Dead River (36 page)

An inmate sitting in the metal folding chair directly in front of Sikes shot to his feet and turned toward him but said nothing. The man had closely cropped gray hair, a matching beard, and prison tattoos covering both arms and the circumference of his neck. After staring down at Sikes for several moments, the man suddenly snatched up his chair and cracked it down hard on top of Sikes’s head. The impact sent Sikes reeling, and as he fell he took several folding chairs with him. Sikes was face down, and there he stayed, covering his throbbing head with both hands. Bolts of pain shot down his neck, and he wavered in and out of consciousness. Another blow came, this time landing square on his shoulders.

“You motherfucker,” the man said. “You piece a fuckin’ shit.”

Sikes moaned and then muttered something into the smooth concrete floor.

“What’d you say? What the fuck did you say to me?”

By now all of the inmates in close proximity began forming a circle around the two.

“I’m not goin’ to ask you again, motherfucker. What’d you say? You hear me, fat fuck?”

Sikes slightly cocked his head to the side and cautiously lifted his eyes. His head was beginning to clear. He watched the man toss the chair to his side, clinching both fists in front of him. With astounding swiftness Sikes jumped to his feet and charged the man. He lowered his head, and with one more leaping step he made contact at the man’s waist. The two went down hard, Sikes landing on top. He pinned the man’s arms to the floor with his knees, then he grabbed him by the throat with both hands.

“I said I’ll kill you,” Sikes hissed, staring into the man’s bulging eyes.

The other inmates were in a frenzy, whooping and hooting, egging them on to continue fighting.

“Kick the shit outta him, fat man,” one hollered.

“Roll his ass over, you weak fuck,” another yelled.

No one really took sides, they just wanted to see a fight. Within seconds, four guards were pulling the two men apart, and two others broke up the onlookers. The herd obeyed and backed away. A group of five hulking black men with wave caps gathered in a huddle underneath the suspended TV, quietly but zealously arguing over who would have won.

Sikes was immediately taken to his cell by two guards and locked down. A decision was made quickly to place him in solitary confinement for his own protection, into a considerably smaller single cell with a solid metal door. The door had a small slot, the bean chute that was only large enough to pass a tray of food through.

He slumped on the edge of the metal bed, massaging the top of his head. He felt the raised lump and exhaled a groan, but it was his back that hurt the most. In spite of his aching back and the pulsating pain in his head, Sikes managed to regain the triumph he felt for that split second just before the attack. But he wanted out of here now.

At two Friday afternoon, Harley assembled his team in the main conference room to discuss strategy. As previously planned, two briefs would be prepared by his paralegal: one, a motion to suppress the evidence relating to the falsified report for the hair sample analysis submitted by Sam Weber, and two, a motion to dismiss both charges against David Allen Sikes. The latter would have its basis in the first motion to suppress evidence and the fact that the State no longer had a case against his client. He wanted both filed with the clerk of courts first thing Monday morning. Harley was elated. He was going to stick it to Mr. Slick.

As everyone filed out of the conference room, Harley motioned in George Allison’s direction.

“George, stay a minute if you would.”

“Sure.”

The two sat down again at the conference table.

“Owen Jacobson may give up on this one,” Harley said, wearing a thin smile.

“I know,” Allison replied. “If he’s going to run for state attorney general, he won’t try to fight a battle that he has little chance of winning.”

“Exactly. If he aggressively challenges our motion for dismissal it could cost him too much negative publicity. Potentially nix his chances of getting elected.”

“I agree.”

“Wait here a second.”

Harley sauntered out of the room. He was gone less than a minute and returned with two fat Cuban robustos. He offered one to his partner.

“Hey, look at this,” Allison said, moistening his lips. “Where the hell did you get these?”

“Don’t ask.”

Harley tipped the two cigars and reached into his pocket for a lighter. The two lit up and puffed, billowing large clouds of light gray smoke toward the ceiling.

“Think we’re celebrating too soon?” Allison asked.

“Naw, were not celebrating,” Harley grinned. “Think of this as a ‘fuck you, Mr. Slick’ smokeout. That’s all.”

Allison ran his tongue over the end of the robusto then puffed heavily, sending undulating waves of smoke across the table. “Yeah, but I think we got him this time.”

Harley’s smile widened. “I believe we do, George. I believe we do.”

