122 Rules (2 page)

Frustrated, she slid to the floor, her back against the wall, and started counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. When she reached 1,000, her stomach growled.

Just as she considered throwing one of the chairs through the window, a short, bespectacled man swept into the room. He wore a crisp white shirt, blue tie, creased blue slacks, and shiny black shoes.
This guy and Bad Facelift must shop at the same military surplus store
. All spit and polish.

He carried a file and an air of casual authority with him. He smiled at her, probably to put her at ease. It only kicked her anxiety up a couple of notches.

“Hi, my name is Jon Smith, sorry for the wait. Can we get you anything? Water? Tea? Coffee?”

“My phone and a cab home?”

Jon chuckled and sat down, motioning for her to do the same in the opposite seat. “So, Monica is it?”

She nodded and followed suit. Her chair—the no-frills, no-specific-color, plastic variety—reminded her of a larger version of the kind she’d had in elementary school. Unlike the one Jon sat in, hers had no rollers and didn’t recline. Its entire purpose seemed to be keeping the occupant uncomfortable. It succeeded. Also, it was short.

When she settled into her seat, Jon towered eight to ten inches above her, even though, when standing, he only came up to her chin. Monica seethed at the obvious strategy for psychological dominance: he could play both sides of the coin from this position. Even when he smiled, she could see Bad Cop right beneath the surface.

Everything that had happened since they had nabbed her at the library had been designed to intimidate her—locking her in the black SUV, ginormous goons, leaving her alone in this little room for hours on end without her cell or any way of contacting the outside world. Now this little demonstration of authority… She screwed in her resolve, refusing to give in, and sat up straight in her chair, staring into the little man’s eyes. She would make him blink.

“Seems you had a little meeting today,” Good Cop smiled.
Please tell me everything,
his eyes seemed to say.

In her psychology classes, Monica had studied ways to get information from people. One of the most effective techniques was to make a simple, open-ended, often-wrong statement then remain silent. In response to this non-question, the other person, more often than not, would start babbling, if not to correct the inaccuracy then to fill the uncomfortable empty space. Monica didn’t answer, letting the quiet spin out.

Several tense but wordless minutes passed. He seemed reflective when he continued. “Not sure what part you play in the operation. We also didn’t see how you got there. We have been trailing those guys for months, waiting for a meeting just like that one. You must have slipped in before we arrived.”

“You mean that little tryst between Baldy and the guy that sounded like Joe Pesci?”

He chuckled again, though it sounded forced and placating. Just barely Good Cop; more like Annoyed Cop. “Yes, that.”

“Look, I don’t know what this is all about. I was just reading, minding my own business, when these guys showed up and started talking. I don’t know what they were talking about exactly. But it sounded shady, so I did the Good Samaritan thing and tried to help.”

Good Cop vanished like an apparition. “So you want me to believe that one of the biggest drug dealers in New York and his favorite knee buster just showed up without a care in the world and started yammering about their business right in front of you? Only a couple of people knew that meeting was going to take place, and you coincidentally happened to be there? That’s what you’re trying to tell me?”

Indignation fed her building rage. “I didn’t know about the meeting, and I have no idea who those guys are. What I do know is I don’t want any part of you”—she pointed at him—“or any part of
this.
I’ve got midterms to study for, so unless I’m under arrest, you have no right to hold me. I am leaving now.” She stood and started moving towards the door.

“You understand that it would be easier to take you seriously if you hadn’t just been arrested on drug possession.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “It was only about a gram of coke. At a small get-together back in Alabaster Cove, a friend of mine gave me a little as a going-away present. I forgot about it, and when I got pulled over for speeding it fell out of my purse. I did a few hours in custody and was released. You obviously have the report, so you already know all of this.”

“I see.” He had opened the folder flat on the desk and appeared to be reading.

She stood next to the door, arms folded, fingers drumming against her bicep.

“Can you as easily explain the time you spent in juvie for murder?”

Oh shit.
Dread flooded her veins and invaded the hollow of her gut. Monica moved slowly back to her seat—her very short seat—and dropped into it. Her eyes settled on the pictures Jon casually perused. They were upside down to her, but she didn’t need to see to know what they contained. Blood on the floor. Blood on the bed. Blood splattered in a rainbow pattern across the wall. A dead man with his head caved in. A baseball bat with
Louisville Slugger
in blue script and clumps of scalp and bloody fingerprints—her fingerprints—along its sleek oak-colored length. Her body threatened to disgorge her stomach’s contents right there on the no-color floor, and only by herculean efforts did she prevent the tuna salad she’d had for lunch from making a grand reappearance.

“I thought those records had been sealed?” Her voice sounded barren and deflated even to her own ears. “I thought it was illegal to access them without a direct order from the court.”

Jon smiled a non-smile while his eyes drilled into her skull. “What you need to understand is that we are above the law. The sooner you get that into your genius-level head, the easier this will be.”

Defeat, as thick as molasses, dulled her senses and deflated her spirit.

When she didn’t answer, he continued, “So let me spell this out. Someone with a history of drugs and murder has recently traveled across the country. She allegedly ‘attends’ school but has no formal address and, as far as we can tell, no friends. Her instructors say she has well above average intelligence, but only sporadically attends class and speaks to no one. This woman with almost no societal ties and little traceability attends a meeting with a high-powered dealer and a hitman. You’re a smart girl; do you see the picture this paints?”

