Blind Justice (7 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It took a while to get Black
’
s release processed, and once they were on the road, Munroe lied down in the back of their dark GMC Yukon to get some rest. Jonas rode up front with Annabelle. She filled him in on the details of their current case and then told him stories about her brother, who had been Munroe
’
s partner. Jonas could tell that she was devastated by the loss, and he could empathize with how she was feeling. He had lost his brother as well, but at least she could say that hers had died a hero.

It was a long drive filled with awkward silences and bittersweet memories. But as Georgia and the Carolinas whipped by outside the window, Jonas convinced Annabelle to let him make a stop in Stafford, Virginia to pick up a few of his old things.

He had never seen the house, but he had kept tabs on its residents even from inside the walls of Holman and knew the address. It was a tiny two-bedroom ranch-style surrounded by a small lawn of dried-up, brown grass. The siding was decades old but newly painted. The dark gray shingles had weathered too many storms over too many years and had begun to crack and warp. The doorbell didn
’
t work, and so he opened the screen and knocked on an old wooden door with a small diamond-shaped window in its center.

A moment later a face appeared in the glass. The look in the small blonde woman
’
s eyes went from shock to disgust to fury. The door slowly came open, and she stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door behind her. Her breathing was fast, her jaw clenched. She looked pretty much the same as Jonas remembered. Short, blonde, and beautiful. Maybe a bit heavier, a few more wrinkles around her eyes.

When she spoke, each word came slowly as if her rage could barely allow her to speak at all. “How dare you come here, Jonas.”

“Hello, Stacey. I just stopped by to see if you still had my old duffle and…maybe see Will. Is he here?”

She slapped him hard across the face and shoved him down the steps and off her porch. “Your duffle is rotting in the old shed around back. I hoped it would rot there forever, just like I hoped you
’
d rot in prison for the rest of your worthless life. But I guess things never work out the way you hope.”

Black
’
s gaze didn
’
t waver under her hateful stare. “No, they don
’
t.”

“The shed
’
s unlocked. Get your stuff and leave. If you ever come back here, I
’
ll call the police and slap you with a restraining order.”

“Listen, I realize you
’
ll never forgive me, but I want you to know that I
’
m sorry for everything. I want to be part—”

She turned her back on him, stormed inside the house, and slammed the door.

Jonas watched the clouds rolling through the gray sky for a moment, trying to keep the tears from falling.
Never let them see you cry.
Then he walked around the side of the small house and through the tiny backyard to an old tool shed that looked like it could fall in on itself at any moment. Inside, he found a myriad of discarded junk—old children
’
s toys, broken lawn chairs, ripped open bags of grass seed—and stuffed into one corner was his old green duffle. He pulled it free from the rest of the junk and checked the contents. Stacey had apparently never even opened it up; a roll of old clothes still hid his MEU(SOC) pistol, just as he had left it. The big black gun was a .45 caliber based on the M1911, the standard-issue side arm for Recon. But it was also in disrepair and only held seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, something he had never liked about it.

He found a photo beneath the pistol. Its corners had yellowed with age and moisture. It showed him and his brother, Michael, as kids in the old neighborhood. He stuffed the photo into his pocket and packed the gun back into the duffle.

When he climbed into the Yukon, Annabelle didn
’
t comment on the woman who had slapped him but said, “Is everything okay?”

He swallowed hard and replied, “That actually went better than I was expecting.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Annabelle pulled the vehicle up in front of a small building made from gray weather-beaten block. A large display window filled with an eclectic assortment of junk covered the building
’
s face, and a green awning hung over the entrance with the words
Savoy & Sons Pawnbrokers
stenciled in three-foot block letters. A condemned building with a burned-out face and a greasy spoon diner bordered the pawn shop on each side. When Black stepped from the vehicle, the smell of grease mixed with uncollected garbage assaulted him.

“What are we doing here?” he asked his new companions.

Munroe said, “It may take a few days for everything to go through with your paperwork, but you need a weapon and equipment now if you
’
re going to act as my bodyguard. We
’
ll get you set up with clothes and a phone after we leave here—you
’
ll need some suits—but this is the best place to pick up a sidearm without a waiting period and with no questions asked.”

“A pawn shop?”

As she held open the door, Annabelle smiled and said, “Never judge a book by its cover.”

The building
’
s interior matched a thousand other pawn shops in a thousand other cities. Guitars and amps lined one wall. CDs, DVDs, and games on another. A jewelry case. Tools. Miscellaneous junk that some crackhead had stolen to finance his next fix. A wall behind the counter displayed a limited assortment of long guns. A small display case contained a few old handguns.

A woman with long black hair wearing a blue and white baseball shirt and a Washington Nationals cap stood behind the counter. She frowned at the newcomers. “You
’
re late,” she said.

Munroe added, “It
’
s wonderful to see you too, Tobi.”

