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My lawyer’s breath landed hot on my ear. He was probably shouting, but I’ll be damned if I could hear him. I figured he wanted me to look into the camera and talk. I couldn’t see the camera. Hell, I couldn’t see much of anything anymore. There were probably six cameras surrounding me anyway. Fully digitized holograms impact a jury more. I pressed my new dentures back into place with my thumb and looked straight ahead before starting my story. They could move the damn camera.
Waiting in a limo is always the worst. I hate music and nothing interesting was on open or sat-radio. My wife, or ex-wife, listens to Hip-Hop Oldies when she’s bored. No sat-TV up front either. Clients don’t want their drivers to have access. Distraction or simply a power play? Doesn’t matter. And even if Canadian law didn’t require on-duty drivers to lock their U-cells in the glove compartment, I can’t stand watching vids on a three-inch screen.
Still, things weren’t so bad, I thought, running my fingers across the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I’d transferred the last payment earlier that morning. She was all mine and I’d be making pure profit, except for fuel, maintenance, insurance, and, of course, taxes.
Nicklebee-Omni Investments was a reliable run. Her exec would show, but the contract stipulated payment didn’t start until I hopped out and opened the door for the suit.
My dashboard readout flashed red, indicating time for the pickup. I flipped down the sun visor’s mirror and slipped on my driver’s cap, making sure it was straight. Clients prefer it when drivers wear the standard black, shiny brimmed hat. I didn’t mind. It covered my receding hairline. But now that I had my limo paid off, I could start saving up for the genetic therapy. In the last five years they’d developed a shot for everything. No more bald heads covered by a rug, or silicone to create cleavage, if you could afford it. Lori said she didn’t mind a balding man. I smiled, thinking as I pulled my limo across the lot and around to the Regal Majestic Hotel’s main entrance. I could save for me; my wife already had plenty of cleavage.
A bellhop scurried out of Windsor’s newest five-star hotel ahead of a lanky man sporting a wide-brimmed hat and matching tan trench coat. The tall man slowed his stride while watching me get out of my gray limo.
“Trunk, open,” I said as the bellhop, trying to impress my rider, waited to place the leather suitcase and suit cover in my limo’s trunk.
The bellhop hurried up to my rider and stood erect with hands at his side. “Will that be all, sir?”
Mr. Anderson held his hat and nodded. It was a mild October morning, making my rider’s trench coat, hat and thin gloves seem odd. The dismissed bellhop hustled back inside.
“Where is Salinger?” Mr. Anderson demanded.
I opened the rear passenger door. “I’m Jack Hollister of Hollister Contemporary Transport and I apologize on his behalf, Mr. Anderson. Someone broke into White Gold Expresses’ garage last night and vandalized all of their vehicles. Your office contacted me this morning.
Mr. Anderson pursed his lips and looked at the taxis and other waiting limos, then back toward the hotel. I guessed he was pushing thirty, a few years older than me.
“I’ve set the interior to 68 degrees Fahrenheit,” I said, trying not to sound offended. “I can adjust that if you like.”
He held out his briefcase. “Place this in your trunk as well. And be sure not to set it on the suits.” Unlike his suitcase, it looked a little scraped and battered.
“Sure thing, Mr. Anderson.” I took it and closed the door after he stiffly climbed in.
Briefcase stowed, I hurried around and I slid on my earpiece and microphone while settling in behind the wheel.
In the back Mr. Anderson looked anxious, fiddling with his gloves. I activated the speaker system. “Sir, you’ll need to buckle in.” When he looked up, I politely reminded him that it was the law in Canada and they had devices to monitor such things. Once back in the United States, it wouldn’t matter.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Would you prefer the bridge or tunnel?”
“Just drive.”
“Understood, sir. It should take less than forty minutes to reach your Livonia office, unless traffic through Detroit gets heavy. Make yourself at home.”
I pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. Mr. Anderson tapped on the glass. “Take the tunnel,” he said with a frown. After that he turned on the electronic eavesdropping scrambler and made a couple of calls on his U-cell.
Windsor’s midmorning traffic was light as usual and the lines for the automated toll center were short despite the United States and Canada integrating immigration surveillance and border security into the same system. The United States Border Patrol manned the stations granting access to U.S. soil from Canada, while Canadians manned the stations on the U.S. side, monitoring who entered their country.
Mr. Anderson rapped on the glass again before speaking. Tapping wasn’t necessary as I heard him through my earpiece anyway. “Use the far right booth.”
He’d forgotten to shut off the scrambler, so I was sure my reply back was as static-filled as his order. I nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Anderson.” The far right line was the longest, but he was in charge.
It took six minutes for the cars ahead of us to reach the booth. Internal scanners and electronics would pull the registration and history, instacheck records, deduct the toll fee from my account, then check for contraband, and we’d be on our way. The directional light flashed green. I checked in my rear view mirror and frowned.
“Mr. Anderson,” I said into my microphone, “you’ll need to turn off your U-cell before we enter.”
He glared at me and held up a gloved finger while finishing his conversation. I’m sure the two drivers behind us were thrilled. Fifteen seconds later Mr. Anderson slid his U-cell into his coat pocket and looked away from me, out the passenger-side window.
