Jury of Peers (33 page)

Chapter Fifty–Eight

Thole

              “Hey, you want somethin’ or not?  Your pal’s long gone.”

             
Hack’s eyes opened and he found himself looking up at a sloppily painted rooster.  It was a peppershaker stamped,
Davenport I–80.

             
“Where the fuck am I?” he groaned. 

             
The waitress snapped her gum, sighed, and went off to find someone to deal with this drunk.

             
Hack slid out of the booth, stood despite his body’s best efforts to crumble, and then placed both hands on the table and got his bearings.  It wasn’t the first time he’d had to think his way through a situation like this; such mornings seemed to have an entirely different set of physical laws.

             
He did three things in rapid succession, hit the john, found a big bottle of Windsor, and offered a broken down old trucker an extra hundred bucks if he could tag along back to D.C.  His plan was to nurse his headache with the Windsor until he was about half way back, then lay off and get some sleep.  There was no reason to talk to anyone about his car, he just needed to get back to that intersection, find Meek… and then much would be forgiven in the rush to quote him in on CNN.

             
The notion led to thoughts of Ray, and the bottle was to his lips before he knew it. His stomach tumbled with acid, but he fought it down so he could take another drink.  That little son of a whore had turned it all around – waited for that perfect moment to steal his story, and stabbed him in the back.  He had visions of Ray on the television,
turning down
interviews because there were too many.  Writing the million–dollar book.  Retiring early.  All of the legitimacy that Hack had struggled for over the years would come to this little upstart kid in one goddam week.  He took another swig and thought about the coke in his pocket.

Ray needed to pay.

Chapter Fifty–Nine

Tractate

Ray shared a breakfast of soda and stale bagels upstairs with Seth once again.  This had served to return the circulation to his limbs, but they had begun to tingle the moment he’d hopped back down stairs and plopped back into his folding chair at 10:00.  The two kids were laid out prone on the floor now, and had offered no resistance last night when Meek had moved them – Ray knew how much his body ached, and
he’d
been allowed to move about a little – those two must have been in agony.  They were still bound, hands and feet a deep purple, but Meek had sandwiched them between four of the old shelves from upstairs; the boards were placed in pairs over and under their chests and knees and then cinched down tight.  There was no way for them to squirm around like grubs.  It was probably better than being all crooked in the chairs, but there was also no way to avoid the fact that they were laying in their own piss.  Besides the hum of the computers, it had been the one sound that Ray could identify all night, the gurgle of the floor drain.

             
They had been gagged with duct tape until an hour ago, a single long strip wrapped again and again around their heads at mouth level.  The older kid, Derek, had trouble breathing all night, but Meek hadn’t adjusted the tape when he’d come down to check on them at four in the morning.  The younger one had cried once in his sleep, a little sound that came out as a pitiful sob, but there had been nothing more. 

             
By way of contrast, Meek seemed very much alive when he’d helped Ray back down the stairs.  They’d talked during their meal about Ray’s article, about how he would parlay his new scoop into a successful career, about the money he’d make and how he’d spend it.  Meek drove the conversation as he attached a small wooden frame to the bottom of each of the kids' chairs, a little electric servo, and some wire leads.  Ray understood to keep quiet as he watched, puzzled at the contraptions.  They were actuators of some sort.  Something would fit into the frame... but it wasn't clear just what, and the little electric motor was confounding.  The elation in Seth’s eyes, however, was tangible – his animation was intoxicating.  It was clear that the numbers were in, clear that people wanted him to move forward.

             
Bolo lifted his head and then dropped it again.  "Hungry.”

             
“You won’t be soon,” Meek said as he worked at his laptop.

