One to Go (23 page)

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.”

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?

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.”