I followed the green light into the booth and shifted into park when it flashed red. The door slid down behind us and the metallic interior glowed yellow as the scanning arch made its pass over us. When the exit door rose, a yellow-clad security officer stood in our path, directing me with hand signals toward the bullpen.
As soon as I was clear of the booth, I switched on my mic. “Mr. Anderson, it appears we’ve been randomly selected for a more detailed check.”
He looked from me to the armed official. “Why were we selected? Has this happened to you before?”
I shrugged, wishing he’d shut off the scrambler. “No, sir. But I read that a mandatory percentage of travelers are pulled aside.” I turned and followed the green lights flashing along the drive, directing me toward the Immigration and Security Center.
Mr. Anderson sat back, folding his arms. “More likely we’ve been flagged because your registration and records are suspect.”
More likely, I thought, we were profiled for leaving the scrambler activated and taking the longest line. My file work was in order, unless a file corruption error had occurred. If it was due to me, I’d have to forfeit payment by Nicklebee-Omni Investments. I truly hoped this didn’t take long. I had a scheduled run from Detroit to Toledo at 1:30.
I stopped at one of three entrances to the brick, warehouse-like building. The border security man approached along the back, from the driver side. I lowered my window but before I could say anything, he ordered, “Please step out of the car with your hands in plain sight.” His hand rested on his holstered sidearm, a common sense precaution, so I didn’t argue. He directed me to stand in a yellow circle painted on the pavement fifteen yards away.
The door in front of my car rose and a man in gray coveralls holding a remote control activated a conveyer that carried my limo inside.
I considered mentioning that I had a passenger, but figured they already knew that. I read the security officer’s name tag and instead asked, “What’s the problem, Officer Winston? Random search?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Trainee on monitor five today. Scheduled tech called in sick.” He appeared relaxed, but his eyes remained intense and alert.
“Oh,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Guess that’s why the line was a bit longer than the others.” Officer Winston didn’t say anything.
I watched the steady traffic passing through the toll area for about twenty minutes. Mostly semi-trucks, only a third of which were diesel. Fuel cells were becoming more and more efficient. I still preferred ethanol, even if federal emission taxes were high.
I was wondering if Officer Winston, who was a little on the heavy side, was getting as tired of standing as me when a tall security official walked out of the Immigration and Security Center. She whispered into Winston’s ear before handing him a note on tan, lined paper. It fluttered in the wind, making it impossible for me to read the handwritten message.
Officer Winston frowned, hastily folded up the message and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He drew his sidearm. “Jack Hollister, you’re under arrest for possession of illegal narcotics and attempting to move them across an international border into the United States.”
I couldn’t believe what he said. I stood there dumbfounded. Next thing I knew I’d been cuffed, mirandized, and transported to the Federal Courthouse in downtown Detroit for processing and pretrial.
The pickup time for my next client came and went as I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in the holding area cuffed to a meagerly padded chair bolted to the floor. I was the only one cuffed in the row facing the community cell. A guard sat near the locked steel door, watching a vid on his U-cell.
The pale yellow paint peeling from the walls matched the speckled tiled floor, which stood out from the polished steel bars coated with a clear dura-polymer.
The community cell, containing eight bunks, a long table with benches bolted to the floor, and a sink between two stainless steel toilets in the far corner, currently held only six men. One, a curly-haired man wearing a brown t-shirt and sweats, laid on a top bunk, keeping to himself.
The other five, members of the Widowed Crimson Suns sat at the table, cussing and sharing stories of the disgusting women they’d screwed. They all wore red, collared shirts, each with a horizontal tear through the chest pocket. If that didn’t announce their gang affiliation, the flaming sun tattoo around their right eye definitely did. Only one appeared in his late teens. The other four looked to be past middle age, which seemed old considering the violent lives of gang members. And the WCS was definitely one of the most notorious. Even though I listened and watched what was going on, I avoided eye contact with the WCS members. I might be tossed in with them, and everybody knows looking one straight in the eye is considered a challenge.
I’ve been in my share of bar fights. I lifted weights twice a week and ran six miles the other five days. Driving is a sedentary job and clients tip drivers who appear healthy and in good shape. I might’ve held my own against one of them, especially one of the older ones, but there were five and no reason to expect they’d fight fair.
I looked over at the guard. By the time he got in the cell with his stun baton, if he dared go in without backup, they’d be pulling ribs out of my lungs.
My thoughts traveled back to my pickup that morning, Anderson. He should be in here with me. It had to be his fault I was in this rundown jail. I kept telling myself they were just checking to see if I was an accomplice to his narcotics trafficking.
I was clean. But the stories of innocents wrongly convicted kept creeping into my thoughts. And when I thought about it too hard, I broke into a sweat. Better to listen to my stomach growl. They’d fed the others at noon. The cold-cut sandwiches and juice appeared passable, but the guard said I wasn’t officially on the lockup roster, so I didn’t get fed.