The little man sat ramrod erect in his high chair in an attempt to make himself into a larger-than-life bully.
Compensating for something?
Heat and anger replaced the liquid lead that clogged every thoroughfare in her circulatory system. “Look, if you actually had anything on me, I’d already be in jail. But seeing as how we are having this little conversation and I have no cuffs on, you clearly don’t have any proof. Just access to records that you shouldn’t and a wild imagination for the dramatic. Thus unless you plan to formally charge me, I’m free to go.” She stood again.

Jon shook his head. “I can see your law classes are paying off, but what you’ve learned out there doesn’t apply here. As I told you,
we
are above the law. I’m afraid you’re going to miss a few more lessons before this is done. A process has been started, and there are no shortcuts, no quick paths through it. Please, just relax and let me guide you.”

“I don’t need guidance. What I need are answers. Who were those guys? Who are
you
, for that matter? You haven’t exactly explained that. Tell me, Jon, who exactly do you work for and what do you want?”

He shook his head again. “It doesn’t work like that. I’m asking the questions. If you cooperate, maybe I’ll answer what I can. If you don’t,” he paused, “we will be here a very long time.” The underlying threat hung in the air.

Good Cop seemed to have left on a bus for parts unknown. And Bad Cop’s mood had gone sour. Dread returned in all its syrupy thickness.

“Okay, now that we’ve cleared that up, are you sure I can’t get you something?” Good Cop suddenly returned with a sarcastic smile.

She shook her head.

“Fine.” He closed the file with the damning pictures in it, folded his hands on the desk and looked at her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to explain everything that went down this afternoon. Start at the beginning and do not leave anything out. Do I make myself clear?”

For a moment Monica held herself tall, but soon she slouched in her chair like an amateur boxer who had just gone three rounds with the champ...and lost. Badly. She nodded.

“Good. Whenever you are ready.”

Monica took a deep breath and began. “I went to the library because I have a huge Criminal Law midterm coming up...”

2

Earlier that day

Monica sat in one of a thousand seats in an auditorium NYU Law called a classroom. The instructor, his gloomy voice amplified by the microphone headset he wore, looked no bigger than a Ken doll from this distance. He had somehow turned the required Criminal Law class—a subject Monica had always found interesting—into a depressing saga of oppression and despair. Among the students and faculty, the graying, squat teacher had been given the nickname Professor Doom because he tended to deliver his lectures as if they foretold the end of the world.

Whatever. She didn’t have to like her instructors, just needed to get through their classes.

Just when she thought her brain would implode from boredom, Professor Doom wrapped up the monologue by reminding them about the midterm next week. “And remember,” he said, holding up a finger to emphasize his point, “it’s worth a full third of your final grade.” A collective groan went up from the audience.

Not seeing the point of attending when she could read the material online, Monica hadn’t been to class in almost two weeks. But Dr. Doom liked to throw in a few lecture-only, exam-worthy tidbits during his dreary pontifications, so she made it a habit of attending the class right before a test. Her next shift at the coffee shop wasn’t until tomorrow, and since she had no more classes that day, she could use the free time to study.

Her full-ride scholarship didn’t include living expenses or books, and her job only just covered her meager expenses. She’d managed to sweet-talk Tom Phillips, a fellow first-year with too much money and too many raging hormones, for use of the spare room in his apartment. But if she went there, she’d never be able to concentrate. He almost always had at least half a dozen friends over, drinking and talking too loudly. She couldn’t complain though, since the lack of rent fit perfectly into her tiny budget.

On occasion, she would let Tom lure her into his bed, but only to keep her sexual frustration at bay and the rust off her lady parts. Though she suspected he wanted more, Monica had her entire life for the whole relationship thing, so she kept him at arm’s length most of the time.

The school’s library had little to do with academia and more about friends getting together to catch up on the latest gossip—far, far more interesting than understanding the finer points of blameworthiness as a precondition for criminal liability. So Monica loaded her backpack and hiked almost two miles to the huge New York Public Library where she could get lost in the anonymity.

The walk seeped the tension from her shoulders and cleared her mind. Compared to her little Southern California hometown of Alabaster Cove, New York had a lot more texture and gritty layer upon gritty layer of big-city flavor. The crisp air put a tangy chill in her cheeks. The gray skies drizzled a thin November mist, and by the time she passed the huge, concrete lion sentries guarding the front steps of the library, her mind had cleared.

Monica hated the open-table layout of the reading room, so she had long ago found a secluded aisle among the last rows of dusty books. She slid to the floor and cracked the first book—an in-depth review on the criminal code and interpreting statutes—and lost herself in the text.

On the other side of the shelving unit, footsteps echoed among the tomes. She waited for the wandering intruder to find what they sought and move on. They lingered, though they did not seem interested in disturbing her peace and quiet. So she turned her attention back to the work at hand. Just as Monica became reacquainted with insanity and intoxication defenses, more light footsteps approached, and yet another intruder started talking with her unknown interloper.

Monica rolled her eyes and sighed.
Really? Inside voices, people!
She tried to tune them out. Library conversations should be soft and covert, no more than mere whispering. People could be so oblivious. The two clearly thought they were alone, but they just needed to look past the wall of Shakespeare and Marlowe to know they had company.

Morons
.

“So, did you take care of the problem?” a man who sounded like Joe Pesci asked.

Focus, girl!
Test looming. One-third of your grade. Professor Doom.
But try as she might, she found herself drawn to the conversation.

“Yes,” came the reply. This voice had a smoky rasp, tinged with a slight accent, Latino maybe. “No need to worry. Lenny has been—how shall I put it?—permanently silenced, unless of course he learns how to breathe without a head and through three feet of concrete.”