Gang Related (novelization of the movie)

by Patrick Colin Jackson

In this novel based on Jim Kouf's 1997 crime thriller, two cops set up and murder a narcotics-dealer as part of a get-rich-quick scheme. Then it turns out said pusher was a Drug Enforcement Agent. Ordered to investigate their own homicide, our antiheroes pin it on a homeless drunk...who's subsequently revealed as the long-lost heir to a billion-dollar financial empire.

Gang Related

A novel by Khaos Junior

Based on the screenplay by Jim Kouf

September 14th – Night

Prince Motel – Room 7

The N and the E weren't working, so the neon sign read THE PRI-C- MOTEL…which actually wasn't far wrong. Another sign below the first one read ROOMS TO RENT BY DAY, WEEK, MONTH / KITCHENETTES. A few beat-up cars were parked outside the rooms.

Saying that the Prince Motel had passed its prime would have been a gross understatement.

The curtains were drawn, but someone in Room 7 was holding them open a crack. From the window, Jake Rodriguez looked over the parking lot and then closed the curtain. He stepped away from the window, moved past the peeling floral wallpaper, past the ultra-cheap furniture.

Rodriguez was slender, sporting a thin mustache, with his hair slicked straight back. He was 37, going on 38, and had a nervous streak.

His best friend sat on the couch, checking out a magazine. Frank DiVinci was forty and solidly built.

"…Says here they got slips in Honolulu," DiVinci said. "325 a month; utilities included. That's not bad."

Rodriguez sat down.

"…But I gotta get at least a forty-footer," DiVinci went on. "It'll handle rough water better; and I'll need the room, if I'm gonna live on it."

Rodriguez stood up again, returned to the window. "I don't know how you do it," he told DiVinci, who looked up inquiringly. "How can you think about Hawaii now?"

"My heart's in Hawaii," DiVinci explained.

"You've never been there, so how can your heart be there?"

"You're telling me there's no place you'd rather be, other than here?" DiVinci asked.

Rodriguez shook his head. "I just don't know how you can think about Hawaii right now."

"If I was in Hawaii right now, I wouldn't be thinking about here. See the difference?"

When Rodriguez shook his head again, DiVinci spelled it out for him. "Look, I'm not in Hawaii; I'm here. But I don't want to be here; I want to be in Hawaii. I can't be in Hawaii; therefore, I think about it—so as not to get depressed about being here."

"But I'm here, and I know I'm here," Rodriguez answered. "I don't like being here, either; but I can't be anyplace else, because I look around and I see all this shit. So how do you get around that!?"

"Focus," DiVinci told him.

Rodriguez glanced at his watch. "It's time. No more Hawaii, okay? Focus on this."

DiVinci smiled. "Aloha."

Rodriguez looked exasperated. "Aloha my ass," he told himself.

()

Even as the two men spoke, a late-model white Cadillac cruised through the poor side of town, past older-still cars parked on the street in front of vacant buildings. Loud rap music blasted from the Caddy's radio.

The driver was Lionel Hudd, a 30-year-old Afro-American whose clothes leaned to his overseas roots.

Riding shotgun was 35-year-old Cynthia Webb. She was provocatively dressed in a miniskirt, a snug top, and too much makeup. Cynthia had led a hard life, and it showed.

Cynthia and Hudd glanced at each other. He eyeballed her skirt, which was hiked up on her leg.

"Left at the corner," she directed.

Hudd's eyes lingered on her thighs for a moment. Then he turned his attention back to driving. His fingers tapped along with the heavy bass.

()

The Cadillac pulled into the parking lot of the Prince Motel and stopped. Hudd got out and looked around. Cynthia also got out, led him to Room 7, and knocked.

Inside, DiVinci pulled back the curtains to look at Hudd and Cynthia. She nodded to DiVinci, who unlocked and opened the door.

Cynthia entered Room 7. Hudd looked around once more, and then followed her inside. He and DiVinci eyed each other for a moment. Then DiVinci looked outside to make sure no one had followed – they hadn't – and shut the door.

"Hope you don't mind me checking you for weapons," DiVinci told Hudd.

"Heck yes I mind."

DiVinci hesitated at Hudd's retort. This could break the deal, and it might.

"I just don't wanna be man-handled," Hudd went on, and looked at Cynthia. The suggestion was taken.

"Okay. You check him," DiVinci ordered her.

Hudd spread his legs and lifted his arms. Cynthia would've rather not had the job, but DiVinci's tone left her no choice.

"Lots of good hiding places on this body," Hudd said. "Check it out good." Cynthia ran her hands over him, checking his pockets and pants and sleeves. Finally, she came to Hudd's crotch. "Careful," he smiled. "It's loaded."

Cynthia had heard this all before. She was not squeamish in the least, and gave him a good going-over. "He's got nothing," she said at last, smiling back at Hudd. Then she moved away to sit on the couch, seductively crossing her legs.

DiVinci, satisfied, pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. The plastic bag was packed tight with cocaine. He tossed the bag to Hudd, who sat on the couch. Hudd opened the bag, stuck one finger inside and tasted the contents, without ever taking his eyes off DiVinci.

"Not bad," Hudd said. "Any more where this came from?"

"Maybe," DiVinci answered.

"Then maybe we talk again." Hudd replied. DiVinci shrugged.

Hudd stood and unzipped his pants. He reached in, to where his cock should have been; instead, he grabbed and pulled out an inch-thick stack of cash.

"Told you there was a lot of good hiding places on this body," Hudd said, handing the money to DiVinci while pocketing the plastic bag.

Crossing to the door, Hudd glanced back at Cynthia and smiled. "Bet you got lots of nice hiding places on that body." With that, he returned to his Cadillac and pulled away from the Prince Motel's parking lot.

Crime Scene

The streets were deserted. No one in their right mind would be out this late. Hudd drove his Cadillac past several boarded-up buildings. Its radio was off. Hudd's attitude had changed; he was more serious now. He saw lights in his rear view mirror, coming up fast. Hudd watched as the other car, a Buick Regal, pulled around him.

He glanced at the Buick as it passed him. All he saw was a flash and a blast, as his front windshield imploded.

The Cadillac swerved into a parked car. The Buick screeched to a stop beside it. DiVinci got out of the Regal and strode over to the Caddy. It was dark, difficult to see. He carried a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. Wearing plastic gloves, he opened the Cadillac's door.

Hudd was slumped against the passenger door, not moving. DiVinci reached in and turned off the engine, then grabbed the plastic bag of cocaine.

An anxious Rodriguez sat in the driver's seat of the Buick, whose engine was running. "Come on! Hurry up!" he urged his friend.

DiVinci dashed back to the Buick and hopped in. Rodriguez floored the gas, and the Regal tore off down the dark street.

Cynthia

It could be said that Cynthia Webb did not live in a great part of the city, but she'd have been the first to say that was much too kind. Apartment buildings lined both sides of her street. A taxi pulled up in front of an alley which ran between two of the complexes. Its headlights shone on a drunken bum who had passed out on the street.

Cynthia stepped out of the taxi, which then pulled away. She glanced at the drunk sprawled unconscious on the asphalt.

The bum's clothes were ragged. He was filthy, with his face covered by a greasy beard and even-greasier hair. It was hard to tell how old he was; somewhere between forty and eighty, Cynthia guessed. His hand clutched a bag which, in turn, held a bottle.

"Hey, Joe…Wake up," she said. "Get out of the street before you get run over. Joe, wake up! " She nudged him with her foot. The bum groaned and then rolled back, dead-drunk. "You're in the street, Joe; get out of the street."

Joe was silent for a moment. Then he crawled toward the double-yellow line.

"Other way, Joe," Cynthia said. Joe turned and crawled toward the curb. Cynthia watched him for a moment. He was truly pathetic. "Forget it, Joe. Maybe you're better off right there. I don't think you'd even feel it," she half-joked while entering the building nearest to the alley.

()

Hours later, Cynthia was asleep in her dark bedroom. Suddenly, she was awakened by the sound of a door opening and closing.

"Who is it?" she called out.

Frank DiVinci entered the room and crossed over to her bed. "I've got your money," he said.

"Put it on the table," she replied, closing her eyes in an effort to fall back asleep.

"You tired?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm not."

"Take a sleeping pill. There's some in my purse," she said.

"Don't you wanna count your share?"

Cynthia opened her eyes and looked up at DiVinci, who smiled as he held up five hundred dollars – all in Benjamins. "I already worked for that," she told him.

DiVinci unzipped his pants. "This is a bonus," he explained.

She sneered. "Who's it a bonus for?"

DiVinci smiled as Cynthia snatched the money. He proceeded to undress, starting with his shirt.

"This ain't my fault," he went on. "This is a failure of our educational system. If you hadn't fallen through the cracks and dropped out of school, you wouldn't be here now."

"So what's your excuse?" she countered wryly.

"I'm in love."

"You're also married."

"Married, schmarried. That never stopped my old lady from messing around."

She stared at him for a long moment, and then unbuckled his pants.

Vic

Jake Rodriguez inserted his key into the lock, pushed the door open, and entered his one-bedroom apartment. He was in the process of shutting the door when two men appeared from the shadows.

Neither of the intruders was a man to be messed with. One was short and well-dressed. Rodriguez knew him only too well; it was his bookie, Vic.

