Raising Cain (22 page)

Joey ran a finger along the side of his shaved head. He was thirteen years old, groomed and dressed like a rap musician. “Where
it came from?” Joey asked.

“Yes. Look it up again.”

Joey opened his book, titled
The Fountain of Knowledge
. On the cover was a black-over-green outline of Africa. He turned to a section and read to himself.

“What does it say?”

Joey looked over the page. “That we invented it.”

“Who is
we
?”

“The people who lived in Egypt a long time ago.”

“That’s right. That formula came from
our
ancestors, so don’t give me no BS ‘bout not being able to remember it.”

Joey’s face went blank. “But I—”

“No but-buts!” Paulie replied. “If you have to stay here all day, you will memorize it. You got that?”

Joey nodded. This man who called himself Katanga was a great guy. He helped Joey with his tests and kept him out of trouble.
He was more than a big brother. He was a dad.

“Here it is again. The square of the length of the hypotenuse.” He pointed to a diagram in Joey’s math book laid out on the
table.

“That’s this thing here. The square of
this
length is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. You take the squares of
these
two…” He pointed again. “Add them up, and it comes out the exact same as
this
.”

“The hippopotamus,” Joey said.

“No,” Katanga corrected, “hy-pot-e-nuse.”

“Hippopotamus comes from Africa.”

“So does hy-pot-e-nuse.”

“Hy-pot-e-nuse,” Joey repeated.

“That’s it.” Katanga laughed.

The phone rang and Katanga picked it up. “Yeah?”

It was his mother, and she was crying.

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Joseph Junior’s been arrested. They say he killed the CAIN preacher. He’s in jail!”

Katanga stopped breathing for a second.

“Paulie, are you there?”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Gladys says you know something about this. That Joseph was asking questions about what happened. What’s going on, son?”

“Nothing, Mama.”

“If you
know
something, you have to speak up!”

“I do
not
! What’s the matter with you all? Don’t you remember anything? When
I
needed help, Big Brother sure as hell didn’t help
me
!”

“He
couldn’t
,” Althea sobbed. “And you know why.”

” ‘Cause he was a cop? Mama, I don’t accept that. He could have done something!”

“Joseph had no control over that situation. He suffered as much as you did. I
know
.”

“Let him suffer some more.”

“Please, Paulie.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

“You’re not going to help?”

“I
can’t
.” The history was written; the arrest couldn’t change it. Katanga said good-bye and hung up the phone.

“What’s the matter, man?” Joey asked.

His mentor slowly emerged from his trance. “You got that equation yet?”

“Think so.”

Katanga put his arm around the boy. “You better,” he said, “’cause I’m gonna quiz you, and if you
don’t
get it right, I’m gonna kick your little butt.”

The judges were in a special meeting. The decree unleashing the special prosecutor had just been issued, but he had moved
faster than anyone had expected. The indictment had suddenly made the case a court matter. And the bench was not prepared
to handle it.

Judge Danforth surveyed his colleagues. “We have to reach a decision,” he said. “Do we keep the case or assign it out? I for
one am going to withdraw.”

The judges looked at each other. They all knew Brownie. He had testified in their courtrooms hundreds of times, and they’d
seen him around town. No one wanted to preside at his trial.

“I won’t do it,” Judge Simmons said.

“Me neither,” added Harrold.

“Count me out,” Hanks said.

Everyone looked at Judge Cramer. “No way,” he replied.

“That’s what I thought,” Danforth declared. “We can each formally withdraw, citing our relationship with the accused. We have
no choice, as I see it. This thing started because insider corruption was alleged. And now we have to protect
ourselves
. If we ruled in Sergeant Brown’s favor at trial,
we
could be accused of collusion. It’s better if we
all
back off.”

There was agreement around the room. The case was poison. Anyone who touched it was bound to get hurt.

“All right,” Danforth said, “let’s check the roster to see who gets the honors.” He pulled a folder from his desk drawer.
In it was a list of state judges on standby for just such a contingency. Their schedules permitted reassignment in conflict-of-interest
situations.

“Let’s see.” Danforth ran his finger down the October column. When he stopped, his face paled.

“Who is it?” Harrold prompted.

“Judge Rollie Ransome,” Danforth said.

