“Mister Drury, apologies from the Court. And thank you for the information. We’ll take things from here. You’re dismissed.”
This agent wasn’t the one who took him down. Regardless, Judge flew out of the rubber-hose seat in their basement office, took the steps two at a time and headed in the direction of the public locker area, where his phone was. He didn’t get far. Overtaking him in a hefty jog was the guy who had actually body-slammed him. His big-ass girth stopped in front of Judge; he put his hand on Judge’s chest. It was abrupt, but it was also gentle, as gentle as a refrigerator with arms could manage for itself.
“Mister Drury, apologies from the U.S. Marshal’s office also. Madam Justice Coolsummer would like a word with you please, to thank you for what you did.”
The guy was sincere, but Judge didn’t give a shit right about now. “Look, my girlfriend’s missing. I need to get to the lockers so I can get my phone back and check for messages.” At six-three, Judge still had to raise his head to face him. “We’re not gonna have another episode right here, are we, Shrek, ’cause you didn’t get to see the real me earlier. You need to move.”
“Fair enough,” the marshal said and surprised Judge by backing off. “Follow me.”
At this point Judge became an NFL running back following a pulling guard. Early afternoon in the Supreme Court’s concourse had returned to business-as-usual busy after the morning’s excitement, but with a U.S. marshal as large as this man in front of him, it was like a parting of the Red Sea. As an afterthought Judge remembered Owen had left the court police office with him, so somewhere behind them he was no doubt hoofing it as fast as he could.
They reached the lockers. Judge found theirs and opened it. He stuffed everything from the locker into the backpack they’d left there, except for his phone.
Shrek got chatty. He was brownish, so maybe Shrek didn’t work as a name. He identified himself. “I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Trenton, Mister Drury. If I can be of any help…”
“Un-bruise my ribs for me, will you, Mister Trenton? You think you can you do that for me?” Judge didn’t smile while he scanned his messages. Two from Geenie. He listened, shadowed by his escort. She left the phone number for the emergency room of a hospital, and she sounded out of it.
“On meds,” her message said, “dislocated jaw,” and “I had her, Judge,” although what left her lips sounded more like “piss-located chaw” and “I sam her, Hutch.” Owen arrived alongside them, exhausted. Judge punched in some numbers looking for the name of the hospital and its address. Mr. Trenton put his big mitt over Judge’s hand and his phone together.
“I can’t undo the damage to your ribs, Mister Drury, but I can get you a ride to the hospital. Except you’re going to see Justice Coolsummer first. Now, please.”
His gentle demeanor gone, Judge sensed a man who was extremely dedicated to his assigned duties, and who wouldn’t be nice to them if Judge didn’t let him perform them.
Tough shit.
“Get me that ride now and I promise I’ll come back after I check on my girlfriend. Or we go through the same shit we went through earlier, which does neither of us any good.” The marshal looked past Judge’s shoulder, in ponder mode. “And when we visit with Justice Coolsummer, Mister Wingert here gets included, too.”
The marshal hesitated, then, “Fine.”
Judge decided that maybe he should stop being such an arrogant asshole. “Look, Mister Trenton, I accept your apology.” He offered his hand. “Call me Judge. Judge Drury, USMC Former Enlisted Marine. And a fugitive recovery agent.”
They shook. “Your first name is Judge?”
“My whole life.”
“A name like that around here, get ready to hear it a lot. I’m Edward.” The stuffed Sasquatch smiled. He retrieved his phone and made a few calls. “Transportation will be here in a minute. For you and Mister Wingert both.”
This newest marshal’s name was Abelson. They climbed into a government minivan with Mr. Abelson driving and they headed up to Howard University Hospital. A ten-minute ride, their driver said.
“They sure do grow the brothers big at the U.S. Marshal’s office,” Owen said to the back of Deputy Marshal Abelson’s black flattop head. With Owen it was always how best to piss off the hand that fed him in ten words or less. Their host ignored him. A quick park job, then they hoofed it with Abelson to the hospital entrance.
“Yo, give a brother a break, bro,” Owen pleaded, trying to keep up. “Yo! Slow up!”
The hospital sliding doors slid open. Abelson glanced at Judge. “He always like this?”
“If you mean short, yeah, it’s a genetic thing,” Judge said.
“I heard that, Judge, you prick.”
They moved from room to room, Abelson badging the hell out of everybody. Deep in the emergency beds section, they found her. Judge’s heart sank.
“Geenie honey…”
Her bed was raised at one end and she was resting, bandaged around the head and under her chin with gauze and adhesive tape. From the nose down, what was visible of her face was puffy and purple, with some red from bloodstains. Six weeks at a minimum like this, the ER doc said. Painkillers, antibiotics, liquid diet. Six agonizing weeks. Her espresso eyes opened, then her arms beckoned. Judge leaned in, hugged her, kissed her on the forehead, squeezed her shoulder. “Sorry, baby. So sorry.”
The doc explained. “No breaks. Only a dislocation and a concussion. Aside from the meds, she’s thinking clearly. She can open her mouth enough to talk, but not much more than a sliver.”
She winked, acting playful. “A sliver’s room enough, for you, lover,” she said to him. Her speech was slow, garbled. “Just joking, you big boy you,” she said, but without the b’s. She squeezed Judge’s hand.
“She’s still a little looped, Mister Drury.”
“But looking great,” he said and meant it. No long-term physical effects or disfigurement, the doctor added; her jaw just needed time to heal. And Judge so needed to hurt someone because of this. He went for the rabbit’s foot to calm himself, able to choke back a douche-waffle and a puke-slapping rumble-cunt queued up with a prick-bastard chaser. A Tourette’s episode there could have landed him in the Psych Ward.
“I had her, Judge,” she said, her tongue thick, “then after…she threw…that punch from her heels…I didn’t.” Her lips moved only slightly when she spoke, like a drunken mummy ventriloquist. Judge was loving her lots here.
“She’s right.” This was Abelson, interrupting. “I saw the footage. Your friend was awesome on the takedown, just got tagged with a roundhouse right. If she hadn’t gone after her, there’d be no additional video. Plus now the perp is hurt. We’re checking the hospitals.”
Geenie’s eyes pleaded with Judge. “Get me out of here.”
She wasn’t attached to anything, no fluids, no heart monitor, and even though she looked every bit like a shell-shocked battlefield vet, her limbs were all intact, so she was mobile. “Doc, not sure if she told you this, but she’s a nurse. If she thinks she can leave, she’s good to go. We’re due at the Supreme Court Building for a debriefing on what happened today. There’s a terrorist on the loose. Let her sign herself out.”
“I’d rather not,” the doc said.
Mr. Abelson stepped up, flashed his U.S. Marshal’s five-pointed star at the doctor. The discussion ended.
A wheelchair ride brought Geenie to Abelson’s minivan. Inside the van she asked if she could have her gun back. Judge told her no, no guns, they were still all locked in his van’s glove box.
“Dogs?” she asked.
Judge sighed; they had to be tired of the B&B room by now. “We’ve got an audience with Justice Coolsummer, Geenie, like it or not. They’ll get a long walk when we get back.”