Outside Jamal’s cell, Buddy “The Real Voice of Central Texas Sports” Laurie sputtered and popped through a tiny radio one of the deputies had brought in earlier and left on the hallway’s floor. The deputy, Jamal had noted at the time, hadn’t brought the radio close enough to the cell’s bars for him to adjust the signal. Or use it as a weapon.
“And it looks like Evers is still struggling to make good on that extraordinary rush the Bison enjoyed at kickoff,” Buddy said. “We’re closing in on the end of the first quarter and the Bison have yet to put a point on the board.”
The door at the end of the hallway opened with a squeal. Jamal recognized the smell of cinnamon cologne and rose from his cot. It was Mr. Irons, a bulging brown bag in his hand, followed by Deputy Jones.
Jones dialed down the radio, unlocked Jamal’s cell without a word.
Irons stepped inside and pushed the bag into Jamal’s hands. “Get dressed.”
Jamal stared at the unlocked door. He opened the bag wide enough to see inside it the clothes he’d been wearing at his arrest: leather jacket, jeans, Bison T-shirt.
“You can lace up your shoes in the car,” Irons said. “Hurry now. There’s no telling when the word will reach them.”
“Word about what?”
“Just hustle, will you?”
Jamal eyed the blinking security camera in the hall. A muted cheer came from the radio—Perlin had scored another touchdown.
“They won’t just let me leave,” he said, but already Jones was stepping away, taking a sudden interest in his boots.
“They don’t have a choice,” Irons huffed, handed Jamal a sheaf of paper. The words ARREST WARRANT were written fat and curly across the top. Below it read:
To any sheriff or officer of police, you are hereby commanded to arrest: JANAL WILLIAM REYNOLDS and bring him before...
“My middle name’s Davis,” Jamal said, blinking slowly at Irons. Only a day in a holding cell and already his mind had gone gummy. “And my name’s spelled—”
“You think I’ve been at the country club all day?” Irons pulled the jeans from the bag Jamal had dropped. “Hurry now. The judge in Austin only owes me the one favor. Boone will file a corrected warrant the second he gets the news. I plan to have you halfway to Georgia by then.”
With a sudden, violent lurch Jamal felt the gears in his head catch, the lights flicker back on. He wrenched off the flimsy scrubs they’d given him to wear, kicked himself into his jeans, shrugged on the T-shirt and the jacket. He was getting out of here.
“We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” Irons said.
They followed Jones through the empty sheriff’s station. “It wasn’t just the arrest warrant,” Irons continued. “The document of probable cause, the report on the discovery of the sock—shot all to shit, the entire thing. That Mayfield, he’s been in this business how long, twenty years?”
“Twenty-three,” Jones said, unable to keep a little lilt of satisfaction from his voice.
“You’d think he could type a statement by now.”
“Nobody bothered to read it?” Jamal said, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t another vivid dream.
Irons said, “Somebody was in a hurry to get you locked up.”
Past the empty front desk, into the little lobby with its flags and its low ceiling, through the glass doors.
And then he was outside, smelling the air of a clear night, looking up to see the sun all but gone and the thin streaks of cloud fading slowly from ember to ash. He wasn’t sure he’d ever spent so long inside in his life.
“It’s the Mercedes,” Irons said without breaking stride. “Might be wise if you ride in the back until we’re over the county line.”