A murmur of surprise ran around the table. Rollie Ransome was a judge from Baltimore. He was fat, crude, and bullheaded. And
he had once shared office space with a streetwise legal gunslinger named Kent King.

Brownie had maneuvered Henry Jackson against the wall of the prison gym and was blocking the twenty-two-year-old inmate’s
exit. Recreation time was over, and the other prisoners had vacated the area. Brownie and Jackson were alone. It was thirty
feet to the door, and another fifty to the guard on the other side.

“Let me go, man,” Jackson pleaded. He was a two-bit punk from the Blocktown fringe, a thief who specialized in luxury cars
and electronic equipment. Brownie had busted him at least three times, but the little punk kept coming back.

Brownie put an arm on either side of Henry’s head. “I want to talk.”

“You ain’t a cop no more,” Jackson responded nervously. “Leave me alone.”

The arms stayed in place. “Talk to me, Henry.”

Jackson considered his options. Brown was a hard-ass, now an accused murderer. No telling what he might do. “What do you want
to know?” he finally asked.

Brownie dropped one arm to his side. “You were in Blocktown the night the man from CAIN got burned.”

“Yeah,” Henry said cautiously.

“And you were hangin’ outside Reverend Taylor’s church.”

“Maybe.” Henry was not sure how to answer. Was Brownie still trying to pin something on him?

“How long were you there?”

“Didn’t say I
was
there.”

Brownie put his arm back up again. “You
were
there and you were casing cars, weren’t you, Henry?”

Jackson puckered his lips. “Fuck you.”

“Take it easy. I don’t give a shit if you stole a whole goddamn fleet. I just want to know if you saw a particular car in
the lot that night. That’s all.”

Henry stared at him skeptically. “What car?”

At the end of the room, the metal door clanged open and six inmates entered. They were brawny, white, and out for blood.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bobo Hynson twanged through his fight-flattened nose. “You playin’ button, button, which
nigger’s got the button?” Bobo was a cycle jerk who fancied himself the prison godfather. He was ugly and mean-tempered, and
Brownie had added at least two pages of arrests to his rap sheet.

Henry’s face went stiff with fear. If he got pegged as a collaborator he was as good as dead. “He’s trying to hurt me!” he
yelled suddenly.

“Let him go!” Bobo ordered.

Brownie lowered his arms and moved against the wall. Henry ran out, and Bobo grabbed him. “What was he doin’, tryin’ to get
a piece?”

“Yeah,” Henry gasped.

Bobo pinched his shoulder. “Did you suck him?”

“No! I swear!”

“You
sure
about that?” Bobo was gripping hard.

“He refused my advances,” Brownie interjected.

“Yeah? Is that right, pig?” He released Henry and turned his attention to Brownie.

“That’s right,” Brownie replied calmly. “He said I wasn’t his type. Said he was
your
girlfriend.”

The others formed a V, with Bobo at the point. “That’s real funny,” Bobo snarled, “but I don’t do black meat. We got to reprimand
you anyway.” Bobo led the V forward. Brownie made two fists.

“What goes around, comes around.” The V took another step.

Brownie figured he had three seconds, no more.

“Gonna fuck you up—” Bobo hissed, but the words were cut off by a savage pivot-punch to his nose. The leader gurgled and lurched
as Brownie struck, swinging his own fist into nothing but air.

“Get him!” a sidekick screamed. The V became a semicircle.

Brownie lowered his head like a fullback and raced for the door, slashing and flailing at the men in his way.

“Motherfucker!” Bobo bellowed. He’d recovered enough to get back in the chase. “Grab the motherfucker!”

Brownie had almost reached the door when he was caught from behind and tackled. He fell against the hardwood with a thud,
tried to crawl forward but couldn’t. He was trapped.

“Hold him!” Bobo wheezed.

Brownie struggled to get up as Bobo moved into place above him.

“You’re mine, motherfucker!” Bobo stomped his foot on Brownie’s neck and raised a sharpened five-inch nail he’d stolen from
the machine shop. “And you’re fuckin’ dead!”

Brownie twisted as the nail came down and it hit the fleshy part of his upper arm. “Aaaaaah!” he screamed.

