Jury of Peers (25 page)

Chapter Forty–Two

Tedium

              Hack watched.  For the past hour he’d been sitting down the street listening to the radio.  He didn’t see the irony in tapping his foot to
Fortunate Son.
  Nor did it strike him as ominous that this particular Credence Clearwater tune was followed up by another… Bad Moon.  He was well oiled now, indignant.  Fuming.  He’d not yet mustered the nerve to charge up to Ray’s door and beat him down.  Soon though he promised himself.

             
He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself up as Ray suddenly appeared on his step bare–chested, ran across the street and all but threw himself into a cab. 
Fuck. 
He hadn’t even seen the cab pull up.  It pulled back out into the street after just a couple of moments of pause and accelerated down the block. 

             
“Son of a…” he said aloud as he fumbled to find the keys in the ignition.  It was already running.  The car lurched forward and stalled.  He ground it alive again and slammed the pedal to the floor.  Where Ravish Ramadeep would have to go in a cab at three in the morning eluded him, but it wouldn’t for long.  Maybe the kid would make it easy and pick up a hooker or buy some blow or something.  He had plenty of reason to celebrate, the little shit.  He was on the inside with the cops that were working on the fucking story of the decade. 
Jesus Christ.  I put him there!

             
He came around the corner, passed the gas station… and found the cab he was looking for.  "Not too close,” he whispered.  “I’m gonna bury you motherfucker.”

*              *              *

              “Please lie down on your stomach Mr. Ramadeep,” the driver said again and Ray obeyed.  His mind began to catch up to his body, and the first twinge of fear took hold.  He’d stepped into an evil screenwriter’s script, and it occurred to him that he might rather have just continued with his dream.  “There is a hood on the floor, please place it over your head.”

             
The car turned in a gentle arc off of his street and then straight up toward the gas station on the corner.  He imagined it in his mind, mapping their route for as long as he could.  Two more turns, and one long stretch of highway scrambled his navigation, and from there on out he was left with what might have been an hour or more of time to think about what he’d done.  Where he was going.

             
Back home his wife was surely awake now, tending to babies and cursing her runt of a husband.  He felt for her, truth be told.  The upside, of course, was that if this was what he thought, he would be on the brink of a career jumpstart that couldn’t quite be equaled.  The downside… well, eventually his wife would settle the kids back down, go downstairs, and find that his car was still in the driveway.  This would cause some confusion, and that would lead to a telephone call… one that would ring through and be answered by their frozen lawn.  From there he could only speculate, but it would end, he was sure, with a noodle peeling.  Theirs was not a happy life since the second twins were born.  It wasn’t too happy prior to the
first
twins, especially after he’d dropped out of law school.  Now, with four
kids, there just wasn’t much time for happy.  This wouldn’t help.

             
Just why Meek would want him was the subject of his one sided conversation when they turned off of what sounded like highway and began to make a series of tight, disorienting turns.

*              *              *

              Hack had always wondered what anti–lock brakes would do if he smashed the petal to the floor–the stuttering on the cold pavement stirred all of the trash up off of his floorboards and the drink between his thighs sloshed, but no matter how hard he wrenched the wheel around, he couldn’t quite make the turn.  The cab had eased off of the highway and unto an off ramp, but by the time his sedated reflexes recognized this fact, it was far too late.  Instead, he kept on the brakes, and kept trying to will the car down the ramp.  He met a stack of enormous orange barrels head on and they did what they were designed to do; stop the poor bastard that had fucked up his turn from ramping off into the concrete canyon forty feet below. 

             
A half–ton of sand detonated against the front of Hack’s Buick and reduced visibility to exactly zero as the car came to a canted stop.  Everything was covered.  The car looked like a partially uncovered fossil when Hack finally staggered out into the median.  The taxi turned underneath the highway and he leaned out over the railing before it went out of sight.  His hands were slick with sweat and this froze instantly to the metal leaving scraps of skin as he hobbled down the road to get a better view.

