J. T. Aldridge did not strike Ray Langston as the scary criminal mastermind Marshall Segura had pictured. He was a skinny, unimposing white guy in his late twenties with multiple priors for selling pot on street corners. An orange prison jumpsuit seemed slightly too large for his scrawny frame. A buzz cut kept his short brown hair under control. Confused blue eyes looked Ray over, a trifle suspiciously, but without the shark-like deadness Ray had come to associate with stone-cold killers. About the only thing that fit Segura’s description was the angry snake tattooed atop Aldridge’s jugular. Its jaws were open, poised to strike. Crimson teardrops dripped from its exposed fangs. A rattler, Ray noted. Not a coral snake.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m a doctor. With the crime lab.”
High State Desert Prison was only about twenty-five miles northeast of Vegas. Ray was glad that he hadn’t needed to drive all day to interview the convicted drug dealer; in fact, it had taken longer to arrange this visit with the Department of Corrections. According to court records, Aldridge had been found guilty by a jury headed by Rita Segura. Motive enough to have someone plant a coral snake at The Nile?
Ray was here to find out.
“A doctor?” Aldridge perked up. “Like a medical doctor?”
“That’s right.”
Ray sat opposite the convict in a private interview room. Painted concrete walls and barred windows made the interrogation rooms back at the police station seem homey by comparison. A stony-faced prison guard, his beefy arms crossed atop a barrel chest, watched over the encounter from a discreet distance. Ray actually found the guard more intimidating than Aldridge, even though the inmate was the one handcuffed to his chair. A billy club rested against the guard’s hip.
“Cool.” Aldridge leaned forward. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You think maybe you could write me a prescription for some, you know, medical marijuana? I need it for my nerves.” He held his free hand so Ray could see it shake. “I have a problem with, what do you call it, anxiety.”
“I’m not really here in a medical capacity,” Ray hedged. “But perhaps we can talk about that later.” Nevada was one of fourteen states that had legalized the medicinal use of cannabis, but it was typically used to relieve the symptoms of patients suffering from AIDS, cancer, or glaucoma. He doubted that Aldridge qualified for a permit, but didn’t want to deny him just yet. He still needed the convict’s cooperation. “Right now I want to talk to you about your trial.”
Aldridge snorted. “That wasn’t a trial. That was a joke. My stupid public defender was just going through the motions. He couldn’t even get my name right. The whole thing was a big misunderstanding. A case of, you know, mistaken identity? I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I see.” Ray took Aldridge’s claims with a grain of salt. Convicts who freely admitted their guilt were about as rare as slot machines that paid out jackpots on a regular basis; according to most prisoners, every conviction was an appalling miscarriage of justice. Ray got straight to the point. “Do you remember the jury that convicted you?”
“Not really.” Aldridge drew back from the table, going on guard. He eyed Ray warily. “How come?”
“One of the jury members was attacked,” Ray divulged. He was reluctant to mention Rita Segura by name, just in case Aldridge was unfamiliar with her identity.
“And you think I did it?” The inmate acted incredulous. He gestured at the austere concrete walls surrounding them. “Look around, man. I’ve got the perfect alibi.”
“You could have arranged to have someone on the outside do it,” Ray observed. Like Heather Gilroy, perhaps. “A witness at the trial claims you glared at the jury when the verdict was read.”
“I was pissed, man, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I’m out to get them, or that I even remember what they looked like. They were just twelve dumb sheep who fell for the prosecution’s bullshit.” Flushing with anger, he raised his voice enough to get a cautionary look from the guard, who took one step forward. Aldridge dialed it down, but still tried hard to convince Ray. “If I wanted to get back at anybody, it would be that hard-ass judge for throwing the book at me, or the narcs who busted me, or that scumbag who fingered me to get himself a better deal. Trust me, if I was out for revenge, the damn jury would be at the bottom of my list. A whole lot of other people are responsible for me being in here.”
Ray was inclined to believe him. Aldridge was just a small-time pot dealer with no violent crimes on his record. He didn’t seem the type to hatch an elaborate revenge scheme from behind bars. Still, Ray’s gaze was drawn back to the coiled serpent on the convict’s neck.
“Nice tattoo,” he commented.
“You like it?” Aldridge said proudly. “I’m going to get a bigger one on my back.”
“Another snake?”
“Nah, I’m thinking of a flaming skull this time. Or maybe a dragon.” He cast a furtive look at the guard before lowering his voice once more. “So, anyway, about that prescription?”
“Don’t count on it,” Ray said.