cord that was just long enough to reach through a metal porthole that had been cut in the chain link. The way it worked, I could stand in the locked shower stall and by pulling the receiver in with me, I could then reach through and dial the phone attached to the wall outside. I retrieved the handset while Sergeant Collins watched me.
'You mind?' I asked.
He finally turned and walked out of earshot. I could just make out the corner of Insane Wayne Watkins's cell a few feet beyond the intersecting corridor. It was so dim over there, I couldn't quite see him, but I could feel his insolent glare coming out of the darkness, vibing me.
I reached through the narrow port, dialed information and asked for Gustafson Law Associates. Once the operator gave me the number, I called it collect and got a woman on his answering service who was polite, but seemed tired of dealing with dirtbags calling collect from jail in the middle of the night. I told her what I wanted.
'He makes jail visits after court in the morning. If you got booked tonight, you won't be arraigned until Tuesday or Wednesday, anyway.'
'I need to talk with him now.'
'Honey, it's three a. M.'
'Wake him up. I'm the cop accused of killing David Slade and that rapper, Diamond Back, at the Oasis Awards. My case is gonna be worth a million in free national publicity. You tell Gustafson to call me in the next ten minutes or I'm moving to Thomas Mesereau, who happens to be the next celebrity guy on my list.'
She hesitated, so I said, 'I'm in a shower cell. I'm holding a phone through a porthole. This is not a good situation down here. Don't keep me waiting.' I gave her the pay-phone number and hung up.
Three minutes later, the wall phone rang. I reached through the hole and picked it up.
'Shane Scully?' a rough voice said.
'Yeah,' I replied, keeping my own voice low so I wouldn't be overheard by Wayne Watkins.
'Gunner Gustafson.'
'Didn't take you long,' I said.
'Knock it off. Let's go, cowboy, it's late so gimme your story.'
His voice was raspy, like a fighter who'd been hit in the windpipe too many times. But it fit him. I remembered he was only five-foot-six, but the guy was definitely street product. When I'd testified against his dirtbag clients, both were found not guilty. It had angered me at the time, but now it warmed my heart.
'Start at the top and don't leave anything out,' he said.
I filled him in on all of the facts I could remember. I told him I had amnesia surrounding the immediate event, but my memory was slowly coming back.
'You didn't tell the cops you couldn't remember what happened,' he said, sounding worried.
'I may be stupid enough to be in jail, but I'm not that stupid.'
I explained where I was being held and about Alexa and why I needed to get out on bail by ten a. M. When I finished, I heard him breathing slowly on the other end of the line.
'And you said the D. A.'s going after a bail deviance on the first degree murder?' he asked.
'That's what the booking sergeant told me. I don't have a million. I guess my house is worth maybe three- quarters of that and I only have about one hundred grand in equity. But none of it matter because I can't wait until Tuesday. I need out fast.'
'You don't make it easy, friend. You've left me no time to put together a bail package. And if you can't make the million bond, we're gonna need to file our own bail deviation request, which means I'll need to put together the standard choir of angels who can hallelujah and amen all my arguments as to your saintliness. We need people who are beyond reproach your son, your division commander, if he'll stick his neck out, your priest if he's still talking to you anybody else you can think of. But I can't do any of that by ten a. M. I also need to get an appraisal on your house and have a bondsman qualify you. Again, no time. Put this off until Tuesday, you'll at least be giving me a fighting chance.'
'My wife is undergoing surgery. Didn't you hear what I told you?' I was getting angry with him.
'Okay, okay, hold your water. I'll call the guy who books Division Thirty arraignments first thing in the morning and have your name put on Monday's court appointment sheet. But I won't promise anything. If I screw this up, it's one hundred percent on you.' The recent story of my life.
'Thanks,' I said.
I hung up the phone and whistled for the custodian.
'Hey, fish! I got somethin' for you,' I heard Wayne Watkins growl from across the hall. 'You about to get fronted. There's people in here 'bout to buck down on yer ass.'
He was threatening me right in the men's jail. Something wasn't right. How would he pull it off? I was a high-profile, isolated prisoner.
Sergeant Collins arrived. The door to the shower was unlocked and I was led outside. Collins walked ahead of me, leading me back to my cell.
'I got yo four-one-one right here,' Wayne growled, holding something out through the bars a rag or a torn sheet.
I swerved slightly, putting myself between Sgt. Collins and Insane Wayne, blocking the custodian's view. Then as I passed by his cell I snatched a torn cloth out of his hand and wadded it into a ball inside my fist.
After I was locked back in my cell, I held the cloth up to the dull corridor light. It was a torn piece of bed sheet. On it, Wayne had written something in blood. I strained to read it.
Trustees. Maluga rules. Fire.
I looked at the message again, trying to figure out what it meant. I sat down on the bed and then lay back, turning the problem over.
I took the three sections of the note one at a time.
Trustees.
I knew from past experiences with the jail that trustees more or less ran the place. Most of them were first- timers in on low-weight drug dealing beefs. They swept up and delivered the food trays to isolation cells, made minor repairs, and kept the jail buses washed and cleaned. The majority of the trustees were gang-bangers, both black and Hispanic, but without serious violent crimes in their jackets. That still didn't mean one or two weren't monsters in training.
Maluga rules.
I thought about that for a while as I wondered how far a trustee might go to please a rich thug and rap mogul like Louis Maluga. I suspected fifty thousand in cash or a promised rap contract would buy a lot of cooperation. Could he corrupt a trustee with money or a promise of fame or glory? Probably.
Fire.
How did that make any sense? This was a concrete and steel facility. Hard to find much that would burn. I wrestled with this and then found myself thinking back to the buses in the parking area and that African-American trustee who had the key to the drive-in cage. It suddenly occurred to me that there was gasoline in those buses. How hard would it be for a trustee to slip underneath and siphon some out? How hard to smuggle a book of matches in here?
I sat up and pulled the mattress off the bed and studied it. It was thin, but with a hard, red plastic cover. It might make a good shield. I put it on the floor beside the bed and lay back down on the cold metal shelf. How long I waited, I don't know. There were no clocks. The sound of men snoring punctuated the silence. I gripped the edge of the mattress and thought about the next morning and how long it would take me to get bailed out, if I could even arrange it. I wondered where Chooch was and if I should get the sergeant to take me back to the shower so I could call him. I couldn't bear to tell him I was in jail for murder. After struggling with this for a while, I decided to wait until I knew more. He had enough to deal with just looking out for Alexa, and since he hadn't called the jail, I could only hope he'd been asleep when I was arrested and hadn't seen anything about it on TV yet.
Finally, I drifted off. My mind was looking for comfort somewhere else. But this time I didn't find it in a dream. I slept fitfully. I thrashed and rolled, fighting demons that came at me in shadowy forms. In most cases I was running, trying to get away from faceless enemies I could sense but couldn't quite see.
Then I heard someone outside the bars of my cell and my eyes snapped open. I couldn't see who it was, but I caught a glimpse of purple.
Trustee.