             
The cab drove a block, turned, and pulled into a lighted parking lot.  Hack watched it weave through a handful of cars parked at a bar and then pause at the other end of the same building.  A garage door opened, and Ray’s cab vanished.

             
“Hey man, you alright?  Holy shit!” a voice came through the still falling grit.

             
Hack wheeled about, tottering on one foot for a moment before bringing both to the pavement.  A tractor–trailer stood idling on the median, headlamps ablaze in the skittering snow.  The driver was trotting over toward the wreck.  "Saw you try ‘n stop, sumbitch boy you hit them things
hard
.”  There was just a trace of admiration in his voice.

             
Drunk or not, Hack understood the gravity of the situation.  His mind slowed down and he watched the man approach.  Soon the police would arrive, he’d go to jail, and any chance of breaking the story on Meek would vanish.  He smiled, “Yeah, I kissed ‘em a little.”

             
The man arrived, a tiny first–aid kit in his big paws.  He was mostly belly, arms bare in cut off flannel.  “Ya alright?”

             
“Perfect.”

             
The trucker looked at him,  "Been drinkin’?”

             
“Some,” Hack allowed.

             
“Boy…” he said. “You’d better get right outta here before the cops come.  Sumbitches’ll take your license and then you’re shit outta luck.”

             
Hack gestured at his car, swaying as he did so, and then tried to ask how he knew.

             
“Jesus boy, you’re fucked up,” the trucker looked around.  "Alright.  Listen.”  He took Hack’s arm like an old man and began leading him back toward the truck, “I’ve been where you’re at, let’s put some miles between you and your wreck.  You can figure it all out tomorrah alright?”

             
Looking back at the car, Hack thought it was a good idea.  He could sober up, tell the cops he’d been out of it after the wreck….figure something out.  “Hold on,” he said, and staggered back to his car.  The hot metal was still ticking in the cold air when he pulled open the door.  There were things in here that the cops didn’t need to see, and he
knew
they’d look.  The glove box came open after the second try, and he stuffed the revolver into his pants pocket.  Likewise with the small vial of coke.  Cops didn’t react well to that combination.

             
They managed to climb into the cab of the truck, and Hack crawled into the mess of blankets in the dank sleeper.  He lay still, listening as the truck’s engine came to life and it lurched into motion.  Away from the scene.  Tomorrow, he’d just come back, he’d be sober, and jail wouldn’t be in the equation.  Then he could work this all out.

             
“How far you wanna go boy?” the guy asked from up front.

             
“Don’t care,” would be Hack’s last words until Iowa. 

Chapter Forty–Three

Turlough

             
They passed beneath something that made the sound of the car’s engine reverberate, and then a minute later, they stopped.   A door opened and the warm air in the backseat left in a rush.  "Sit up.” 

This was a new voice, calm and close, “There you go, now step out of the car toward me.”  Ray did as he was instructed, feeling cold concrete under his bare toes.  “Just stand here for a sec,” the voice said, a steadying hand on his shoulder.  The car shifted with a clunk, a garage door rattled open, and then the engine noise swelled and faded leaving only the acrid smell of burning oil and exhaust.

              “We’re going to move a bit,” the voice stepped behind him.  "So this is just a precaution you understand.”  Ray felt his arms being drawn back behind him, and with a zip, they were cuffed.  “Too tight?”  He felt a finger wiggling under the narrow plastic band.

             
“No, it’s fine,” Ray managed, but panic rose up into his throat and cut the words short.  A thorough pat down ensued, his pockets turned inside out, shirt lifted and replaced, pants dropped… “Sorry about that, bet you thought you’d get to wait until you were forty.”

             
Ray said nothing, hoping that someday it would be funny.

             
“This way,” the voice said and nudged him forward.  “We’re going to go down a dozen stairs, it’s pretty steep, but I’ll be in front so go slow.”  A door opened and they eased downward.  "Watch your head,” he heard just before it thunked into the low ceiling at the foot of the stairs.  “Shit, sorry, alright… last step.  There… now just have a seat and I’ll explain things to you.”