Vic's companion was large and heavyset, with a shaved head. Rodriguez did not know him, which was surely a blessing.

"Keeping some late hours," Vic commented.

Rodriguez's eyes took in the large, skin-headed man. "What are you doing? What're my neighbors gonna think?"

"I apologize." Vic's tone was anything but apologetic. "I understand your concerns. But you must understand that, unlike a bank, I cannot rely on a late fee as sufficient encouragement to repay one's debts. I am forced to employ the likes of Mr. Cutlass Supreme…" He indicated the heavyset, skin-headed man. "…Who, I might add, contributes significantly to my overhead. I am the real loser here. And I am concerned about your sincerity in repaying the $27,942 gambling debt that is one week past due. What can you do to reassure me of your good intentions?"

"I can make your life miserable," Rodriguez answered. "That's what I can do."

"Look at me," Vic said. "Am I married to a supermodel? Have I got a swanky penthouse and a job at IBM? Do I look strikingly handsome? No, no, and no. I loan big money, at excessively-high interest rates, to pricks like you—who can't control the urge to gamble away everything but their underwear playing cards. And then I am forced to stay up all night convincing them that I have needs, too. The point of which is, I already have a miserable life. So don't threaten me, you lousy bag of cat shit!"

Rodriguez stepped toward Vic, but Cutlass Supreme slid in between them. Jake wasn't going to win this one.

"All I'm asking is that you be responsible," Vic went on. "Is that so much to expect?"

Rodriguez backed off, hesitating as he ran over his options. There weren't any. He reached into his pocket and pulled out that night's earnings.

"$4 thousand is all I got," he told Vic.

"I am proportionally reassured," Vic replied. "You purchased yourself an extension." He took the money and headed for the street. As Rodriguez watched Vic stride off, Cutlass Supreme watched Jake.

"Cutlass Supreme…?" Rodriguez asked. "What kind of idiot name is that?" He didn't expect a response from the large, skin-headed man. But he got one.

"It was the car my daddy stole to take my momma to the hospital," was the heavy man's answer. "But the cops pulled him over and shot him dead in an alley before he could explain himself. I was born in the backseat." It went without saying that the name, while idiotic, very aptly described his imposing build.

Rodriguez glared at Cutlass Supreme and then shut the door.

September 15th – Morning

Crime Scene

Yellow tape surrounded the Cadillac. Cops were all over the place. A few people had stopped to watch, although this was not a high-traffic area.

Another car—this one unmarked—pulled up, and two men got out. Approaching the Cadillac, they were recognized by Patrolman Thomas Mahoney.

"Good morning, DiVinci…Rodriguez," Mahoney greeted the two detectives, who wore suits and ties. Frank and Jake acted like they owned the area, which they did.

"Another day, another body," Mahoney commented. "Where you wanna start?"

"…A hit?" Frank DiVinci asked.

"Looks like one," Mahoney answered. "Could be gang related. Happened sometime last night, early morning…two, three o'clock. African-American male, looks like in his thirties. But even that's a guess. Half his head is all over the upholstery."

"…Any witnesses?" Jake Rodriguez asked.

"Oh, sure," Mahoney replied. "…Hundreds."

The bloody scene was untouched. Hudd's body was where it had fallen, on the seat. Dried blood was everywhere.

DiVinci looked in. "Animals."

Police Station

Evidence Storage wasn't so much a room as a locked, fenced-in area. It was packed full of items which had to be checked in—and/or checked out, if called for—by a desk officer.

Today, the desk officer on duty was Nick LaFond. At 28, LaFond wore glasses and was very clean-cut.

Detective-Sergeant Ed Gardner was bringing in evidence when DiVinci walked in.

"…Three shotgun shells, 12-gauge," Gardner said. The desk officer checked them in.

Gardner waved hello as DiVinci approached. "Word's you got a gang-related," he said. "You're a lucky guy, getting all the pretty ones."

DiVinci shrugged. "…One less drug store on the street, right?"

"Yeah, that makes the world a safer place," LaFond agreed, buzzing DiVinci through the door.

DiVinci passed by shelves filled with guns, knives, bloody gloves, masks, shoes, and other evidence from ongoing investigations. After looking around, he removed the package of cocaine and the .44 from his pockets. He placed both on a shelf marked CASE NUMBER C-549087. The gun's metal handle was stained black.

()

The Homicide Squad room was loaded with desks, phones, computers, typewriters, detectives, and witnesses being interviewed.

Jake Rodriguez was on the phone at his desk, in the middle of an interview, while filling out one of the many forms which complicated his life. "…A green car…You know what make…Maybe a Ford, yeah. You didn't see the license plate, did you…?"

He looked up as DiVinci came to a neighboring desk. With a confident smile, DiVinci brushed his hands together—clean hands.

Rodriguez continued the interview. "Yeah; no, I understand; it was dark…Sure…"

Sitting down, DiVinci pulled something out of his desk. He held up an advertisement for a 42-foot sport fishing boat.

"Wanna go for a ride?" he asked Rodriguez, while indicating the boat.

Rodriguez's attention was divided between his interview and his partner. "Could you describe the driver?" he asked into the phone, and then covered the phone to address DiVinci. "You bought it?"

"As of last night, I've got the down," DiVinci beamed. "Just picture me under swaying palms with a Mai-Tai."

"…Yeah…" Rodriguez answered into the phone, which he then covered. "You're gonna buy it? No kidding; when?" he asked DiVinci.

"It's just a phone call away." Smiling, DiVinci picked up a second phone and dialed.

"That's really great, man," Rodriguez smiled back, and then suddenly realized the person on his own line had stopped talking. "…Okay…How tall was he?" he asked into the phone.

Captain Henry Henderson, a heavyset man in his fifties, approached. He stood between DiVinci's and Rodriguez's desks. "You got primary with the drug-related this morning on 27th," he told Frank and Jake.

"I'm working it up now," DiVinci responded.

"Who's your second?" Henderson asked DiVinci, who indicated Rodriguez. "In my office. Both of you…Now," the Captain ordered. Without waiting for a response, Henderson strode toward his inner sanctum of glass and wood.

DiVinci looked at Rodriguez, who was suddenly nervous…and who barely heard the person he'd been talking to over the phone.

Rodriguez, no longer interested, hung up on the other guy. "What the—" he asked DiVinci, who motioned for him to keep calm.

()

Captain Henderson was hanging up his coat when DiVinci and Rodriguez entered the office. A fourth man was there, also waiting for them.

Henderson indicated the fourth man…who was thirty-two and trim, with short hair, wearing a three-piece suit.

"Detectives Frank DiVinci and Jake Rodriguez, this is Drug Enforcement Agent Eric Simms. He wants to ask you some questions about your case."

"What's the occasion?" DiVinci asked Henderson.

"You get an ID on the victim?" Agent Simms asked DiVinci.

"We're waiting for prints," Rodriguez answered.

DiVinci pulled out a notepad. "The car was registered to—"

Simms cut him off. "…to Anchor Imports. It was a 1981 El Dorado, a black one."

"If you got all this, what do you need from us?" DiVinci asked.

"The driver was Lionel Hudd," Agent Simms went on.

Rodriguez was incensed. "How do you know that?" He turned to Henderson. "What's going on here?"

Simms answered for him. "Hudd was DEA, undercover."

DiVinci and Rodriguez took the news like a sledgehammer.

Agent Simms continued. "He was working a case regarding syndicate distribution of drugs on the south side. But every dealer we tagged kept getting killed. He finally got a lead through this girl—Hudd was my partner. He saved my life twice in the line of duty. We were like cousins…I'm gonna nail the SOB who killed him."

Rodriguez's expression was frozen, as was DiVinci's. The latter finally spoke up. "We'll do everything we can to help." Rodriguez nodded.

The Streets

The unmarked police car screeched around a corner and up a drive, into a vacant lot, before skidding to a stop. Rodriguez got out of the driver's side, slamming the door and storming off. He was out of his mind, and for all the right reasons.

DiVinci jumped out after his partner. Rodriguez was so fired up with fear that he couldn't stop moving.

"…Shit, fuck, Jesus Christ…!"

"Calm down!"

"…We're dead; we're fucking dead…!"

"Shut up!"

"…Fuck, fuck…!"

DiVinci grabbed Rodriguez to stop him from flailing about. "Stop it! You hear me? Stop it right now!"

"…God, this is out of control! God…! Rodriguez pushed away DiVinci, who immediately grabbed him again. "…Let go of me…!"

They struggled, pushing and shoving, finally collapsing into the dirt. Then DiVinci jumped on top of Rodriguez, pulling his pistol and shoving it into Jake's mouth.

"Shut up and listen to me!"

Rodriguez glared back at DiVinci.

"They could be watching us right now. So shape up! You got it!?"

Rodriguez said nothing.

"If you got it, then I want you to nod!"

Rodriguez nodded. DiVinci pulled his gun out of Jake's mouth and holstered it, then got off him. Jake just lay there in the dirt, scared to death of—Frank? No, of the mess they were both in.

"Get up!" Frank demanded. Without waiting for Rodriguez to get on his feet, DiVinci grabbed Jake and yanked him up, then shoved him toward the car.

"Get in!" DiVinci ordered. While Rodriguez got in the driver's seat, Frank got in the shotgun side and slammed the passenger door shut.

