by Derek Blass
The television was muted. He couldn't stand to listen to the commentary. Two cars sped down streets that Sphinx worked to identify. They were leaving the city, drifting turn by turn. Evenly matched and so not gaining on each other. When they reached the highway the helicopter was able to provide a steadier shot. A small circle of light illuminated the two cars as they wound through traffic.
Then the car being chased moved over to another lane and slammed on its brakes. Sphinx laughed and sat up. The tables were turned now. But the car now in front wasn't running. Sphinx leaned forward to see what was going on. The white car—the car in back—finally gave up the push and started to pull out from behind the other car.
“Holy shit!” Sphinx exclaimed as a black SUV pile-drove the white car. “Dammmmmn. What the hell was that?!” He ran over to flip a light on, more out of reverence to the fact that this needed to be studied than to his inability to see the television. He also unmuted the action.
“We've just witnessed a catastrophic crash...” the reporter said as the white car flipped and then toppled on its roof. “This...this can't lead to anything but fatalities. The two officers appear to be unscathed as they emerge from their squad car. The SUV has disappeared into the night.”
A row of squad cars arrived at the scene and officers in black uniforms melted out on the highway. Sphinx could imagine the long wail of an approaching ambulance interposed with bursts of siren chatter as it made its way through traffic. Then it arrived, the white and red hood of an ambulance spilled color into the otherwise dark scene. The helicopter hovered over the crash. A few squad cars went squealing into the night beyond the helicopter's light, presumably to find the SUV. Sphinx went to the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice.
“3:05—dammit.” He usually didn't sleep more than a few of hours, but tonight he only slept one or two. It was hard to remember. It was as if the crisp lines of his life were starting to break down around him. He slurred the facts of cases together. Sometimes he messed up his kids' names. He couldn't remember the last time he and any of his ex-wives had sex. That used to be a consistent stream.
This loss of grip on facts and reality affected his psyche. He imagined a tumor growing in his head, pushing on the part of the brain that controls memory. Whatever that part was. He imagined heart palpitations, a lack of blood flow due to high blood pressure. When his teeth ached he saw them falling out of his mouth with one powerful bite. There was no way around it—growing old sucked.
He grunted where most people would sigh and shut the door to the refrigerator. “...most likely will be pronounced dead at the scene...” Sphinx couldn't separate whether he despised the actual commentary or the way it was delivered. Those reporters were soulless. They teemed around tragedy, whiffing the air like starved street dogs.
His home phone rang. Sphinx paused mid-gulp, looking at the phone curiously. After a few rings he picked it up.
“You like that?” a voice asked him.
* * * *
Sandra stood behind the cordoned accident scene. Cruz had called her as soon as he got his bearings. People bustled around, each with their singular task. A splendor of delegation and acceptance. Martinez and Cruz sat on the back bumper of an ambulance. EMTs checked their eyes, poking, prodding, asking them to move this shoulder this way and flex that knee backwards. Red and blue lights reflected in the spilled fluids under Tyler's car.
Cruz lifted his head and smiled when he saw Sandra. He gestured for her to come over. She lifted the yellow tape and walked toward the ambulance.
“You aren't reporting this?”
“No, Charlie is,” she said pointed to a row of reporters lit up by portable lights.
“Did you see the whole thing?”
“Most of it. I was just waking up when you guys were getting out of the city. What happened? Are you okay?”
“Hey Sandra,” Martinez said.
“Hi Martinez. You guys okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Cruz answered. “Freakin' dandy. Tyler took the brunt of it, though.”
“So a random SUV plowed through him and then left?”
“I doubt it was that random,” Martinez said.
“You think someone set this up?”
“Yep,” Martinez said as he straightened up and stretched out. “If you all don't mind, I'm gonna head home. Maybe I can slip into bed before Carmen wakes up.”
“Where do we go with this case now?” Cruz asked Martinez.
Martinez shrugged his shoulders, “I'm really not sure.” He sighed. “Everyone's toast.”
“Tyler's dead?” Sandra asked.
