Jenner drove slowly through the municipal lot, past cop cars and uniformed officers on foot, looking for a parking spot. As he crept along, he could almost feel the money in the trunk, feel it expanding, breathing, sending out signals…The three bags of cash were jammed right at the bottom of the luggage compartment, flattened against the carpet, hidden by a layer of loose clothes, the clothes covered in turn with the garbage bags holding his belongings.
Bartley was out front having a smoke as Jenner walked up to the building entrance.
“Hey, doc. Good timing. Mind if I finish this one? It’s been a hell of a night.”
Jenner nodded. “I bet.”
A converted school bus drew up to the curb in front of them, its windows covered by grids of thick metal. It had been repainted white, and bore the county jail insignia. A half-dozen men in black-and-white-striped prison workclothes sat quietly inside, with three guards lounging up front. The door opened, and one of the guards climbed out.
The corrections officer nodded at Bartley. “Morning, Barts.” He shot Jenner a quick glance and added, “Sir.”
“Yo, Crespo! Taking your mutts out for a walk?”
Crespo stopped and shook his head wearily; he spat, bummed a cigarette from Bartley and fired it up.
“They got me on Polo Club detail today. It’s supposed to hit ninety-five degrees, and they want my boys to pick up trash, rake, then edge the drive, the carriage circle, and the entire goddamn length of the property along Lakewood East!”
Bartley puffed his cigarette and said, “Sounds about right—it’ll give ’em a chance to say hi to the crooked state attorneys who put them away, the scumbag lawyers who failed to defend them, and the corrupt judges who sentenced them…”
Both men laughed.
Jenner looked at the bus, then over to his car. He imagined an inmate slipping out of a window, sprinting the forty feet or so, and tearing off in the Accent.
Crespo wouldn’t let it go. “But seriously, Bartley—don’t you think it’s bullshit? Why not the hospital grounds? Why not Burmeister Park? These country club fuckers can afford to pay for their own help. Sheeit!” He spat again; he had a rectangular gap in his upper teeth.
The detective snorted. “Jesus, Crespo—didn’t you grow up here? The only thing I can’t believe is how you can’t believe this.”
Two uniformed cops came out of the building and marched to the flagpole near where Jenner, Bartley, and Crespo stood. The younger cop busied himself somewhat self-consciously with the halyard, the older moving back a few paces to watch the flags. Everyone in the plaza in front of the building stopped; the civilians stood still, some with head bowed, others with a hand over their hearts. The cops stood at attention. The two other COs got out of the bus and stood stiffly by the doorway.
They lowered the Florida flag first, a big red X on a white background. The young guy worked the rope, the sergeant monitoring the height. When the flag was at half-mast, the officer tethered it to the cleat, and then lowered the Stars and Stripes. They stepped back from the flagpole and snapped to a salute, and then every law enforcement officer on the plaza was saluting, and the aqua-tinted windows behind them were filled with cops, all saluting the flag, all saluting Rudge.
They stood that way for a minute, at full attention. It was midday, and the magnesium-hot sun was high overhead, Jenner’s shadow a stunted puddle at his feet. From the new housing development beyond the small wood behind them, Jenner heard floating snatches of music from an ice cream van.
The sergeant released his salute, then turned smartly and marched back into the building, followed by the rookie. The cops and civilians in the plaza thawed, and the day went on.
Bartley nodded at Crespo, turned to Jenner, and said, “Come on, doc. I know you want to get out of here, and we’ve got things to do—I don’t think we need to keep you long.”