The woman stepped out from behind the counter and hugged Annabelle. Annabelle gestured at Jonas. “This is the new associate that I told you about. We need you to get him set up. Jonas Black, this is Tobi Savoy.”

Black shook her hand and said, “You don
’
t look like one of the ‘& Sons
’
?”

Tobi rolled her eyes. “My dad doesn
’
t have any sons. He just wishes he did.” She moved toward a door in the corner with a key-code lock marked Employees Only
.
“Step into my office.”

The group moved down a set of poorly lit concrete stairs and through another set of doors at the bottom. Tobi unlocked this door with a key from her pocket and stepped inside. Black followed and felt the jarring sensation that he had been instantly transported to another world. Tobi Savoy
’s quaint little shop
—named after her nonexistent brothers—had enough firepower in the basement to kickstart World War III.

The most surprising aspect, however, wasn
’
t the guns but the atmosphere. Black knew that places like this existed behind the facade of normal businesses, but he had never imagined anything like this. In the movies, hidden weapons caches such as this were dark and lined with steel cages and possessed a utilitarian feel. Savoy
’
s hidden room reminded Black more of a high-end cigar shop—dark wood grains, lighted glass display cases, red leather high-back chairs, a table in the corner topped with decanters filled with dark liquids and brandy snifters.

Tobi Savoy spread her arms to the room and looked at Black. “Pick your poison. You want a 9mm, .40? Glock, Sig?”

“I hate Glocks. Their grips feel like you
’
re holding a 2x4. And the Sig Sauer I would want doesn
’
t have a large enough magazine capacity. What do you have in .45 ACP with a double stack mag that holds more than ten rounds?”

“I like a customer that knows what he wants.” She looked at the case and tapped her fingers against her two front teeth. “Let
’
s see. 1911s are out. No Glocks. Something with an extended mag wouldn
’
t be good concealed under your coat. Berettas don
’
t have the capacity you want. What about Springfield Armory?”

“Never been that impressed.”

“Picky, picky. Are you familiar with Taurus?”

“I
’
ve shot some of the revolvers.”

“Try this.” She laid a full-framed pistol with a polymer grip and stainless steel slide on the table. It reminded him of a Sig Sauer. “Taurus
’
s are relatively inexpensive, but they have decent products that come with a lot of bells and whistles. Designed for the Armed Forces. External hammer. Automatic double action restrike. Completely ambidextrous. Safe, fire, decock. Adjustable grip with inserts to fit your hand size. Four inch barrel. And a 12+1 mag capacity.”

Annabelle said, “I thought you Marines were good shots.”

“We are,” he said with pride.

“Then why is magazine capacity such an issue? Isn
’
t one or two shots enough to take someone down.”

“Yeah, but what if there
’
s twelve of them?” Black picked up the pistol and sighted down the barrel, got a feel for the weapon. The grip fit his hand like it had been tailored specifically for him. He instantly fell in love. “I
’
ll take it. I also need a tactical knife and body armor. Actually, make that two sets of body armor, one for me and one for Munroe.”

“None for me, thanks,” the blind man said.

“I
’
m supposed to be protecting you, right? Well, this is me protecting you.”

“Bullet-resistant vests are too restrictive. I have enough restrictions without adding another. You can go ahead and get it, and I
’
ll try it. But I
’
m not promising I
’
ll wear it.”

After a bit more back and forth, they decided upon a vest and an open-assisted folding combat knife equipped with a Tungsten-coated blade, seatbelt ripper, and glass breaker.

Munroe said, “Okay, Tobi. What about me? What did Santa bring me for Christmas?”

Tobi placed a sealed cardboard box on the counter. “It
’
s a bit early for Christmas, but here you go. It wasn
’
t easy to find these. They
’
re still in the prototyping stage.”

Black noticed Annabelle looking strangely at Munroe, but she didn
’
t comment. She paid their bill, and then they all headed back to the car. Annabelle carried the cardboard box under one arm and led Munroe with the other. Black noticed her glancing down at the package every few feet. He could tell that she was having trouble suppressing the urge to tear off the tape and discover what was inside Munroe
’
s mysterious box. Still, she said nothing as they piled into the Yukon and headed out of DC.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As they entered the quaint little town of Thurmont, MD, a large wooden sign declared the city as the Gateway to the Mountains. They passed car dealerships, small diners, and other locally owned businesses. Thick patches of trees and split rail fences surrounded several of the homes. Jonas Black noticed a few rummage sales occupying the front lawns. They opened the windows, and the smell of burning yard waste floated on the breeze. Bright blue skies. Rolling green mountains in the distance. Black had a hard time reconciling such a picturesque and serene atmosphere as reality against the prison world to which he had become accustomed. He noticed a sign regarding the Catoctin Mountain Park and knew that to be the location of the famous Camp David. He understood why the President would want to visit this area to relax.

They wound down two-lane roads until they reached a rock lane hidden among the trees just north of town. A two-story colonial revival style home sat at the end of the lane in front of a sprawling front yard. Its gray and stone face reminded Black of old cobblestones. A large porch enclosed by white pillars and railing wrapped around the house.

