He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. He could see sunlight so he knew it was daytime, but that was about it. A clank as the hall door opened and a deputy walked in. Slick figured they had cameras on the cells, which was how they knew he was finally awake. The cop, one of the four from the diner, stepped close, jangling cuffs.
“Stand up. Put your back to the bars, hands together.”
The nametag on the cop’s uniform read
BROWER
. Slick recognized him as the deputy who stayed in the diner with Rawlings the whole time. That made Brower the one who knocked him on the back of the head. White, of course, younger and in better shape than his boss and wore the same coat of entitlement, though it fit him much better. Slick stared at him, not moving. Brower tapped the bars.
“Let’s go. Don’t make me beg. If I have to go back and get help, we’ll come in here with batons and pepper spray and it’ll get ugly. Be a sport, let’s do this friendly.”
Slick considered that and decided to cooperate, seeing as Brower was speaking to him like an adult. He stood, backed up to the bars and put his hands through them. Brower cuffed his wrists, tight. He was being more professional and careful with him than he had been with the Mexicans earlier, something else to consider.
Brower waved up at the camera and the cell door clicked up. He kept his hands on the cuffs, tight but not painfully so, and led Slick through the door and out of the holding area. They passed through a hallway and Slick noted an open office area of desks and a front door to the outside. A few cops lounged, doing paperwork or just farting around. Brower kept going, past the office area and into an interrogation room with a table and a couple chairs. He pulled a chair out for Slick, raised an eyebrow.
Slick sat. From the cast of the sun through the front door, it was afternoon, but it didn’t feel like the same day to him; despite his aches and pains he actually felt rested. And thirsty, he was thirsty as hell, which would mean he’d been unconscious for a day and a half at the very least. Could he have been out that long?
Brower cuffed Slick to the chair, which was bolted to the floor, and walked out of the room, whistling. Slick glanced around. Big mirror on one wall, figured to be one-way and likely to have a camera on the other side. Everything was clean and pristine. New paint, new furniture, everything polished and buffed to a high shine, simply glistening.
Brower returned, plastic bag in one hand, computer notepad in the other. With him was an elderly man with white hair, lots of wrinkles and a smoker’s rasp in a western shirt and a bolo tie. The old fellow carried a doctor’s bag. He set the bag on the table, pulled out a light and stethoscope. He began examining Slick. A fair examination, despite his tobacco cough, the old doctor knew what he was doing.
“Got a headache?”
Slick nodded, with a wry smile. Of course he had a headache. A baton to the back of the skull tended to do that. The old doc checked his eyes.
“Double vision, nausea?”
Slick shook his head. “Just thirsty. Real thirsty. Could use some water.”
“Later,” Brower said. He had parked himself against a wall, admiring his manly pose in the mirror.
The old doc glanced over at Brower. Held it. Brower sighed and left the room. Doc continued his examination, short but thorough.
“You’re banged up pretty decent, but you’ll live,” he said by the end.
“This the first time you’ve looked at me?”
“I checked you when they first brung you in yesterday, real quick. You were out.”
Slick shook his head. He HAD been unconscious for a day and a half. Motherfucker. He had a thought.
“What happened to the other three guys?”
“What other three guys?”
“They arrested three other men, Mexican, I think, same time as me. What happened to them?”
“Friends of yours?”
“Nope, never saw ’em before I walked into the diner. I’m not from around here and don’t know anybody, just wondering who they are. I mean, if not for them being arrested, I wouldn’t even be in here.”
“Far as I know, two of them went up to Yeardly. That’s the men’s prison, eighty miles north. We send our prisoners up there once they’re officially charged.”
“What about the third, the one who had his face dented in?”
The old doc didn’t answer right away, tucked everything away in his bag.
“Yeah, that one. Intensive care, ain’t woke up yet. Might not.”
“What were they arrested for?”
“Murder, far as I know, least the one in the coma was. Other two aiding and abetting, that’s the word around the campfire.”
Slick thought about that. Brower returned with another deputy behind him, one Slick hadn’t seen before, another big white man, this one with arms round and swollen, a weightlifter, and from the look of the acne on his face, on the juice, too.
