some sleep now, because you’ll need to be awake all night.”

  “Aren’t the cell doors locked at night?”

  The guard didn’t answer directly. “Dinner’s at six. Try to sit with the blacks. Lopes’ boys won’t try anything while you’re with them.”

  Without another word, the guard departed, leaving the cell door open.

  Based on all the prison movies he’d ever seen, Tom assumed at night the doors would clang shut, and he was confused by the guard’s failure to confirm his understanding. The cell didn’t have bars; instead, a metal door with a sliver of a window in the middle was the means of access to the space. A sink and lidless toilet were tucked into one corner across from the bunk bed. The top bunk was unmade, and Tom assumed its occupant was down in the day-room. If his roomie was one of Lopes’ boys, he was doomed. He lay back on the lower bunk and closed his eyes. His head pounded. What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do?

  CHAPTER 40

  Tom awoke with a start to a loud
, cracking sound. Briscoe stood before him banging his nightstick against the open metal door.

  “Wake up, Sunshine.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Little after five p.m. You got a visitor.”

  “Thought visiting from A to H was on Tuesdays and I’m a B, and B falls between A and H.”

  “A smart-ass. Here’s a free tip. Smart-asses don’t do too good in here. Your hot little lawyer—You want to see her or not?”

  Eva sat alone at a table with two chairs. She smiled when she saw him.

  “How’s he doing, Briscoe?”

  “Only been here a couple of hours and already had a run-in with Garcia Lopes.”

  “What kind of run-in?”

  “Cold-cocked him in front of his crew.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Better talk to him, tell him what’s what.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He exited.

  Tom’s first impulse was to take her into his arms, but a slight shake of her head held him off.

  “They can see us but not hear us,” she said.

  Tom noticed the door had a small window for observation. “Did you make the call?”

  “As soon as I said what you told me, whoever was on the other end hung up. Remember, what you tell me’s privileged, Tom. Who was I calling?”

  “I made a promise.”

  She held his gaze for a moment. “Okay, then let’s talk about something more immediate. Garcia Lopes is trouble, big trouble.”

  “I gather that.”

  “He’s a lieutenant in Norteños, one of the most notorious prison gangs in the country. Lopes is implicated in multiple murders. He was brought up early from Lorton for sentencing on Monday. Dan’s handling it. He’ll get life without parole, guaranteed.”

  “I know, it was stupid.”

  “When I leave here, I’ll petition to have you moved to another cell block, but being the weekend, best case they won’t hear it till Monday. So, you need to stay alive for the next couple of days.”

  “Good plan. What about bail?”

  “I’ve already filed, and we have a hearing first thing Monday morning. But we’re still talking about premeditated murder here, so it won’t be easy.”

  “Eva, listen to me. I can’t wait until Monday. I’ve been thinking. How about this? They let me out today, tomorrow at the latest. I agree to come back to jail Sunday morning. I waive Monday’s bond hearing and agree to remain incarcerated for ten days without bail review.”

  She looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was.

  “What’s so important about Saturday night? Got a hot date? Sorry, that’s not funny. What you suggest is simply impossible.”

  Tom dropped his head into his hands.

  Her voice softened. “I know there are things you aren’t telling me. I respect you and, well, I care about you. Therefore, I’ll accept you have good reasons not to share with me—for the time being. So, instead, tell me about the gun.”

  “I didn’t shoot her. Last time I saw Jess was same as you, at the party.”

  “How did the killer get the gun? And what were you doing with an unregistered weapon, a gun missing its serial number?”

  “I live in a borderline rough area. Kept it in my bedside table drawer for protection. Obviously, the killer broke into my apartment, took the gun, used it to kill Jess, then returned it to implicate me.”

  “Okay, first, we never say that to anyone. They link you to the gun because they found it under your car at the accident scene. It’s thin, but we at least have the argument there’s nothing to connect you to the gun. It could’ve been tossed in the gutter by the real killer, and it was just bad luck you ran into a light pole at the same location. The fingerprint was a small partial, and I think we can attack that.”

  “As you said, thin.”

  “Their motive theory is also not particularly strong. They know you dated her—”

  “A couple of times.”

  “—and they have the argument at the party. Their theory is you were drunk and went to her place to finish the argument. Because of your condition, things escalated and got out of hand and—”

  “I wasn’t drunk!” She remained silent. He worked to lower his voice. “I wasn’t drunk and I didn’t kill Jess.”

  “I believe you. Now, I’m not going to ask where you got the gun, but here are a few obvious questions. Who would want to frame you, how would they know you had a gun, and how could they get into your apartment?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know. Never checked my doorjamb. Could be signs of forced entry. So long as it wasn’t too obvious, I probably wouldn’t have spotted it.”

  “Anybody have a key to your place?”

  “No. Well, I guess the maintenance guy does, but he’s the only one.”

