Blind Justice (6 page)

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWELVE

Feeling with his left hand, Deacon Munroe found the edge of his sideburn and used it as a landmark to start the shave. His right thumb flicked on the electric razor, and he brought the device up against his left index finger that rested against the sideburn
’
s edge. He brought the razor down, continually using his guide hand in front of the razor to trace the contours of his face.

Even the simple act of shaving made him think of Gerald. They had learned how to shave together. Gerald
’
s father, who had always treated Munroe like his own son, had instructed the boys in the ways of manhood, something his own father had never even considered. He remembered teasing Gerald that he looked like a mummy from all the little pieces of toilet paper covering the shaving nicks on his smooth, dark skin.

The memories overwhelmed him. He couldn
’
t breathe. The pain and anger coursing through his blood made his whole body feel warm and cold at the same time.

He smashed the razor down against the sink, feeling the plastic pieces shatter against his palm. Screaming, he ripped the mirror down from above the vanity and smashed it against a nearby cabinet. The rest was a whirlwind of angry fists contacting any surface he could reach. He lost his bearings and stumbled into the wall. His fists kept working. He felt his hand puncture the drywall, and he slammed it through again. This time his knuckles jammed against a stud, and pain shot through his hand and forearm. He tried to lose himself in the simple pain, a pain he could quantify, understand, and overcome. He slid down the wall to the floor and could no longer hold back the tears.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Annabelle said, “What the hell are you doing? Dammit, Deac, there
’
s glass everywhere.”

He felt her kneel down beside him and raise a hand to his cheek.

“I miss him too. But now
’
s not the time to fall apart. He wouldn
’
t want that.”

“It
’
s too much,” he whispered. “I
’
ve lost too much already. I can
’
t imagine going on without him.”

“I
’
m not going to listen to you feel sorry for yourself. You
’
re better than this, stronger than this. Come on. Let
’
s get this mess cleaned up.”

Raising his hand to her face, he traced the lines of her features and stroked her thick, wavy hair. The prominent cheek bones. The soft skin. The full lips.

He had loved her for as long as he could remember. When they were growing up, Annabelle and Gerald had been his true brother and sister, much more so than his actual flesh and blood siblings. His emotions had felt strange and confusing at first. Then he had fought them out of respect for Gerald and the differences in age between Annabelle and himself. A three year gap had seemed like a lot when he was seventeen. He had moved on in college, found the love of his life, married, started a family. Beth had been his everything, but through it all, his love for Annabelle had never flickered out. Even though Beth had been gone for many years, he still felt guilty for the feelings he harbored toward his best friend
’
s sister. And now he couldn
’
t fight them any longer.

He pulled her close and kissed her deeply and passionately. Her skin smelled like jasmine, and he tasted strawberries on her lips. The feel of her soft skin against his gave him strength and hope.

Then it was gone. She shoved him away. He could hear the tears in her voice as she whispered, “Damn you.”

She stood and moved to the door. “Damn you, Deacon. How dare you?”

“Annabelle, I—”

“Don
’
t. Do you have any idea how many years I
’
ve waited for you? And now you pull this.”

“
I don’
t understand.”

“You
’
re devastated and looking for something to hang on to, anything to make you forget. You
’
re looking for a port in the storm, an anchor, and I just happened to be here. But I
’
m not going to be your painkiller. I deserve better.”

“It
’
s not like that. I—”

She slammed the bathroom door and stormed off down the hall. He heard her angry footfalls moving down the stairs, his front door opening and slamming shut, and her car starting up. His hands ached from his stupid outburst, and his heart ached from her words and the pain and hurt he had heard within them. Sitting in the glass and drywall dust of the ruined bathroom, Deacon Munroe felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Under normal circumstances, Jonas Black would have liked the private cell in the Administrative Segregation building better than the communal living of the general population dormitory. Unfortunately, the prisoner in the cell directly above his was a member of the Southern Brotherhood, and some kind of design flaw in the Ad Seg ventilation system allowed the man to piss into his vent and have it rain down right onto Black
’
s cot. He had moved his mattress to the floor, but the smell inside the tiny block-walled space was overwhelming. And the Alabama heat seemed to be multiplied by twenty inside the walls of Ad Seg. Complaining would do him little good and only announce to the white supremacist with the overactive bladder that his attacks had succeeded. Jonas refused to give him the satisfaction.