Brower stood in the doorway, holding a plastic bottle of water, other hand on his pistol, as the juiced deputy unlocked Slick’s cuffs from the chair, brought them around to his front and cuffed both hands to a handy ring on the table. The juicer was none too gentle about it, but it could’ve been the ’roids. He glared at his prisoner the whole time like he was a stain on his khaki uniform pants.
Brower nodded and the juicer, whose nametag read
COLLINS
, stepped back, leaned against the wall. Brower set the bottle of water on the table, just out of Slick’s reach. He looked at the doc. Doc coughed, took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it in front of Slick.
“So far you check out, take it easy if you can. Just watch for these symptoms on the list here, they pop up, means you have a concussion. I also recommend that, if or when you get the chance, you see your own physician and ask him to do a CT, okay?”
“Will do. Thanks Doc.” Slick held his right hand up as far as the cuffs would allow. Doc took a moment before giving him a quick handshake and ambled out.
Slick looked at the bottle of water then up at Brower. Raised an eyebrow. Brower nudged it over within reach. Slick grabbed it, cracked it open. He couldn’t lift it up all the way to his mouth, had to bend down to drink. Demeaning, but that was the purpose, probably. Slick drank half of it and stopped. Didn’t want to drink too much at once.
Brower sat opposite him. Opened the bag, rooted through it and pulled out Slick’s wallet from the personal effects inside. He glanced at the ID briefly, but it was obvious he’d already examined everything. He tapped on the notepad, looked up at Slick.
“Now then, MISTER Elder, would you like to give a statement?”
“Yeah. This has got to be the cleanest fucking police station I have ever seen. I mean, you could do surgery on the floor in here, it’s that clean. In fact, even Mr. Clean himself would go, ‘Damn, this place is CLEAN,’ that’s how fucking clean this room is.”
“Thank you. We try. Now, how about a statement regarding your arrest?”
“Arrested? I was arrested? Funny, I don’t recall being arrested. I recall being assaulted without cause by two men, both wearing law enforcement uniforms, one of whom was a sheriff named Rawlings, the other man a deputy named Brower. You.”
Slick smiled a winning smile. Brower had no reaction, just tapped something into his notepad. “Anything more to add?”
“Yeah. I would like to have my phone call. Now.”
“We have a few questions, first.”
“Phone call, first. Lawyer first.”
“Answer a few questions then we’ll see.”
“No, we won’t, that’s not how it works, deputy. I ask for a lawyer and then you don’t get to question me until said lawyer appears. That’s how the system works.”
“That’s not how we do things down here.”
“So I’ve noted. I don’t know about you, but in the country I live in, it’s against the law to arrest citizens without cause, without telling them what they’re charged with, without reading them their Miranda rights. I still don’t know what I’m charged with.”
Brower smirked at that, and dug into the plastic bag. He took out the roll of cash, bound tight by a rubber band. Held it out between them.
“What’s this?”
“Hard cash money.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Read what’s written on it. Says it’s the official currency of the United States of America. That’s where it came from.”
“Uh-huh. That’s all you got to say?”
“I have a lot more to say, you don’t even wanna know, but I’m holding it in.”
“You know, Jon, can I call you Jon?”
“No.”
“I have to tell you, Jon, you’re in a big heap of trouble here. The judge in this district hates, HATES drug dealers, I mean just despises them. This roll of hard cash money right here? This is a drug roll.”
“I say no to drugs, officer.”
“I’m a deputy, actually. It’s a drug roll, I’ve seen them before, I know what it is. You know it, too. This roll right here is evidence enough, just on its own, to throw the book at you, not just the book but the whole set of encyclopedias. You’re going inside, hard time. You could get life without parole. Your only bet is to try to cut a deal. Let me help you. Tell me who you’re working with, where the operation is, give us some information and we can go to the judge and get you a fair deal.”
“Lawyer. Now.”
“You have to give some information first. That’s how it works. Give me a little something, just a bite, so I can go to my boss and tell him you’re cooperating, that you’re a good guy and genuinely want to do the right thing here.”
“I got something your boss can bite. My ass. Lawyer.”
Brower sighed. Glanced up then back down. Slick knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. Collins stepped behind him and hooked a hard punch into his kidneys. Slick yelped in spite of himself. Another blow and yelp. Pain flooded him.