They sat silently in the car, for a long moment, in that vacant lot. Both were breathing hard, dusty.

At last, DiVinci spoke up. "…There's no reason to panic."

Rodriguez turned slowly and looked at Frank incredulously. "You don't call this a reason to panic?"

"Stop being an idiot! We're the cops on this case, remember? It's our case, and so we're going to find the killers."

"We are the killers!"

"Since when does that matter!?"

Rodriguez didn't answer. He just stared back at DiVinci.

()

An hour later, Rodriguez and DiVinci sat in their unmarked car, sharing a six-pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey.

"…All they want is someone to go down for the crime, right?" DiVinci asked rhetorically. "Do we care who goes down for the crime? Fuck no, so long as someone goes down for it. This is nothing but a slot that's gotta be filled."

Rodriguez was calmer than before, but something was still bothering him. "We killed a cop; doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me. What do you want us to do, turn ourselves in? Well, that's not happening. It's a risk we take every day—somebody might pop us, especially undercover. So he got popped. It happens."

"Not this way! Cops don't get popped by other cops!"

"I patted him down! He wasn't wearing a wire or anything; he had no badge and no gun, so how was I supposed to know anything!?" DiVinci caught his breath. "Look, I don't feel any better about this than you do; but we gotta think of us here. The important thing is that we don't lose control of this case. No matter what else happens, we cannot lose control of the case. Whatever evidence there is goes through us; it has to. We'll lay down a trail, make it nice and logical. We're the teachers; two and two can add up to five, because it's our classroom."

"What are you talking about?" Rodriguez demanded. "Are we just gonna stick somebody with this?"

"The evidence will point wherever we want it to point, and to whomever. Shit, we can provide so much evidence that even the asshole we pick will think he killed Hudd."

"You got some asshole in mind?"

"No worries; there's lots of killers out there, potential and otherwise," DiVinci replied. "We'll find one."

James

Three Afro-American youths, all in their twenties, were hanging out on a street corner. They talked amid normal street traffic, giving a long hard look to an attractive woman who walked past.

As they chattered on, an unmarked car suddenly screeched to the curb. The black youths scattered quickly, as DiVinci jumped out and went after James—the tallest of the three. Rodriguez gunned the car and gave chase on wheels, ignoring James' two friends.

James darted across traffic, with DiVinci running hard after him. Rodriguez spun the car in a u-turn, racing after them.

James darted down a dark and narrow alley lined with trash bins. He was almost to the alley's end when both Rodriguez's car and DiVinci turned into the alley after him.

Rodriguez skidded to a stop and jumped out of the car. He leveled his gun at James, who had nowhere to go. As James slowed down, DiVinci and Rodriguez moved in from both angles.

"What did I do now?" James asked in disgust.

()

In the Evidence Storage room of the police station, DiVinci removed a package of cocaine and a .44 Magnum from a shelf marked Case #C-549087.

()

The Interrogation room was down the hall and around the corner from Evidence Storage. There DiVinci slid the .44 across the table to James, who stopped it with one hand. He gazed at DiVinci and Rodriguez, who sat across from him.

"Ain't my gun," he said.

"Never is, is it?" DiVinci sneered.

"That gun ain't mine." James shoved back the Magnum, which DiVinci stopped with his arm.

"Got your prints on it," DiVinci grinned, careful not to touch the .44 himself.

Realizing what DiVinci had done, James lunged for the Magnum. DiVinci was too fast, picking up the gun with a pencil through the trigger guard. James glared at him murderously.

"Where were you last Friday night?" Rodriguez asked.

"So whatever you think I did went down last Friday night, huh?" James answered.

DiVinci nodded. "Better have a good alibi, James; otherwise, it's good alibi-bye for you."

James smiled. "I was in jail all night, assholes. You dickheads check it out for yourselves!" He laughed.

A swing and a miss, DiVinci thought, as he and Rodriguez exchanged a look.

Cortez

Kicking down the door, DiVinci and Rodriguez burst into a small and grungy apartment, guns drawn. They scared the shit out of both half-naked Hispanic residents—Cortez and his girlfriend—who were watching television together.

"Nobody move!" Rodriguez and DiVinci bellowed in near-unison. "Get your hands in the air! Now! Do it today!"

The young couple did as they were told, raising two pairs of heavily-tattooed arms toward the cracked ceiling.

()

DiVinci and Rodriguez allowed Cortez to get himself into a white t-shirt and baggy pants, before dragging him over to the police station and into the Interrogation room. They sat Cortez down and slid the .44 Magnum across the table to him.

Cortez slid the .44 back across the table to Rodriguez and DiVinci. "Ain't my gun," he said.

Rodriguez smiled. "It's got your prints on it."

Cortez stood up angrily. "I ain't ever seen that gun before, you fuck, never!"

"Where were you last Friday night?" Rodriguez asked.

"Go fuck yourself," Cortez answered. "I wanna talk to a lawyer!"

It was just what DiVinci and Rodriguez wanted to hear—No alibi.

"No shyster-ass lawyer's gonna help you, Cortez," Rodriguez grinned. "All the evidence we got points right at you, practically shouts your name."

Cortez stared back at Rodriguez. "…Did you say last Friday night?" He smiled and pulled up his shirt, revealing a long scar across his stomach. "Intensive Care, you pindejo gutter shits…also Thursday night, and Saturday to boot. I just got out this morning."

Rodriguez gritted his teeth. Things were not going well here.

Dave

The suspect was 27 years old, thin, with long blond hair tied in a ponytail. He wore a flannel shirt with jeans and boots.

Dave didn't want any trouble, but DiVinci and Rodriguez did. They slammed him into a wall, hard, which sent Dave falling back into the garbage that covered the dirty alley where they'd found and cornered him.

"Alright, already; alright," Dave looked up as Rodriguez and DiVinci moved toward him. "I ain't gonna fight you."

An hour later, Dave sat behind a desk in the Interrogation room. He was handling the .44 Magnum with no apparent problem.

"Ain't my gun…" he said.

"That's what they all say," Rodriguez cut in.

"…Wish it was," Dave went on. "No better gun than a Smitty and Wes .44 Maggie…and with the serial numbers filed off." He opened the cylinder. "Got any bullets?"

DiVinci walked around the table and held out his hand for the gun.

"Who did I kill?" Dave asked.

DiVinci answered the question with another question. "Where were you last Friday night?"

"You mean, what's my alibi—right?" Dave spat on the gun and wiped it off with his shirt. "I was breaking and entering a jewelry store on Seventh and Front, about 9 o'clock. Not even close to your jurisdiction. And I got the rocks to prove it." He dropped the Magnum, now clean of prints, onto the table. "Sorry I can't help you. But one to five is way better than ten to life."

No shit, Rodriguez thought, as he and DiVinci stared unhappily at Dave.

Homicide Squad room

Rodriguez and DiVinci spent the next hour going through binders filled with criminal portraits, mug shots in plastic pages.

"Montrose LaJolla…?" DiVinci suggested.

Rodriguez shook his head. "We pulled him in last year, for knifing that dealer on 32nd Street."

"Yeah," DiVinci remembered. "He almost killed the guy, too. He'd be good." He turned and called out to Sergeant Ed Gardner, who was sitting nearby. "Has anybody seen Montrose LaJolla?"

"His life partner killed him in a Domestic Dispute, about a month ago," was Gardner's response.

Rodriguez slammed his book shut, cursing under his breath.

"Take it easy." DiVinci gave his angry, tense partner a look; clearly, this was neither the time nor the place for a discussion on such a topic.

"This isn't gonna work!" Rodriguez complained.

"Nobody said it was gonna be easy. But let's not advertise ourselves, capisce?" Then the phone rang and DiVinci picked it up.

September 18th

Henderson

Captain Henderson sat behind his desk, with DiVinci and Rodriguez standing in front of it. Rodriguez was struggling not to look nervous. DiVinci was the picture of cool.

"This is our case, not the DEA's!" DiVinci protested.

"It's been three days," Henderson replied.

"We're not magicians!" DiVinci went on. "What murder case closed in three days? It takes more time than that!"

"When a Federal Undercover Officer goes down, it's never just a murder case!" Henderson responded. "I don't like the DEA on my ass any better than you like them on yours. But this is personal for them, and they want answers. Forget your other cases and get something, anything, that I can give to them. The last thing I want is the FBI on my back, too."

DiVinci made up his mind how to answer that one. After several quiet seconds, he did. "We've got a couple of leads. Give us a little more time, and we—"

"How much time do you need? I can't hold them off much longer."

Rodriguez shook his head in exasperation. "Is this any way to run an investigation?"

Henderson was exasperated as well. "Let me tell you both something—If you don't solve this quick, they're gonna ask why. And then they'll be looking to blame somebody in this department. So my advice to you is as follows…Get something fast, or turn over what you've got and get out of the way."

After another quiet moment, DiVinci asked, "How much time have we got?"

"A couple of days," Henderson answered. "Hudd's funeral is this afternoon. Agent Simms wants you there as pallbearers."

"What for?" Rodriguez wondered aloud. "We never even heard of the guy until—"

"How do I know?" Henderson cut him off. "It's a DEA thing. You're the cops on this case, so I suppose they want you to know what a prince Hudd was; then you'll work that much harder to find his killer. That's my best guess, so just go. It'll reassure Simms that you give a damn; it'll also keep him off my ass."

