Read a Short Extract
2
Elizabeth should sleep – she knew as much – but the fatigue was more than physical. The weariness came from dead men and the questions that followed, from thirteen years of cop that looked to end badly. She played the movie in her mind: the missing girl and the basement, the bloody wire, and the pop, pop of the first two rounds. She could explain two, maybe even six; but eighteen bullets in two bodies was a tough sell, even with the girl alive. Four days had passed since the shooting, and the life that followed still felt foreign. Yesterday, a family of four stopped her on the sidewalk to thank her for making the world a better place. An hour later, somebody spat on the sleeve of her favorite jacket.
Elizabeth lit a cigarette, thinking about how it all came down to where people stood. To those who had children, she was a hero. A girl was taken and bad men died. To a lot of people, that seemed about right. For those who distrusted the police on principle, Elizabeth was the proof of all that was wrong with authority. Two men died in a violent, brutal manner. Forget they were pushers and kidnappers and rapists. They died with eighteen bullets in them, and that, for some, was inexcusable. They used words such as ‘torture’ and ‘execution’ and ‘police brutality’. Elizabeth had strong feelings on the matter, but mostly she was just tired. How many days now with no real sleep? How many nightmares when it finally happened?
…Elizabeth took a minute to pull herself together. When she felt ready, she crossed the street and trotted up the stairs to where the double glass doors reflected light from streetlamps and stars. At the desk inside, she forced a smile and made a hands-up gesture to the sergeant behind the bulletproof glass.
“Yeah, yeah,” the sergeant said. “Dyer told me to let you through. You look different.”
“Different, how?”
He shook his head. “I’m too old for that shit.”
“What shit?”
“Women. Opinions.”
He hit the buzzer, and the sound followed her into the stairwell and upstairs to the long, open space used by the detective squad. It was nearly empty, most of the desks pooled in shadow. For bittersweet seconds, no one noticed her; then the door clanked shut and a massive cop in a crumpled suit looked up from his desk. “Yo,yo. Black in the house.”
“Yo, yo?” Elizabeth stepped into the room.
“What?” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t do street!”
“I’d stick with what you’ve got.”
“And what’s that?”
She stopped at his desk. “A mortgage, kids. Thirty extra pounds and a wife of what, nine years?”
“Ten.”
“Well, there you go. A loving family, thick arteries, and twenty years to retirement.”
“Funny. Thanks for that.”
Elizabeth took a sour ball from a glass jar, cocked a hip, and looked down at Charlie Beckett’s round face. He was six foot three and running to fat, but she’d seen him throw a two-hundred-pound suspect across the top of a parked car without once touching the paint. “Nice hair,” he said.
She touched it, felt how short it was, the spiky bangs. “Seriously?”
“Sarcasm, woman. Why did you do that to yourself?”
“Maybe, I wanted something different in the mirror.”
“Maybe you should hire somebody that knows what they’re doing. When did that happen? I saw you two days ago.”
She had vague memories of cutting it; four in the morning and drunk, lights off in the bathroom. She’d been laughing about something, but it was more like crying.
.
.
“Listen Liz.” Beckett leaned in, lowered his voice. “I’ve tried to give you space on the shooting. Right? I’ve tried to be a partner and a friend and understanding. But state cops are tomorrow - ”
“They have my statement. Asking the same questions won’t get them different answers.”
“They’ve had four days to look for witnesses, talk to Channing, work the crime scene. They won’t ask the same questions. You know that.”
She shrugged. “The story’s the story.”
“It’s political, Liz. You get that, right. White cop, black victims…”
``They’re not victims.”
“Look.” Beckett studied her face, worried. “They want to nail a cop they think is racist, unstable, or both. As far as they’re concerned, that’s you…”
3
.
.
“I know you think this place has used you up for the outside world, but the scars and busted bones don’t matter, same with the fear and the dark, the memories and hate and dreaming of revenge. You let that go. All of it. You walk out of this place and you keep walking. Leave this town. Find another.”
“And the warden? Should I leave him, too?”
“If he comes after you?”
“If he comes. If he doesn’t. What do I do if I see him?”
That was a dangerous question, and for an instant Eli’s dull eyes seemed shot with red. “What did I just say about revenge?”
Adrian ground his teeth and didn’t have to speak to make the point.
The warden was different.
“You let the hate go, boy. You hear me? You’re walking early. Maybe that’s for a reason, and maybe not. What does it matter if you disappear?” The guards were closer; seconds now. The old man nodded. “As for what you suffered in this place, all that matters is survival. You understand? There’s no sin in survival. Say it.”
“No sin.”
“And no need to worry on me.”
“Eli…”
“Now give an old man a hug, and get the hell out of here.”
Eli was nodding, and Adrian felt his throat close. Eli Lawrence was more father than friend, and as Adrian wrapped the man up, he found him so light and hot as if coals burned in the hollows of his bones. “Thank you, Eli.”
“You walk out proud, boy. Let them see you tall and straight.”
Adrian pulled back, looking for a final glimpse of the man’s tired and knowing eyes. But Eli faded into the shadows, turned his back, and all but disappeared.
“Go on now.”
“Eli?”
“Everything’s fine,” the old man said, but Adrian’s face was wet with tears.
The guards let Adrian step into the corridor, but kept their distance. He was not a large man, but even the guards had heard rumours of what he had endured, and how he’d done it. The numbers were undeniable: the months in hospital, the staples and stitches, the surgeries and broken bones. Even the warden paid attention to Adrian Wall, and that frightened the guards as much as anything else. There were stories about the warden, too; but no one pushed for the truth. It was the warden’s prison, and he was an unforgiving man. That meant you kept your head down, and your mouth shut. Besides, the stories couldn’t be true. That’s how the decent guards consoled themselves.
But not all guards were decent.
When Adrian got to processing, he saw three of the worst standing in the corner, hard-faced, flat-eyed men that even now made Adrian hesitate. Their uniforms were creased and spotless, all the leather shined. They lined the wall, and a message was in their arrogance. ‘We still own you’, it said. ‘Inside. Outside. Nothing’s changed.’
“What are you looking at, prisoner?”
Adrian ignored them and took his cues, instead, from a small man behind a counter topped with steel pillars and chain-link.
“You need to strip.” A cardboard box settled on the counter, and clothes unseen for thirteen years came out. “Go on.” The clerk flicked a glance at the three guards, then back to Adrian. “It’s okay.”
Adrian stepped out of prison shoes and stripped off the orange.
“Jesus…” The clerk paled at the sight of the scars.
Adrian acted as if it were okay, but it wasn’t. The guards who’d brought him from the cell were silent and still, but the three others were joking about the crooked fingers and the vinyl skin. Adrian knew each of them by name. He knew the sounds of their voices, and which was strongest. He knew which was most sadistic, and which one, even now, was smiling.
.
.
The small man shrugged, and Adrian knew from looking at his face that those particular guards made a lot of lives miserable.
“Let’s get you out of here.” The clerk pushed a paper across the slick surface. “Sign this.” Adrian dashed his name without reading. The clerk thumbed three bills onto the counter. “This is for you.”
“Fifty dollars?”
“It’s a gift from the state.”
Adrian looked at it, thought, ‘Thirteen years, fifty dollars.’ The clerk pushed the bills across the surface, and Adrian folded them into a pocket.
“Do you have any questions?”
Adrian struggled for a minute. Other than Eli Lawrence, he’d not spoken to another soul in a long time. “Is anyone here for me? You know…waiting?”
Copyright © John Hart 2016