Gundown (28 page)

“So fast?”

Benson reddened. “Uh, I asked for a favor.” Now that was something, Mr. Letter-of-the-Law asking for special consideration.

A pulse of fear struck. She shrank back from him. “Oh, God, Benson, I don’t want to go to the Keep.”

“Did you do what they say?”

Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.

He said, “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Come on, let’s get this done.”

She held her arms out for handcuffs.

Benson said, “No need for that. Come on.”

#

When they stepped into the courtroom, another shock greeted her—Murphy sat by the state’s advocate, Jenny. He looked different . . . His nose veered to the side. The creep smiled at her like an executioner who enjoyed his work. It was a black woman’s word against a white Chicago cop’s. She was in deep shit.

The only other people in the courtroom were the jury panel and the court clerk. Just as she and Benson got settled at the advocate’s table, Judge Edith Crabtree strode into the chambers and took her place behind her desk. The judge rapped her gavel, peered over her reading glasses at Murphy, and said, “Well, what can we do for the great state of Illinois?”

Jenny rose. “Your honor, Officer Murphy seeks extradition of Jewel Washington on a charge of first-degree homicide committed in Cook County, Illinois.” She held up a folder. “He has provided the appropriate paperwork.”

The judge considered Jewel. “Ms. Washington? Aren’t you with the Alliance advocate team?”

Jewel stood. “Yes, ma’am, Your Honor.”

Murphy stood. “That doesn’t matter, what she is here. It’s what she did there that counts.”

Judge Crabtree leveled her gaze at Murphy. “You are absolutely correct, Officer.”

“Then let me have her and I’ll be on my way.”

“Ah, but here in Oregon we like to inquire into the facts of ‘what she did there’ before making judgments.”

Murphy protested. “She did it. She poisoned Timothy Washington.”

Anger flared in Jewel. The son of a bitch. She opened her mouth to protest, but Benson stopped her by saying, “Your Honor, the accused is ready to proceed with the inquiry.”

Murphy sputtered, “I got all the paperwork. The Chicago D.A. said just pick her up. What kinda deal is this?”

“The ‘deal,’ Officer, is to get at the truth. Please be seated.” As Murphy lowered himself into his chair, the judge turned to Jewel. “Please take the witness chair, Ms. Washington.”

Again Jewel thought of Hank as she walked to the chair and had the verifier headset placed on her head. He’d been convinced he was innocent, yet he had been sentenced to sure death. And now she was in the grip of the same system. Going back to Chicago would be as bad as being sent to the Keep.

Benson started the questioning. “Ms. Washington, do you know a Timothy Washington?”

“Yes. He’s . . . he was my brother.” The verifier light glowed green.

“Let’s get right to it, Ms. Washington. Did you poison your brother?”

“No, sir.” The green circle remained unlit. There was no memory in her of doing anything like that.

“When did you last see him?”

“The day I left for Oregon, ’bout a month ago.”

“Was he alive when you left him?”

She pictured Timmy, lying dead on the closet floor. Tears filled her eyes. She said, “No.” The light flickered green.

Benson said, “But you did nothing to harm him.”

Oh, God, what was the truth? She’d bought pink for him, time and again. But what could she have done differently? She shook her head and the green circle stayed dim. Mercifully, the judge didn’t ask for her answer out loud; she wasn’t sure she could hold the tears back.

Benson stepped back and said, “That should be enough, Your Honor. We recommend denying the order for extradition as Ms. Washington is clearly not guilty of the crime she is accused of.”

The judge said, “Jenny, does the state have any questions?”

Murphy shot to his feet. “I sure as hell do!”

The judge scowled and her voice boomed. “You will watch your language in this courtroom.”

Murphy shrank a little and then muttered, “Yes, ma’am.” He straightened. “But that’s not all there is to it. Let me ask her some questions.”

“Of course. We are, after all, here for the truth.”