Late that afternoon – Cemetery

Lionel Hudd's mourners gathered around his grave site. His wife and their five children were in tears, as were his two sisters and their mother. His two brothers and their father did their best to hold up. Beyond the family were fellow Drug Enforcement Agents—including Eric Simms, who had proudly served as one of the pallbearers. It was a picture of support and solidarity.

Reverend Alexander Folk was eulogizing Hudd. "Dear God, it is only too safe to say that Lionel Hudd was a good man both in his job and in his community, since he gave more than most others. It's also more than safe to say that he was a good man at home with his family, and with the many young people he counseled regarding drugs, since he was always there when they needed him. Drug Enforcement Agent Lionel Hudd was more than a good man; he was an extraordinary man. We pray to thee, Dear God…Let his death not be in vain."

Rodriguez and DiVinci stood behind the DEAs. DiVinci, noticing Rodriguez's nervous look but not wanting to disturb the ceremony, engaged him in a quiet conversation.

"Don't Humpty Dumpty on me," DiVinci whispered. "Your cracks are showing."

"Bullshit," Rodriguez whispered back.

DiVinci saw Agent Simms approaching. "Get your balance. Here comes the King."

Rodriguez glanced toward Simms, who walked up to join them.

"Glad you came," he whispered. "Anything break?"

"Nothing to brag about, but we've got a couple of new leads we're following," DiVinci answered, glancing at Rodriguez.

"Look," Agent Simms went on, "Normally we'd be all over this, but your Captain thinks you can do the job. I'm sure you know your own territory better than I do. That can be worth a lot, but understand one thing…Some of us won't wait forever."

DiVinci and Rodriguez were pissed off. They hadn't liked Simms from Day One, and now less than ever.

"Just out of curiosity," DiVinci asked, "What happened to his backup? Or doesn't the DEA use that anymore, when they're undercover?"

"Not when it's a new lead," Agent Simms explained. "Backup would have likely blown Hudd's cover, so he agreed to check in ten minutes after the deal went down. He was found dead halfway between the Prince Motel and our rendezvous point."

Rodriguez felt sick. He and DiVinci had ambushed Hudd five minutes after their deal had gone down.

"Look, we want this one as bad as you do," Rodriguez told Simms. "We're in this together, right?"

Agent Simms stared at Rodriguez and DiVinci for a moment, and then nodded in affirmation. "Anybody who messes with one cop messes with every other cop. That's why I asked you to come here. Just so you knew that." Then he returned his attention to the ceremony.

Dusk – the Streets

Rodriguez and DiVinci walked down an alley, hot dogs in hand, toward the curb where their car was parked.

"He didn't have backup," DiVinci said. "Can you believe that!? Jesus, what a dick."

"We're not DEA," Rodriguez answered. "So I don't think we should criticize their standard procedures." To criticize that particular decision of Hudd's, in this case, would have been the epitome of the pot calling the kettle black.

"I don't care what the reasons are; you don't play Lone Fucking Ranger on a drug buy, not without Tonto nearby. You're just asking for it, that's all I'm saying."

Rodriguez was clearly suspicious. "Those bastards aren't waiting for us; that's bullshit. They're running their own investigation, I know it!"

"Let them. The gun and coke came from Evidence; the car came from Impound. So what's to find?"

"That's what I'm afraid of. There's nothing for them to find; we did too good a job. Nobody does that good a job."

DiVinci smiled at his partner. "…Except us."

That Night – Strip Joint

Cynthia Webb bumped and ground her way through a dynamic performance, wearing just a g-string and a skin-tight tank top. Men in the audience whistled appreciatively and cheered over the loud music. Lights cut through the smoky room and swirled over the stage. Then Cynthia's tank top came off, much to the delight of her audience.

()

Later, backstage, Cynthia moved down the hallway toward her dressing room. She was clad only in high heels and her g-string.

There was a single chair in the cramped and tiny dressing room. Frank DiVinci was sitting in it, going through Cynthia's purse. She came in and saw him, then shut the door hard.

"Isn't this breaking and entering?" Cynthia asked.

"I work Homicide," DiVinci answered. "We don't deal with that shit."

She put on a robe. "Did you learn anything that wasn't already on file?"

DiVinci nodded. "You surprise me sometimes. Here I think you're just a hard case, and I discover your heart of gold." He held up her driver's license. "You're an organ donor to boot. That's really nice, except for one problem—they'll never use your best parts."

"I'll make sure you get them."

"Hey, don't get me wrong. I was just surprised that we had something in common—besides what we have in common."

"Do everybody a favor," Cynthia told him. "If you're gonna donate your heart, make sure it goes to science. Most people want one that beats."

"Cynthia," DiVinci changed the subject. "…That's a pretty name. What do the first three letters spell?"

"Don't get so clever. It's out of character."

Cynthia

Cynthia lay with DiVinci in her bedroom. He had his arm around her, but was staring at the ceiling.

"What's so interesting up there?" she asked.

DiVinci shrugged. "Nothing."

"Then why has it got all your attention?"

"I'm thinking, that's all."

"What, about us?"

He shook his head no.

"Good."

DiVinci looked at Cynthia. "What if I was thinking about us?" he asked.

"Don't waste your time. Where's it gonna get us?"

"Maybe I got plans."

"I don't wanna hear them," Cynthia answered. "Plans just make you think something's gonna get better. I'm fine now. I don't need to get screwed up by waiting for something good to happen."

"I just want you to know, love is important to me."

"Me, too."

"But more important is loyalty," he went on. "Nothing is more important than that, not even love, because loyalty is about respect. You can talk about love all you want; but, without respect, love is empty. The first thing that goes in a marriage is respect. And once that's gone, you can forget about love. So, for the record, I'm loyal to you—like I'm loyal to my partner. We're closer than family. I trust him with my life."

Cynthia hadn't really expected this from DiVinci. Despite herself, she was actually touched. "Why are you telling me this?" she wondered.

"Because you asked if I was thinking about us, and I wasn't, so I want you know what I was thinking about."

"Just don't ask me to marry you."

DiVinci smiled. "Why aren't more women like you?" He leaned in and they kissed.

Joe

DiVinci exited the apartment building and headed toward his car, which was parked across the street. Then he heard something behind him. He turned, reaching for his pistol.

A drunk staggered out of the alleys. It looked like he had a gun in his hand.

Instinctively, DiVinci raised his weapon to shoot. That was when he suddenly recognized the object in the drunk's hand. It was a brown bottle; the drunk was holding it so that the neck resembled a gun's barrel.

DiVinci lowered his own pistol. "You idiot."

The drunk stopped when he heard DiVinci's voice, turned around. It was Joe.

As Joe looked through the matted and greasy hair which cascaded in front of his eyes, DiVinci turned away in disgust. He opened his car door—and then suddenly stopped, as a thought struck him. He turned back and again looked at the drunk.

Joe stumbled into the dark alleys and lay down next to a trash bin. As lights suddenly illuminated him, he squinted and shielded the light with one arm. Then Joe heard a car door open and then close.

Emerging from his car, DiVinci bent down into the glaring headlights. He was wearing a baseball cap backwards on his head. His gloved hands reached inside the pockets of Joe's jacket.

"What have we got here?" DiVinci asked himself aloud, as he pulled out the Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum. He looked at Joe. "Where were you last Friday night?"

Confused, Joe looked up at him through matted hair.

()

Joe, in an alcoholic daze, rode shotgun in DiVinci's car.

"What's your name?" DiVinci asked.

Joe had trouble focusing, let alone answering. "…Joe…"

"Where did you get the gun, Joe?"

Joe looked down at the .44 in his hands.

"It was in your coat pocket, Joe. You keep it for protection, right?"

"I don't know."

"Sure you do, Joe. Everybody needs protection, especially a guy like you. A guy who lives on the street must need protection, right?"

Joe stared at the gun.

"Put that gun in your pocket, Joe. You don't have to worry about me. I'm not gonna hurt you." Just destroy you to save myself, DiVinci thought. On the other hand, vagrants weren't much better than drug dealers; both took up space, without making it worth anybody's while.

Frankie Boy

Francisco DiVinci had been forced to deal with drugs and homelessness long before earning his badge and gun. Most of his fellow cops didn't know he'd grown up near way too much of both for his liking; that wasn't the sort of thing you joked about while hanging around the water cooler. They were impressed, and sometimes frightened, by his dedication to the job on that score. Then again, they would have been scared shitless by the conditions he had grown up under, as the second son and third child of a fourth-generation police officer.

As uniformed patrolman Valentino "Tiny" DiVinci used to tell his favorite offspring—or at least the only one he tolerated, and barely—the Latin translation of the word police was to clean. And it was a known fact of life that garbage, in every sense, piled up on the streets. The trash didn't get rid of itself, at least not overnight; ultimately, somebody had to take it out.

Tiny kept his five offspring in line by treating them like all good cops treated the average person…as potential perpetrators. In the DiVinci household, anything and everything worth having—material and otherwise—was worth earning. And earn it "Frankie Boy" did, by polishing Tiny's badge and spit-shining Tiny's dress-shoes…also by keeping his nose as clean as Tiny's police-whistle, and liking it. If Tiny got a note from Frankie's school, the boy was guilty until proven innocent; Frankie often remained guilty even then, at least in Tiny's eyes. It didn't help at all that the school was run by Greg, a vicious bully who also happened to be its vice-principal's nephew. Within a year, Greg got Frankie into enough trouble that Frankie challenged Greg to an afterschool brawl…during lunch, and in front of a hundred classmates.