One of the older Crimson Suns sauntered up to the bars and asked the guard, “Hey man, what say you lend us your cell?” His wide grin framed between a graying beard and mustache showed several gold teeth. The gang member’s smile was friendly, but even though he wasn’t looking at me, I sensed his cold, emotionless stare.
The guard looked up from his entertainment. “Forget it, Mayfly.”
The gang member slammed his hands against the bars. “Man, you know the last pickups leave at noon. We’re stuck here all weekend. What we supposed to do for entertainment?”
“Bad news for you,” said the guard, stretching. “President named Monday a federal holiday. Landing and all.” That got the gang members’ attention. “You know, first man to set foot on Mars. Probably be a woman, though.”
“What!”
“Yep, all you mayflies will spend Monday here too.”
The gang member at the bars became red in the face. I looked away before he noticed my gaze. The others began cursing, throwing their paper plates and plastic cups still half-filled with juice around, except for the young one. He sat, swirling his finger in the spilled red juice on the table. I stared at the ground while the guard laughed some more.
“Watch it,” the guard said, becoming somber. “Chances are already slim your lawyer’ll manage bail.” Before the ageing WCS yelled anything else, the guard stood. His height allowed him to stare down at the gangster while pointing his finger. “Your time is short enough. You know Fed rules. Disrespect or cuss me,” he dared. “All you mayflies. You too, Rot-head.”
I looked at the guard, wondering what rules he was talking about. I’d heard the Federal system was harsh. The nearest gang member’s gaze fell on me before he turned away.
I kept still, breathing shallow. Unless Anderson confessed or evidence immediately proved me innocent, I’d be spending a 3-day weekend locked up with the guy in brown and five WCS gangsters. I didn’t know what a mayfly was, but a Rot-head was someone infected with the IE-ND virus. That disease was all over the news.
The guard stepped back, stretched again, and said to no one in particular, “Time for my break.” He looked up, over his shoulder at the surveillance camera. Its flashing green light indicated record mode. It was then that I saw the edges of a familiar folded up tan paper hanging out of his pants pocket. He must’ve seen the discovery on my face. Looking from me to the Crimson Suns in the holding cell, he said, “Behave.” Scratching his neck, the guard pushed the red buzzer button next to the steel door, summoning a fellow guard to let him out.
As soon as the steel door’s lock clicked, the room fell silent. A simple nod from the gangster nearest me set the rest into action. Without a word they fell upon the brown-clad man resting on the upper bunk.
A fraction of a second before I yelled, “Hey!” the man sat up, sensing the danger. But, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of malicious hyenas, his strength was no match. Their swift attack quickly overpowered the lone man’s flurry of fists and kicks.
I screamed, “HEY! Stop! You won’t get away with it!”
Cruel smiles hung on the each attacker’s face as they pummeled their victim and pinned him face down to the floor. The youngest one’s face held a hint of glee. They laughed.
“Come on, Serpent,” urged the leader. “Get to it!”
I’d bruised my wrists struggling to break free from the chair. I was scared. Not only for the beaten man—I knew that could be me. And if Anderson set me up, it would be me. The camera monitoring the holding cell and the other one pointing at the door and the row of chairs holding me continued to flash green.
They hauled the pinned man’s sweat pants down, and the struggle started anew, this time with desperate screams that would haunt me forever. Like driving past a wreck with accordion-crushed cars and bloody bodies, I felt compelled to look, once. My stomach knotted and I broke into a cold sweat. Fortunately there was nothing to throw up. Guys joke about criminals becoming someone’s husband in prison, and deserving it. To me it’s not funny anymore. No one deserves that.
A few minutes later the gang leader sauntered back up to the bars and looked at my chauffer attire. “Hey, Cabbie, you like the entertainment?” He produced the same gold-tooth grin, but this time I met his cold stare. “That would’ve cost a bunch to download to your U-cell, Cabbie.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Nobody heard you yelling. Nobody but us.” He flicked his head up toward the cameras. “They’re busted,” he laughed. “Why you think Murray was sittin’ in here?”
Murray must’ve been the guard. Broken cameras? The gangster caught my surprised look, and his smile became sinister. “You’re a model citizen, Cabbie. You don’t know how things work between guards and us.”
“You wouldn’t care if the cameras were on,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
“You got that, Cabbie. They can’t do nothin’ more to us anyway. They’ve already shot us up with the prune juice. Except for Serpent. He’s a Rot-head. You know what that means?”
I knew. It’d been hot in the news for the last two years. He had the Immuno-Evasive Neural Degenerative virus. It attacks the brain, turning victims into drooling morons in a matter of months. Then, they start shaking, and crying and screaming every waking moment, and eventually in their sleep. Doctors attribute it to hallucinations and nightmares. Eventually they die of terror-filled exhaustion. No cure, not even a hint of one on the horizon.
“I see you know,” the gang leader said. “You know how it’s passed. Blood and body fluids.” He looked over his shoulder. I followed his gaze. They’d hefted the man in brown back onto his bunk and threw a blanket over him. The young gangster had taken off his shirt and, after dipping it in the toilet, was wiping up the small puddles of blood.
