“So who the fuck else would I be?” Nemo had no patience for retards.
The guy took a business card from his breast pocket and pressed it up against the glass. “Simon Escalante,” he said. “Your attorney?”
Nemo squinted at the card, saw the name above the words ASST. FEDERAL PUBLIC DEFENDER, and groaned inwardly, thinking, now I’m fucked. Another shit-fer-brains mouthpiece who couldn’t make it in the real world. The last public defender he’d had managed to get him five years in stir.
Escalante returned the card to his pocket. “You did request an attorney, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Nemo said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “I just didn’t think anyone was listening.”
“Guess you were wrong about that. I may have some good news for you.”
“Oh?” Nemo figured this probably meant he’d get chocolate pudding on his dinner tray tonight, because on every other level he was about as fucked as you can get. Not even the late great Johnnie Cochran could change that.
“Do you know anything about federal criminal law, Mr. Nemo?”
“What’s to know?” Nemo said. The way he saw it, the only difference between a state and a federal rap was the color of your jumpsuit. The bunks in the marshals’ lockup were just as uncomfortable, and you still had to watch your backside in the showers.
“Title Eighteen, Section Five, of the criminal code prohibits holding a suspect in custody longer than twenty- four hours,” Escalante said. “Seems the Feds dumped you in here, then promptly forgot about you. That, coupled with the testimony of two eyewitnesses who say they saw you grievously manhandled by federal agents, makes a compelling case for your immediate release.”
Nemo stared at him. Somebody had actually seen those assholes attack him in the alley? “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I shit you not,” Escalante said, and smiled. “I’ve asked the court for a hearing, and I expect to be in front of a judge within ten minutes.”
“Isn’t it a little late for court?”
“This is an emergency situation. All I need is your signature.”
“Signature?” Nemo said, balking. “I’m not signing any friggin’ confession, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nice try, asshole.”
“Please, Mr. Nemo, I’m on your side. And if I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a single confession in your future. What I need you to sign is a waiver.”
“What the hell’s a waiver?”
“A simple document that says you waive your right to appear in court this evening.”
Nemo frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because,” Escalante said, “if you insist on being present for the hearing, the marshal will have to prep you for delivery to the courtroom and delay the proceedings for an indeterminate amount of time. If it takes too long, the judge may postpone until a later date-and I’d like to get you out of here as soon as possible.”
The guy was still smiling. Nemo studied him a moment, thinking there was something wrong with this picture. He was up for bank robbery, aggravated assault, and multiple murder charges. And hadn’t the Feds just told him they considered him some kind of homegrown terrorist?
Nemo might not know much about federal law, but he’d watched enough Fox News to know that thanks to a bunch of towel-heads on crack, the Feds routinely locked up terrorism suspects and threw away the key-all without charges or even the benefit of some retard lawyer. So what made Robert Edward Nemo so friggin’ special?
Escalante said, “You’re probably a little wary, Mr. Nemo, and I can understand that. But it turns out the Feds have made some major mistakes in handling this case and the lead investigator has just been relieved of his command.”
“What?” Nemo wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Jackass Donovan?”
“I believe his legal name is John,” Escalante said.
Yessss, Nemo thought, feeling a sudden surge of triumph. Make that motherfucker skip recess and stand in a corner.
“Since Agent Donovan is the only eyewitness who can connect you to the Northland First and Trust incident, the Department of Justice is in a bit of a bind.”
Holy Jesus. The ski masks. Nobody but Donovan had seen him without that sweaty-assed ski mask. Thank yoooou, Luther, you big, ugly bastard. The masks had been his idea.
“Needless to say,” Escalante continued, “they’re scrambling to cover their asses.”
“Meaning what?”
“They’re fighting very hard to keep you in custody. Fortunately, the law’s on our side. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble convincing the judge to cut you loose.”
“What about the MP5?” Nemo said.
“The what?”
“The weapon they found.”
“Ahh,” Escalante said, nodding. “It seems their warrant only covered you and not Ms. Devito’s apartment. Any weapons they recovered were the fruits of an illegal search and, as such, can no longer be used as evidence against you.”
“Halle-fuckin-lujah,” Nemo said.
“Don’t start celebrating too soon,” Escalante warned. “You’re not completely out of the woods. If the Feds can put together a strong enough case, you could be back in here as early as tomorrow afternoon.”
Jeez, Nemo thought, that doesn’t leave much of a window. If these idiots were stupid enough to let him out, he didn’t plan on giving them a chance to take it back.
One of the deputies had told him about Alex last night. How the cops had shot him down in cold blood, the stupid twit. That was the thing about Alex. Always letting his ego get the better of him, especially after Sara took her nosedive. Alex had been out of control.
Nemo, on the other hand, was only interested in two things: cash and pussy. And he’d be damned if he’d wind up facedown in a rat-infested train yard all because some rich bitch got her brain fried.
Instead, he’d do what he should have done two months ago and hop a bus to Ensenada. Plenty of pussy there. All those tight little Mexican chochos.
Caliente, baby, caliente.
Now all he needed was cash.
“Well, Mr. Nemo?”
Escalante was unfolding a sheet of paper with official-looking writing all over it. Nemo stared at it, thinking, the guy’s serious. This is the real thing.
“You tell these crank-yankers to get me a pen,” he said, “and I’ll sign whatever you want.”
You think he swallowed it?” Donovan asked.
“Like a twenty-dollar whore,” Waxman said, his voice distorted over the cell line. “He’s being processed as we speak.”
“And you’re sure he didn’t recognize Franky?”
“Even I barely recognized him. Put on a fake beard, glasses, did a whole number on the moron. Cited some bullshit criminal code and even made him sign a waiver-you believe that?” Waxman laughed. “This thing pans out, we’ll have to give Franky another trophy.”
“Or a ticket to Hollywood,” Donovan said.
Despite what Waxman thought, Bobby Nemo was no moron. If they had simply let him go, he was bound to be suspicious, and sending the Chameleon in with an appropriately long-winded cover story was designed to allay those suspicions.
They had discussed coming down hard on Nemo, the way they had before, but if it backfired, if Nemo clammed up this time, then where would they be? Better to make him think he was in control rather than take it from him.
And the next step was key.
Donovan just hoped it would work.
He sat behind the wheel of his sedan, parked across the street from the U.S. Marshals’ office, which occupied
