Jury of Peers (5 page)

“Gonna be awhile.”

              “I tagged it up,” Bolo said suddenly.

             
Vesper looked up, “Yeah?”

             
“Fuckin’ SMG Crew.  Not us.  I tagged it all good." 

             
“Well you did somethin’ right then, but the cops’ll get through that sooner, not later.  They’ll start shakin’ peeps down hardcore if we keep seein’ this shit on TV.”  Vesper smiled, then let it fade.  It was exactly what he'd known that Bolo would do, it was exactly what he'd hoped–lewd, indescribable violence pinned directly on SMG crew.

             
“I’ll get on the down low,” Bolo said.  "Keep real quiet.”

             
Vesper chuckled, but clearly it wasn’t funny.  “Sure will,” he said.  “And you’re gonna stand Saul’s corner with him, do just what he says.”

             
It was a real blow to Bolo, as if someone had kicked him in the nuts.  “Fuck too,” he said.  Faintly.  He was the Crew's dog;
he
was the hitter. He was seventeen, and taking orders from a fourteen year old nothing would be torture.

             
“You didn’t just say shit, I’m gonna
choose
to believe that.  You’re gonna stand Saul’s corner as he deals, and you’re gonna keep his back.  We straight?  If you ain’t down with that, I got some other work for ya.  You down?”

             
“Yeah, I’m down,” he said.  He was looking away.

             
“You do exactly what Saul here says, and nothin’ else.  Just shut the fuck up and watch his back, somethin’ happens to him, it’s your ass.”

             
The house reappeared on the screen from above in telephoto.  It was bathed in rotating police lights.  FOX followed with pictures of the family in happier times.  Saul looked away.

             
“How many did you do?” Vesper asked.

             
“Two,” Bolo said too quickly.  “Saul fucked up my piece, we had to dip without cappin’ the dude.”

             
“Wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

             
Saul wet his lips.  “I didn’t shoot no one,” he said.  “I fucked up his gun, dunno how.”

             
“How’d you know it wasn’t right?” Vesper asked.

             
“A guy came around the corner.  That guy.”   Saul pointed at the television.  “I didn’t know he was comin’, just turned and tried to shoot, didn’t shoot.”

             
“Kinda piece?”

             
Saul shook his head, "Some kinda nine I guess.”

             
Bolo’s jaw moved to speak, but Vesper cut him off with a wave.  “Not
talkin’
to you.”

             
“Auto?”

             
“Yeah, like a Glock.”

             
Vesper looked down, opened his desk.  “Like this?” he said.  He put an angular black pistol on the desk and slid it over toward Saul.

             
“Pretty much, not that big.”

             
“Check an’ see if it’s hot,” Vesper said.

             
Saul reached out, took the pistol off of the desk, and gently pulled back the slide.  He turned it to the light so he could see down into the chamber.  “It ain’t loaded.  I mean, not ready like.”

             
“Put one in the pipe.”

             
He hesitated and looked at Vesper who gestured for him to do it.

             
The action was smooth, the round chambered with a soft click. The bullet looked funny, but he said nothing. 

“You know how to use it, like for real?”

              “Yeah,” Saul said. 

             
“You’ve never been sent up for nothin’ have you Saul?  No prints, nothin’ like that right?”
              “Nuh uh.”

             
“Show me how you aim it.”

             
The boy lifted, steadied, and aimed the gun naturally… at the television.  He’d seen it thousands of times; it was pretty simple.

             
Vesper pointed, “Nah little man, aim at him.”

             
Bolo stepped back.  “Hey man.”

             
“Still not talking to you Bolo.”

             
Saul turned and the gun came down.

             
“Aim at him Saul,” Vesper said.  He extended his own finger like a gun.

             
Bolo took another step back.  He was a pale kid to begin with, but this turn had him blanched as grey as boiled beef.  “Seriously, Vesper, com’on man.”

             
“Saul,” Vesper said in his same relaxed tone, “some people say that there ain’t no such thing as a truth serum.  Ya know, like in the movies.  You think that’s true?” 

             
As he lifted the gun to mimic Vesper, Saul saw clearly what was about to happen.  He couldn’t decide if it was a relief or not.  He put Bolo's chest in the sights.

             
Vesper went on without waiting for an answer.  “See… it does exist though.  Watch.”  He watched Bolo focus on the tiny black hole that would end his life.  “Let’s talk truth B.  You think Saul here can fade somebody?”

             
Bolo’s mouth moved, but there were no words.

             
“See, I think he can.  I think he could drop your sorry ass right here on the rug.  Also think that nobody’d care much.  You're outta friends on either side of the street.  Ain’t nobody gonna take you in, and now you’re tryin’ to lean on my boy here.  Tryin’ to make him out like he fucked up.”