“Serpent got it a month ago from a bitch-hooker. Ain’t no treatment.” He looked at the man they’d attacked and pointed. “We figured it’s his birthday, so Serpent gave him a little gift.” He turned back to me. “Since you like yellin’ and screaming, like your friend, I’m sure Serpent will make a present to you too.”
I met the leader’s gaze. He knew I was scared, but no sense in showing it. “It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do.”
“Got to say this for you, Cabbie. You learn quick for a model citizen.” The leader turned around and yelled at Serpent. “Rinse your shirt out in the sink, not the damn toilet before puttin’ it back on.”
I don’t know if my public defender didn’t get it, or didn’t want to get it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollister,” she said, “but where you are held is out of my control. We should get back to your recorded statement to the Federal Border Police.”
My public defender, Ms. Jazzalo, had to be fresh out of law school. She’d pulled her blonde hair back in a bun and wore an old-style pair of black-rimmed glasses probably with fake lenses, for effect. They did little to hide the dark circles under her eyes.
After reviewing my statement to the FBP on the monitor set into the wall of her closet-like office, she asked, “Is there anything to add?”
“No. I told them everything.” While I’m not one who speaks much with my hands, trying to converse while cuffed to a steel chair was annoying. I understood. Security for Ms. Jazzalo. The red panic button on the wall behind her said it all: My current seat regularly held nasty customers.
“Well,” she said sadly, sitting back and folding her hands under her chin. “I spent my lunch and early this afternoon checking out your story. According to hotel security and the bellhop, you showed but didn’t wait for Mr. Anderson and he took a cab. I verified with the cab driver and Anderson at his Livonia office. Border security found no one else in your limousine, and your prints were the only ones on the briefcase. Plus, the message on your U-cell from a Mr. Guadalupe, a known member of the WCS gang and suspected narcotics trafficker, inquiring why you missed the drop.”
“But I did make the pickup,” I said, wincing at the pain the restraining cuffs sent through my bruised wrists after trying to stand.
Ms. Jazzalo frowned, but remained calm.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you speak with the bellhop? I watched him load Mr. Anderson’s suitcase and suits into my trunk.” Saying ‘Anderson’ gave me an intense urge to spit. I didn’t.
“The bellhop, she does not confirm this,” my lawyer said.
“She?”
“Look, Mr. Hollister, the initial evidence points to you.”
“I’m not a narcotics mule! I’m being set up!”
Ms. Jazzalo looked at me patiently over the rims of her glasses. “Are you finished?”
“What about bail?”
“I already petitioned for this, but you were caught with four kilos of pure nilairion. Add that to the connection with the WCS gang? Too much of a flight risk.”
“I can’t stay locked up here,” I said evenly. “I’ll be dead, or as good as it by Tuesday.”
Ms. Jazzalo checked the clock on the wall behind me. “It’s three-fifteen. I will send a petition to the Windsor City Government for the street and highway monitoring records corresponding to the times and route indicated in your statement.
“You can’t send me back to the holding cell with them.”
“I’ll request your limo to be secured for a more detailed forensic evidence scan on Tuesday. I’ll request copies of the hotel surveillance recordings and will personally interview the bellhop, immigration and security officials.”
I interrupted her. “You don’t get it do you?” Early in our meeting, I thought Ms. Jazzalo believed me. Now, her blank face and matter-of-fact attitude said otherwise. “Have them cuff me to the chairs outside the holding cell.”
“I can request it, but they won’t do it. Human rights advocates would be all over them.” She leaned forward and tapped a flashing icon on her desk screen. “Here’s the holding area surveillance I requested on your behalf.” She read a note on her desk screen. “Auditory monitoring system crashed this morning. Visual mode only.” After tapping again, a split screen appeared on the wall monitor. The right half showed the holding cell, the left half showed the door and the row of chairs holding me.
The guard, Murray, was talking to the gang leader just like I remembered. He stepped back from the bars and stretched, disrupting the view of the left screen camera for several seconds. Then Murray turned and walked toward the door.
“See, in his pocket?” I said. “That’s the note. Same one Officer Winston had.”
My lawyer nodded and jotted a note on her electronic legal pad, never taking her eyes from the screen.
Then, my jaw dropped. There I was, yelling and trying to break free from the cuffs, but all that happened in the cell was the man in brown fell out of the bunk and rolled into the young gang member. The red-clad gangster kicked him and they scuffled. That was it. Then the man in brown climbed back up into the bunk.
I was stunned and could only mumble, “But that’s not what happened.” Something was up. I’m sure my eyes shifted like a trapped animal’s while my mind raced with questions. Was Anderson that important? He must have connections to escape detainment at the Immigration Center, and for the staff of the hotel to cover for him. But how and why? What was the street value of that much nilairion—maybe fifteen million a kilo? Anderson must’ve given the narcotics trafficker my call number.
I had some of the pieces, but they weren’t enough to prove my innocence. One thing I did know—the cell guards were in cahoots with the WCS. And once the five of them ganged up on me and that Rot-head raped me, infecting me with the IE-ND virus, how long before my mind degenerated to the point of being unable to defend myself?
