Socrates knew that all Brenda Marsh was going to do was get him arrested. He knew how to talk to the cops better than she did. She
the law but LaMett and Leontine
the law. Their blood and bones and fists were the letter and the last word.
?Did your client strike Mr. Burris?? LaMett asked patiently.
?In defense of his property.?
?Then I'm going to put him in a cell.?
?You can't do that,? Brenda Marsh said registering deep shock.
?You know what to do, Wayne,? LaMett said to Leontine.
Socrates laughed again. This time it wasn't the good life that made him smile but the presence of an old enemy; somebody he had fought against for so long that he was almost like a friend.
He didn't fight against the handcuffs. And he wasn't angry at Brenda Marsh. She'd tried.
They took him to a room behind the sergeant's desk and chained him to a long line of other prisoners. All of them black or brown. All young too. The chain of men were led from the back door of the police station to a waiting drab green bus. The men were taken to their seats and their chains were threaded through steel eyes in the floor. The windows were laced with metal grating and the way to the exit was obstructed by a door of metal bars.
Two guards and a driver took their posts up front and the bus drove off. The boys and young men began talking in the back. It was the beginning of the pecking order. Socrates had taken that ride before.
?Hey, old man, what they got you for? Stealin' wine?? It was a young Mexican kid. He wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed green and red tattoos from his wrists to his shoulders. The designs spoke of love, gang affiliations, his mother, his nation and a few aesthetics about death and pride.
?Youngsters tried to empty out my house,? Socrates said. ?But I guess I was a little too rough. Little bit.?
?Hey, pops can hit,? another young man said. ?You mean the cops had to pull you off 'em??
?They was workin' boys,? Socrates said in a remote tone. ?They went to the cops and then the cops come to me.?
?Man that's some chickenshit,? a tubby boy said. He was a Negro with scared green eyes. ?You know they shouldn'ta called cop.?
?Shut up, faggot,? a well-built young man said. Socrates sized him up as the would-be leader. ?Nobody wanna hear from your fat ass.?
The tubby boy shook, trying to hide his fear.
The well-built young man was seated two rows in front of Socrates. He had hair only on the top of his head. The rest had disappeared in a severe fade. The name Lex was tattooed on the right side of his head. Socrates couldn't see the other side.
?What you lookin' at, mothahfuckah?? Lex dared Socrates.
?When we stop, dog,? Socrates said. ?When we stop and you come a little closer I will show you a lesson that your daddy forgot to tell ya. I'ma show you how to roll over an' beg.?
Lex didn't say anything to that. The rest of the prisoners stayed quiet for a second too. The fat boy studied the situation with desperate green eyes.
The bus drove for over two hours to a detention facility in the foothills. It looked like an old abandoned school. A dozen or so reinforced salmon bungalows with bars in the windows and a razor wire fence over eighteen feet high around the perimeter.
The men and boys were hustled into a large room with long tables and made to sit for lunch while still in their manacles.
Lex started giving the fat boy, James, a hard time but he stopped when Socrates said, ?Eat your slop and shut up.?