“This is where you live?” Black asked Munroe.

“You like it?”

“It
’s beautiful.
”

“
Well, don
’
t get the wrong idea. Even though we
’
re only an hour out of DC, this place cost me less than a third of what a little condo would have in the city.”

The interior stunned Jonas even more. Oak cabinets, hardwood floors, open staircase, a sun room, pocket doors, sky lights, stone accent walls, walkout basement. By his standards, it was a mansion. He felt like he had just been adopted by Daddy Warbucks.

Once inside, Munroe navigated the house like a sighted person. With the exception of tripping over a basketball bag that someone had dropped in the middle of a walkway. Munroe growled and kicked it to the side. He directed Black and Annabelle to the kitchen table and started preparing a meal.

Munroe pulled food boxes and can goods from the cabinet and held his phone up to each. A mechanical voice on the phone announced the name of the product. One by one, Munroe scanned the cans and packages, sitting the ones he wanted aside. He grabbed out measuring cups and cooking utensils marked with small Braille labels.

Munroe asked if they wanted something to drink, and Black watched with interest as Munroe hung a device with two extended prongs over the edge of cup and poured in the liquids they had requested. The device beeped when the liquid reached the proper level.

A door opened from the garage, and two young girls stepped into the kitchen. They both held cellphones in front of their faces, typing furiously. The older girl said to the other, “I
’
m telling you. He
’
s got a horse face.”

“Shut up, Mak. At least I have a boyfriend.”

They both came up short at the sight of the large, dark, tattooed man sitting at their kitchen table. Before they could run screaming for the hills, Annabelle rushed over and gave each girl a hug. But they still eyed Jonas cautiously.

“This is Jonas Black,” Annabelle said to the girls in her sweet Southern voice. “He
’
s going to be working with your dad and me.”

The perky younger sister stuck out her hand. She had bleach-blonde hair and bright blue eyes that reminded him of Munroe
’
s, only without the vacant stare. “I
’
m Chloe. The pretty one. That
’
s Makayla. The weird one.”

Black laughed and shook Chloe
’
s hand. The older girl, Makayla, looked him up and down and said, “What
’
s up.” She wore ripped up jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt. On first glance, Makayla seemed to be the antithesis of her sister. Perky versus reserved. Pretty versus smart. Cheerleader versus rocker chick. But Black sensed that Makayla carried a lot more weight on her shoulders and in her heart than her younger sister.

He couldn
’
t help but think of his own brother. He and Michael had also been very different. Michael had been thin and wiry. He ran from conflict, while Jonas always seemed to be fighting someone or something. One played guitar, one played football. One went to college, one went to the military.

But blood would always be thicker than personal style and interests.

Munroe walked in and hugged both girls before saying, “Who dropped their bag in the middle of the hallway?”

Makayla rolled her eyes. “
Take a guess.
”

“Chloe, you know how important it is to put your things away when living with a person who
’
s visually impaired. A place for everything and—”

“Everything in its place,” the girls finished in unison.

Munroe frowned. “Okay, smart asses. What
’
s been going on while I
’
ve been away?”

Black watched Munroe and the girls as they laughed and joked back and forth and fell into the easy rhythms of a family. Chloe had a new boyfriend. Makayla needed help with a political science project. Chloe wanted permission to go to a concert. Makayla needed gas money.

He guessed that Chloe was thirteen or fourteen, while Makayla was at least sixteen. With a heavy heart, Black thought of a boy that was about Chloe
’
s age. His name was Will. Will Black. And unlike Munroe
’
s daughters, Will had grown up without his father.

They all ate dinner together—the best meal he had in a long time—but Black still felt like an outsider, even though everyone asked him questions and included him in the conversations. He remembered a Sesame Street song from his childhood,
One of These Things is Not Like The Others
. And that was him. He just didn
’
t belong. Strangely enough, he felt more at home and at ease within the walls of a prison than he did sitting with a family around a dinner table.

The girls warmed up to him quickly, especially Chloe. She showed him a website called YouTube that he had heard about but had yet to experience for himself. “OMG, you have to see this,” she said before showing him a myriad of funny and interesting content—a guy getting a DUI and shot with a taser while riding a lawnmower, hilarious examples of bad lip reading, funny real life news footage converted into song parodies, and videos on recycling like how to make a life vest or raft out of empty two liter soda bottles.

After the meal, Annabelle showed him to a guest room and then brought in some sleep clothes that she thought may fit. She teared up a little, and he guessed that the clothes had belonged to her brother.

He lied back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It all felt so surreal. The day before he had been sleeping on the floor of a cell in Ad Seg, and now here he was at a house in the countryside less than five miles from the President
’
s own private retreat.

A few minutes later, the sound of arguing echoed out from one of the bedrooms down the hall, and curiosity got the better of him. He crept into the hallway so he could hear what was being said.