I asked, “Is a witness infected with the IE-ND virus able to take the witness stand?”
“Yes,” said Ms. Jazzalo. “But the jury must be informed of the witness’ condition.”
I slammed my hands against the arms of the chair. “What if I plead guilty?”
My public defender sat up straight. “Are you guilty?”
“No, but it’ll be months before my trial, right?”
“Three weeks to a month,” she said. “Justice moves more swiftly now than three years ago. Fewer repeat offenders, fewer court cases. But I have a heavy case load, and getting all the information and evidence, more like six weeks, if you’re innocent. Otherwise we’ll focus on a plea bargain deal.”
“I am innocent,” I said. “Now, what happens if I plead guilty, right now?”
“You’ll be sentenced and the punishment administered.” She took off her glasses. “But if you’re innocent, Mr. Hollister, you don’t want to do that.”
I didn’t see that I had a choice. “What happens? Will I get out today? Can I get my limo back?”
“Yes, you could go before the judge and be released today. Although your automobile was used in the course of a crime, the judge might be lenient. But trust me, you don’t want to do that. Mandatory minimum sentence for possession of that amount of a Class A Controlled Substance and attempting to bring it into the United States...” She tapped at her desk screen, double checking. “Minimum consecutive sentence is seventy-five years to life.”
I made my decision. I knew the consequences, but it was better than the alternative. The screams of the raped man echoed in my head, sending an icy chill throughout my body. “Do it,” I said. “I want to plead guilty. And I want my limo back so I can keep earning a living.”
“If you’re innocent, why? If you take possession of your automobile, evidence will be lost. You seem to be indicating you’re the victim of a conspiracy, Mr. Hollister.” She stood and leaned across the desk. “You’re committing suicide.”
“Going back into holding is worse than committing suicide.”
Ms. Jazzalo sat back and pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Are you absolutely sure, Mr. Hollister. You realize sentencing will be carried out immediately. By pleading guilty, the possibility for a successful appeal is virtually impossible.”
I laughed, and my grin surprised my lawyer. “Virtually impossible?” I said. “That’s better than I thought.”
She shook her head. “Are you positively, absolutely sure you want to plead guilty to possession of four kilos of a Class A Controlled Substance and attempting to transport it into the United States?”
“I don’t want to, but I am.”
She looked back up at the clock. “If you don’t want to go back into holding, I’ll have to set this up quickly. But I won’t allow you to plead guilty. You’ll plead no contest.”
I made it home a few minutes ahead of my wife and barely had time to plop down on the couch before she stomped in, slamming the apartment door behind her. “Where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer my texts or your cell!”
I glanced at my U-cell setting on the end table. This wasn’t how I’d pictured telling Lori about my day and the resulting bad news. Bad news, that was an understatement.
Lori stood there with her hands on her hips, holding her unbuttoned lab coat open, revealing her endangered tropical frog t-shirt, with the frogs in the act of mating. I always laughed at her mix of offbeat shirts with the mandatory leather shoes and navy blue dress pants. The urgent care where she maintained medical scanning equipment didn’t care what she wore underneath, as long as the patients only saw professional attire.
I obviously hadn’t answered fast enough because she started yelling again. “Well? Why am I getting calls that you didn’t show for a pickup? Why am I taking my break calling your buddy, Al, to make the pickup?” Tears began to form, but didn’t flow. “Why did you make me keep checking the news updates for accidents and waiting for an emergency room call?”
I let her get it all out before I asked her to sit down. I pointed to the file folder containing hardcopy information on the Sentence Equivalent Serum. The Fed doctor had reviewed it with me before and after injecting me with the court authorized dose.
At first Lori smiled, thinking I was joking. Her jaw dropped when I handed her the file and told her what had happened. Even as I did, it still didn’t seem real—like it really happened. But as I neared the part where I stood before the judge, accepting my sentence, my hands began to shake. I held them clenched against my thighs as I described the long walk to the doctor’s office, escorted by a prison guard and the FBP officer that took my statement, and being strapped down before the injection.
When I finished, there was a long moment of silence. Tears ran down Lori’s face. Slowly, the look of confusion and sadness transformed to anger and frustration.
“I can’t believe you let them inject that serum into you! Do you know what that stuff does, Jack? It degrades your DNA. It’s permanent.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I stood and began pacing in front of our cramped apartment’s wall screen. I wanted to go for a jog. I’d felt like a trapped animal all day, and still did now, even at home. I thought at least my wife would understand. “What else could I do?”
“Were you running narcotics?”
“What?”
She stood, looking hard at me. “Were you?”
“No,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and even. “How can you ask me that?”
“You don’t understand, Jack. You said they gave you 40x serum, right?”
I nodded and plopped down on the couch, fingering through the file to show her.
“You don’t get it, Jack. This isn’t one of those things you can ignore and hope it goes away.” She looked at the clock on the wall next to our bedroom door. “Since I’ve been home, you’ve aged a day.”
“The public defender gave me the name of a top appeals lawyer.”
She began crying again. I hugged her, amazed that I had no tears. She cried into my shoulder, “One whole day.”