“Yeah,” Cruz answered.
“They already bagged him up,” Martinez added. “All right kiddos, I'm out.” Martinez went to the line of cops and cajoled a ride.
“Cruz, do you agree with Martinez, that this was set up?”
“I can't see any other explanation. I mean, three in the morning and some black SUV barrels through Tyler's stopped car? That's more than coincidence. On top of that, it speeds off? A regular person isn't going to act that way. Just too much coincidence for it to be anything else.” Cruz paused. “Someone doesn't want this trial to happen. Someone wants all potential voices silenced, and I think it's pretty apparent Shaver's the one.” Cruz took a wet cloth and wiped his face. The only things that hurt were his lower back and neck. He felt pretty lucky. “Can we head out?”
“Sure,” she said, leading him to her car. They got in and drove from the buzzing accident scene. “What's all that black soot on your clothes.”
Cruz looked at her, “You didn't see that part?”
“What part?”
“When Martinez and I walked out of the police station to get into his squad car, the car blew up.”
“What?!” Sandra exclaimed.
“Wow, I figured that would have been on television too. The fucking car blew up. If Martinez hadn't forgotten his keys, we would have been dead. I've still got a bit of ringing in my right ear,” Cruz said while he stuck a finger in his ear and moved it from side to side.
“Then what happened?”
“Martinez and I jumped into a car and chased Tyler. It was Tyler who tried to kill us there.”
“I can't believe it. I had no idea that happened...where are we going by the way?”
“My office.”
“Now? It's just past four and after all you just went through? How about a cup of coffee instead?”
“I appreciate it but I've got to talk to Mason about this.”
“The district attorney?”
“Yeah. He was the one that sent me to pick up Tyler.”
Sandra looked at him, surprised. “He sent you? Why on earth would he send you?”
“He said Martinez and I knew the case best. It would make the most sense for us to go.”
“The district attorney sent you to arrest Tyler and you end up almost blown up and then in a car chase where Tyler gets run over? Talk about coincidence.”
Cruz shook his head no. “I don't see anything there, Sandra. Mason's a good man.”
“Good man or not, he sends you of all people, not a cop or anything, to arrest an assassin and you are almost killed two times.” Cruz didn't respond, but the suggestion bothered him a bit. So many weird things had happened in the past weeks that it was hard to know who to trust. They rode silently until they reached his office.
“Cruz, it's early still. Mason isn't even going to be up.”
“I guarantee you he's up if I know his type. You have to understand—this case will be his legacy.”
* * * *
Mason had a restless night. His gut was working overtime. The case lacked any definition. Pitting the testimony of quasi-vigilantes against a cop was anything but certain. When two o'clock rolled around and the hope of getting to sleep vanished, he quietly slipped out of bed. The stairs creaked as he went to grab a glass of water to break down the accumulated dryness in his mouth. He picked up a stack of research that Todd had pulled for him and slunked
down into his favorite chair.
“Daddy?” Abby appeared like clockwork. She was the most concerned child Mason ever encountered. Her brother, on the other hand, was as careless and free-willed as she was attentive and attached. She rubbed both of her eyes with balled-up hands. Her dirty blond hair was bed-shaped and wild.
“Yes, hon?” he said as he went to pick her up.
“What are you doing awake, Daddy?”
He picked her up and gave her a kiss on her forehead. She folded down onto his shoulder. “Just doing some work, hon. You know daddy's work.” She nodded her head but didn't say a word. She was already back to sleep. As Mason was stepping out of the room something caught his eye on the television screen. It was a car chase moving through downtown. He hurried Abby to her bedroom and went back out to the living room. After fumbling to find the remote, he turned the sound on and stood close to the television.
“...a chase that seems to have begun near the police station has taken to the streets of downtown. At this time we do not know who the police are chasing...” He watched the pursuit as it coiled and then spread out down congested city streets. His gut started speaking to him again. The steady shot of the helicopter's camera belied the chaos of the car chase.
“Cruz, I hope that's not you down there.”