A guard
—petite, black, and female—knocked on the small glass window embedded in the cell door. Jonas couldn
’
t imagine the kind of things she had to put up with as a guard at Holman, and he respected her for that. “Black, you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who?”

As the female officer unlocked the chuck hole used to insert a food tray into the cell, she said, “Do I look like your butler? They told me you have a visitor and to come get you. That
’
s what I
’m doing. Let’
s get cuffed up.”

He knew the drill. He turned around backwards and stuck his hands out of the chuck hole. She slapped on the restraints and called into her radio, “
Open L-23.
”

The door slid open, and she led him through the cell block past a hundred sets of eyes peering out the tiny windows of the gray cell doors. Anything happening on the block constituted entertainment to the prisoners of Ad Seg. His tennis shoes squeaked across the concrete floor with every step. The whole block smelled faintly of sweat and excrement.

Connected to the cell block was a small room that the Warden and Captains often used to have private conferences with the prisoners. An old wooden table with a scarred surface that had been spray-painted gray sat in the center of the room. Four white, plastic chairs—the kind that people typically used as lawn furniture—surrounded the table.

The female guard shoved him down into one of the chairs. The restraints behind his back forced him to sit uncomfortably on his hands. A man wearing dark, expensive-looking, designer sunglasses sat in one of the chairs opposite him. He guessed by the look of the quality of the man
’
s suit that it cost more than Jonas had made from a week with hazard pay. The guy had the stink of a government agency all over him, the kind identified only by initials. Jonas Black, like many other soldiers that had witnessed firsthand the casual attitude toward sending men to their deaths that alphabet agencies displayed, was instantly distrustful of anyone representing such a bureaucracy. The woman next to the sunglasses man had skin the color of dark chocolate, wavy black hair that fell to her shoulders, and the prominent cheekbones of a model. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she had been crying.

The man stuck his arm out over the table as if to shake Black
’
s hand. Couldn
’
t the guy see that his hands were cuffed behind his back?

The woman said, “He
’
s restrained, Deacon.”

“Apologies.” The man
’
s hand fell back under the table. “My name is Deacon Munroe. I
’
m a special investigator with DCIS. This is my associate, Miss Annabelle Dixon.” When he spoke, the words were smooth as silk. He had a Southern accent, but it didn
’
t have a country or redneck feel. Instead, it had a cultured quality like that of a professor.

Black sat quietly. He knew that Munroe would be expecting him to ask what interest DCIS had in him, but he had always found that silence had a strange way of establishing dominance in situations such as this.

Munroe reached up and removed the sunglasses, placing them on the table with delicate care. The man
’
s eyes were a piercing blue, but the stare was vacant and cold like that of a dead body, gazing off into nothingness. The eyes were wide and haunting and made Black feel strangely uneasy.

“Do my eyes bother you, Mr. Black?”

He didn
’
t think he had shown any reaction, especially one that a blind man could have detected. “Not nearly as much as they must bother you.”

“I
’
m sure you
’
re wondering about me being an investigator but also being blind. Most people do. They always ask if I have super smelling abilities or ultrasonic hearing or things of that nature.”

“An old blind man used to live next to my family in East St. Louis. The kids in the neighborhood always either treated him like he was an invalid or that he had some kind of superpowers and could hear through walls and figure out what you ate for breakfast just by smelling you. Neither of those things were true. But the bottom line is that I don
’
t really care about your abilities one way or the other. If you don
’
t mind, let
’
s get to the point of why you
’
re disturbing my rehabilitation.”

“Do you have other important matters to address today, Mr. Black? Things that I
’
m interrupting?
”

“It
’
s meatloaf day.”

“You must be a big fan.”

“I hate meatloaf. I
’
d rather eat dirt.”

Neither man spoke for a long moment. Munroe broke the silence first. “It
’
s my understanding that you
’
re a former Recon Marine. Is that correct?”

“Why are you here?”

Munroe slammed his fist on the table. The sudden break in the man
’
s calm exterior startled Black. Munroe looked away and sighed, his jaw clenched. He looked disgusted, but Black got the feeling that he was more upset with himself.

