One to Go (14 page)

The afternoon session moved more quickly. Eva had given Tom the last file of the day to handle—a murder case. Freemont James, aka Jiggy, barely eighteen with a rap sheet going back to the age of ten, was accused of shooting one Alfred Lewis, aka Spider, in the face outside a bar on 14
^th
Street.

The prosecutor called the arresting officer to the stand. Tom was shocked to see Percy Castro approach from the back of the room and take the witness chair.

The prosecutor, a good-looking Latino who appeared as if he'd just graduated from high school, easily walked Castro through a recitation of the facts, making sure to elicit the bare elements of the crime. Took less than two minutes. The judge turned to Eva.

“Ms. Stoddard?”

“Mr. Booker will handle this one, Your Honor.”

“Make it fast, Mr. Booker.”

Tom stood. “Yes, Your Honor.” He faced Castro, who greeted him with a bemused expression. Tom's hand shook, rattling the sheet of yellow-lined paper holding his quickly scribbled notes. Castro's eyes moved to the shaking paper. Tom dropped the paper onto the defense table.

“Uh, so, Detective, what were the lighting conditions at the scene of the alleged shooting?”

“Oh, the shooting wasn't alleged, Mr. Booker. Got a stiff with half his face blown off and two recovered 9mm slugs from his brain.”

“Okay, well, what about the light?”

“The defendant popped him right under a streetlamp in front of a well-lit bar. As I said in response to the prosecutor's questions, we have three witnesses, we recovered Jiggy's Glock from his apartment, and the ballistics matched.”

Eva scribbled a note on her yellow pad: statements?

Before Tom could ask the question, Castro exchanged glances with Eva. “She's probably telling you to ask me about statements. We've got signed affidavits from the three witnesses and a signed confession. The confession was videotaped, so you'll see he was fully apprised of his rights and elected to talk without a lawyer. If memory serves, his direct quote was, ‘Yeah, I capped the mother 'cause he showed me disrespect by not tellin' his ho to gimme a blowjob.'”

The judge intervened. “Sit down, Mr. Booker. The defendant will be bound over. Court's adjourned.” He banged his gavel.

Castro stepped down from the witness stand and offered his hand. Tom shook it.

“Good to see you, Mr. Booker. I'm sure our paths will cross again.”

As he spoke, Tom imagined Castro's eyes boring into him. His knees began to shake. Could Castro see his knees shaking?
Stop it
.

A quick nod, then Castro left the courtroom.

“So, you know Castro?” asked Eva.

“Yeah, my brother-in-law killed himself, and Castro was the detective in charge.”

“Sorry to hear that. Did he leave a note?”

Yeah, he left a note. One that was practically dictated to him by the guy standing in front of you
. “Yes. Gino had beaten his wife to death in a jealous rage and faced life in prison. The note was asking forgiveness from his daughter.”

“Now I remember reading about it. Didn't realize you were related. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Good news for the family is you've got Percy Castro involved,” said Eva. “Best detective in the city. Any loose ends, he'll find them.”

Yeah, good news unless one happened to be a loose end. Tom couldn't stop his legs from shaking. His head pounded.

He had to talk to someone or he was going to burst.

Tom patted John Carroll's ass without breaking stride. The seated bronze statue of Georgetown's founder, otherwise green with age, sported one shiny spot on its rear end. Over the years, countless superstitious students and faculty, perhaps on the way to a final exam, a tenure committee meeting, or a blind date, had rubbed John Carroll's butt in search of good fortune.

The campus was crowded as undergrads hurried to reach a 5:00 p.m. class. Tom climbed the stone steps to Healy Hall. Healy reminded him of a huge medieval castle, and today its sharp spires and cold gray stone melded perfectly with the heavily overcast late afternoon sky.

He took the elevator to the third floor, then turned down the corridor toward the faculty offices. During law school, he'd spent little time on the main campus; the law school was located on New Jersey Avenue, a stone's throw from the Capitol. But first-year law students were required to take a legal ethics class. Tom's instructor had been Father Matthew Sheran, a Jesuit who'd written extensively about ethics in general and legal ethics in particular. While not an attorney, he was highly regarded as one of the top scholars on legal ethics in the country.

Tom had called ahead for an appointment, found the office, and knocked.

“Come in.” Father Sheran's deep baritone voice could easily be heard from the other side of the door.

Tom entered and closed the door behind him. The priest stood up from behind his desk and greeted him with an easy smile.

In his mid-thirties, Matthew Sheran was an inch or so taller than Tom, fit, African-American, with close-cropped hair and soft, brown eyes. He had a strong grip, and Tom was reminded of a comment he'd heard his first days at Georgetown during orientation—the Jesuits were a muscular order of the church known as God's Marines due to their founder's military background. Nobody messed with the Jezzies.

“I'm sure you don't remember me,” said Tom. “As I said on the phone, I was in your legal ethics class over four years ago.”

“You're right, I don't.” The Jezzies also had a reputation for being direct. “Please, take a seat.”

Father Sheran wore a tan corduroy sport coat over an oxford shirt, his Roman collar the only indication he was a man of the cloth. Tom recalled that the man's movie-star good looks, combined with the novelty of a black priest bearing an Irish name, convinced many females in his class it was their duty to persuade him to break his vows of celibacy. As far as Tom knew, no one had ever been successful.

The small office was cluttered with stacks of books and papers, but Tom cleared the single chair and sat down.

“On the phone you mentioned a matter of life and death. Rather melodramatic,” said Father Sheran. “And if I might say, you appear rather anxious.”