I arrived home late the next night after chauffeuring a high school couple to their homecoming game and to the dance afterwards. The apartment was dark and quiet, except for the squeaking mouse wheel. Even if Lori wasn’t up, she always left the light on for me. I had the sinking feeling she was gone. Instead of going to the bedroom to confirm my fear, I walked over to the aquarium on the shelf holding Oscar and Ginger. I searched the little hide boxes while Oscar scampered behind my hand as I lifted each potential hiding place.
Ginger was gone. So was Lori.
I lifted Oscar out and let her roam up my arm as I walked over to the couch. She was a black mouse that I’d named before knowing her sex. Now I had no family to speak of. And on Tuesday, when my name hit the convicted felons list, I’d probably lose the few friends I had.
“Well, Oscar,” I said. “It’s just you and me.” I held up the mouse and considered her. “Guess, the race is on. Even money you’ll outlive me.”
Tuesday morning, the intercom buzzer woke me. “View screen on.”
A lady, probably in her mid 50s wearing dangling pearl earrings and a pink granny sweater, stood there with a computer clipboard, humming to herself. I tapped voice only reply. “I’m sorry I don’t do surveys.”
“Am I speaking with Mr. Hollister?” Her cheery voice grated against my depressed mood.
I suddenly felt suspicious. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Pricilla Gibson, your assigned case manager.” When I didn’t respond she added, “Federal law mandates that someone in your condition be provided access to someone like me.”
I thought a moment. “Will you get in trouble if I decline your services?”
“No, but I’d like to at least speak with you about what services are available now and in the future.”
Future? I shook my head at the thought. “Thank you for stopping over.” I knew she was only doing her job, so I offered, “I’ll be happy to sign off, verify that you contacted me as assigned.”
“No need, Mr. Hollister. Sorry if I woke you. I was up late last night too. Those astronauts, quick thinking on their part. Lucky to be alive.”
I didn’t really care what happened on Mars, or that we beat China there. But it did provide steady work all weekend, driving clients to catered Mars Landing parties. Who knew how many regular clients I’d lose once word got out that I was a convicted felon.
Ms. Gibson smiled into the camera. “I’ll stop by again in two weeks.” She deactivated it from her end before I could reply.
I smiled and nodded to the receptionist when she said, “Mr. Howe will see you now.”
I’d waited three weeks for this appointment, and passed up a good paying run to Sandusky to keep it. Howe was the lawyer for motions and appeals in Federal court. Watching the old woman with a crab-cane hobble out his office a few minutes earlier had shaken my confidence. Was she a mayfly like me?
Mr. Howe met me at the door with a meaty handshake before ushering me to a padded chair in front of his mahogany desk. His white hair, with only a hint of gray stood out against his dark skin. Sage-like wrinkles under his eyes and his engaging smile drew attention away from the gold vest buttons straining to hold the bulge of his stomach in check.
He sat down and got right to business. “I am truly sorry it took so long to squeeze you in, Mr. Hollister.” He tapped through a few pages on his desk screen. “Your case for appeal...looks grim. Honestly, the fact that Sallie Jazzalo recommended I take you on as a client is the only reason I’m meeting with you.”
I’m sure my body language, slumped shoulders and a confused look, told the attorney volumes. After a few seconds of thought he added, “I tend to believe that you are a victim of circumstances, Mr. Hollister. However, you did plead no contest. That severely limits our options. I will, of course, file an appeal, asserting your decision was made under extreme duress. Unfortunately Mr. Haxonweitz, the individual you claim was sexually assaulted, committed suicide.” He leaned back and frowned. “The next of kin have sealed the autopsy results, so I’ve been unable to learn if he was exposed to the IE-ND virus, which would at least set the first stone in building your case. Still, filing keeps the door open a crack.”
He went on for a few minutes, discussing legal tactics and motions, but all I could focus on was the bottom line. The appeals were ultimately doomed to failure.
Mr. Howe paused until I regained focus. “Sorry, Mr. Hollister. I tend to ramble on a bit these days. Do you have any questions?”
No sense feeling sorry for myself. It wouldn’t help. I sat up straight and asked, “Why did you take me on as a client based on Ms. Jazzalo’s recommendation? Don’t get me wrong. I think she did her best for me.”
“That you drew her as your public defender, Mr. Hollister, is the one lucky break you got that day. She has connections.”
Oscar sat on my shoulder while I shaved. Using the cracked mirror each morning annoyed me, but I had to look proper for the clients. I’d really had to scramble for clients, but the job was the only thing keeping me going. Hints of crow’s feet and a few gray whiskers began showing on my face.
“Looks like I need more sleep, Oscar.” She was pretty much my only buddy. Sure, I talked to cabbies and the occasional driver—small talk. Shallow stuff like sports and the weather.
I set my razor down and put Oscar in her bathroom fishbowl while I slapped on some aftershave, otherwise Oscar would demonstrate her dislike of cologne by bolting. “Oscar, it’s been a month since hearing from Howe’s office. Guess Ms. Jazzalo having a State Supreme Court Justice father and chief of staff for U.S. Senator mother doesn’t add up to useful connections for me. Got any plans for New Year’s Eve?” I asked, buttoning my white shirt. “I’ll be working.”
