Authors: John Gilstrap
Tom made another note, perfectly masking his disappointment. Had she said no, that would have been a good argument in favor of her own guilt. "Okay, fair enough. Now, what about a lawyer, do you want to have one here while we talk?"
"I've got nothing to say to you."
Tom nodded as if to say he appreciated her point of view. "Well, the fact is, Ms. Simpson-do you mind if I call you April?"
She shrugged with one shoulder. "Call me Abe Lincoln if you like. I don't care."
"Okay, I'll call you April. Fact is, I need you to answer for the record whether or not you want to have a lawyer present here while we talk."
April inhaled deeply and closed her eyes against what seemed to be a jolt of pain. "I don't care."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"I guess it's a no, so long as you realize that I don't intend to say anything."
Another note. "Okay, fine. Now, let's watch some television together." A television and VCR sat on a rolling cart in the corner, and Tom pulled it closer to the table, positioning it at the end, so neither of them had to turn around backward to watch it. The screen made a crackling sound as it popped to life, and Tom verified that the tape of the crime was a copy-not the original, which would stay in the evidence locker-before sliding it into the player. The image danced for a couple of seconds, and then they were watching in color from a high angle as April walked into the credit office and over to the writing carrel, where she took a piece of paper from the stack and wrote something down.
Tom stopped the tape, then fished through the manila envelope for a few seconds, finally coming up with a Ziploc bag in which someone had placed the three-by-five Customer Comment card. "Just so you know," Tom said, "the person we see there is writing the following note: 'Give me all the money in your cash drawer. Do not panic, and do not set off any alarms. I have a gun." He read it verbatim through the clear plastic, in as neutral a tone as he could manufacture.
He started the tape again, and they both watched as the woman turned directly toward the camera and walked first to the line on the left, and then over to the newly opened window on the right. The tape provided no sound, but the woman who looked like April was clearly agitated, and as she slid her note across the ledge, the picture started to zoom in, just enough to get a clear image of her features, but not so close as to lose track of the action. Tom paused the tape, rewound it, and then showed that portion again.
"This is interesting, April. You see, the people in the security office clearly thought that something was out of the ordinary here, and they decided to take a little closer look. The clarity of the picture is amazing, don't you think?"
He started the tape again, and as it ran, they saw more commotion in the credit office, and they watched as the woman who looked like April dashed out of the office. The tape jumped at this point to another angle as the woman ran through the men's department, knocking over displays. Two more edits tracked her throughout the store, all the way to where she tackled a lady at the door and then charged out into the mall. Then the tape turned to electronic snow and Tom pushed the stop button.
"Pretty interesting stuff, don't you think? Would you like to watch it again?"
April said nothing, choosing instead to study a cigarette burn on the table's Formica surface.
Tom shrugged and retrieved the tape before pushing the cart back into its corner. When he returned to his chair, he snugged himself in tight to the table and leaned heavily on his forearms. "See anything interesting in that tape, April?"
She flushed from the neck up, but refused to raise her eyes. "I noticed that she didn't take any of the money," she said softly.
Tom nodded. "I noticed that, too, just as I noticed that she never produced the gun that she talked about in the note. I might even find that encouraging if it weren't for this." Reaching into the manila envelope again, he withdrew another bag, this one containing the little .25-caliber pistol. He laid it on the table and said nothing for a good thirty seconds. April glanced at the gun, then returned her eyes to the spot on the table.
"April, I've got to tell you that none of this looks very good for you, okay?"
She pulled back from the table and looked away. "Look, I already told you-"
"I don't want you to say a word," Tom interrupted. "I know that you don't want to make a statement, and I respect that. But I want you at least to hear what I have to say to you."
She said nothing, but worked her jaw angrily.
"We can make a case here for armed robbery and the use of a firearm in the commission of a felony. That's twenty, thirty years right there. If we pushed a little, we could probably get you for attempted
murder, too."
April's head snapped around, her eyes showing terror.
"Those shots you fired in the parking lot. In a strict interpretation of the law, that meets the definition of attempted murder. None of that is my decision, you understand. That's what we pay the prosecutor for. I just wanted you to understand that you're in some pretty deep trouble here."
April made no attempt to acknowledge him. She just looked that much more miserable.
Tom rose from his chair and walked to the water fountain near the door, where he pulled a Dixie cup from the dispenser and filled it. He set it on the table in front of his prisoner. "Let me put all of my cards on the table here, April. I need you to sign a statement that says you did what we both already know you did. This isn't a case of misinterpreted intentions or mistaken identities. I've got two fistfuls of eyewitnesses who can place you at the scene of this robbery, and I've got a full color video of you pulling it off. This is as slam-dunk a case as I've ever encountered."
April brought her gaze around to meet his. "What if-"
Tom held up his hand for silence. "I don't want you saying anything yet, okay? Now, I can't make any promises to you-again, I'm not the one who files the charges around here-but if you make this easier on all of us by signing a statement, then I'll do whatever I can to convince the prosecutor to take it easy on you."
April stewed for a long time before saying anything. Tom watched with growing curiosity as her expression shifted from one of panic, back to sadness again, and finally, of resolution. "Assuming I were to confess to doing this-which I'm not. I'm not confessing."
"I understand."
"But suppose I did. Would it make a difference if I had a really good reason for doing it? Would it matter that in the end-hypothetically, now-would it matter in the end that I changed my mind, and that the only reason I fired those shots-if I fired them at all-would have been to get the people to back off long enough for me to get away? Would any of that matter?"
