Wrong words in George’s world. “Name’s George Lexia, Judge. And we have a witness here for the defense. There was a little confusion between us and Ms. Wittenberg here. Now she’s got a witness. You’d better let him testify.”
“You telling me what to do, Mr. Lexia?”
“Just your job, Judge. We’ve been watching bits and pieces of the trial back home, and you’ve really been hammering on Ms. Wittenberg. Not very judge-like, if you ask me.”
“No one is asking you, you impertinent fool. Do you know that in our common law jurisdiction 200 years ago, the sheriffs would have removed your right hand and nailed it to the lectern, just to let everyone know not to mess with the court? And you are messing with the court.”
George sidled over to Dana. “Just ask him his name and his qualifications,” he whispered. “Then ask him about the Lestage emails. He’ll do the rest. And I need your telephone number.” She wrote down her telephone number and he went back into the public gallery.
“Now, Ms. Wittenberg,” said the judge, looking at Dana. “You have a witness, I gather. What’s his name?”
“Umm. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Hamilton,” interrupted George. “Hamilton Turbee Junior.”
“Lexia, one more peep out of you and you’re in the calabozo.”
“Now who is your witness, Ms. Wittenberg?”
Dana paused. The face looked vaguely familiar. Then she recognized him from their Skype call. That Turbee. TTIC Turbee. She looked at the judge with a smile, realizing that a lifeline had just been tossed in her direction.
“His name is Mr. Turbee, m’lord. Hamilton Turbee Junior.”
38
An entirely different scene was unfolding in a less prestigious part of the city. “We’ve got to get some dry, clean clothes,” said Richard as the three sat down, backs against a brick wall, surveying the human wreckage in the alleyway.
“I have an idea,” said Zak. “We’ll get one of these characters to help us out.” Before Richard could voice an opinion, Zak pointed to a man who seemed less damaged than the others and motioned with his good hand, urging the man to speak to them. He walked toward them, staring directly at them. “Uh, Zak,” began Richard.
“Shut up, Rich, I’ve got this,” Zak said.
The man, rakishly thin, had a scar on one side of his face and tendrils of various tattoos surfacing above his T-shirt. “What do you want, asshole?” he said, standing over the three damp, shivering men.
“Dry clothes,” Zak replied.
“Yeah. And I want a fuckin’ Rolls-Royce, okay? Now get the fuck out of here before I snap off a couple of fingers.”
“Yo,” said Zak. “You’re way too hostile. Tell you what. I’ll give you a couple of Franklins now, and a couple more when you bring us the clothes.
Two large. One small.”
“What the fuck is a Franklin?” said the man.
Richard groaned. “This is Canada, Zak,” he said softly, shaking his head. This was not the pre-capture Zak. Maybe the CIA had been accurate with their complaint about his psychological evaluations.
“A hundred bucks, you idiot.” He fished around in his pocket and peeled out two of the hundred dollar bills that Jimmy had given him. “Now go to the Sally Ann and get us what we need and I’ll give you two more.”
The stranger was intently surveying Zak. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it. Don’t go anywhere.” Before Zak could respond, the man was gone.
“Zak, that was stupid,” he said. “That guy may be a user, but I’m damned sure he’s a dealer, too. Don’t you see how everyone else is reacting to him? We’ve got to get the hell out of here. One of us can go to the Sally Ann and we can work it from there. We don’t belong here.”
“Richard, we can look after ourselves. I rode with Yousseff for years. I may only have one arm, but the other one is weaponized.”
Richard got up and motioned Kumar up. “Out of here, guys. This is trouble.” Before Zak was fully mobile, the tattooed man returned, bringing with him two beefy, grim-looking enforcers. One of them pulled a handgun.
“We don’t want any trouble,” said Richard. “My friend here’s a little off. We’ll leave.”
“This is High Tight Soldier turf,” said one of the enforcers. “Empty your fucking pockets now. Maybe we’ll let you out of here with your kneecaps.” “Fuck you,” Zak replied.
The first enforcer weighed well over 250, and stood six-four. He wore a black headband and his head was shaved, save for a Mohawk strip down the center. He sported heavy black sunglasses.
“Do you have any fucking idea who I am?” he said, staring directly at Zak.
“Why the hell should I care?”
“Because, you idiot, I am the enforcer for the High Tight Soldiers.”
Zak scoffed and pushed the left wrist button that normally released the deadly dorsal blade. Nothing. The electronics inside his prosthesis were still damp. “Jeez, those assholes told me it was waterproof,” he said to Richard.
Nevertheless he was undeterred. “I don’t know who you are, mister,” Zak continued, “but I know soldiers. I work with soldiers. And you ain’t a soldier. You’re a Tinker Bell. With a bad haircut and cholesterol issues.”
The enforcer looked a little unsure of himself. Generally the script didn’t unfold this way. “Now, asshole,” he said.
“Zak, he’s got a gun,” said Richard. “Empty your pockets. We need to get out of here.”
Zak pulled the wad of hundreds out of his pocket and threw it on the ground. The split second of distraction he created was all that either man needed. Zak was a little over six feet, Richard a little under. Both had a lifetime of training in various forms of combat, including hand to hand. Both were in superb physical shape. The instant that the enforcer looked down, Richard pounced and twisted the gun