Rather anxious? Rather no shit
. The priest's eyes bore into him.

“First, thank you for seeing me, Father. Before I go any further, I'd appreciate confirmation that anything I tell you would be covered by the priest-penitent privilege,” said Tom. “By the way, you should know I'm not Catholic. In fact, I've been away from the church for some time.”

“Doesn't affect the privilege, and please call me Matt.”

Tom continued. “And confirmation that the privilege, unlike
the atttorney-client privilege, covers admissions of intent to commit future crimes.”

The priest's expression clouded and he leaned forward. “You said you weren't a Catholic. Before you say another word, I strongly encourage you to seek counsel from a Protestant minister or rabbi or whoever represents—”

“Am I right?”

Matt held his gaze and spoke in an even tone. “Yes.”

Tom paused to exhale. “Do you believe in hell? I mean really believe? Not just in man's capacity to do evil on earth, but an actual place with a head guy, and demons or dark angels or boogeymen who work for him?”

It was Matt's turn to pause. “Perhaps at this point it would be helpful if you told me a little about yourself.”

Tom knew where the priest was heading, and he didn't blame him. “I'm not crazy, although when I leave here you likely will disagree.” The priest held his gaze, and Tom suspected he was debating whether to continue the conversation.

“Yes, I believe in hell as a state of eternal punishment inhabited by those rejected by God.”

“A state? Not a place?”

“I had a professor say once, ‘Hell is as far away as the nothing beyond the farthest universe, and as close as the nose on your face.'”

“Poetic, but not helpful.”

“The Bible repeatedly attributes to Jesus the description of hell as a ‘fiery furnace,' and St. Peter himself pictured demons, fallen angels, lions prowling among us, searching for someone to devour. But the church has been less than definitive on these matters. I'm not sure it makes any real difference, and the truth is, irrespective of what or how strongly we believe, no one really knows for sure. For the person, the soul involved, a state of being
is
a place, a place absent of God. Now, what it's like, who staffs it, what they look like, I have no idea. Why don't you tell me why you're here?”

Tom bent forward, clasped his hands, and rested them on the edge of the priest's desk. “By midnight tomorrow night, I have to murder a man to prevent my daughter or another innocent child from dying and going to hell.”

He was not surprised by Matt's stunned expression, and proceeded to tell the priest his story.

Tom leaned back in the chair, emotionally spent. Matt hadn't spoken a word throughout the telling.

“Tom, you can't do this. No matter what crimes Mackey might have committed, you have no right legally or morally to take his life. The events you described on the bridge were obviously delusions resulting from trauma caused by the accident.”

“But there was no accident. Once I agreed to the deal, no crash occurred, so there couldn't have been head trauma.”

“Okay, why you?”

“No idea. And what about the messages on my iPhone from Chad and Brit?”

“Anyone else see them?”

“No, but—”

“Do they appear on your phone's call log?”

“Showing what number? 1-800-roast-4-eternity? Look, I expected if anyone would've had a mind open enough to believe me, it would've been a priest. I should've known better.” He stood and headed for the door.

“Wait.” Tom turned back to see Matthew was visibly troubled. “If you're asking me whether your story is conceivably possible, to say anything other than ‘yes' would betray my faith. But, I don't know you. I don't know whether you have any history of mental illness, any history of, shall we say, exaggeration. I do know that murder's a sin, Tom.”

“Even in defense of an innocent child?”

“But Mackey hasn't threatened your child.”

“I will protect my daughter,” said Tom, his voice barely above a whisper. “I appreciate your time, Father, I really do.” He opened the door.

“Tom—”

He left and closed the door behind him, harder than he'd intended.

As he drove down Alabama Avenue the next night, Tom couldn't flush Father Sheran's words from his mind.

Murder's a sin, Tom
.

Yeah, God, well, allowing the other team to take the life of an innocent child, doesn't that count as a sin? Oh, guess you can't sin against yourself, can you?

He felt his mind edging closer to…to what?
Madness?

Concentrate on the mission. Think about Janie.

He turned right on 32
^nd
Street, passed Naylor Gardens, then took a left on Polk. Deserted. No moon or stars; most all of the streetlamps shot out. A few dimly lit windows hinted at the location of several three-story garden apartments, which otherwise would've been camouflaged by the darkness.

When he'd asked for the street number, Mackey didn't know. He'd said he lived in apartment 201. He thought the building was either the third or fourth on the left after he turned onto Polk, and the front door was broken.

After parking across the deserted street, Tom locked the car. He suspected any attempt to protect the vehicle from theft was likely futile, and if he emerged from the building—
escaped the scene
—and his car was gone, well, he could only worry about so much at one time. Maybe the demon twins would protect the Lexus. After all, what fun would it be if the star quarterback got knocked out of the game in the first quarter?

He made his way up the steps to the third building. The
front door's lock had been ripped away, and the door offered no impediment to access.

The lobby was filthy. Trash, rolled-up dirty diapers, used condoms, and a few syringes littered the chipped tile floor. A panel of mailboxes along one wall had been partially pried from the wall, and the doors to all the individual boxes were either open or totally missing.

He climbed the steps to the second floor. Four doors, four apartments. Three of the doors displayed numbers: 202, 203, and 204. Tom knocked on the door without the number.

No answer.

He knocked harder and thought he heard the sound of movement on the other side of the door.

A muffled voice. “Yeah?”

“Looking for Reece Mackey.”

“Who lookin'?”

It sounded like Mackey. “Mr. Mackey, is that you? It's Tom Booker.”

“Who?”