“...for ten minutes Sally.” Mason grabbed his cell phone and dialed Cruz. No answer. “Goddammit!” He watched intently as the cars burst onto the highway. “...appears that the two cars are headed out of the city, which should lessen the danger of this chase...” The cars were in some sort of standoff. The car in front was actually now in back and trying to push the squad car. When that didn't work the car pulled out into an adjacent lane.
“Oh, shit!” Mason yelled as the white car was run over by a black SUV. “Oh my God, what the hell was that?!” He paced back and forth in the room, debating whether to try to call Cruz again. He called Todd instead.
A weary voice answered the phone, “Are you fucking nuts?”
“Turn the television on.”
“No, Mason, I'm freakin' sleeping. You should give it a shot.”
“Listen, Todd, I'm not messing around. Turn the television on.” Silence. “Todd?”
A half awake Todd answered, “Yeah?”
“What the...did you go back to sleep? Turn on the damn television!” This time a moan came through the crackle of the telephone and he heard Todd cuss as he got up.
“I swear Mason, this better be good. What channel?”
“It doesn't matter. It's on all of the stations.” Mason heard Todd's television pop and then crackle the static away.
“A car accident? A car accident, Mason?! I know you didn't wake me up for this.”
Mason said, “I think I know who's in the cars.”
“Who?” The helicopter's camera focus shifted from the white car to the squad car. Two men emerged. “Wait. Wait, wait. Let me get my glasses because I think I recognize that person,” Todd said. Mason stood with his arms crossed in the living room, posture slightly bent back from his correctness.
“Who is it, Todd?” Mason mimicked.
“Jesus, wasn't that guy in your office? Cruz, right?”
“That's right.”
“Oh no. Who's in the white car?”
“I think we both know the answer to that, Todd. I'm going to clean up and then head into the office.”
“It's three in the morning, Mason.”
“I don't care. It's my office. I'll see you there soon.”
“Not that soon,” Todd said.
Mason put his glass of orange juice down on the kitchen counter and went back to his bedroom. His wife was still asleep. She had the fantastic ability to sleep through anything. Nuclear war. Two children under the age of three. Mason envied her ability most times. Other times he felt sorry for her. She was missing so much. The media-prescribed requirement of eight hours of sleep per day wrenched one third of their lives away. He got by on four a day, max. It wasn't worth trying to wake her up. He had learned that a while ago. Instead, he would leave her a note like always.
Mason cleaned up quickly, grabbed his briefcase and headed out to the garage. The world outside the garage was calm, sweet and untouched. The still untarnished morning air rushed in and wafted over him. He slid into the car seat, backed out into their cul-de-sac, then dialed Cruz again after getting out on the road.
After a few seconds Cruz answered, “Mason.”
“Christ, Cruz, are you all right?”
“Yeah, just shell-shocked. What about you?”
“Me? Sure, I'm doing fine. Except that a key witness was pasted to the dashboard of his car like snot.”
“It's a problem.”
“No kidding. I'm headed into work. Was that Martinez with you?”
“Yep.”
“How's he doing?”
“Martinez is fine. I don't think seeing someone killed has much effect on him. Especially when it's someone like Tyler.”
“So, it was Tyler,” Mason said, reconfirming the negative. Cruz didn't need to respond. “I can't bring the extra charges for those other murders without Tyler. My case against Shaver for killing that old man rests on a video that we may not be able to introduce and the testimony of people that may easily be discredited. This is turning south.”
Cruz waited to answer. His thoughts were forming at a snail's pace. “Every case has peaks and valleys, Mason. You just hope it has another peak, preferably near its end.”
* * * *
Shaver sat in his cell watching the television. It was one of the perks the guards gave him. Extra time on the yard. Extra food at meals. He knew it may piss the other inmates off, so he kept them to a minimum.
He did take the time to enjoy this moment though. Tyler's car was smashed and laying upside down. He could imagine Tyler's shock. Completely disoriented, gasping for air. Cold chills running up and down his body. A sense of weakness and no ability to fight back. Shaver rubbed the remnant of his left eye. It was a squishy mess since the accident.
