went to work, weeding first through those inmates closest to the fence.
‘Get down on the ground now!’
‘Do not move!’
Most inmates offered only token resistance, two or three minutes of close-quarter combat having sapped the energy of all but the fittest. After taking a couple of baton strikes to their bodies to demonstrate their continuing machismo, they followed orders, rolling away from opponents and kissing the dirt, bruised fingers laced tight behind their necks.
As the guards moved in, Lock spotted Ty. Next to Ty, Marvin was lying motionless on the ground, clots of red dirt flecked on the ground around him. Ty was still going at it, giving a good account of himself, throwing palms and elbows at Phileas with alarming speed and ferocity. Phileas was backing away, his face swollen.
Lock couldn’t resist a smile as Ty grabbed Phileas by the back of his neck, using his spare hand to gouge at his eyes — a classic piece of Krav Maga, where total destruction of your opponent was prized over looking good.
‘Get down on the ground!’ the guard nearest to Ty yelled.
Do it, thought Lock. Just do it, Ty. Give it up. But Ty was too far gone, too consumed by the massive dump of adrenalin brought by combat.
Lock half-turned and caught a baton to the back of his knees. His legs folded and the ground came up to meet him. His hands pressed the dirt as he pushed himself back up, but another blow, this one to his back, sank him, just as he caught a glimpse of Ty astride Phileas, the guy barely moving.
Up in the gun tower, a lone guard surveyed the yard through the scope of his rifle. Save for one corner of the yard, all the inmates were lying face down. The riot officers moved among them, assessing who needed medical attention and who needed restraints.
To his left, though, a black inmate still had one of the whites pinned down. A riot officer blasted a cone of pepper spray in the black inmate’s direction, but the black inmate had pulled his shirt up over his face, shielding himself from the worst of it.
The guard’s finger moved to the trigger of his gun as the inmate advanced on the guard. Picking a spot behind and to the left of the inmate, he squeezed the trigger.
Lock heard the sharp crack of the shot and watched a puff of dust from the warning shot rise near Ty. He looked up towards the gun tower, but right then two members of the riot squad moved in front of him, their heavy black boots blocking his vision.
A few seconds later came the crack of a second shot, and the yard fell silent as Ty hit the ground.
20
Jalicia watched as Bobby Gross, lead defense attorney for the Aryan Brotherhood leadership, swept into the San Francisco courtroom, his entourage of a dozen other attorneys and assistants trailing in his wake. As he approached the table where she sat with her three-person prosecution team, he stopped, ran a hand through his carefully blow-dried head of hair, and pursed his lips. Jalicia suspected that he probably spent more time in front of the mirror in the morning than she did.
‘Can I help you with something, Bobby?’ Jalicia asked, fully aware of how much Gross hated being called by his first name.
He leaned in towards her. She could smell his breath. Minty fresh. ‘Tick tock. Think your boy’s gonna make it?’ Gross was all smiles, a football coach riling his opposite number before the big game.
Behind Gross, his clients, the six members of the Aryan Brotherhood leadership, were being led in by their escort of US Marshals. They seemed to be in high spirits, laughing and joking among themselves. Most of them had been in prison for over thirty years, and it showed in the motel-tan pallor of their skin. Several wore reading glasses. All were dressed in a preppy smart-casual uniform of chinos and business shirts, buttoned to the neck — all the better to hide biceps that could crack a steel-reinforced walnut, not to mention the patchwork of shamrocks, swastikas and Nazi lightning bolts inked across their torsos and arms. The only tattoo none of them could conceal was the one that identified their membership of the AB — the shamrock inked on to the third knuckle of their right hand.
Their nicknames were jokey, bordering on cartoonish: Pinky, Sherlock, Duke, Shark, Gringo, The Monk. They looked like the senior members of a Deadwood appreciation society who’d taken the construction of their respective personas just a little too seriously.
Jalicia gave them and then Gross a confident smile. Every day since she had informed Gross about her star witness he’d tried to needle her about Reaper’s appearance.
‘My witnesses are all fine,’ she said.
‘Not what I hear,’ Gross said. ‘Seems there’s been a little incident up at Pelican Bay.’
Jalicia’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘I know,’ she lied.
The door behind Gross and his team opened and Coburn stalked in with a couple of men she recognized as members of the US Marshals team that had transported Lock and Ty up to Pelican Bay. Jalicia excused herself and made her way across to them.
‘Something’s happened?’ she asked.
Coburn spread his palms to the floor. ‘Take it easy. Reaper’s fine.’
She ushered Coburn and the two US Marshals out into the corridor, away from the prying eyes and ears of the Aryan Brotherhood leadership and their hotshot attorneys.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give it to me from the top.’
‘There was a riot on the yard,’ Coburn said.
‘They tried to get to Reaper?’
‘Reports are confused about precisely what happened. The California Department of Corrections just released some of the footage from their CCTV system.’
‘But Reaper’s OK?’
‘A little bruised,’ offered one of the Marshals.
‘What about Lock?’
‘He put a couple of other inmates in the medical wing,’ Coburn said. ‘They’ve stashed him in solitary confinement with Reaper for safe keeping.’
‘Reaper’s gonna love that,’ she said.
‘Better pissed off than dead,’ Coburn said.
The look on Coburn’s face suggested that there was something he wasn’t saying.
‘What is it?’ Jalicia asked.
‘It’s Lock’s partner. The guard didn’t know he was one of us.’
‘Which guard?’
The two Marshals looked away.
‘The one in the gun tower,’ said Coburn.
‘Ty’s been shot?’ Jalicia said.
‘He’s breathing. But we don’t know how bad he is.’
Jalicia massaged her temples. ‘Give me a minute, would you?’
She took a deep breath, then another, trying to push away her shock at what had happened to focus on the real dilemma: what to do with Reaper. There was nothing she could do about what had happened at the prison, but she could still deliver her star witness’s testimony.
‘OK, listen. I’m going to try and get the judge to halt proceedings temporarily. Give us some time to sort out this mess.’
‘You think he will?’
‘No, but it’s got to be worth-’
There was an ear-shredding boom, and the floor under Jalicia’s feet rippled with the shock waves of a massive explosion. She was lifted up by the blast, then deposited on to the ground with a thump as clouds of dust turned everything around her grey. Fire alarms wailed in protest. She swiped at her eyes, aware of gritty powder
