got you. Branford's making all this noise about Special Circumstance, but he's full of shit. I couldn't get that lucky, Pike, you getting the needle.'
'I didn't put the gun there, Krantz. That means somebody else did.'
'That's some coincidence, Joe, you and the gun just happening to be in the same place.'
'It means they knew my statement. Think about it.'
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'What I think is that we've got plenty for a conviction. Charlie is going to tell you the same thing.'
'No.'
'Bauman's already floating plea arrangements. Bet he didn't tell you that, did he? I know you're telling Bauman no plea, and he's saying sure, like he's going along with it, but he's not an idiot. Charlie's smart. He'll let you sit in Men's Central for six months, hoping you're telling the truth about this girl you claim you saw, but when she doesn't turn up he'll deal you a straight hand about taking the plea. My guess is that Branford will let you cop to twenty with the possibility of parole. Saves everybody looking bad about how we fucked over Dersh. Twenty with time off means you serve twelve. That sound about right to you?'
'I'm not going to prison, Krantz. Not for something I didn't do.'
Krantz touched the bars. He slipped his fingers along the steel like it was his lover.
'You're inside now, and you're going to stay inside. And if you're dumb enough to go to trial, and I'm thinking you might do that because you're such a hardhead, you'll be in a cage like this for the rest of your life. And I did it, Pike. Me. You're mine, and I wanted to tell you that. That's why I came here, to tell you. You're mine.'
The black jailer with the big arms came down the cellblock and stopped next to Krantz. 'Time to take your ride, Pike. Step into the center of the floor.'
Krantz started away, then turned back. 'Oh, and one other thing. You heard we found the homeless guy dead, didn't you?'
'Deege.'
'Yeah, Deege. That was kind've goofy, wasn't it, Pike, him telling you guys that a truck like yours stopped Karen, and a guy who looked like you was driving? '
Pike waited.
'Someone crushed his throat and stuffed him in a Dump-ster on one of those little cul-de-sac streets below the lake.'
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Pike waited.
'A couple of teenagers saw a red Jeep Cherokee up there, Joe. Parked in the middle of the street and waiting on the very night that Deege was killed. They saw the driver, too. Guess who they saw behind the wheel? '
'Me.'
'This gets better and better.'
Krantz stared at Pike a little longer, then turned and walked away.
Earlier, there had been a prisoner who made monkey sounds—oo-oo-oo—that Pike had thought of as Monkeyboy, and another prisoner with loud flatulence who had thrown feces out of his cell while shouting, 'I'm the Gasman!'
They had been taken away, and Pike had dubbed the jail cop with the big arms the Ringmaster.
When Pike was standing, the Ringmaster waved down the hall. Jailers didn't use keys anymore. The cell locks were electronically controlled from the security station at the end of the cellblock, two female officers who sat behind a bulletproof glass partition. When the Ringmaster gave the sign, they pushed a button and Pike's door opened with a dull click. Pike thought that it sounded like a rifle bolt snapping home.
The Ringmaster stepped through, holding the handcuffs. 'We won't use the leg irons for the ride, but you gotta wear these.'
Pike put out his wrists.
As the Ringmaster fit the cuffs, he said, 'Been watching you work out in here. How many push-ups you do?'
'A thousand.'
'How many dips?'
'Two hundred.'
The Ringmaster grunted. He was a large man with overdeveloped arm and shoulder and chest muscles that stretched his uniform as tight as a second skin. Not many prisoners would stand up to him, and even fewer could hope to succeed if they tried.
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The Ringmaster snugged the cuffs, checked to see they were secure, then stepped back.
'I don't know if you're getting a square shake with this Dersh thing or not. I guess you probably did it, but if some asshole popped my lady I'd forget about this badge, too. That's what being a man is.'
Pike didn't say anything.
'I know you're an ex-cop, and I heard about all that stuff went down when you were on the job. It don't matter to me. I just wanted to say I've had you here in my house for a couple of days, and I read you as a pretty square guy. Good luck to you.'
'Thanks.'
The two female cops buzzed them out of the cellblock into a gray, institutional corridor where the Ringmaster led Pike down a flight of stairs and into the sheriff's prisoner holding room. Five other prisoners were already there, cuffed to special plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor: three short Hispanic guys with gang tats, and two black guys, one old and weathered, the other younger, and missing his front teeth. Three sheriff's deputies armed with Tasers and nightsticks were talking by the door. Riot control.
When the Ringmaster led Pike into the room, the younger black prisoner stared at Pike, then nudged the older man, but the older man didn't respond. The younger guy was about Pike's size, with institutional tats that were almost impossible to see against his dark skin. A jagged knife scar ran along the side of his neck, as if someone had once cut his throat.
The Ringmaster hooked Pike to the bench, then took a clipboard from the deputies.
Pike sat without moving, staring straight ahead at nothing, thinking about Krantz, and what Krantz had said. Across the room, the younger guy with the knife scar kept glancing over. Pike heard the older man call him Rollins.
Fifteen minutes later, all six prisoners were unhooked from then' chairs and formed up in a line. They were led out into the parking garage and aboard a gray L.A. County Jail van, climbing through a door in the van's rear while two deputies
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with Mossberg shotguns watched. A third dep, the driver, sat at the wheel with the engine running. They needed the engine for the air conditioner.
Inside the van, the driver's compartment was separated from the rear by the same heavy-gauge wire mesh that covered the windows. The rear compartment where the prisoners sat was fixed with a bench running along each wall so that the prisoners faced each other. The van was set up to hold twelve, but with only half that number everyone had plenty of room.
As they climbed in, a deputy named Montana touched each man on the shoulder and told him to sit on the left side or the right side. One of the Mexicans got it wrong and the deputy had to go inside and straighten him out, holding up the process.
Rollins sat directly across from Pike, now openly staring at him.
