curb. Ortiz and Hennings moved quickly, trying to attract as little attention as possible as they approached. Monroe turned his back to them and opened the passenger door for his boss. The howling wind muffled the sound of footsteps. Monroe turned and made a move for his gun. He stopped when he saw Hennings poised in a shooting stance.
“Freeze!” Hennings shouted.
Johnson stood with his hands half-raised and a stunned expression on his face. Then he bent his head and squinted into the dark and cold.
“Is that you, Ortiz?”
“Shut up and spread against the car.”
“What the fuck you doin’, man? I’m clean.”
“I said, against the car. Both of you.”
“I ain’t humiliatin’ myself in no-”
Ortiz hit Johnson in the solar plexus as hard as he could, then kicked him in the crotch. The pimp looked as if he were going to be sick. He slipped to his knees. A quick look of surprise crossed Hennings’s face. Monroe started to lower his hands.
“Just try it, fuck face. I’d love to waste you,” Ortiz said, swinging his weapon in Monroe’s direction. The big man looked uncertain for a moment, then slowly leaned against the car as he had been told.
“Now, spread,” Ortiz commanded, pulling Johnson to his feet and shoving him against the car. Hennings kept a few paces back and Ortiz frisked Monroe. He handed a gun and a switchblade to his partner. Hennings placed them in his pocket. While Hennings’s attention was distracted, Ortiz slipped the plastic baggie from his pocket and palmed it. Johnson was still doubled over and in pain, but he was doing his best to spread-eagle in order to avoid another beating. There were no wisecracks now, Ortiz thought with satisfaction. No bad-mouth.
Ortiz reached around in front of the pimp and pretended to search inside his coat for a weapon. Suddenly, he pulled his hand out of T.V.’s pocket and waved the baggie toward Hennings.
“Bingo,” Ortiz said.
T.V. turned his head. His eyes opened wide when he saw what Ortiz was holding.
“What’s that?” he asked, surprise distracting him from his pain.
“Your passport to the penitentiary, T.V. Now, move over to that police car so we can escort you downtown.”
“You planted that!” T.V. said incredulously.
“Shut up,” Ortiz said softly.
“You in on this too, pig?” T.V. asked Hennings.
“Didn’t you hear Officer Ortiz tell you to shut your face?” Hennings asked.
Ortiz jerked Monroe’s hands behind him and cuffed the big man. He made sure that the cuffs were too tight. He gave T.V. the same treatment.
“I’m going to read you your rights, gentlemen,” Ortiz said as the prisoners were hustled to the police car.
“You are really a sick son of a bitch, Ortiz. You plant that shit on me, then talk about rights.”
Ortiz read the Miranda rights to the prisoners, then motioned them into the back of the police car. There were no handles on the inside of the back door, and a wire screen separated the back seat from the front. Hennings drove and Ortiz leaned back. Monroe looked out the back window, accepting his fate silently. Johnson slouched beside him with a sullen expression on his face. The whole thing was unfair. He expected a beating now and then. He had seen police lie on the witness stand when an arrest was legitimate but the defendant would escape on a technicality if the truth came out. But this was different. It was…was…unfair.
Johnson looked through the mesh at the back of Ortiz’s head. Ortiz wanted something. He had a feeling about it. Something he wanted bad enough to break the rules. He’d wait and see what it was. If he could, he’d do what Ortiz wanted; then he would wait for his chance.
“Why you plant that dope, Ortiz?” T.V. asked when they were alone in the interrogation room.
“I didn’t plant any dope on you, T.V. My informant said you’d have it on you and you did. Anyone who watches television knows you’re a notorious pusher. Why wouldn’t you be carrying narcotics?”
“My lawyer gonna tear that story apart. You got no case on me.”
“Oh, yeah? When you talk to your lawyer, ask him how he’s going to do that. A court won’t order me to tell you the name of an informant. It’s the law, T.V.”
T.V. was silent for a moment. His eyes darted nervously from one side of the room to the other, as if looking for some way out of his predicament.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a crooked cop, Ortiz.”
“Try and prove that in court. You think a jury will take the word of a nigger pimp against mine? You’re gonna do ten hard years on this, T.V., unless…”
T.V. looked up from the floor. “Unless what?”
“Unless you tell the truth about what that white man did to your whore friend.”
“You still on that kick?” Johnson asked, surprised.
“The truth, T.V., will set you free.”
“How? How you gonna arrange for me to beat this rap?”
“I found the evidence, I can lose the evidence. You play ball with me, and this case will disappear like one of Houdini’s card tricks. But you fuck with me, and I’ll see you in the penitentiary doing hard time. My word.”
“Your word ain’t worth shit,” Johnson said in a sudden burst of anger.
“Maybe,” Ortiz said with a broad smile, “but it’s all you’ve got.”
Johnson stood up and walked to the far wall. He turned his back on Ortiz. It was quiet in the soundproof room.
“And suppose I tell you what I know? Is that all?”
“No. You tell the jury. You testify.”
“I gotta…I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Well, you better decide fast. The trial starts tomorrow and you don’t have much time.”
2
Afog bank drifted across the sand, obscuring the terrain of the endless beach. Monica stopped, terrified and alone. She turned slowly, looking for a landmark, but the fog had made subtle changes and she felt lost.
The fog lifted for a moment, and a figure, half-shrouded by the mist, floated away from her. She ran after it, lifting her legs high to avoid the sand that clutched at her ankles. She must not fall or the sand would suck her down.
The fog was drifting back and her quarry was slipping into the shadows. She ran faster, the pounding of her heart drowning out the cadence of the incoming tide. Faster. She was losing ground. Faster. She was falling, screaming, flailing helplessly as she hurtled downward into darkness.
Then the beach was gone, and the only part of her dream that remained was the beating of her heart.
Monica looked around the room. It was her bedroom and she was sitting up in her bed, drenched in sweat. The clock read sixA.M. She could try to sleep for another half hour, but she was too wound up.
Monica turned on the light and went into the bathroom. The face she saw in the mirror was pale and had bags under the eyes. Not good, she thought, but it would not get better if she did not get a decent night’s sleep.
She had been exhausted during jury selection, and her opening statement lacked the punch of David’s emotional declaration of his client’s innocence. Monica had watched the jurors as she outlined the evidence she would produce at trial. They had listened attentively, and she was convinced that they were responsible people who would convict Larry Stafford if they believed he was guilty. But would they believe that, or would David fool them?
Fool them. That was an odd way to describe the function of the defense bar, but Monica felt it was an