If I'm gonna get thrashed with my old man's belt, Frankie had figured, it might as well be for something I really am guilty of. To his surprise, not to mention everybody else's, Frankie won the brawl—mostly by fighting dirty. Greg was left writhing on the ground, clutching his groin with one hand and a swollen ear with the other, his jaw and nose both broken.

When Tiny heard about the fight, he decided that a thrashing was better than Frankie deserved; accordingly, his son spent that night in a cell at the police station—and was transferred to an out-of-state military academy the next day. It was a year before Tiny even came to visit Frankie at his new school, and another year before Frankie was allowed to come home for a visit.

Frankie's homecoming was anything but joyful. Patricio and Silvana "Silly" DiVinci—Frankie's elder brother and sister—had been 86'd from the house, mostly for making it only too clear how they felt about their old man's parenting methods; if Tiny was harsh and sometimes cruel with Frankie, he was downright brutal with the boy's four siblings. Both Silly and Rico hitchhiked to Nevada, where he now co-managed a chain of swanky brothels…while she thrived as a stand-up comic.

Frankie's mother, Chiara "Chi-Chi" DiVinci, had long since moved back in with her own parents...and was now looking after them in their old age. Chi-Chi, who'd never liked kids, openly detested raising not one but five of them.

By the time Frankie graduated from military school, Lorenzo and Allegra DiVinci—his younger brother and sister—had been ordered out of the house by Tiny. Both Leggy (who was almost as voluptuous as her nickname suggested) and Zoey soon found work at an Atlantic City casino, as a showgirl and a blackjack-dealer, while Frankie joined the Army and became an MP…the one shining star in a flock of black sheep, as Tiny called him.

Shortly after Frankie was transferred overseas, his father was slain in the line of duty. Tiny attempted to arrest a panhandler for vagrancy, and the derelict turned out to be an LSD-addicted mugger. Frankie was given a week's leave of absence to attend Tiny's funeral; he was the only one of their family who showed up.

A month after burying his father, back overseas, Frankie had gotten his pocket picked by a local teenager. He'd pulled his gun and shot the fleeing boy dead, right there on the street, and been acquitted within 24 hours. Ah, the perks of being in the United States Army.

Frankie loved his new job, right up to the day of his discharge. Being a cop was a lot easier without having to handle what Tiny always called "red tape". In the eyes of the Military Police, if you were in the right, you went about your business. If you were in the wrong, you went to the stockade and liked it. And if you didn't like it, your guts were stomped out, just like in the Wild Fucking West.

Once, while on sentry duty, Frankie had been forced to deal with a couple of college kids; they'd come to visit a childhood friend who was stationed there, and who they claimed was expecting them. Frankie didn't like their looks, so he calmly and politely told them to please get their sorry asses off the base, or he'd gouge their eyes out and skull-fuck them. One of the collegians had taken offense at Frankie's words, calling him a "lousy, stinking son of a Commie." Frankie had responded by drawing his pistol and shooting the tires out from under their car, which he then impounded while the kids ran off like hell. It later turned out that the aforementioned soldier, a female private, really was expecting a visit from said car's owners. Frankie simply told the private, in quite-graphic terms, what he thought of her taste in friends. That ended the matter.

()

As a civilian police detective, Frank DiVinci longed for the arbitrary power he'd enjoyed with the Army. Every time a crook he busted went free because some shyster attorney found a usually-irrelevant loophole, the same thought went through DiVinci's mind: This would never happen in the military.

September 19th – Morning

Crime Scene

Frank DiVinci brought Joe to the location of Lionel Hudd's murder. The streets were empty and quiet. DiVinci stopped his car next to where Hudd had been shot dead.

Joe was asleep, leaning against the window. DiVinci reached across the front seat and yanked on him.

"Wake up, Joe! I want you to see something. Look out the window."

Joe's eyes opened. DiVinci forced his passenger's head to the window.

"This is where it happened, Joe. I want you to remember it. This is where you killed him."

Joe turned toward DiVinci, who turned his passenger's head back the other way.

"You remember it now? How you shot him through the head?"

"I…don't…" Joe said.

DiVinci let go of Joe. "You will." With that, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car tore off down the street.

Prince Motel

Jake Rodriguez slept alone in a double bed which seemed too big for his apartment. His phone rang, startling him awake. He caught the phone on its second ring.

"Who's this?" he demanded.

It was DiVinci, calling from a dark room at the Prince. Joe was passed out on the bed nearby.

"Is that any way to answer the phone?" DiVinci asked.

"Shit!" Rodriguez said. "It's quarter to six."

"I know what time it is; I'm not the one in bed. I need those photos of the crime scene, and I need them yesterday if not sooner. I've got a suspect, but he can't remember all the details without help; actually, that's putting it mildly. Anyhow, I thought—since you're my partner and all—you might jump at the opportunity to lend me a hand."

Rodriguez sat up in bed. "He doesn't remember last Friday?"

"Nor the Friday before that; just bring the shots and pick up a fifth of vodka." DiVinci glanced at Joe. "In fact, make it two; we're gonna need all we can get over here."

Joe was still asleep as DiVinci finished his call.

"Time to get up, Joe." DiVinci slapped Joe, whose eyes opened. "I want you to look at something."

()

The room was still dark, its curtains drawn, when Rodriguez arrived…wearing a black sock-cap and gloves. He handed DiVinci police photographs of the murder scene—the car, the street, the victim, the whole enchilada.

DiVinci sat Joe up. "There's the guy…the street…the car. Remember how you shot him."

Joe stared at the photographs and shook his head.

"You don't remember?" DiVinci asked. "That's not what you told me last night."

Joe looked confused.

"If you remember how you shot him," DiVinci cajoled, "you can have a drink."

Joe looked at the bottle of vodka which Rodriguez was holding out to him.

DiVinci stepped between Rodriguez and Joe. "First, you gotta remember how you saw him driving toward you. You were in the street, and you were afraid he was gonna hit you. So you shot him to protect yourself. You remember now, don't you?"

Joe stared at the photographs for a moment, and then nodded.

"And where's your gun, Joe?" DiVinci asked. "Where do you keep your gun?"

Joe thought for a moment. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the .44 Magnum. DiVinci handed the vodka bottle to Joe, who drained it with a couple of gulps.

"Why'd you kill him?" Rodriguez asked.

"I…don't know…" Joe answered.

"It was your gun," Rodriguez said.

"…I don't have a gun," Joe replied.

"Yes, you do," DiVinci cut in. "In your pocket."

"…I'm tired," Joe responded.

"I know, Joe," DiVinci told him. "It's tough to remember things we don't wanna remember. What about your last name, Joe; you got a last name?"

Joe looked up, as if trying to remember—or trying not to.

"Come on, Joe," Rodriguez urged. "Everybody's got a last name."

"I don't remember," Joe told him.

"Don't fuck with us, Joe," Rodriguez said. "We're trying to help you. What's your last goddamn name?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't know." As he looked back, suddenly, Rodriguez smacked him upside the head. DiVinci pushed Rodriguez away and shook his head.

As Rodriguez backed off, DiVinci turned back to Joe. "Come on, we're all tired here." His tone was friendly. "Just give us your last name, Joe."

"I don't remember," Joe repeated.

"Okay, fine; what's in a name?" DiVinci shrugged. "But you remember the gun in your pocket, right?"

Joe nodded.

"And you remember what you told me, right? You thought he was going to hit you; and that's why you shot him, right."

"…Yeah." Joe nodded again.

DiVinci looked at Rodriguez, who also nodded.

"How'd it happen, Joe? Tell me how it happened," DiVinci prompted. "You saw him driving toward you—"

"…I saw him driving toward me…" Joe echoed. "…I was standing in the street…I pulled the .44 from my jacket pocket…I was scared…I aimed and fired the gun…The front window shattered, and the car swerved to the curb…"

()

An hour later, Rodriguez leaned into Joe—who was sitting on the bed's edge and looking down at the .44 Magnum in his hand.

"…Then what did you do?" he asked Joe.

"I don't know what I did then," Joe answered.

DiVinci leaned close to Joe from behind. "You ran. That's what you did. You turned and ran as fast as you could."

"I didn't mean to…" Joe stared at the gun. "He was going to hit me…I was scared…"

Rodriguez looked at DiVinci, who looked at Joe. "That's why you shot him."

"That's why I…shot him."

()

Two hands, one gloved, held the .44 Smith and Wesson. The gloved hand was DiVinci's. He held Joe's finger on the trigger and pulled it.

The gunshot was deadened in the old, abandoned warehouse. Joe lay in the backseat of DiVinci's car, passed out, while DiVinci held the now-smoking .44 Magnum in Joe's hand. The back door was open, the engine running.

"Nice shot, Joe."

He pulled the smoking .44 from Joe's hand, then shut the door and got into the driver's seat. The car pulled away, exiting the warehouse.

Interrogation room

At the police station, DiVinci and Rodriguez looked on as Joe signed his name—JOE DOE—at the bottom of a typewritten paper. Joe was a mess as he finished and pushed the paper away, then put his head down on the table.