  She took notes on her iPad. “I’ll check out the forced entry angle and run down the maintenance guy. You think about who might’ve wanted to frame you and how they knew you had a gun. I’ll be back tomorrow. You need anything? I put $500 on your commissary book. Should be more than enough. And Tom, listen to me. Promise you’ll be wary of Lopes. He’s crazy and has nothing to lose.”

  “Hopefully, they won’t try anything during the day, and at night I’ll be safe behind a locked door.”

  “Sorry to tell you this, but many of those cell doors don’t lock.”

  “It’s a jail, how can they not lock?”

  “Prisoners with a lot of time on their hands disabled them. Jail improvements are not high on the politicians’ priority list. So sleep with one eye open.”

  “Promise.” A thought occurred to him. “Actually, there is one thing. Could you call Father Matthew Sheran at Georgetown? Tell him I need to see him. It’s very important.” She cocked her head. “For my soul,” he added. “Very important for my soul.”

  “Will do.” Before she got up, he could feel her hand under the table, out of sight from Briscoe if he happened to be looking in the window. She found his hand and squeezed it. She held his gaze and offered a reassuring smile. For the first time her voice shed its professional tone, and she spoke to him as one lover to another.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.”

  CHAPTER 41

  He’d gotten through dinner without incident, electing to sit by himself. The food was edible—two dried-up fish sticks, a few damp french fries, and a spoonful of greasy collard greens—but probably consisted of no more than a few hundred calories. He’d done his best not to engage in eye contact with any of the other inmates, and most ignored him.

  Tom did catch one bald, middle-aged black man hulking over his tray of food at a corner table in the far side of the prison mess staring at him. The man seemed vaguely familiar, but Tom couldn’t immediately place him, although he easily could’ve been one of the thousands of people washing through Superior Court on a daily basis.

  Tom quickly averted his eyes. Didn’t need any more trouble.

  Briscoe and four other guards had positioned themselves near Lopes and his boys eating at a table against the wall. For a split second, he’d been sure the face of the Latino sitting on Lopes’ right morphed into a grinning Chad, but the image disappeared, and Tom chalked up the sighting to stress-induced delusion. Lopes himself completely ignored Tom and carried on as if nothing had happened. Maybe he’d forgotten the earlier incident. Maybe pigs flew, and the ’Skins would win ten straight Super Bowls.

  Earlier, he’d checked the lock on his cell door, but couldn’t tell for certain whether it worked. He’d also found his way to the block commissary located off the dayroom, and bought soap, shampoo, five packs of peanut butter crackers, five bags of potato chips, and a phone card.

  He rested in his bunk while the other prisoners hung out in the dayroom, watching TV or playing board games. After consuming half his snacks, he stored the rest on a shelf built into the wall across from the bunks.

  They’d confi
scated his watch during intake and the only clock available hung over the TV. He’d been resting for a couple hours, so he assumed it was close to nine p.m. Exhausted, he couldn’t allow himself to sleep.

  “You one crazy sonofabitch.”

  Tom looked up to see a heavyset black man enter the cell. Appeared to be in his fifties, balding, gray hair, goatee, rimless glasses.

  “You shouldn’t be here, man. Lay out Lopes in front of his crew? You belong in SW2, with all the other mentals.”

  “I’m Tom Booker.”

  “Who gives a shit? Now what the fuck you doin’ in my bunk?”

  “Uh, sorry. Saw the top bunk had been used, so figured the lower one—”

  “I use the top one to jack off. Who wants to sleep in his own jizz? Bottom one’s mine.” The man’s glare could weld steel. “Unless you got a problem.”

  Oh, he had a problem. He had a you’ll-never-believe-it kind of problem.

  “No problem.”

  Tom climbed up onto the top bunk. Immediately, the smell of sweat and other bodily fluids was overpowering. He did his best to breathe through his mouth, and reflected that maybe the odor was a blessing—it might help keep him awake in case Lopes attempted a visit.

  When Tom shifted the thin foam pillow in an attempt to get comfortable, he saw a photo of a smiling, heavyset black woman curled up naked on a bed. A fold mark creased through the center of the picture. He turned the photo over and saw an inscription written in what was once red ink, but now had faded to a pale pink: Virgil, Mama’s waiting for you! Below a hand-drawn heart, the writer had inscribed, Honey Bear.

  Tom leaned over the bunk. “Virgil, you want this photo, or you want I should keep it up here?”

  Virgil exploded out of his bunk and, in a split second, grasped Tom’s jumpsuit at the neck in an iron grip and yanked Tom’s face so close Tom could’ve kissed him.

  “You look at my woman?”

  “No, no. Picture was turned over. Saw your name. Didn’t look, man, honest. Man’s woman is his own property.” That didn’t come out exactly right; on the other hand, he guessed the concept of women as chattel was probably not completely foreign in his current environment.