             
Bolo’s hands came up slowly, "Wait, man, just wait….”

             
“Tryin’ to make him like he’s got no
cojones
,” he cast a glance at Saul.  Then down the length of his arm, at the very tip of the gun there was no movement… the kid was rock steady.  “This ain’t ‘bout him having balls, it’s about him havin’ a big brain that gets ya up in his grill.  See, I think Saul here knows that he can do it, it’s just about knowin’
when
to do it.”

             
“Man, Vesper, you told me to go out ‘n jump the kid in so we’d know he’s straight.”

             
“Don’t tell me what I said.”

             
“Really man, I just…it was like fate, chance….”

             
“Yeah, thing is you got your kicks, don’t tell me different.  She was pregnant, and that little girl was what, fuckin’ ten years old or somethin’?”

             
“I didn’t know….”

             
“Didn’t know what?  That she didn’t have no hair yet?  Or did you find out?  Fuckin’ truth serum.  You ready Saul?”

             
Saul nodded, but he couldn’t hear much more than the drumming of his pulse in his ears.  The buzz behind his eyes returned, narrowed.  He felt the checks on the gun’s grip in his palm.

             
“Vesper, please man….”  Bolo wobbled.

             
“Cap ‘em Saul.  Drain that fucker right here.”

             
“Saul, man waitwaitwait, seriou….”

             
The gun leaped in Saul’s hand, a gout of flame a foot and a half wide flashed and obliterated his view of the target.  He heard Bolo hit the wall, roll off and crump down on the ground before he could see him.  The room rang.  The report had been way louder than Saul had remembered from out on the street.  It wasn't like a firecracker this time:  it was pure cannon and all pain.  The gun locked open, and he angled it just a bit to keep Bolo in view.  Saul blinked hard as if this would clear his ears.

             
“Get up,” Vesper finally said.  He had to repeat it twice before the body stirred, groaned, and rolled over.  “Get your ass up off my floor fuckstick,” he said finally.

             
Bolo sat up, his face pitted and flash–burned.  His eyes were glazed, and a line of blood was dripping from his ear.  He staggered up, and then fell back to one knee.

             
“Ain’t nothing wrong with Saul here, it’s you that’s the little bitch,” Vesper said.  “There’s no next time for you B.  You belong to Saul now.  You do what the fuck he says and you do it when the fuck he says.  You’re his boy.  We straight?”
              A rasp, "Yeah.”

             
“No next time means no crimps, just  big ol’ forty shocks turnin' your head inside out,” he turned his attention to Saul.  “That there’s your piece, take care of it.  Any questions, you come ask me, got it?”  He slid a new magazine across the desk.

             
The boy nodded, "Okay.”  Finally, he lowered the gun, replaced the empty magazine with the real deal, and put it into his pocket.

             
“Gimme yours,” Vesper waved Bolo over.  Bolo took a step, balanced himself on the wall, and then made it the rest of the way to the desk.  The blood was really coming down out of his ear now, seeping out from between his clenched fingers.

             
“Put it right here,” Vesper pointed at the desk.

             
Tears of frustration streamed down his face, but he set the gun down without a single word. 

             
Vesper picked it up, dropped the magazine, and worked the action.  “Never even cleaned it have ya?  Dumb fuck.  Well this thing’s gone.  Can’t believe you still have it you dumb shit.”  He shook his head and reexamined the pistol. 

             
Saul rubbed his own ears, but the ringing remained.

             
“Aight, Saul you keep him off the street.  He goes with you.  He’s your boy, but I want the two of ya to disappear for awhile.  Hold down your corner, but nice and quiet like.  We’ll talk again tomorrow night, same time aight?”

             
“Yeah, okay.”

             
“Good ‘nuff.  Get some hot food downstairs and some sleep over at my crib.”

             
Saul waited for Bolo to open the door and step out unto the stairs; he really didn’t like the idea of walking down in front of him.

             
“Hey Saul,” Vesper said as he was about to leave.

             
He turned, "Yeah?”

             
“You gonna leave without sayin’ thanks?”

             
“It ain’t ‘bout thanks, right?”

             
Vesper smiled and leaned back in his chair.  "Exactly.”

Chapter Seven

In absentia

              Seth woke this time up to the image of himself on television.  There was no volume, but the pictures flashed past one by one:  an older one, graduation from college, and then one from the employee party last year or the year before, Seth couldn’t remember.  Then his dad, grey and foxy as ever, pulling through the gates out in front of his estate in his long nosed burgundy Jaguar.  It had been many, many years since Seth had been through those gates, but he knew the ground well.  The look on his dad’s face was priceless as the reporters closed in with their microphones and cameras. 
Don’t scratch the fucking paint. 
He let the gates close behind him, probably hoping he’d get lucky and skewer a reporter or two in order to ward off the others.