Noon – Cynthia

Cynthia Webb's car—a small yellow Toyota with a bashed-up left fender—pulled to the curb. She got out, lugging her purse and a bag of groceries.

Cynthia heard another car door being shut, and turned. Frank DiVinci was walking across the street from his car toward her.

"It's the middle of the day," she said.

DiVinci gave Cynthia a look while taking the grocery bag from her.

"Just talk," he replied.

"Since when?" she asked.

He just led the way into her apartment building.

()

DiVinci, still toting Cynthia's groceries, entered the apartment behind her.

"I need you to do something," he said.

"Good. I need the money."

She shut and locked the door. Frank deposited the bag of groceries on a small table. Cynthia picked the bag up and carried it into the kitchen.

"This isn't a deal," DiVinci went on. "Where are you going?"

"I got perishables, okay?"

DiVinci followed her into the kitchen, where she unloaded the groceries—putting milk and eggs into a small refrigerator.

"The guy we did the last deal with is dead," he explained.

Cynthia whirled to face him. "What?"

"Somebody popped him that night, probably when he tried to unload the stuff. I don't have details yet."

"Jesus! Does anybody—"

"There's no connection, so relax. We found the guy who did it," DiVinci assured her.

Cynthia sighed with relief. "You scared me shitless."

"We just need you to do one thing."

She looked at him inquiringly.

September 20th – Police Station

DiVinci and Rodriguez escorted Cynthia down a hallway. She was clearly nervous, wanting very much not to be there.

"He'll be third from the left," DiVinci told her. "Don't fuck this up—third from the left."

"What am I supposed to say?" she asked.

"Just look at them," DiVinci answered. "Then look at the third man from the left and say, It's him."

Rodriguez jumped in. "Then I'll say, Are you sure?"

DiVinci continued. "And you say, Absolutely. No question."

"Is this really all I need to do?" Cynthia wondered aloud.

"We have a signed confession," DiVinci told her. "One you ID him, he's going straight into the can."

"Okay, but this is it," Cynthia answered. "I'm not doing anything more than this."

"Hey, it's a done deal," DiVinci insisted.

Lineup room

Rows of seats faced a small platform. The Lineup wall was striped with horizontal lines and corresponding height numbers. The brightly-lit room was separated from the dark gallery by a one-way mirror. Uniformed guards were on hand to make sure there was no discussion, verbal or otherwise, between accused and witness.

Six shady characters filed onto the platform.

"Stop and face front," an unseen speaker ordered. All six men did so; two of them kept their heads down, while the other four squinted from the blinding lights.

"Lift your heads and look straight," the unseen speaker commanded. Heads were lifted, eyes-front.

From the gallery, sitting between DiVinci and Rodriguez, Cynthia Webb recognized just one of the men…the one standing third from the left. It was Joe.

"Take your time," DiVinci told her. "Remember his face?"

Cynthia counted three from the left—and then looked more closely, just to be sure, as Rodriguez and DiVinci looked on. She was putting on a good show.

Finally she turned to DiVinci and whispered, "I know him."

DiVinci was caught off guard. He hadn't expected a private conversation, nor did he want one, for fear of it looking like she was being coached…especially since such was precisely the case.

"If you can identify the man," DiVinci began. "Then just tell us which one."

Cynthia gave him a frustrated look. "No," she whispered insistently. "I fucking know him."

DiVinci still wasn't sure what had gotten into her.

Rodriguez looked over at them, annoyed. "What's the problem?"

"There's no problem!" DiVinci shot back, then turned to Cynthia and pointed. "Do you see him up there, or don't you!?"

"You don't get it," Cynthia hissed.

DiVinci's patience was wearing thin. He didn't want to blow this whole thing, not in front of the guards and his fellow cops, who were clearly wondering what was going on.

So were the men in line on the platform. "Hey, come on," one of them grumbled. "Either do this or don't do it!"

"What's taking so long?" another of them complained.

"Yeah; get it over with!" a third called out.

"None of that," the voice cut in sharply. "Shut up. All of you."

DiVinci leaned in close to Cynthia. "Pick the asshole out!" he growled softly.

Before Cynthia could protest further, DiVinci gripped her arm. He'd clearly had more than enough.

Getting the message, Cynthia kept her gaze locked with DiVinci's. "Third man from the left," she said.

Joe squinted against the harsh light, as if recognizing the voice.

()

Rodriguez and DiVinci briskly escorted Cynthia down the hallway outside the Lineup room. None of them were happy about what had just happened.

Their conversation was strained. "You mind telling me what that was all about!?" DiVinci demanded.

"He lives in the alley next to my apartment building," Cynthia replied.

Rodriguez looked at DiVinci, wondering whether this would be a problem.

"You don't think people who hang around your neighborhood can kill somebody," DiVinci went on. "Well, let me tell you something. You don't live in a great fucking neighborhood." He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "Just sign here, goddamnit."

"What's this?" Cynthia asked.

"You picked a man out of a lineup," Rodriguez explained. "Now you have to provide verification, so they don't figure we set it all up." As in figure out, he thought grimly.

Cynthia stared at Rodriguez. "Now, why would they figure that?"

"Sign it, already," DiVinci snarled.

"You said all I had to do was pick him out," she said.

"This is part of it," DiVinci explained. "Sign here and you're done."

Cynthia had one small question. "How did you figure out it was him?"

Rodriguez rolled his eyes. "We got it in writing, duh."

"He confessed," DiVinci pointed out.

Cynthia scoffed. "He couldn't have done it."

"How do you know that? Were you with him at the time!?" DiVinci sneered. "I suppose you have an alibi for him!?"

"Maybe she was blowing him!" Rodriguez joked.

"Better him than you," Cynthia retorted.

Rodriguez grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall.

DiVinci looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was, thank God. "Take it easy," he urged Rodriguez, who angrily threw up both hands.

"Fine," Rodriguez growled back. "I got nothing at stake here." He and DiVinci glared at each other.

Finally, DiVinci turned back to Cynthia. "This is what they call an open-and-shut case," he explained. "He did the kill and he's going down. Don't make the mistake of believing you know the right thing to do." He held out the verification slip again, to which Cynthia signed her name after a beat of hesitation.

()

In the Evidence room, the .44 Magnum was placed on a shelf. But this time, it was tagged differently: #M5114000.

September 21st – Hooper and Sarkasian

In Captain Henderson's office, Agent Eric Simms read through the signed confession to its end. "Joe Doe?" He looked across at Rodriguez and DiVinci. Two other Drug Enforcement Agents, Perry Hooper and Bob Sarkasian, stood nearby; both wore suits and ties like Simms's.

"He wouldn't give us his last name," Rodriguez said.

"He signed a confession, but he wouldn't give you his last name?" Agent Simms looked suspicious.

"He said he couldn't remember it," DiVinci pointed to his own head. "He's a head case, what can I tell you?"

"You run prints?" Agent Hooper asked.

"No priors," Rodriguez answered.

"And the ballistics match, you say?" Agent Sarkasian jumped in.

"We're waiting," Rodriguez told him. "But a forty-four was used in commission. He had a forty-four on him."

"It went down pretty quick." Hooper looked suspicious, too.

"It's our street." DiVinci shrugged.

"I think they did a hell of a job," Henderson said.

Suddenly, flooded with intense anger, Simms slammed his hand down on Henderson's desk. "Goddamnit! Some piece of street trash blows him away for nothing!"

Rodriguez looked uneasy. One could have heard a pin drop in that office.

"…I'm sorry," Agent Simms regained his composure. "I just never thought Hudd would go down this way. He was too good for this to happen." He crossed the room to DiVinci and Rodriguez. "Good work, both of you. Thanks a lot." Simms shook their hands before exiting the office, followed by Agents Sarkasian and Hooper.

Once they were alone and out of earshot, Henderson exchanged a look with Rodriguez and DiVinci. "Do me a favor," he told them. "Make sure this one sticks. I don't want those D-E-Assholes back in here."

September 22nd – Joe

Headlights came right at Joe, closer and closer. Flames burst from the barrel of the .44 Magnum. The fireball was deafening, like thunder. As the glass shattered, he threw up both hands to protect his face…

…There was no glass. Joe woke up, sweating and detoxing. Wild-eyed, he looked through his fingers. There was no street, no dead man…just the bars of his jail cell.

Cynthia

Golden liquid caressed ice. Cynthia Webb's hand lifted the whiskey glass to her red lips. As the golden whiskey disappeared, she lowered her glass and stared at it. Frank DiVinci's words came back to her…

"Cynthia…pretty name…What do the first three letters spell?"

Elliot

A guard led Elliot Goff down the cellblock hallway.

Elliot wore a dark suit with a striped tie and carried a briefcase. He had short hair, a beard, and wire-rimmed glasses. Elliot was a third-generation lawyer; yesterday, he had been appointed by the City to be "Joe Doe's" defense attorney.

"Word has it that he killed a DEA undercover," the guard said. "…Shot him in the face…signed a confession."

"Word also has it that everyone's entitled to a defense…no matter how guilty they are."

They stopped at the cell block door, which the guard unlocked. On the cell floor was Joe, in a fetal position, shaking from lack of booze.

Elliot cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long day.

()

An hour later, Elliot waited in the hall of the local infirmary. His fingers impatiently drummed his briefcase.