“I
’
m here because I have a need for two things. A new bodyguard and someone that can help me get through to a man that is pivotal to my current investigation. You, Mr. Black, are in the unique position to fill both of those needs for me. I
’
m here to offer you a job.”

Jonas laughed.
“I have a pretty good career going in the prison laundry. They think I have management potential.”

Munroe clenched his fists. “This is no joke. My partner and best friend was recently killed, and I
am
going to find those responsible.”

The woman next to Munroe stood up and moved toward the door. Black saw tears forming in her eyes. “Annabelle?” Munroe said.

“I can
’
t. I
’
ll be outside,” she said with a shaking voice.

“How long has it been since you lost your friend?” Black said.

“About two days.”

Black felt like a jerk. He supposed that a stint in prison hadn
’
t done much for his manners. “I
’m sorry. But I don’
t know how I could help you with anything. I have at least six months left in here. And that
’
s if I don
’
t get any extra time added on for an incident that I was recently involved in.”

“I
’
ve already spoken to the Warden, the Governor, and the Alabama Board of Pardons and Paroles. Your sentence would be commuted, and you would be released into my custody. Technically, you would be an agent working within DCIS, but your only responsibility would be to aid me in this investigation.”

“
I don’
t buy it. And even if you could get me out, the government doesn
’
t hire felons. Hell, I couldn
’
t even legally carry a firearm.”

“Don
’
t worry about that. Once we have you out, your record will be sealed and marked as classified to the highest level for reasons of national security. Only someone with very high clearance would even know that you
’
re a felon, and they would have no reason to check.”

Black wasn
’
t sure what to say or believe. How could this guy have gotten all that done? And in the space of a couple days? “Who are you?” he said.

“I
’
ve already told you that. But, if you
’
re asking how I could pull off something like this, the answer is that I
’
ve made a lot of influential friends over the years and through the course of my investigations. There are many times when the greater good can be better served by suppressing certain knowledge from public consumption. Many people appreciate me for my discretion. Plus, the chairman of the parole board is an old friend of my father.”

“But why me?”

“Where I
’
m going, I could use a hard man like you.”

“I wouldn
’
t make a very good babysitter.”

“I
’
m not looking for someone to wipe my ass, Mr. Black. I
’
m looking for someone to watch my back. And I believe that you are also perfect for this particular investigation.”

“You mentioned something about getting through to someone.”

“That
’
s right. John Corrigan. I believe that he was your team leader and a close friend.”

“We
were
close, but I haven
’
t spoken to John in years. I was in here when the incident happened with his family, and I haven
’
t heard from him since all that went down. But John couldn
’
t have done the things they said. When we were deployed, all he ever wanted was to get back to his family.”

“Men that have fought together usually have a special bond that isn
’
t easily broken. I think he
’
ll talk to you.”

“I would never do anything to betray my friend.”

“I
’
m not asking you to betray him,” Munroe said. “I
’
m asking you to help him. Corrigan
’
s execution is scheduled for this weekend. I
’
m starting to suspect that he may be innocent. At the very least, there
’
s a lot more to his case than meets the eye. This is a unique opportunity, Mr. Black. I
’
m giving you a second chance. Even when you get out of here, you
’
ll have a difficult time finding work. People don
’
t hire felons, as you said. Most reputable military contractors wouldn
’
t touch you with a ten-foot pole. Your days as a soldier are over. I know a bit about your colorful past, but I also suspect that you don
’
t want to fall back into that world. I
’
ve had two friends killed over this case, and I need your help.”

Black still didn
’
t trust the government man, and Munroe
’
s comments about his
discretion
didn
’
t help to alleviate those concerns. It sounded as if Munroe might be some kind of fixer for the DOD, someone who could make scandals go away. But Black knew that he wasn
’
t in a position to judge anyone, and if he stayed in Holman, the Southern Brotherhood would eventually find a way to kill him. He may have been able to hold them off for a while, but eventually, they would catch him off guard and bury a shank in his back. And maybe he
’
d also get a chance to help Corrigan. There really wasn
’
t much of a choice.

“Okay. When do we leave?”