             
Seth turned when a nurse walked past.  She caught the movement out of the corner of her vision and leaned in.  "Can I get you anything?”  He shook his head, winced, and then just closed his eye.  “My wife, I need to see her.”

             
“How’s your pain?” she asked instead.

             
It seemed the worst possible of questions to Seth.  “When can I see her?”

             
The nurse consulted the room clock and then her own, "Doctor Stewart will be through in half an hour or so.” 

             
Seth watched her through his good eye as she saw the television for the first time.  His picture was back.  She stopped, pulled the remote over, and laid it within Seth’s reach.  “If you want some sound, it’s on the right side.”

             
“No sound.”

             
“Kay,” she hustled out.

             
As promised, the doctor arrived not long after and again introduced herself as Sam.  She wore the same expression in different clothes.  “I won’t ask how you’re feeling if you promise you’ll tell me the truth.”

             
Seth just watched her.

             
“Are you going to be able to handle seeing your wife?” she asked without hesitation.

             
“I don’t understand.”

             
“She’s in bad shape.  She won’t look like the pretty girl that she is when you see her, and it isn’t going to help one bit if you fall apart when you come in the room.  Understand?”

             
“Yeah.”

             
She flipped open her PDA and poked at the screen with the stylus.  “Think you’re up to it?  I want you two together.  It’ll help you both, but I want a straight answer out of you before I allow it.”

             
“I can handle it,” Seth said.

             
“Alright then,” she said.  “We’re moving her today sometime if she’s doing well.  If you’re ready, we’ll take you down sometime after that for a little while.  Deal?”

             
“Yes.”

             
“She
is
better.  A long way to go, and some big hurdles, but she’s better.  And listen, I've seen all kinds of trauma.  I've been all over, and I know that what happened to your face was not something that you did on your own.  We tracking?"

             
“What’s that mean?  I was honest.”

             
The doctor paused and their eyes met.  “Honestly.  Honestly, it means that she’s still very sick.  We’ll know more tomorrow, but right now we’re still in the deep woods.  And secondarily, it means that despite the cop in the hall, and the detectives and all of the drama, you didn't do all of this and then smash your own face in to throw everyone off.  Period.”

             
“Thanks,” Seth said.  His eye throbbed when he held it open, so he relaxed and let it close.  "Thanks.”

             
She left without another word.

             
Seth turned away from the television and the nurses watched him do so on the closed circuit video.

*              *              *

              Whitaker Meek had never really taken a great deal of stock in the notion of traditional father son relationships, nor did either of them see much benefit in extending olive branches when they would likely be woven into a crown of thorns.  And thus the two had lived separate lives.   

             
Seth was a product of a brief union between Whit and his mother, one that left all three of them feeling a bit sullied.  His mom had been a single, successful young woman working just out of college for an off shore bank out of Aruba.  The Caribbean had left her tanned, relatively wealthy, and on track.  Wiring money wasn’t terribly impressive in and of itself, but doing it for the all of the right people and with just a pinch of panache, especially for a svelte young islander, had more than once landed her in the sights of the
neuvo
–rich with their yachts and airplanes and cocky smiles.

             
She’d enjoyed the life, the attention, and the perks until Whit.  Not that he was bad to her.  They’d sailed nearly around the world after they’d met, three months of pure lust, the sort of passion that precludes everything else:  life, family, and common sense.  The fun kind.  It was a romance of vice, and while other people were waiting in mile–long lines to fill up their cars with gas, Seth’s mother was flying around the world in Whit’s jet and hoping that she’d never have to come down.  She was a couple of steps ahead of the game. 

             
Until Seth.  Seth was realistic about it, knowing that his life was a result of his mom’s decision to give birth instead of send him packing in a suction tube.  It had to be an agonizing decision.  Abort, ignore, resume.  Or, have the kid, end the whirlwind, and settle down away from the life she’d come to love.  Whit had lobbied for the former, which, in truth, Seth couldn’t really blame him for; it wasn’t personal really. Having a kid was a hardcore downer for a guy who was used to waking up to the midday sun on his back.              

             
The shock of it was the beginning of the end for the two lovers.  They went forward, young and determined, and married later that year.  The seed of doubt, though, had been sown in Whit, who was moderately paranoid about most anything anyway.  Seth was sure that he spent his wedding eve wondering if he’d been trapped, wondering if he could still get out, and if his father was right to tell him to cut and run.