At last, the door opened and a doctor exited the room. "He's detoxing. I gave him something to help him through it."

"When can I talk to him?" Elliot asked. The doctor gestured invitingly and left the door opened. Elliot nodded and went in, passing by a basic first aid station.

Joe was on a table, his eyes closed.

Elliot walked up, the doctor close behind him.

"Joe, can you hear me?" Elliot asked.

Joe's eyes opened.

"I'm Elliot Goff. I'm your attorney…Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Joe's eyes closed again, leaving Elliot in the dark.

September 23rd

The People versus Clyde David Dunner – Day One

Things were in session at the old metropolitan courthouse.

At one table sat the Prosecutor, Helen Eden, age 39. Her business suit hugged a figure better suited to an aerobics instructor. She could have passed for a swimwear model, except for her steel-rimmed glasses.

At the other table sat portly Defense Attorney John Oblinger, age 50, and his client.

Said defendant was Clyde David Dunner, who had done his best to look like a law-abiding citizen…wearing a well-tailored suit, slicking down his long hair, trimming his moustache. Yet he still looked like he'd kill for a nickel; actually, Clyde had killed for much less, and on numerous occasions.

Clyde was on trial for Murder One, which surprised none of those present—least of all Dunner himself.

Helen was in the midst of her opening statement, keeping the jury riveted. "…When the defendant, Clyde Dunner, entered the house of George and Carol Beaman on Friday night—with a .44 Magnum in his hand. He entered the house with one thing in mind: to kill George and Carol. They were the people Dunner blamed for the breakup of his marriage to Carol's sister, Paula…"

Clyde was hardly listening to Helen's statement. He had turned to glare at Detectives Jake Rodriguez and Frank DiVinci, both of whom were sitting behind the prosecution table.

Clyde would have liked to get up right then and there, to just walk over and cut off their heads. However, he settled for mouthing a guarantee at them: "You're gonna die, asshole."

DiVinci mouthed back, "Fuck you, prick-head." Clyde boiled.

Helen went on, "…George and Carol were watching a movie, when Dunner entered the living room and opened fire. George was killed instantly, hit in the face. Carol died later of three bullet wounds to her chest…"

Oblinger caught Clyde's murderous look. With a point of one hand, he instructed Clyde to give Helen his attention.

Helen continued, "…Then the defendant, to cover up his crime, doused them with lighter fluid and set the house on fire. Carol was still alive…"

Helen's aide-de-camp, 33-year-old Richard Stein, entered the courtroom and showed his I.D. to a guard. He then made his way down the aisle, looking very upset, trying hard not to interrupt Helen's statement.

"…Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will prove to you—beyond any reasonable doubt—that the defendant, Clyde David Dunner, is guilty on two counts of first-degree murder." Helen looked at the jury for a moment, and then returned to her table.

The presiding Judge, Christine Weinberg, invited the defense to proceed.

As Oblinger stood to present his side of the case, he noticed Helen and Stein conversing tensely but softly.

"…Jesus Christ!" Helen whispered. "Are you sure you don't know where…?"

"…They looked all over," Stein whispered back. "They can't find the murder weapon."

"What do you mean, they can't find Dunner's .44 Magnum!?" Helen demanded, no longer bothering to whisper.

"They misplaced it or something," Stein hissed in reply. "I don't know what happened, exactly."

Judge Weinberg tapped her gavel in anger, having overheard the entire exchange.

Helen

Stein called Jake Rodriguez and Frank DiVinci into Helen's office for a chat.

"…I don't have a case without the gun," Helen ranted furiously. "It's got his fingerprints, the ballistics, everything! I need the gun, or he's gonna walk. That murdering piece of filth will go free without the weapon. I ask you, how is it so easy to lose a .44 Magnum!?"

()

An hour later, Rodriguez and DiVinci walked quickly down the courthouse steps.

Rodriguez was furious. "I can't believe you used the Dunner gun!"

"This is not my fuck-up!" DiVinci snapped back. "Our shooting was supposed to be gang-related and unsolved! If we hadn't tagged a goddamn undercover cop, then we never would have needed the .44-fucking-Magnum as evidence! So find somebody else to point your finger at!"

"Alright, alright…Just tell me how the same gun was used in two different murder cases, by two different killers, while it was in police custody!"

"We don't explain it," DiVinci answered. "It's not our fault they lost the evidence. The ballistics are already complete in Dunner's case. All we need is another gun."

September 24th – Alley

The gunrunner was a black man with a British accent, wearing a three-piece suit and gloves. He opened his briefcase, revealing a dozen different handguns, all in top condition.

"All my merchandise is untraceable," he said. "It's the best money can buy." He picked out a .44 Magnum. "It's got good stopping power, but it's slow. Unless you have a preference for revolvers, I suggest a 9-millimeter full-auto. They're more expensive, but they compensate for that in time saved."

DiVinci looked down at the Magnum. "Maybe some other time; right now, we'll settle for the Magnum."

The gunrunner eyed them suspiciously. "You look like police…No offense." He smiled as DiVinci and Rodriguez stared back at him.

Police Station

The new .44 went onto the old shelf in the Evidence room. It was tagged: Case #C-549087.

Jail

Elliot Goff sat at a table in the Interview room, staring at papers from his open briefcase.

The door opened and a guard led Joe into the room. Joe, wearing jail blues, looked better—albeit gaunt and tired. For the first time, his hair was combed and clean.

The guard shut the door, leaving Joe alone with Elliot, who stood up to greet him.

"Joe, I'm Elliot Goff. We met the other—well, you weren't in very good shape. You look much better."

Joe just stared at him.

"Have a chair," Elliot invited. "We need to talk…"

"…About what I did?" Joe asked. Elliot nodded.

Joe went over to the table and took the chair across from Elliot.

"Joe, before we get into what happened that night, I'd like to check a couple of things." Elliot looked at the papers from his briefcase. "Joseph is your first name, I assume?"

"Okay." Joe's answer was not what Elliot had been looking for.

"What about Doe—or whatever you told the police your last name was?"

"…I don't remember what I told them."

Elliot stared at Joe. "Is Doe your last name?"

"…I'm not sure."

This was proving to be more difficult than Elliot had anticipated. "Don't you remember what your last name is?"

Joe shook his head.

"Joe, as your attorney, It's my business to help you. It doesn't matter whether you give the court your last name or not; they'll still put you on trial. So there's no point in hiding your identity, if such is the case. Are you with me so far?"

Joe nodded.

"Then what's your last name?"

"I'd tell you, if I could remember. I can't."

"Smith…Jones…DiMaggio…?" Elliot was hoping he could trigger a response.

Joe tried hard, but to no great effect. "…I don't think so."

"Okay. Look, we'll move on. You understand the charges against you? They're serious. And if you're found guilty, you could go to prison for a very long time…if not Death Row."

"Maybe I should go to prison."

"What?"

"I didn't want to kill him. But he was going to run me down."

"Yes, I know; I read your confession. Joe, if you felt your life was really in danger, we might use self defense as our argument. But, before we get into that…Do you have any family, Joe? Any friends?"

"I don't think so…None that I know of."

"Joe…Do you know what a psychiatrist is?"

Joe nodded.

"Have you ever seen one? Visited one on a professional basis, I mean?"

"I'm not sure. I don't remember if I have."

"Joe, you don't know very much about yourself, do you?"

Joe shook his head.

"But you do remember the night you shot Lionel Hudd."

Joe nodded.

"Why?"

"…Because…I can…Sorry, I'm not much help."

Elliot stared at Joe, and then looked down at the blank page in front of him.

September 25th

The People versus Clyde David Dunner – Day Two

Clyde's trial was in high gear. The prosecution and defense teams sat at their respective tables. The Honorable Christine Weinberg sat on her bench as Frank DiVinci took the stand. Clyde glared at DiVinci. The jury listened to Helen Eden, who was on the floor, questioning DiVinci with vigor.

"…And when you approached the suspect in his apartment, did you identify yourself as a police officer?"

"Yes."

"Did the suspect respond?"

DiVinci nodded. "He did."

"In what way did he respond?"

"He shot holes through the door." Just missing Rodriguez and me, DiVinci thought.

Clyde's attention was on Helen's sculpted, fishnet-clad legs. He was bored by the proceedings…having beaten the rap many times before, and with more chips stacked against him than there were now.

"The Defendant fired six times, emptying his gun," Helen told the jury. "We would like to show you the weapon he used." She crossed to the prosecution table and picked up the .44, which she held out for the jury to see. "Moreover, we would like to establish that it is the same Smith and Wesson revolver with which he viciously murdered George and Carol Beaman."

The .44 was duly entered into the court's records.

Clyde glanced at "his" Magnum as it passed into the bailiff's hands. Suddenly, something struck him—hard. He looked more closely at the .44 Smith and Wesson. The Magnum's handle should have been stained black; it was unstained.

Helen went on, "The prosecution would like to call Mr. Steven J. Allen to the stand."

"Steven J. Allen," the bailiff repeated.

A short, balding, and bespectacled man crossed to the witness box. Steven J. Allen, age 50, was sworn in and then sat down.

Clyde tapped John Oblinger and mouthed the words, "That is not my gun."

"Mr. Allen," Helen said, "would you tell the court what you do?"

"As a lab technician for the police department, I examine weapons used in violent crimes."