             
This room was stuffy, much closer, filled with the hum fluorescent lights.  And something else… methane.

             
“I’m afraid that there’s not much that can be done about the smell Mr. Ramadeep,” the voice said.  “The other tenants are rather… untidy.”  Ray felt the man rebinding each wrist to the chair that he had been dumped into, and then his ankles.  This time a little tighter.

             
The hood came off, and he was facing Seth Meek.  Bruised and mishandled to be sure, but it was him.

             
“I’d bet you have some questions,” Seth said.

             
“Yeah,” Ray looked around the room, seeing everything in one sweep.  The lights, the computers, the … prisoners.  The kids stared back at him.  They’d been beaten, but not too recently.  There was dried blood, and two sets of very, very red eyes.  That figured.  For an instant, Ray felt pity.  They looked resigned to their fate, angry, but fatalistic.  They were kids, big–eyed kids in a world of hurt.

             
“Let me head off some of those questions before you get too far ahead of yourself,” Seth said.  “I’m going to consider you a hostage.  This is for two reasons.  One, it takes the pressure off of you.  You’re blameless.”  Seth glanced over at his other two captives as he spoke, he was so close to Ray that their slumped forms reflected in his eyes.  He looked back, focused and direct.  "And two, it keeps you out of the way.  It would, I’m sure, be a big story if you revealed my location.  You’re not here because I trust you Mr. Ramadeep, you’re here because you’re useful.”

             
“How?” Ray asked.  This
useful
business was getting out of hand.  A stinging scent came off of Meek.  It itched his eyes.

“You work with the cops, I assume that you know what I’m doing here.”

              “Let’s assume that I don’t.”

             
Meek’s lips twisted into a sort of smile.  "Alright.  These two,” he gestured without looking, “are going on trial for the rape and murder of three people.  I’m the court.  I’m the judge, the bailiff, and…” he paused.  "The executioner if it comes to that.”

             
“If?”

             
“Yeah, it’s a trial.”

             
“There’s no jury, just you.”

             
“There’s a jury Mr. Ramadeep,” Seth patted the rack of computers.  "Just over a billion Internet users.  That’s plenty.”

             
Ray’s mouth stayed open mid–retort as he comprehended the scope of what was really going to happen.  "How?  I mean, you’re going to… it’s…”

             
“Slow down.  We’re not there yet.  First let’s answer your other question.  You’re useful because you’ll make this real to people.  You can verify that I am who I say.  You can address the condition of the accused.  You’re connected to the police, you’re connected to the press.  You’ve already filed the story, everyone will believe you.”             

             
“How’d you know
that
?”

             
No answer, just the same tight smile.

             
“Okay, alright…” Ray looked at his feet and tried to think.  "So… I’m a witness?” 

             
“Yeah.  Before the arraignment I’ll introduce you and you can say what you want.  I’d appreciate it, of course, if you didn’t go off on useless tangents like how you were brought here etcetera.  We want to move this right along.  But if you feel like you need to, you may.  Nice shirt by the way.”

             
Ray looked down.  “I didn’t have much time.”  His shirt, faded blue and frayed about the collar read,
There are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary and those who don’t.

             
“Don’t worry,” Seth said.  "Mine’s worse.”  The suit jacket was draped over his chair, but he still wore the cut up white button down.  “I think I’ll stick to wearing my jacket when we’re on the air.”

             
“So you’re going to try them, but it’s not really real,” Ray said.

             
“It’s as real as people let it be.  If the world balks, I’ll deal with it, but what do you think?”

             
“It’ll be huge,
everyone
will want a piece of this,” Ray said. 

             
“Yeah.  Why?”

             
Ray looked back at the kids who were still very much tuned in.  "Because people are tired of stuff like this.” 

             
“What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” Bolo said and Ray looked away.

             
“No, it’s not that at all.  They’re not.  People love ‘stuff like this.’  People
want
to see bad things happen.  It’s how we are, we’re curious.  You, me… them.  Everyone.  Maybe it lets us feel better about our own lives, I dunno.”