A knock at the door startled me. I pulled on my black dress pants and went to check through the peep hole. It was that case worker, Pricilla Gibson. I reluctantly opened the door. “Kind of a bad neighborhood, Ms. Gibson. Come on in.”
Computer clip in hand, she stepped into my motel room. “Thank you. Pricilla is fine, Mr. Hollister.”
I closed the door, keeping out as much cold air as I could. “I told you before, I don’t need services.”
She stomped the bits of snow off her boots. “May I sit down?”
I pointed to the ratty chair next to the rickety end table and headed back to the bathroom to finish dressing. “I don’t have a pickup until noon.”
“I had trouble tracking you down. Promised I’d follow up.”
“Got evicted,” I said from the bathroom. “Lease disallowed convicted felons. This is all I can afford. Got a locked garage for my limo just down the street, next to the coffee shop.”
“How are you doing, Mr. Hollister?”
I walked back out and sat on the bed to put on my shoes. “How do I look?”
“Older,” she said matter-of-factly.
I politely asked Ms. Gibson to leave and not come back. She left but promised to check in on me in two months. She was good to her word, and two months after that as well. Both times I refused to answer the door.
She finally caught up with me at the corner coffee shop and climbed onto the stool next to me. With Spring’s return, so did her pink granny sweater. “How are you doing, Mr. Hollister?”
I stared at my coffee and considered ignoring her. “I’m contemplating a toupee, why?”
“I asked how are you doing,” she snapped back. “Not what.”
The shop got quiet for a few seconds. “Sorry, Ms. Gibson. Bad day.”
“Priscilla, remember? Do you have a lot of bad days?”
“I had one very bad day in my life. All the rest are nothing.”
“Oh,” she said, and ordered a cup of hot chocolate.
“I’ll be up front with you, Mr. Hollister. I’ve asked around. You don’t have any friends. Everybody needs friends.”
“I’ve got a friend,” I said, stirring another spoonful of sugar into my coffee. “Name’s Oscar.”
She tapped that into her clip. “Mind if I ask what’s put you in such a bad mood?”
I didn’t want to tell her. I just wanted to live my life, what was left of it in peace. I looked at her as she sipped her hot chocolate. I nodded over toward an empty booth and took my coffee there. After she settled in, I said, “Friday, I chauffeured a couple of kids to their prom. Same kids I took to their homecoming game in October.”
I tried to take a sip of coffee, but my hand shook too much, sending ripples over the rim. “They asked me why I picked them up, and not my son.”
In late September I was surprised when my pickup downtown happened to be Mr. Howe. I let him in and shuffled around and slid behind the driver’s seat. It’d been almost three weeks since my last eye appointment, and I’d probably need a new prescription to keep driving through October, but it sure looked as if Mr. Howe had put on weight since seeing him last.
He leaned forward and signaled for me to lower the privacy window. “Mr. Hollister, good to find you’re still working.”
I’d have been upset if anybody else but him said that—except for Pricilla. “Thanks. Where to Mr. Howe?”
“Airport.” He sat back and relaxed. “You know, passage of the Accelerated Justice Bill has saved the taxpayers money. Reduced the incoming prison population by seventy percent. Cut recidivism, and violent crime is down fifty percent.”
I maneuvered into traffic, trying not to get angry while he rambled on. “Only four years since the Supreme Court ruled it’s no more cruel and unusual punishment than the death penalty.” He leaned forward again. “But, Jack, as you know, it’s a less than perfect solution.”
My knuckles turned white, gripping the wheel.
“Jack, there’s a sting operation underway. I told you Sallie Jazzalo had connections. They’ll get your Anderson. You just have to hang in there.”
“When?” I asked, accidentally swerving my limo a bit.
“Sorry to say that these things take time. I know it’s something you don’t have a lot of.” He reached through and patted me on the shoulder. “The second it goes down, I’ll be filing an emergency motion on your behalf.”
The mid February snow made my arthritic pace even slower. Fifteen minutes to make it to the corner coffee shop. I saw Priscilla sitting in our booth, watching me through the window and probably praying I didn’t fall. They took my chauffeur’s license away from me. I didn’t have much left but pride and fading dignity. I was using a damn cane like she insisted. Already had a walker in the bullpen.
Some people age well. I wasn’t one of them. Priscilla helped me take off my coat.
“You ever going to order anything but hot chocolate?”
She took a sip and smiled. “You ever going to accept the money you’re entitled, to assist with your expenses?”
“If they’d let me work I wouldn’t need it.” We both knew I couldn’t handle the job in winter. And by spring... “I ain’t no charity case. I’ve always paid my way.”
The young, always friendly waitress brought my coffee.
Priscilla passed me the sugar. “How’s Oscar?”
I poured in less sugar than usual. It was beginning to bother my teeth. “Showing her age.”
“Have you heard from your lawyer?”
“Howe? Nah. Not for a while. It’s too late anyway.”
She reached across the table and took my liver-spotted hand. “It’s never too late, Jack.”