Slick put his head down on the table, did some deep breathing, trying to control it. Wasn’t easy and sweat beaded on his forehead. The deputies just watched him. After a moment, the deep breaths turned into deep chuckles. Hard ones.
“What’s so funny?” Brower asked.
“You two guys. Pegging me as a drug dealer. Worst police work ever!”
Collins hooked another hard punch into Slick’s side, curling him up. He followed that with a hard pop on the chin. That dazed Slick and he saw spots. He worried he might upchuck the water he drank, which would be bad. He needed the hydration. Collins stepped back. They waited. Slick shook his head, clearing the cobwebs out, and sat back up. Stared at them.
“So where’d the money come from, if it’s not drugs? You steal it?”
“Wow. You are piece of work, you really are. You are so amazingly bad at your job I’m kind of in awe of it, seriously.”
Brower didn’t like that, he leaned forward, eyes hard.
“I happen to be very good at my job and you’d better keep that in mind. The arrest-conviction rate in this county is the best in the state. We catch scumbags like you, we bust them and send them to jail. That’s where you’re going.”
“Two minutes.”
“What’s in two minutes?”
“Two minutes is all the time it would take for a real cop to figure out who I am and where that cash came from. You have my ID, my name, and I’m assuming you have the Internet even here in the sticks. It would take a real cop less than two minutes to figure out who I am, where the money came from and what I do for a living. It’s been a day and a half and you still haven’t figured it out—ergo, worst police work ever.”
Collins stepped forward again, but Brower waved him off. Tapped into his computer notepad, smirking.
“Yeah, we’re nothing but backward ass redneck fucks down here, right?”
“Hey, if you want to make the case for that, I won’t argue.”
“Fact is, Jon, I did do some research on you. I know you’re a professional poker player, I know you travel for your work, made some money at what you do, you think you’re a big shot with cards, I know all that. It’s a good story, but, at the end of the day, that’s all that it is. A story. Doesn’t matter what the facts are, it’s the story that matters, and I have a better story in mind than the one you got.
“It’s about a drifter with a huge wad of cash and suspicious behavior who, when questioned by law enforcement officers, reacted by physically attacking them in front of multiple witnesses. Must be drugs. I can sell that story to a DA and he, in turn, can sell it to a judge and jury and send your black ass straight to jail without passing go.
“Now Jon, I get that cops in New York might do things a little different, but you’re not in New York, you’re in Arizona. We care about our community, we care about our women and children and we decide who goes to jail here and what they go to jail for. Get me? You read drugs to me and I don’t have to prove it, I only have to make folks believe it. Face it, you’re already a statistic. You’re going to jail. The only questions are where and for how long?”
“Fine. Charge me and get me my lawyer. Now.”
“You’ll get a lawyer. First I want a confession.”
“Yeah, right. Uh-uh. Lawyer.”
“You don’t have to say anything, you only have to sign this.”
Brower slid a sheet of paper over to Slick, along with a pen. Slick didn’t even look at it. He leaned over the table edge, searching for something on the floor.
“What are you looking for?” Brower asked.
“The crack you dropped at some point, because you must be smoking serious crack if you think I’m signing a confession to anything. You’re nuts, it won’t even hold up in court. I asked for a lawyer and you refused, that’s enough to throw everything out as is. Shit, I still haven’t been Mirandized. None of this will hold up.”
“If it won’t hold up in a court of law then there’s no reason for you not to sign it, right? So sign it, we’ll get you a court-appointed lawyer and you can make your case before the judge.”
“I’m not signing anything, I’m not confessing to anything. Fuck you.”
Another hard hook to the kidneys from Collins and this time Slick yelled out loud. Brower just shook his head, packed up his stuff but left the sheet of paper on the table. He stood and stared at Slick a moment, waiting for him to catch his breath.
“Let me explain something to you, Jon, in simple words so you’ll understand. I’m stepping out of this room for a few minutes. While I’m gone, you’re gonna have a choice before you, and it’s this. You either sign that confession or Wally here is going to beat you to death. I’m not exaggerating or speaking metaphorically, he will kill you with his bare hands, he’s done it before, he likes it.