             
Ray watched their reactions.  The camera and lights were repositioned now, looming over them like vultures waiting to pick at their bones, and both were faced with the single eye of their salvation.  He could see hope on their faces.  Hope that the world would hear them… save them.  It was different for each; Saul was stoic.  He glanced from side to side seeing nothing, focusing inward.  Bolo, on the other hand, stared at the lens.  Occasionally his flakey lips would move in rehearsal.  Both kids were red from where the tape was ripped away, and both bled from where either hair or bits of flesh had been torn free.  They were miserable, completely cut off from their element and at the mercy of forces that must have been utterly terrifying.

             
“Why?” Bolo finally asked.  He was exhausted.  The kid coughed, and then raised his head again to look at Meek.

             
“Evidently the people that voted last night didn’t think that you should just walk off.  A hundred million or so thought you should go to trial.  My trial.”

             
“Man fuck you man,” Bolo rasped.  “Fuck you and your old lady too.  She was a sweet ride."

             
Ray watched, completely unaware of the shock on his face.  The man who had apologized upstairs just minutes ago for the lack of menu had turned 180º.  The almost tranquil Seth Meek had changed.  He’d stopped typing, but still stared at the monitor.  Eyes closed.  Then he stood. 

“Seth, wait…” Ray said.  That had done it, he’d slipped over the edge and without warning, Ray realized that he was about to see another human being die.  It was no longer a lingering dream, drawn out through the aches of endless nights – it wasn’t a fantasy, this Bolo kid was about to die.  Badly.  Ray’s mouth went dry, he floundered for words and his mind tangled in thoughts of pity and revenge.

Meek closed the distance in four strides, leaned down, and then whispered something to the kid.  He didn’t scream, didn’t spit in the acne scared face, didn’t take apart the skull that contained all of that hate… he just whispered.  Derek was silent, and then as Seth rose from his crouch, went ballistic.  He lurched and wrestled with the boards until he let go in one final peal of fury, dropped his head to the side and went limp.  He panted like a beaten dog.  Then began to cry.  Derek Siclo had just learned that the whole world knew about his daddy.

Ray thought he would vomit.  Chemicals raced through his body telling him to flee, to fight, to do anything but stay right where he was, but there was no choice.  Meek returned to his computer as if nothing had happened, and without so much as a tremble, resumed his typing.  This wasn’t right.  Ray was overloaded, his mind fragmented when he needed it most.  Panic.  He didn’t want to see death.  Let the system deal with these two, keep them out of sight, out of mind.  He suddenly didn’t care if they lived or died, just so long as he didn’t have to deal with them any more.

“It’ll pass Ray,” Seth said as he worked.  His voice offered a point of light and Ray zeroed in on it from the fog of panic.  “It’ll pass, just relax.  Keep your head.  Remember what’s happening here.”  Meek turned his head and stared directly at him.  And even as the kid lay weeping in the background, Ray could see the sanity in Seth’s eyes.  "Remember… you’re here to feel it all.  To go through everything that the people out there don’t have to go through, and to make it real to them.  That’s your job.” 

Meek turned back to the computer and a moment later said aloud, “
This bitch has four holes and I’m going to use them all
… that’s what he said Ray.”

Ray felt his body reel forward and vomit spilled down his chin and chest, he heaved again and again until all he was left with were the words.  “I can’t…” He repeated this over and over as strings of spit dripped from his lips.

A hand came down on the back of his neck, cool and gentle, it felt like the embrace of a father.

He sobbed, “I can’t.”

Seth’s voice came to him above the drumming in his ears.  "It’s not about you Ray.  This isn’t some game for you.  You can’t turn off the computer and go back to cutting the lawn or bitching about your taxes or wishing you could screw the neighbor.  You
have
to watch.  You
have
to be here to convince the people who
can
turn it off that my family was real.”

The smell rose up under them, and Ray wretched again, spitting in frustration when his body was through.  “God
damnit
!” he screamed into his lap.

“You understand?” Seth asked.

“Fuck you,” his head came up.  "Fuck you all!  What’s
wrong
with you people?”  He groaned, which was as much as he could muster.

Meek’s hand stayed put for another minute, and then he slid back into his seat,  "Now you understand.”