 79

ADAM CAUGHT THE NEWS on the radio while driving back to work from lunch. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he pulled into the company parking lot. How could this be happening? He felt as though he’d just slipped into a bad dream, a very bad dream, and was freefalling in an abyss. He jerked his Volvo between the white lines and thumped the curb with the front tires. The car jolted, rocked back, and settled to a stop. He shoved the shifter into park, shut the engine off, and sat thoughtfully for several moments. He glared through the windshield, his eyes not locked on anything in particular. His breathing began to ramp up.

He tromped by the receptionist at the front entrance without a word and proceeded to his office, past the labyrinth of cubicles. He caught glimpses of several engineers sipping coffee and discussing the challenges of their various projects.

“You all right, Adam?” Eugene Tanner asked.

He ignored the query, staring straight ahead as he made a beeline for his office.

“Jesus, he looks pissed,” Tony Kosovic said, watching Adam fly by.

Once inside his office, Adam slammed the door and jerked his billfold out of the back pocket of his dark-green Dockers. He had to act quickly.

David Sikes sat wearily on the edge of his rock-hard jail bed. He estimated it was about ten-thirty. He’d been in solitary confinement for about eight hours, but it seemed like days.

He eased off the side of the bed and stepped to the center of the cell. Extending his arms straight out from his sides, he could almost touch both walls. He peered upward toward a single incandescent bulb recessed in the ceiling, casting its soft light downward in a shallow cone. He gauged it couldn’t have been more than a twenty-five-watter. His eyes shifted to the chalky, light-green paint on the concrete-block walls. It was flaky and moldy, seemingly thickening the stench coming from the toilet that had no lid or seat.

He stood motionless facing the metal door for several minutes, then finally squatting to gaze through the narrow slot when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. The light outside went to darkness then light again. A guard passing by.

“You can’t keep me in here!” he shouted.

Only the thud of the guard’s boots could be heard, moving away from him.

“I want to go back to my cell!” he shrieked.

The trudging down the corridor stopped momentarily then picked up again.

“Get me out of here!”

Sikes felt the blood pulsate in his temples. His head was whirling. The clumping and clomping of the guard’s boots got louder, then there was silence. The light in the thin door slot disappeared.

Three deafening raps rattled the metal door. “You shut the fuck up in there, or I’ll throw your ass in the hole.”

Light streamed through the narrow slit, and the pounding of boots resumed.

Sikes stood in the middle of the crate-like cell. His two hands met at the palms, and he pulled them in close to his chest. His head lowered, touching his fingertips to his lips.

“This shall be no more,” he whispered. “There is much to be done, skotono aftous olio.”

He breathed in heavily. “They shall all die,” he said, in a slow, low tone.

Adam labored up the stairs and headed for his study. Inside he locked the door behind him. Only the banker’s lamp offered light, painting the room with a virescent hue. He rested both elbows on the desk, reflecting on the phone call he’d made earlier in the day to Detective Wilkerson.

The detective had given him a standard bullshit response to Adam’s concern about Sikes’s possible release. “The matter’s in the hands of the judicial system,” Wilkerson had said, sourly. “Hey, he’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

Adam massaged his forehead with his fingertips in an attempt to knead away the frustration and fear that had besieged him since noon. After several minutes he stopped, feeling like he’d rubbed more in than removed. Reaching down he slid the bottom desk drawer open. It coasted smoothly on the metal tracks until hitting the stops. He lifted the brown paper bag he’d tucked away earlier and set it on the desk.

The bag crackled as he opened it, removing a bottle of Cutty Sark and a small glass he’d smuggled from the kitchen after dinner. He twisted the cap off the bottle with a snap and poured half a glass of the tawny liquid. The first sip made his lips purse, but the warmth that engulfed his throat relaxed him. He sipped again, and again.

An even mellowing warmness swept over him. He leaned back more in the softness of the chair and tried to recall the last time he’d drank in his study. He never drank in his study. In fact, he rarely drank at home.

“I’m getting fucking drunk,” he softly laughed, as he poured another.

He held the glass up to the light streaming from the desk lamp and peered through the golden liquid. Is that glass half full or half empty? He jutted one side of his lower lip out forming an asymmetric smile. The real question is: Does anyone really give a fuck?

His thoughts drifted back to Detective Glenn Wilkerson. The skinny little shit. Adam steadied his hand gripping the glass as best he could and sipped slowly. Bet that weasel dick’s gay. Looks like it. Damn sure worthless though.

The old head was beginning to feel a little thick, and his eyes seemed to not want to move as quickly as he commanded them. It took a couple of tries, but he managed to focus in on the time glaring back at him from the wall clock. It was eleven already. How’d that happen?