Murphy swaggered over to stand in front of Jewel. The bitter reek of old sweat struck her. He said, “Let’s see if you tell the truth about this.”

The judge said, “Please get on with it, Officer.”

“Did you give your brother the drug known as pink?”

Oh, shit. But she had to answer. “Yes.” The light greened.

“Did you give him a lethal dose?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he would take it?”

She shuddered. Timmy’s
Thank you
whispered in her mind. She nodded; the light glowed green. “Yes, I knew he would take it.” Jewel lifted her chin. “I
hoped
he would.”

Murphy faced the judge. “At the least, Your Honor, this is a case of assisted suicide, if not manslaughter, and you have to allow the extradition so justice can be served.” He returned to the advocate table and sat.

Judge Edith said, “You have a point. The circumstances seem to call for further investigation.”

A member of the jury panel raised her hand. She was in her thirties, and her eyes were moist. The judge said, “A question?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Proceed.”

She addressed Jewel. “Had your brother been addicted for long?”

“A year. It seemed like forever.”

“Did you care for him?”

“Every day.”

“Did you buy drugs for him?”

“Every day I could afford to.”

A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek; it was mirrored by one from Jewel’s eye. The woman said, “Why?”

Jewel gazed at the judge. “To stop the pain.” The green verifier light turned on. “And withdrawal would kill him.”

“But the pain always came back, didn’t it?”

Jewel took a breath and tried to harden herself. “Yes.”

“Why did you provide him with a lethal dose?”

Jewel cried out, “To stop the pain!”

The woman said, “Yes.” She turned to the judge. “My husband died of this evil drug.” She shuddered. “I still hear the screams.”

Benson asked Jewel, “Was the supply of this drug plentiful?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then why didn’t your brother go get it himself?”

“No money, and he was so sick.” She glared straight at Murphy. “And I had the connection.”

Benson was quick to pick up her meaning. “And who was that connection, Miss Washington?”

She pointed at Murphy. “That scumbag.”

The verifier light glowed green.

Murphy jumped up. “That’s a lie!”

Judge Crabtree said, “Well, we can’t have that, Officer. Would you like to take the stand and answer a few questions?” Her smooth tone didn’t hide the venom underneath.

Murphy glanced at the verifier monitors. “I have to wear that thing?”

“Yes. All you have to do is tell the truth. It will know when you do.”

Murphy paled. “Uh, no, no, I don’t think I ought to do that. Uh, testify, I mean.” He sat.

The judge rapped her gavel. “Considering the evidence before us, I see no reason to honor this request for extradition. But we have our process, our
due
process.” She turned to the jury. “Does the panel need to adjourn to take a vote?”

The jurors shook their heads. The woman whose husband died of pink raised her hand.

The judge said, “Yes?”

The woman stood. “I think it’s clear, Your Honor, that there’s no justification for the extradition. However that man died, this woman didn’t do it. But is there any way to arrest the—” She pointed at Murphy. “Scumbag?”

The tiniest of smiles appeared at the corners of Judge Crabtree’s mouth. “I’m afraid there’s no way we can detain the scu— ah, officer. But we will be in communication with our peers in the Cook County justice system.”

If Murphy had looked pale before, he now looked bleached. He threw a look at Jewel hard enough to make her flinch.

The judge banged her gavel. “This inquiry is closed. Miss Washington, please return to your life, and enjoy every minute of it.”

Jewel took the headset off, relief bringing a wide smile. “Oh, yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

The judge pointed to the back of the courtroom. “It’s not me you thank. It’s the people who made truth the goal of our system.”

Jewel turned, and there was Noah. He nodded and then slipped out the door.

Benson shook her hand and said, “Well, do you think our system is so bad now?”

Jewel, still quivery inside with the fear that had filled her for hours, said, “Maybe it worked for me. But one right doesn’t fix a wrong. Hell, Soldado could be dead by now because he
saved
a life.”

Benson shook his head. “And took one.”

“Righteously.”