The morning of the wedding there had been a knockdown drag out fight, one that attained legendary status in Seth’s mind as his mother told and retold the tale later.  The couple had nearly come to blows over Whit’s alcohol–fueled speculation that he’d been cornered by a gold–digger.  He’d qualified the statement by pondering the possibility that perhaps Seth’s mom wasn’t a gold–digger at all.  Maybe she was a political deadfall, placed in his path in a very… purposeful way.

              It hadn’t set well.  The ceremony was held on rocky eastern shores of Aruba as guests who had flown in the day before, and then driven to the location in 4x4 trucks over roads unfit for goats, held on to their fancy hats.  The mood was none too friendly by the time the spatting lovers finally took their vows… scowling.  Whit’s father had congratulated the couple with a smile and a shake of his head. 

             
It was probably a bad way to start.

And it led to a predictable end; an end that was filed for even before some of the wedding guests had left the island.  The two had separated, Seth’s mom getting little more than Seth and some bittersweet memories of what might have been.  He’d always felt bad for her in this, though she had never complained.  All of his life she’d labored to provide for him, saved enough to put him through his first two years of courses at MIT, and made him feel like he was a kid who could do whatever he wanted in life.  But there were times, and holidays were chief among these, when they would sit together and talk over a bottle of wine and she would re–bare her soul regarding Whitaker.  Seth didn’t think she still loved
him
as much as she loved what might have been.  The carefree days of her youth had only just begun, and had done so in spectacular fashion, only to be dashed in one moment by the realization that she was pregnant.  It was his ass, but he did feel sorry for her.  It must have been tough to turn in Caribbean sunsets for diapers and animosity.

             
So Seth had parents who had been officially hooked for about sixteen hours.  He’d grown up with his mom, visited Whit exactly twice before the age of ten, and then only once since.  His dad wasn't a good one, but temper that with the paranoia that his growing success in the political world would somehow be blunted by the revelation that he had a son sired by a philly without papers, and he became even less eager to host Easter egg hunts on the front lawn.

             
Seth and his mom had never gone without.  She was a hard worker, but they lived beyond what they should have been able to scratch out on a single parent’s income.  He’d always suspected, and correctly it turned out, that Whitaker had kept them comfortable in life, though whether it was out of a wayward desire to make amends or a more pragmatic approach to keep everyone quiet, he didn’t know.  Probably a little of both.  Whit wasn’t a bad guy, he was just Whit.  And to be fair, he really believed that Seth’s mom had angled to use the pregnancy card, which was entirely plausible as well.  Maybe even likely.  They were human beings, they were flawed, and they were his parents.

             
So all three of them felt a little used, a little dirty, and more than a little uneasy around one another. 

There were no Christmas cards.

              The fact that Seth and his bride had met in much the same way might have thrown up red flags.  They didn’t take a poll.  They’d come face to face for the first time on a little dive boat off of the coast of South Africa.  They’d been paired off as partners by the dive master in a happy twist of fate, and struggled into wetsuits, lubing one another with a water based gel, giggling like the freshmen that they were.  The remainder of the sober divers on the spring break trip had succumb to the evils of seasickness, which left Seth and Emily alone to wile away an hour of bottom time while the dive master maintained order on his boat.  They swam in great, lazy circles under the hull, watching as the fish swarmed above, realizing only later that they were merely recycling the breakfasts of many a late night partier. 

             
They’d spent the remainder of the week together in Durban, and found that there was something more to life than pushing the outside of the academic envelope.  It was a grand time to be alive, and minus the jet and yacht, they could easily have passed for another young couple a couple of decades prior.  They married during their Junior year just after midterms.

Whit congratulated them with a smile and a shake of his head.

There wasn’t much money as they pushed through school and even less after Jenny was born, but they had the prospect of being MIT graduates, and because the business world runs on the fuel of potential, they both were able to hang on to jobs that likewise, had promise.

             
Ten years later, they were making about three quarters of a million a year as a family and working insane hours while trying to raise a good kid.  Emily was the number three seed in her firm, and serving up some aces from month to month that kept her in the spotlight.  Lawyers loved good PR (or any PR depending on who you talked to), and she was getting it.  Likewise, Seth had been at the right place at the right time in the IT world and had just walked into Esoteric Internet Security one afternoon looking for a job when it was still little more than a computer store in a strip mall.  His career had been born with the Internet, and moved along just as quickly as it evolved.  Within five years he was doing heavy duty security work for some Washington firms, in just under ten he was contracting through EIS to the National Security Agency, something that was just too coincidental to be connected with Whit in any way.  The money was good and they agreed that they would keep it up only as long as it took to retire comfortably and relax with their brood.  They tended to live life together very much as they had begun it, giggling and lubing.  It was really more than love, Seth thought.  It was friendship.  It was hope.