Part 25 (1/2)
The shank tickled my cheek, and I could feel his breath in my ear. He'd take my life. And so easily. That was the part that really p.i.s.sed me off.
I reached back and clawed again at his face. Randall grabbed a hunk of hair and pulled my head back. I waited for the slash across the throat and the blood. Preferred it to anything else my cellmate might have planned. Instead, the pressure eased. Randall climbed back into his berth. I pulled myself off the floor and crawled back into mine. Minutes pa.s.sed. I closed my eyes and listened to my own strangled breathing until it settled. It was my cellmate who spoke first.
”You're in for rape.”
My eyes flicked open.
”Them cops offered me a deal to snitch.”
”Why?”
”I was gonna ask you the same thing. What's your name?”
”Ian. Ian Joyce.”
”Well, Ian Joyce, the machine got you now. So maybe it don't matter.”
”Why did you let me go?”
”That's my business.” There was a pause. Then the steel shank dropped from the upper bunk onto mine. Its handle was wrapped in gray tape. ”Next time someone gets up in you like I did, stick him. First time. First thing. Maybe you'll be all right.”
”I'm not gonna be in here too long.”
Randall rolled over and yawned. ”Keep the shank. And learn how to use it.”
Five minutes later, my cellmate was snoring. The adrenaline rush had left me jittery, and I had no idea what time it was. I only knew there was no way I was going to fall asleep. Right up until I did exactly that.
Somewhere a steel door slid open and slammed shut. I opened my eyes and studied the springs on the bottom of Randall's bunk. The shank he'd given me was under my pillow. I felt for it. The footsteps got closer, then stopped. A female officer stood just outside my cell. She had a set of cuffs and a belly chain in her hands.
”Ian Joyce?”
I came up off my bunk. I'd never been so happy to hear my name. ”I'm Joyce.”
”Back up, please.”
I moved back from the bars and wondered how long I'd been out. The officer came in and cuffed me. Randall kept his face turned to the wall. The officer took me to an interrogation room with a tinted mirror running the length of one wall. I sat in a chair and swore to myself, no matter what, I wouldn't go back to the cell. Then the door opened. Coursey came in alone. He was wearing a different suit than the last time I saw him and carrying a soft briefcase with a Chicago police crest on it.
”How you doing, college boy?”
”I'd like a lawyer.”
Coursey pulled out a set of keys. ”How about I undo those bracelets?” He stepped close and undid my handcuffs, then the belly chain. ”Better?”
”Thanks.”
”You know where you are?” Coursey wrapped and unwrapped the chain around the meat of his fist as he spoke.
”I'm in a police station.”
”You're in the fun house, son.” Coursey gestured to the gla.s.s behind him. ”Two-way mirror, right?”
”I suppose so.”
”Ain't no one back there.” He clattered the chain down on the table and unzipped the briefcase. From inside it, he pulled out a clear plastic bag.
”I like this. Put it over the f.u.c.ker's head and watch him turn blue.” Coursey held the bag up in front of me. ”How long you think it would take before you signed whatever I wanted you to sign? I can tell you ... not long.”
The plastic bag disappeared, replaced by a black folder. ”Know what this is?”
I shook my head.
”Believe it or not, it's worse than a f.u.c.king bag over your head. This here is evidence. More than enough to punch your ticket to Stateville. I figure you for dead inside a month. And it won't be pretty.”
”If you don't have the b.a.l.l.s to do it yourself, Detective, just say so.”
Coursey was no different than my cellmate. If he wanted to have his fun, he'd have to work for it.
”Where were you last night?”
The question caught me off guard. Maybe that was the point, because I found myself answering.
”I went out for a beer.”
”Where?”
”Pete Miller's Steakhouse. It's in Evanston.”
Coursey took out a pad of paper and wrote something down. ”Who were you with?”
”I was by myself.”
The detective looked up, then returned to his questions. ”How about after Miller's?”
”I went home.”
”What time?”
”Eleven. Eleven-thirty.”
Coursey put the pad aside and looked at me. Then he read me my rights. ”You understand all that?”
He should have done that before he started to question me, but I got the sense it didn't really matter. In the end, it would happen whatever way Coursey said it happened.
”Am I under arrest?” I said.
”Shut up.” Another pause. ”You were home by eleven-thirty?”