“But not rightfully.”

Jewel shook her head. “You’re never going to sell me that.”

Benson scowled. “Then maybe you don’t belong here.”

The Beast Is Hungry

Hank headed for the fabric structure, followed by Dalrymple. Two men fell in on each side, their clubs ready, and the leader took up the rear.

Hank passed a barrier fence of bed frames turned on their sides and tied together three-high that extended from the side of the concrete elevator building. The makeshift fence enclosed an area stacked high with cardboard boxes, leaving only a narrow opening guarded by big guys with tattoos on their foreheads. A ramp sloped down into the area from an opening high in a side wall.

As they passed, a cardboard carton arrived and slid down toward a mound of goods. A line of inmates formed at the opening to the enclosure. The tattooed guys handed out packages that Hank guessed were food.

A straw-thin man stumbled to the opening. A guard said, “You’re still on Doc’s shit list.” He shoved and sent the skinny guy sprawling.

When Hank drew near the cloth square, he discovered that it was made of sheets stitched together. At the entrance, tattooed guards stepped aside to admit them.

Inside, blankets had been sewn together to form a dirty beige carpet. Hanging sheets partitioned off an area to the rear. In the center of the main area, a three-foot mound covered with blankets had a chair on its peak—a throne?

To one side, three small tables tied together formed a banquet table with wooden chairs all around. Two portly men, each with a tattoo on his forehead, lounged in chairs near the throne. They gazed dead-eyed at the arrivals.

A pretty young man stepped out from the partition, saw them, and ducked back in. When they reached the foot of the mound, a burly, red-bearded man stepped from the rear quarters. At his appearance, the pudgy men snapped to attention.

Medium tall but thick, moving with power, Red-Beard strode to the mound and sat on the throne. His jumpsuit was clean and new, and he carried a wooden stiletto. He wore no tattoo on his forehead, and his eyes flashed with intelligence. Hank thought he also saw the glint of madness.

The man eyed them. “I’m Doc. I control the food for the Keep, and I’m also the only doctor in the house.” He grinned. “I wasn’t always, but I am now. This is my world.”

Hank came up with an old news report: this was the Portland surgeon who had rid himself of three wives the inexpensive way. The only medical man here would have power.

Doc aimed his gaze at Hank and said, “What’re you in for?”

Hank saw no sense in pissing off a bunch of big nasties with weapons, so he kept his voice mild when he said, “Killed a man.”

“Maybe you’ll become one of my bonemen.” He looked to Dalrymple. “You?”

Dalrymple sent his gaze to the floor. “Armed robbery.”

Hank snorted. When Doc raised his eyebrows, Hank said, “Raped a little girl.”

Doc rubbed his beard and grinned. He nodded at Dalrymple, and then said to the big guy who’d brought them to the tent, “Nick, take the new pussy to the whorehouse.”

Dalrymple backed up a step, hands up in protest. “Now, wait a minute—”

He shut up when one of the fat guys stepped close and rested the sharpened point of his club handle in the hollow at the base of Dalrymple’s throat.

Doc laughed and said to Nick, “Take that thing away.” Two bonemen grabbed Dalrymple by the arms and escorted him out. Doc yelled, “Food!” He stepped down from his throne and studied Hank. “Is there a possibility of intelligence here?”

Hank shrugged.

Doc laughed and commanded his minions. “For two!” An imperious wave of his hand signaled Hank to follow.

The portly men scrambled into action. One scurried to a table in a far corner, scooped up two packages, and rushed them to the banquet table. The other hurried to a plastic bucket by the corner table, grabbed plastic tumblers from a stack, dipped into the container to fill them with water, and rushed them into position beside the packages. The first stooge stood behind the head chair, and when Doc got there, the chair was pulled out for him with elaborate courtesy.

The packages were . . . MREs! Meals-ready-to-eat, concocted for the military. God, if they were the only thing to eat—wasn’t there some law against cruel and unusual punishment?