Just then the alarm sounded, the door flew open, and guards flooded the room.

“Drop it, Bobo!” the captain hollered, brandishing a baton. The nail clanged to the floor, and the prisoners were subdued.

Bobo’s nose was bloody and even more misshapen. He glared at Brownie as he was escorted to detention and mouthed
Kill you
with his fattened lips.

“Any time,” Brownie snarled back.

Brownie was taken to the infirmary, medicated, bandaged, and released. On the way back to his cell, Brownie encountered Henry
Jackson on the tier. “You okay?” Henry whispered. He was grateful that Brownie had taken the heat off him. It had given him
a chance to escape.

“Doin’ fine,” Brownie said. “Guess you rang the alarm.”

Henry glanced around. “Yeah,” he replied.

“Thanks,” Brownie said.

Henry hesitated before walking on, as if he still had something on his mind. Brownie began to move, but Henry blocked his
path. He pressed close to Brownie’s ear. “The car you were looking for,” he asked, “what kind was it?”

Gardner was distraught. He’d returned to his office after the confrontation with King and found a very different woman where
Jennifer should have been. Lin Song had presented her credentials and an amended court order from Judge Danforth spelling
out the awful truth: the State’s Attorney’s staff was at the mercy of the special prosecutor.

“Can’t get a goddamned thing done around here,” he told Jennifer when he’d located her in the law library. So they fled the
building and tried to regroup. Gardner suggested jogging to clear their minds. But even that failed to work. Gardner quit
halfway through the course and sat on a rock, and that’s where he stayed while he sorted things out.

“I’ve never felt this way,” he told Jennifer, “so helpless. By statute and ethics there’s
nothing
we can do. We’re legal eunuchs. We can’t work with King, and we can’t work for Brownie.”

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“There’s a change of status.”

The sun had seared a hole in the clouds, and orange fire glowed behind the ridge.

“As in
prosecutor
?”

“Right. As prosecutors we’re sidelined. There would have to be a drastic change.”

“Drastic,” Gardner said. “You mean like
quit
?” Prosecution was his whole life. He’d been in the job since leaving law school, and he didn’t know anything else, didn’t
want
to know anything else.

“You’d never do it, of course.”

Gardner thought about it. Things had happened so suddenly he hadn’t had a chance to think. But now that the words were uttered,
he realized Jennifer had a point. The only way to get back in the case would be to resign. And that was not something he was
prepared to do. The concept was overwhelming, and scary as hell. He could never become a defense attorney, never become a
Kent King.

“Right?”

“Right,” Gardner said.

“We’ll find another way. Maybe we can help get Brownie a lawyer.”

“That’s a thought, but he’ll have to be damn good to take on King.”

“There’s one out there,” Jennifer said. “We’ll just have to find him. Or
her
.”

Gardner smiled and put his arms around her. “Thanks, Jen,” he whispered. “Thanks for being there.”

“It’ll work out,” Jennifer said.

But Gardner wasn’t so sure. The winds of change were pounding against the door, and he was having trouble holding it shut.

Judge Rollie Edgar Ransome pounded his gavel in the courtroom and called for order. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and
a bond hearing had been scheduled for Brownie’s case.

Gardner and Jennifer sat in the first row. The news had whipped through the courthouse like a brushfire, and they’d rushed
over. The local judges were bailing out.

“Look at King,” Jennifer whispered. The special prosecutor was smiling broadly, pleased with Ransome’s appointment.

“Let’s get moving,” Judge Ransome told Willie Stanton. “I’ll hear from the defendant first.”

Stanton stood up and adjusted his bow tie. He was a man of medium height, complexion, and build, reserved and polite. “We
ask, uh, we ask Your Honor to consider setting a bond in this, uh, this case,” the attorney mumbled. Brownie sat beside him
in prison orange, his arm in a sling.

“Speak up!” Rollie retorted. “I can barely hear you.”

Gardner’s stomach burned. So it begins. Brownie had told him about Stanton yesterday at the jail, and Gardner had almost blown
a gut. He couldn’t believe it. Stanton was the
least
qualified candidate for the defense job. Gardner promised to get him an ace, but Brownie insisted on keeping Willie. And
that didn’t make any sense at all.