Blood Money

message. He checked his iPhone, but the display showed NO SERVICE. The Sydney sighting had overloaded the system, but word of mouth was spreading all around him.

“I see her!”

“Yeah, that’s her!”

Theo tried to get closer, but it was human gridlock ahead of him. Demonstrators blocked the sidewalk and the exit to the parking lot, but he was tall enough to see over most of the people in front of him. The most vocal and aggressive in the crowd, the tip of the human spear, had surrounded a young woman whose white blouse made her an easy mark in the darkness. People shook their fists and brandished their posters, shouting at her. She shouted back, but that only seemed to unify the mob.

“No blood money, no blood money!”

She darted in one direction, then in the other, desperately seeking a way out. The human circle around her drew tighter, and the angry crowd moved closer.

“No blood money!”

The BNN reporter and crew tried to push forward, but there was nowhere for them to go. Theo was trapped beside them and could hear the on-the-scene reporter shouting into her microphone with an update for the studio.

“Faith, you are absolutely correct. It does appear that this is the moment, the dreaded moment of Sydney Bennett’s release from prison.”

A big guy from BNN’s lighting crew gave one more shove. Suddenly, the logjam broke, there was a collective surge forward, and Theo nearly fell over the woman in front of him. He helped her up, and then peered across the sea of heads that stretched all the way to the chain-link fence. The buffer zone-a few feet of separation-between the mob and its prey had disappeared. The woman in the white blouse had been swallowed up in the crowd, her body somewhere beneath the hysteria.

“No blood money!”

Theo checked his cell again, but he was still without service. He wasn’t sure what to do, but things were turning ugly. He gripped the phone, useless as it was, frustrated enough to shout at the top of his lungs, but he kept it inside.

What the hell is going on, Jack?

Chapter Five

Jack stared at the television in disbelief. He was seated at a table in the detention center lounge with a corrections officer whose walkie-talkie was crackling with updates from the dispatcher: “Backup needed, zone five. Backup, zone five.”

The Faith Corso Show was coming in loud and clear on an old fifteen-inch television that rested on the counter next to the coffeemaker. BNN’s coverage had switched to an aerial shot from the helicopter, the studio having temporarily lost contact with the camera crew in the field. Jack increased the volume as Corso described the carnage to her national audience from her studio desk.

“Once again, friends, you are watching BNN’s exclusive coverage of the live action outside the Miami-Dade County Women’s Detention Center. We are trying to reestablish contact with our reporter on the scene, Heather Brown, but this much we know. At approximately twelve nineteen A.M., Shot Mom was spotted on the north side of the building. As incomprehensible as this sounds, her defense team apparently thought she could slip through the crowd unnoticed. Things have gone terribly wrong, riot police are trying to establish order, and we can only hope that no innocent people have been caught up in this maelstrom.”

A camera from a media helicopter tracked an ambulance as it sped down Seventh Avenue, orange and yellow lights flashing as it pulled into the parking lot.

“Emergency vehicles are now on the scene,” said Corso, “and I’m told we have reconnected with Heather Brown. Heather, what is the situation on the ground now?”

“Utter and complete chaos,” said Brown. There was audio contact, but no video.

“Do we have official confirmation that Shot Mom was, in fact, in the parking lot?”

Brown said something to her cameraman, and the on-screen image switched from the helicopter view to ground level. Brown was standing on the sidewalk, just outside the perimeter of panic and confusion.

“Faith, there is no official word yet from the Department of Corrections, but we have accounts from eyewitnesses who have stated in no uncertain terms that Sydney Bennett is somewhere in the middle of all this. We are trying to bring one of those eyewitnesses over here now to talk with us on camera.” Brown adjusted her earpiece, listening to her producer, then spoke with greater urgency. “Faith, I am told we do have someone with us now,” she said.

“Mic her up so I can talk to her,” said Corso.

“She’s right here. I can ask her directly.”

“Heather, this will work so much better for everyone if you just hand over your earpiece and microphone and let me speak to her.”

The “my show” attitude was what Corso’s fans loved about her. Even Jack was starting to find her schtick engrossing in its own way. As the reporter on the scene complied, Corso set the dramatic stage for her own breaking-news moment.

“Once again, friends, you are watching Breaking News Network, live from the women’s detention center, where we are just moments away from bringing you an exclusive eyewitness account of this very dangerous situation that Shot Mom and her lawyers have created.”

“That her lawyers created?” said Jack. It was involuntary, and the corrections officer next to him ignored the fact that Jack was talking to a TV.

“Hello, this is Jenna Smith.”

The voice from the television was weak and shaky. Alone and on camera was a frightened young woman clutching a BNN microphone. The crowd in the background flashed from red to orange to yellow, as a full complement of swirling lights from emergency vehicles bathed the parking lot.

“Jenna, this is Faith Corso with Breaking News Network. Thank you for joining me. I understand that you were right in the thick of this terrible, terrible mess. Can you tell us what happened?”

The young woman gnawed her lip, timid in her response. “Uhm, we were, like, it was Celeste and me, and we were just. . oh, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Take a deep breath,” said Corso, using the voice of a skilled prosecutor who had comforted countless victims in court. “Who is Celeste?”

“Celeste. My BFF. We’re roommates at the U. We wanted to go to Club Vertigo. They had this party.”

“Where is this Club Vertigo?”

“South Beach. Tonight it was, like, you drink free if you come dressed up. Celeste was so perfect.”

“Wait a second,” said Corso, her tone no longer so soothing. “You’re saying that a South Beach bar was giving away drinks if you got dressed up?”

“Right.”

“Dressed up how?”

“They had this Sydney Bennett look-alike contest, and-”

“A look-alike contest?”

“Mmm-hmm. Celeste should have won first prize, but it was like so rigged, the bouncers wouldn’t even let us in. So we, uhm, decided to come here. We thought it would be funny, you know? And like, all of a sudden, people were screaming, ‘There she is, there’s Sydney!’ It was like people went crazy or something. I got knocked down by some jerk, and then. . I don’t know. A group of women were screaming about bloody money, and when I tried to get up, somebody bashed me in the arm with a pipe. Maybe a baseball bat-I don’t know what it was. My elbow feels like it might be broken.”

“Where is your friend Celeste now?” asked Corso.

“I don’t know,” Smith said, her voice quaking. “I got whacked in the arm, and then I saw Celeste go down.”