The Unwilling(52)

The clerk read the charges. I missed a few, but the big ones stood out. Attempted murder in the second degree, felony weapons trafficking, felony fleeing to elude arrest, felonious assault, assault with intent …

She kept going, but I kept my eyes on the DA. Fine lines creased the side of his neck, but that’s not what I noticed first.

He was sweating.

He was pale.

When the clerk finished, the judge addressed Jason’s attorney. “Mr. Fitch, how does your client plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Preferences for probable cause?”

“Only that you schedule the hearing as soon as convenient for the court. We intend to refute these charges and would like to do so at the earliest possible time.”

“Mr. DA?”

“We anticipate further charges, Your Honor. As much time as you can give us would be welcome.”

The judge drummed his fingers. He knew about Tyra Norris. Everyone did. “What kind of charges might you bring in the future?”

“Felony kidnapping. Murder in the first degree. The investigation is ongoing.”

The crowd around us stirred, the sound like a rustle of feathers. The judge consulted his calendar, and offered a date fourteen days in the future. “I assume that’s acceptable to all parties.”

“There’s one last thing, Your Honor.”

“Mr. DA?”

The district attorney cleared his throat and, for an instant, glanced at someone in the courtroom. “Ah, Your Honor…” He cleared his throat again; shuffled some papers on the table. “The State requests that the defendant be remanded to the authorities at Lanesworth Prison.”

The judge was clearly puzzled. “On what grounds?”

“Ah, safekeeping, Your Honor. After consultation with authorities at the local jail.”

“In my experience, Mr. DA, safekeeping orders are for defendants too sickly or frail to manage outside the types of medical facilities available at fully staffed and funded state institutions. Are you suggesting that Mr. French is too unwell to survive two weeks at the local jail?”

“Actually, Your Honor, I’m suggesting he’s too dangerous.”

Another murmur stirred the courtroom. The judge waited for it to settle. “Perhaps you could explain.”

“Your Honor, the defendant served three combat tours in Vietnam, a time in which he learned to kill and do it well. Many here have heard the stories—”

“Rumors, Your Honor.” Jason’s lawyer interrupted. “Unadulterated and irrelevant.”

“Be that as it may”—the DA raised his voice—“the defendant was dishonorably discharged after attacking a highly decorated superior officer. It took four men to subdue the defendant, and three were severely injured in the process, two to the point of hospitalization in intensive care. It takes a dangerous man to do that kind of damage, and local authorities don’t relish the responsibility of keeping someone like that in custody. Our jail is overcrowded. Its officers lack the training necessary to deal with someone as demonstrably violent and capable as this defendant.”

“Your Honor—”

“I have a letter, Your Honor, from the warden at Lanesworth Prison attesting to the dangers of holding Mr. French in custody. Even at a state prison farm—with all its facilities and experienced officers—this defendant was suspected in two unsolved killings and multiple beatings—”

“Suspected, Your Honor. Neither tried nor convicted.”

“Your Honor, if I may approach with the letter.”

“Hardly necessary, Mr. DA. Your request is unusual but well within the prerogative of your office. If you want the defendant in state prison, that’s where I’ll send him. Madam Clerk, enter the order and call the next case.”



* * *



An hour passed before they came for Jason. He spent that time alone in a cell.

“Open five.”

When the door opened, Jason blinked but stayed where he was.

“Come on, let’s go. Your ride is here.” Jason waited five beats, then rose as if from a Sunday nap. The guard stepped back, and four others entered to bind Jason in full restraints. “All right. Nice and easy.” They formed up around him, and Jason began the shuffle step that kept him on his feet and moving. They traveled one hallway, and then a second. A bus waited in the parking bay. LANESWORTH PRISON. INMATE TRANSFER. “Stop here.”

Beyond the bus, a concrete ramp sloped to the open street. Jason heard distant traffic; tasted the fumes. When the bus door opened, a uniformed corrections officer stepped down. The name tag said RIPLEY. Jason knew him. “Paperwork?” He held out a hand, and one of the local officers gave him a clipboard. Ripley dashed off a signature, and handed the clipboard back. “Any problems I should know about?”

“Meek as a kitten.”

“We’ll take it from here.”

Ripley summoned two officers from the bus, Jordan and Kudravetz. Jason knew them, too. They got him up the steps and onto a bench. When Ripley mounted the bus, he threaded between the seats until he reached the place Jason sat. He was midfifties, broad, strong, and prison-pale.

Jason met his eyes, and said, “Captain Ripley.”

“Prisoner French. Do you understand what’s happening and why?”