And then came a new voice: Saul’s voice, “I understand.”

Chapter Sixty

Tumulus

“Here we go…”

“Delay?”

“All set…” The newsroom director looked at his monitors.  "Cue it, right side, and cut in…”

The anchor had been expecting the interruption, and this time the transition from the political unrest in the Sudan to
The Trial
was much smoother.  Four other 24–hour news services made the same cut, and without hesitation, covered the event live.  The three national broadcasting companies held out under pressure from the FCC and continued playing soaps, but the temptation was great.  What could be more like a soap than this? 

Pubs across the UK quieted, and all around the world the Internet feeds went live… including the one in the back room at Smokey’s.

Meek understood the scope of what was happening when he flipped on the lights and the cameras went live.  He could see the numbers. 
198,978,987 feeds and climbing.  200 million by the time he cleared his throat.
  Well, so much for the grain of sand idea, someone was sure as hell going to notice that kind of bandwidth.  This was it.  This day… and then it would be over.  He glanced at Ray who was now sitting stoically, eyes flat, but still scribbling. 

All around the world people waited for his next words.  They waited for him to announce
their
decision.  They waited for it to become real.  He imagined being able to see each viewer, to peer into them and extract whatever motivation they might have had in casting their vote.  Even now, there was a flood of last minute voters hitting the website, but that phase was over and now it was time to explain.

“Good morning,” Seth began.  He ran a hand up the back of his neck and considered his next words.  Everything was in motion now, would he feed this gladiator lust or scold people for it? 
You started it.  Finish it.

“The Grand Jury indictment has been returned.  The decision was overwhelmingly in favor of charging the accused, Saul R. Brown and Derek Siclo, minors, with the rape and murder of Emily Meek, and the murder Jennifer Meek and of an unborn child.  Just over a hundred and twenty million people worldwide affirmed this decision, while about fourteen million were opposed.  This constitutes a majority in favor, and thus the trial will begin today at 11:00am.”  Meek looked at the digital clock on his computer.  "About fifteen minutes from now.”

“Furthermore, I believe that at some point I must announce my intent as the prosecutor, to seek the death sentence for each of the accused, and this as good a point as any.”

Anchors were silent, and CNN isolated Seth and digitally zoomed, giving their viewers an even clearer picture of the man behind the Trial.  FOX chose to isolate Saul and Derek, lying prone and miserable on the concrete floor while Meek did the voice over; other networks bounced back and forth.  CourtTV, which had picked the story up upon receipt of the first email, had been running and rerunning the feeds constantly with pundit after pundit offering an incredible scope of views and opinions – anyone and everyone who would comment.  Now they ran it live without delay.  Seth Meek, love him or hate him, was the singular story of the decade.  The press hung on his words, and the next ones were exactly what they
all
wanted to hear.

“Because of the cruel…” Meek took a breath.  “…nature of the crimes, I intend to go about this in a more efficient and logical manner than one might see in the United States legal system.  If, in fact, the accused are found guilty of the crimes presented, they will be executed in a manner consistent with the nature of their crimes.  In other words, I intend to insert the muzzle of a forty–caliber pistol into the rectum, disengage the safety, and fire one round up through the abdomen toward the head.  This will, no doubt, be a fatal wound if not treated immediately.”

The room was silent.  Ray blinked, stopped writing.  Both boys craned their necks to see Meek, to comprehend his words, their mouths were open, the shock registering in glassy eyes.  Newsrooms were quiet.  Living rooms and pubs and cafes.  Then Bolo screamed into his gag, his eyes wide and full of animosity.  The world collectively asked the same question,
what'd he say?

“Furthermore, there will be no appeal.  If the accused are found guilty after the trial period today, they will be executed in a timely manner, namely within one hour of the verdict.”  Meek shuffled some papers, jotted a note in silence, and then said, “We will adjourn for five minutes and then hear opening statements.”  The cameras went black.