"New?" the guy said.
Theo salted his eggs. "Only to this place."
"Done time?"
"FSP. Death row."
He seemed duly impressed." How'd you beat that?"
"Good lawyer." It wasn't a lie, his innocence notwithstanding.
"Cool. Maybe I can use him."
"Only one problem," said Theo.
"What?"
"He doesn't defend punks."
He worked a spoon through his fingers like a miniature baton, shooting Theo an angry glare that would have reduced most inmates to gelatin. Theo shot one right back, then smiled. "Gotcha, dude."
It took a moment, but finally he returned the smile – albeit a thin one. A toothy grin wasn't part of prison culture, unless you were a catcher, and this guy didn't roll over on anybody's bunk.
"Moses," he said, extending his hand.
"Theo," he said, shaking prison style.
Charger walked by with his tray in hand. Theo and Moses gave him a collective look that said, "Beat it." He moved on to the next table.
"What you in here for?" said Moses.
"The food."
Another little smile. "Me too," said Moses, and then he stuffed his mouth with the world's lousiest oatmeal.
They invited no one to join them, so they had their own end of the table for the entire breakfast. It was mostly small talk, guarded but mutually respectful, a confirmation that they agreed on certain basic tenets that would ensure their peaceful coexistence: Miami's Duane Wade (not Lebron James) was the best player to go in the famous first round of the 2003 NBA draft; Kobe Bryant never would have made it in prison; and anybody who messes with you, messes with me – and then wishes that he hadn't.
Theo was back in his cell by eight o'clock. Charger had voluntary work duty and wouldn't return until eleven o'clock. Theo had yet to be assigned a job, so he had the cell to himself until lunchtime. He lay on his bunk, thinking. Hooking up with Moses was a stroke of luck. He was definitely an operator, a good contact, the kind of guy who would have latched onto an Isaac Reems. Theo could befriend him on many levels, not the least of which was the fact that Theo had distinguished himself as the Clarence Darrow of jailhouse lawyers on death row, an expert on everything from writs of habeas corpus to a prisoner's fundamental right to chew gum. But Theo knew he had to be careful. Ask too many questions too soon around an operator like Moses and you could end up on the wrong side of the prison balance of power.
Theo's eyelids were growing heavy. The restless night was catching up with him. In fact, he hadn't enjoyed a decent night's sleep since that bullet grazed his head. Weird, but the shooting was beginning to feel like a million years ago. The stitches, however, were a clear reminder of just how recent his latest brush with death had been. He no longer had to wear the bandage, and the scar added to his menacing persona.
He rolled onto his side, but something was poking him in the ribs. Shifting onto his back didn't help. That annoying lump in his bunk was unavoidable. He reached beneath the mattress and found the culprit. It was a tube. Theo read the label. It was some kind of age-spot bleacher.
"No way," Theo said, his words coming like a reflex.
Theo amazed even himself with the knowledge he'd gained in prison, and some things he would never forget, even if he was among the lucky ones who'd managed to keep his pants on. Age-spot bleachers packed a double whammy: an effective lubricant with the added benefit of making the unsexy brown skin that sprouted anal hairs more pink and attractive.
Isaac Reems – badass leader of the Grove Lords – had hisself a girlfriend?
Theo put the tube back under the mattress, still not believing it. No way. Charger had to be getting it from somebody else, not Isaac.
There was just no way.
Chapter 24
Jack was in trial all day. The state attorney was determined to make an example out of his client, a high-school valedictorian who should have gone on to MIT, except that he'd already made a cool million selling nonexistent jewelry and sports cars via Internet auctions – always under the stolen identity of other sellers, of course. Jack wasn't optimistic. Predicting jury verdicts was always dicey, but it appeared that this bunch had already left-clicked on Go_Directly_To_ Jail.com.
Trial adjourned at 5:00 p.m., and Uncle Cy was waiting for him in the hallway outside the courtroom. Jack wasn't expecting him.
"What's up, old man?"
Cy kept pace as they walked toward the elevators. "You and me are going to Overtown."
"For what?" said Jack, as he hit the down button.
The elevator doors opened, and they went inside. "For Theo," he said.
Ten minutes later they were in Jack's car, cruising past the Miami Arena, the original home of the Miami Heat and one of the more expensive failed attempts to revive Overtown. In theory, fans would shop and dine in the neighborhood before and after events. In reality, they came and left as quickly as possible. No offense to Uncle Cy, but with Theo having dodged a bullet to the head just last weekend, Jack was feeling a similar sense of urgency.
"Turn right here," said Cy.
It was the same street as the shooting. "You kidding me?"
"You think I'd kid about something like this?"
They parked at a metered space at the end of the street, directly in front of a yellow, three-story apartment building called The Landing. The facade was covered with gang graffiti and murals, though some of the markings had been painted over in a different shade of yellow. Security bars covered the first-floor windows.
The meter was broken. Jack put his coins away said a silent good-bye to his car, just in case, and followed Cy into the building. There was a small vestibule and a sign on the elevator that said out of order. The sign looked as though it had been there since Uncle Cy was Theo's age. Another door led to the stairwell. It was locked. The old man checked the numbers on the mailboxes – there were only numbers, no names – and rang apartment number twenty-two. No one answered. He rang again, and the intercom crackled. It sounded like a woman's voice, but the tinny speaker made it unintelligible. Uncle Cy went to the security door and shouted, "Flo! It's me, Cyrus!"
A buzzer sounded, the lock disengaged, and Uncle Cy opened the door. Jack followed him upstairs to the second floor. The corridor was dimly lit; about half the bulbs were burned out. A brown water stain on the ceiling marked the halfway point of their journey, and the indoor-outdoor carpet smelled of mildew. They stopped at apartment 22. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at them over the chain. Jack met her stare. She had a full face, and her hair was mostly gray. Probably not as old as Uncle Cy, but she could have just looked young for her age.
"Who's he?" she said.
"He's cool. Theo's best friend. His name's Jack."
"Looks like the FBI."
"That's because he just got out of court. He's a lawyer."
She examined Jack through a narrow glare and rendered her verdict. "All right." The door closed, the chain rattled, and then Flo was standing in the open doorway. Her face seemed to light up as Cy greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
The men entered, Flo shut the door, and Cy poured on a few kind words about how she hadn't changed a bit. She seemed appreciative, even if he was a liar. Flo then led them to an old card table in the kitchenette, which was really just an extension of the living room, which accommodated a TV, a sofa, and a place to eat. On the other side of the table was the kitchen area, still technically part of the same room. Dinner was cooking on the stove, and the entire apartment smelled of boiled potatoes, despite the noisy fan in the window that drew fresh air from the outdoors.
Flo brought a large pitcher of cold lemonade and three tall glasses with ice. She poured for them. Cy assured Jack that it would be the best he'd ever tasted.