             
“Then why do it?”

             
Seth ran his tongue over jagged teeth.  "Because I can use that curiosity to make what happened actually mean something to the world.  It can't just go away, get filed.  Become a number.  I can't let that happen.  It just can't disappear into all of the other shit in this
fucking
world.”  His eyes filled suddenly with tears.  "You thirsty?  Those cuffs too tight?”

             
“I’m alright, thanks.”

             
“Good enough.  It’ll be a long few days for you Mr. Ramadeep, but profitable in the end I think.” 
The end
sounded ominous, but Ray kept quiet.

             
“I’m going to go get a few hours of sleep before the arraignment.  I’m sorry it’s not more comfortable down here, but for the moment this is best.  I hope you understand.”  There was nothing that Ray wanted to do more–or less–than stay down here with these two guys.  He was supremely excited for this chance, but he had envisioned a life of writing editorials far from the front lines.  This trench warfare angle was not really how he had hoped to become an emerging writer.  Maybe a novel about this kind of shit, but
Jesus. 
He was less than ten fucking feet from two guys who had blown a pregnant woman’s guts out.  He had no illusions about striking out to find common ground.  With Meek gone, they seemed much less like kids.

             
“I
said
what the
fuck
are you lookin’ at motherfucker?” Bolo said again.  His face was a deep red, splotchy red that ran down his neck and ended just above his torso. 

             
Ray sighed, still looking down.  It would be a long, long night.  Suddenly, the cuffs felt reassuring.  He hoped theirs hurt as bad as his did.

             
They sat for a long time with the drone of the computers, but Ray was never tempted with sleep.  Questions raced through his mind. 

             
“What you doin’ here man?” came a slower, deeper voice.

             
It was the black kid.  Ray made eye contact and was working on an answer when again the white kid spat, “Man don’t you be actin’ all hard and shit, he asked you a fuckin’ question.”

             
“Man, shut the fuck up Bolo,” the younger kid said. 

“I ain’t your bitch no more Saul.”

Saul just stared, and when Bolo once again resumed his fuming, he looked back to Ray.

             
“Actually, I’m not sure.  You know as much as I do.”

             
“How’s come you’re in lock down too?”

             
Ray shrugged.

             
“Whacha do, what's your name?”

             
“I’m a journalist.  Name’s Ray,” he’d started to say lawyer, but did it really matter now?  The word
journalist
clicked in the kid’s eyes, and he squinted.

             
“He’s gonna put us on trial man?  For real?” Saul asked.

             
“Seems like it.”

             
“It ain’t real though, like not legal an all.”

             
Bolo squirmed in his chair.  "It’s all
bullshit
.”

             
“Is it?” Saul asked.

             
“Well, kind of yeah,” Ray said.  “I mean, it’s not book legal, but it’s legal enough if you can’t do anything about it.”  It was clear that they both understood what he meant.  Both of them had spent time dodging one arm of the law or the other, but what really mattered was the street.  It didn’t matter if it would hold up in court, it mattered if this guy was actually hard enough to follow through.

             
“We gonna getta chance to talk for ourselves?” Saul asked again after a few minutes.  The dried blood itched his nose, and he was trying to scratch it off with his shoulder.

             
“Probably.  You would in a real court.”  Ray looked them over, neither were the ripped and toned MTV gansta types that he might have expected.  The white kid had a bunch of black and blue tattoos, crooked and faded, all sorts of numbers bleeding out under his skin; and he
was
skinny, but he looked like he’d had a steady diet of fast food.  His recent close encounter with the pepper spray didn’t help the image either.

             
“What’s arraignment?” Saul asked. 

             
“It’s when you get to hear what you’re charged with, and get to tell them if you’re guilty or innocent.”

             
“What’s after that?”

             
“I don’t know.  There could be a preliminary hearing.  To see if there’s enough evidence to get a grand jury.  I don't really know what he's going to do.”

             
“I didn’t do shit,” Bolo said.  He spat on the floor, a long drooling trail preceded by the clearing of his sinuses.