“I got the garage paid through May. Motel too.”
“I’ve arranged for a visiting nurse, to start next week. She’ll check in on you daily.”
“I can’t afford that.”
“It’s on the government’s tab. And I’ve arranged for a room at Sunny Dale Pavilion, just down the street, when it becomes necessary.”
“That nursing home? It’s a hole.”
“No worse than your motel room. Can you afford better?”
“No.” I had to admit it. My time was coming. “They’ll take Oscar?”
She laughed. “Yes, I wouldn’t forget Oscar.” After a moment of silence while we drank, she asked, “Do you need to see the priest for confession again?”
“Nah, I told him everything last week. I can’t do a damn thing to get into trouble anymore.”
“Okay. You just seemed so much happier after finally attending church and confession.”
She was right. Getting a lifetime of mistakes and guilt off my chest, even a shortened one, made a difference. I nodded and smiled.
“Probably spent two days in there.” When she didn’t laugh I added, “Don’t worry, Priscilla. I’ll hang on long enough to see you wearing that pink granny sweater again.”
We chatted for a while until her next scheduled client. She helped me get my coat on before her clip flashed, signaling an incoming call.
“Priscilla, I know it’s your job to visit, but besides Oscar, you’re my only friend. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Jack. I’ll dig that old sweater out of the closet.” As I turned to leave, she added, “And next week, I expect to see that walker.”
At the door when I turned to wave, my cane hit a wet spot. It went one way and my feet slid the other. I knew when I hit the floor my hip was busted.
“It’s for you, Jack,” said Priscilla, holding out my U-cell. It, like her in her pink sweater, was getting harder to make out each day. The fog of cataracts.
The feedback from my old-style hearing aids made it hard to hear anyone on my U-cell. Besides, I’d seen Mr. Howe yesterday. “I know what he wants. You know what to tell him.”
Priscilla spoke politely. “Mr. Howe, Mr. Hollister appreciates your efforts, but still refuses the injection to halt the effects of the Sentence Equivalent Serum, even if you can convince the Justice Department to administer it here in the nursing home.
“Yes, Mr. Howe, I will inform him.” She listened some more. “Yes, I’ll make sure the staff has him ready.”
She set my U-cell down on the table next to my wheelchair. “Mr. Howe has arranged for the civil claims attorney, a Mr. Gordon, to interview you this afternoon.” She laughed. “He said Gordon’s a ruthless bastard, just like you wanted to go after Anderson.”
“This afternoon?” I looked out the window at the daily increasing green. “Why not tomorrow?”
“You know the reason, Jack. Especially since Mr. Howe won the appeal, and then you rejected the antidote.”
“It can’t give me back my years. I don’t want to live another day, trapped in a wheelchair, half blind, half deaf, no Oscar.”
“I know you miss her, Jack.”
Arthritis in my shoulders and elbows made it painful to move my arms when I got mad. I looked over at the empty aquarium. “Did they freeze her?”
“No, Jack, remember? I took Oscar home yesterday. She’s in my freezer. I’ll be sure they bury her with you.”
I shouldn’t have been giving Priscilla a hard time. “Thanks.” I pushed my dentures back into place. “Hot damn, I hope they stick Anderson in this hell hole.”
Priscilla stood. “They got more than him, Jack. I’m going to find the LPN to get you dressed for Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon wasn’t only ruthless, but greedy. He planned to sue Immigration, including the prisoner detention division, the Regal Majestic Hotel, Nicklebee-Omni Investments, and the assets and estates of everyone Gordon could connect to my improper detainment and prosecution, especially Anderson. Gordon was sure we’d win, but would have to wait until after the criminal trials. Oscar and I’d be fertilizing daisies long before then.
Gordon was smooth when he needed to be, but otherwise he treated me and Pricilla like pieces of meat, parading me past the news reporters held at bay by the burly, white-jacketed nursing home security men.
“Mr. Hollister, why won’t you take the antidote?” “Do you want to confront Ezra Anderson before you die?” “Is it true your only friend is a mouse named Oscar? Where is he?”
Gordon told them about Oscar? Damn him. I flicked off my hearing aids, silencing the mob of reporters. Priscilla wheeled me into the nursing home’s meeting room.
“Anderson, hope you like prune juice,” I muttered, angry from the reporters’ questions.
Gordon had already briefed me. I knew what I had to do to nail Anderson. Take away his money to fund his appeals, getting him the prune juice sooner. Gordon was getting thirty-five percent, and Howe six percent to administer my estate. What I asked for in my will wouldn’t be easy, but once I was dead, there was nothing Priscilla could do about it.
NASA was trying to scrape together more funds for additional rockets carrying building materials and equipment to the tenuous Mars colony. Using Ms. Jazzalo’s connections, Mr. Howe said by donating my eventual estate, it shouldn’t be a problem to get a small colony wing named after Oscar and Priscilla. A plaque with their holographic images too.
Priscilla told me time and again that life doesn’t always give us what we deserve. I wouldn’t let that happen to her.
“Accelerated Justice” first appeared in Strange, Weird and Wonderful Magazine, 2011 Summer Issue