Dealing a remote knockout to Tyler made Shaver feel like a god. He had decided to take Tyler out because the cops were getting too close, and Tyler wasn't reporting any results from their earlier conversation. He picked up the cell phone he had finagled from the guards and dialed Sphinx. That one-call-a week crap wasn't going to work.
“You like that?”
“Shaver?” a bewildered Sphinx answered.
“Damn straight. You like that little accident?”
“Man, what the hell are you doing? Are you saying you had a part in that?”
“Just like you did, Sphinx.”
A long pause. “It's three in the morning, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“How could I have coordinated something like that without the help of my top-notch lawyer?”
“You fuck, are you trying to blackmail me? You crazy shit, I'll just withdraw as your counsel.”
“Nah, I've been reading up. Ain't that easy to get out,” Shaver said as he moved from his chair to the bed. A small package with a string attached to it was sitting outside of his cell.
“Shaver...Shaver,” someone called from down the cell row.
“Listen. You can't withdraw this close to trial. The prejudice you'd do me would be huge. No, you're gonna represent me. And if you don't win, I've got all sorts of shit up my sleeves for you. I gotta go.” Shaver hung up the phone and tentatively moved toward his cell door. The package moved away from his cell in jerks. He stood there and watched as the package slid down the cell row again, stopping right in front of his cell.
“Shaver...take the package,” a voice told him with some urgency.
“Who the fuck...?” Shaver said as he stuck his head in the thick steel bars of his cell door. He didn't know there were any other inmates housed here with him.
“It's Pick. Take th' goddamn package before th' guards come 'round 'gin.”
“Forget that, Pick. I've sold four batches for you guys. That's a
debt repaid in my mind. I need a two-way street.”
“Every day you alive in here id our side of the street muddafucka. Take the package.”
Shaver grabbed the package angrily. Just as he did the shadow of a figure passed on the far side of the cell block.
He heard a female voice say, “Hi Pick.”
Pick responded, “Fuck you, bitch.” The person's steps coincided with rapping on cell doors, then scraping on the walls between the cells. She was clearly coming toward him.
“Whatcha got Shaver?” It was the female cop from the yard. She had lost some of her plainness. Maybe it was makeup, a little spritz from life, whatever. Shaver couldn't tell exactly but she looked somewhat more attractive than the last time he had seen her.
“What do you want?” he said as he turned his back to her and went to sit down in front of the television.
“Already asked you that, tough guy. What'd Pick pass you?”
“Not a fucking thing. Now fuck off!” Shaver yelled.
“Oh, Shaver. I think you're confusing me for some weak bitch. Stay still right there.” Shaver turned around and saw her pointing a tazer at him. It was too late to do anything. His body became stiff as a board, jaws clenched and head pushed back until his chair tipped over backwards.
“Yowch!” she exclaimed.
“Yous a crazy bitch, Melinda!” Shaver heard Pick yell. Sound was still a hundred percent there. Smell, check. He couldn't move anything though. Then his body slackened and he started convulsing on the ground. He heard the cell door open.
“Stop moving Shaver! Stop moving!” she mocked him. She had the tazer in her right hand, a baton in her left. She stood over him and put her foot on Shaver's shoulder to flatten him out against the concrete floor. Then she lowered herself onto him. Her hips were right over his neck. Her legs pinned down his arms. “One wrong move and I'll crack the side of your face open. Not that you'll be moving much in the next few minutes, but just a warnie-warning, Shaver.” She set the tazer down and grabbed the ends of the baton. Then she put the baton up against his neck.
“What did he pass you, Shaver? I see everything,” she said with a smile. Then she started searching his body. “Ah ha! Knew you had a package.” She put the baton under her left arm and opened it. “That's a bunch of coke Shaver! My, my.” Shaver could feel his finger regain mobility. “Why'd you lie to me, Shaver? I've been trying to help you out around here,” she said as she swiped the package across his face. He coughed and almost choked on vomit that came up. “Thought I told ya to steer clear of the Brothers, Shaver.”