Tom smiled gently. They were coming close to an agreement. He could smell it. "I suppose it could. But I say to you one more time that I'm not the guy who makes that call."
April considered it all carefully.
"You know," Tom pushed, ever so gently, "I figured when I saw you that there was more to this case than it seems. I mean, look at you. You're a good-looking woman-with a baby in the oven, no less-and with the exception of that one drug thing a long time ago, you've lived your life within the law. I asked myself when I first saw you: Why would this woman choose this day to ruin her life?" He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "What did happen today, April? What was it that drove you to rob that store?"
She was so close; so, so close. She opened her mouth and took a breath as if to begin, but then shut down again. Finally, she looked away. "It's not easy deciding to confess to something you didn't do," she said at last. "I'm going to have to think about it."
Tom sighed. The moment had passed; there'd be no confession today. He forced a smile that looked more like a wince. "Okay, April, suit yourself. Take some time. And while you think, I'll just go ahead and have you booked on the robbery, firearms, and attempted-murder counts."
"But I'll be able to change my mind later, if I decide to, you know, confess to that crime I didn't commit?" The edge of panic had returned to her voice.
Tom didn't answer. This was psychological warfare, after all, and he didn't want to just walk away from his advantage. Instead, he made a noncommittal face and gave a little shrug, as if to say, "We'll see."
As the door closed behind him, he peeked once through the wire-reinforced window. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw her start to cry.
WHO DOES THAT fucking greaseball spick think he is, anyway?" raged Patrick Logan, slamming another hole-his fourth-into the drywall. The whole house shook with every blow. "He comes into my house and treats me like some piece of shit in front of my people! Who the fuck does he think he is?"
Ricky Timmons had seen his boss on plenty of rants over the years, but this one was off the scale. He didn't know what to do. Should he just sit and listen? Should he agree? Should he try to calm Logan down? The only option that he could not choose-the only one that he would not be permitted to choose-was the only one he really wanted, and that was to get the hell out of there. On his best days, Patrick Logan defied interpretation or predictability. When he was this out of control, he was downright scary.
Already, Logan's office was a wreck. The holes punched in the walls were only the beginning. He'd cleared his desk with a single sweep of his arm, his chair lay across the room by the door, where it had landed after a spiralling flight through the air, and the $1,200 television set that had once commanded the corner by the front window had been reduced to a worthless pile of fractured plastic and shattered glass.
"Goddammit, Ricky, I asked you a question!" Logan hollered. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"
Ricky jumped. It had never occurred to him that he was supposed to answer. "Shit, Patrick, I don't know. I guess he thinks he's Carlos. I guess he thinks he's the boss."
"The boss! The fucking boss!" Logan raised his face and his arms to the ceiling, as if to plead for guidance. "He has the balls to think that he's the fucking boss of me? Of me? Patrick Logan doesn't have no fucking boss!"
Ricky said nothing, fearful of where this might go. In Pittsburgh, Carlos Ortega was everybody's boss.
Suddenly, the raging storm seemed to subside, to evaporate. In its wake, Ricky saw an unsettling calm that was almost more frightening than the fury. The wild flailing of arms and flinging of furniture settled into a pensive stroll around the office as Logan considered thoughts that obviously pleased him.
"I think it's time things changed, don't you, Ricky? I think it's time for someone else to start giving the orders."
Ricky gasped and closed his eyes against the inevitable. This was where he'd feared Patrick was headed.
"What's the matter?" Logan prodded. "You don't want to be king of the hill?"
Ricky opened his eyes to behold a little boy in a big Irishman's body. Logan's eyes were huge with expectation and ambition, and he wore a gaping, stupid grin.
"This is our chance, Ricky boy. This is our chance to take it all."
"This is our chance for war," Ricky replied flatly. "This is our chance to get killed and lose everything."
The smile disappeared. "Are you afraid of Carlos, Ricky? Are you afraid of that worthless spick?"
Was it possible that Logan didn't get it? Everybody was afraid of Carlos, because Carlos had surrounded himself with a fucking army of loyal people. Hell, even the users on the street would stand up for the son of a bitch. But that's not what Ricky said to Logan.
"I think there's a time and a place for everything, Pat. Yours will come, but right now isn't it. Right now, you're pissed off because he came in here and dissed the shit out of you, and you have all the reason in the world to hate the son of a bitch's guts. But you've got the whole city to think about. All those other Patrick Logans who like things just
the way they are. They're fat, they're happy, and everybody's not capping everybody else, the way things were a few years ago. They're the ones you've got to worry about. What makes you think they want to work for you now?"
The look of boyish anticipation morphed into one of bewilderment. "What makes you think I give a shit what those pussies want? If we take out Ortega, they'll have to fall in line, because if they don't, I'll fucking put their asses in the ground, too." Logan spun around on that, turning his back on Ricky, signalling that he'd said the last words he intended to on this subject.
But Ricky wouldn't let him off the hook. "Think about this, will you? Just think it through for a few minutes before you decide to do something that you don't want to do. Think about those Patrick Logans I was talking about. Every one of them hates Ortega just as much as you do, and yeah, it's because they're afraid of him. And they're afraid of the warfare. You think that every one of them hasn't had this very conversation in their office? Every fucking one of them? Of course they have."
"And they're too dickless to do anything about it."
That was way too simple, but Ricky shrugged it off. "Okay, they're too dickless. And not only are they afraid, but they're afraid of their fear. They feel dickless. Now if we move in and take out Ortega, those dicks are gonna grow back, and when they do, they're not gonna just roll over for you. Are you prepared-I mean really prepared-to fight for it all, block by block? Do you really want to do that?"