Grabbing a notepad and pen from Oblinger's briefcase, Clyde wrote a short message regarding the difference between this gun and his own.

Allen continued, "I tested the defendant's revolver, and matched the bullets fired to those removed from the bodies of the deceased."

"Your Honor, I object."

All attention turned to Oblinger. The judge, the jury, and Helen were surprised by the sudden statement.

"Overruled," Judge Weinberg said briskly.

Oblinger protested. "Your Honor. We have reason to believe that—"

Judge Weinberg's tone became imperious as she cut him off. "Mister Oblinger. This court does not care what you have reason to believe; moreover, I am in no mood for repeating myself. Your objection is overruled. Please don't make me cite you for Contempt of Court."

Oblinger waved Clyde's note. "You haven't even heard what my—"

"And I don't intend to. Let this be your last warning, Mister Oblinger."

Clyde stood up. "That ain't my gun," he proclaimed.

Judge Weinberg scowled. "Mr. Oblinger, must I remind your client that he is to remain seated and not speak out when—"

"It ain't my gun!"

Judge Weinberg tapped her gavel. Oblinger put a hand on Clyde's arm. Clyde brushed it off.

"You shysters; you set me up!"

As Clyde moved toward the gun, swatting Helen aside like a fly, the bailiff and guards moved toward Clyde. The jury was scared.

Judge Weinberg stood up and banged her gavel. "Mr. Dunner! You will—!"

"Whose pocket is this court in!?" Clyde roared back, grabbing the gun. Then he turned and decked the bailiff, who had just grabbed him. Clyde then shoved one of the guards into two others, scattering them like billiard balls.

That was when all hell broke loose.

()

The door to the men's room slammed open. Jake Rodriguez entered and quickly checked all the stalls, while Frank DiVinci jammed the door shut behind him. After a long minute, Rodriguez finished with the stalls. He and DiVinci were alone.

"We gotta put the right gun back," Rodriguez said.

"We can't put that gun back!" DiVinci responded. "If we do, they won't convict Joe."

"If we don't, they can't convict Clyde!"

"Who should we worry about more, Clyde or us!?" DiVinci asked.

"Look, Joe's never going to trial. He signed a confession! Like you said, this one's open and shut. We can't let Clyde back on the street! He's got psychopath written all over him. Who he'll kill next is anyone's guess."

"Shit, how did that puke know it wasn't his gun!? I doubt he knows his own mother, but he knows his own gun!"

"I don't think that's important right now," Rodriguez replied.

Evidence room

A harried Nick LaFond was filling out his usual paperwork when DiVinci and Rodriguez approached and knocked.

"I gotta check something in here," DiVinci announced.

LaFond looked up; clearly, he'd had a tough day. "Sorry, can't do it," he told Rodriguez and DiVinci. "Not without written permission from Captain Henderson."

"As of when!?" Rodriguez demanded.

"As of an hour ago," LaFond answered, "when Henderson came down here and chewed me a new asshole bigger than a three-car garage."

"What's the problem?" DiVinci asked.

"Something about missing evidence or…Who knows? I just wanna transfer out of here."

"So what the hell are we supposed to do now!?" DiVinci shot back.

"Ask Henderson," LaFond hissed. "Policy ain't my department."

September 26th – Joe

Joe was seated at the defense table with Elliot Goff. Judge Harold Pine was behind the bench.

There was no jury, since this was a preliminary hearing; its purpose was to determine if there was enough evidence for Joe to stand trial. Elliot was shuffling papers, in preparation for his opening.

At the prosecution table was a very tired Helen Eden. She was completely pissed off, worn out, and in no mood for anything to go wrong.

"Whenever you're ready," Judge Pine said.

Elliot stood. "At this time, to the charge of murder, we plead Not Guilty By Reason Of Insanity."

Helen gave Elliot a look. She didn't need this.

Joe tapped Elliot. "Should we be doing it this way?" he asked softly. "I mean, if I really am insane—"

Elliot turned to Joe. "Let me handle this."

"What about the confession I signed?"

"I know that whole story, Joe. Just let me worry about it. I'm the attorney here. I've been doing this for years, and my family's been doing it for decades."

Helen spoke up. "Your Honor, may we have a moment?"

Judge Pine nodded. "Council may approach the bench." Helen and Elliot did so.

She went on, "Your Honor, my colleague's client admits to the killing. I don't see any reason for going through a trial, not when it's obvious he would like to plead Guilty."

"I don't agree," Elliot responded.

"If he wants to plead Guilty, you must let him do so," Helen said.

"Not if he isn't of sound mind," Elliot argued.

"Come on, Elliot!" Helen protested.

"I believe he's crazy," Elliot retorted. "I know you think he's just putting it on – that's DA standard procedure – but I beg to differ. That's why I'm standing by the Not Guilty plea, because he's incapable of making that judgment for himself."

"Have you had a psychiatrist look at him?" Judge Pine asked.

"Yesterday," Elliot nodded, handing the Judge several papers. "That's just it, Your Honor. You can see for yourself that my diagnosis is not without warrant."

Judge Pine looked hesitantly at Joe, who stared back at him blankly.

The Judge gazed down again at Helen and Elliot. "I'll review the findings and make my decision tomorrow," he told them.

"Thanks very much, Your Honor." Elliot then turned to Helen. "Anyhow, I hear there's a good chance to beat the charges for lack of evidence."

Helen glared back at him icily.

Ethnic bar

The dark, smoky restaurant was not a place for the health-conscious.

Jake Rodriguez and Frank DiVinci sat in a corner booth, quietly sipping scotch-and-waters.

"Nobody can connect us to the evidence," DiVinci said. "We're clean there. The most important thing is this DEA mess. Once that's finished, we're completely in the clear."

"…You know we can't do this anymore," Rodriguez answered.

"…Yeah, I guess not."

"No guessing about it. We're through. That's the record."

"Good while it lasted, though. A hundred grand apiece isn't bad, not for a few nights' work." DiVinci lifted his glass in a toast to himself.

Rodriguez was in no mood for a toast. "I just wanna get through this."

"And we will get through it. No evidence problems on this one."

"I hope not…Lately, Frank, I've been thinking…What we did wasn't such a good idea after all."

"Hey…We took out a few scumbags, that's all. Nobody's ever gonna miss that garbage. Not one of those shitters had a record less than a mile long. Drugs, extortion, assault, and worse; they were all guilty as fuck, and still on the street. You and I both know that; ten to one we weren't alone."

"…Except Hudd."

"Yeah, except Hudd," DiVinci agreed. "Well, that's part of the job. It could just as easily have happened to you or me."

"Not this way, not to a cop. We fucked up."

"We fucked up once. One out of ten isn't bad." DiVinci sipped his scotch. "I'm sorry, okay? You're right; he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What can I say? No point in going down for it."

"I know."

"Look, if we got paid a decent salary, would we be sucked in by all this? Shit no. And what happens when we retire? You think our pension's gonna take care of us? As if. We're on our own. I mean, I don't want much out of life; just a fishing boat, a beach, a couple of drinks, and some Hawaiian music. That ain't much for twenty years of putting murder-happy assholes behind bars. I mean, the dealers and pimps and killers, they got no rules; we cops got all the rules. All I'm saying is that it ain't fair…I'm not even sure it's meant to be fair. But, for a while, we made it fair." DiVinci put down his scotch. "So quit thinking you're the bad guy here. You made one mistake. Let it go."

Rodriguez nodded and, as a waitress came to the table, ordered another scotch. After she left, he turned back to DiVinci. "Are we corrupt?"

"No fucking way, Jose. I never took a bribe in my life."

"Nobody ever bought me, either."

"I know. Even the thought makes me sick. And what we did is something completely different, so don't get it confused with being corrupt."

Rodriguez gave him an acquiescent shrug.

"I'm telling you, what we've done has nothing to do with corruption."

"I guess you're right…I'm worried, that's all."

"Hey, worry away; it's natural. Hell, you gotta worry some; otherwise the next guy's gonna have to worry more. Just don't lose your sense of humor." DiVinci took another sip of scotch. "The problem with people is that nobody gives a shit about making the world a better place. They talk about it, but don't do it."

"While we do it, but don't talk about it."

"Bingo. No matter what anybody else says, there are ten less drug dealing assholes on the street today because of you and me. They're not plea-bargaining their way back into business, and they're not clogging up the courts; they're also not costing the taxpayers a penny, because they're not in prison. That's what you do with garbage—you take it out before it piles up on you." DiVinci downed his scotch.

Rodriguez nodded. "So…Do you think you'll get back with Caroline?"

"Shit. Nothing I do is ever good enough for her, you know?"

"Never is, never was, never will be."

DiVinci shrugged resignedly. "I still gotta make the effort; if I don't, it's gonna cost me."

"Tell me about it. You know how much I got left."

"You're gonna think I'm an idiot, but…I like Cynthia. There's no bullshit with her. I just fucking like her."

"Or at least you like fucking her," Rodriguez smiled.

"Yeah—That, too."

Cynthia

A newspaper rested on Cynthia's kitchen table. Joe's photograph was on the front page. Cynthia, sitting at the table, stared at the headline: UNDERCOVER DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENT GUNNED DOWN BY DERELICT.

"What the hell, Joe," she thought. "At least you won't get run over."

She folded up the newspaper and threw it in a nearby recycling bin.

September 27th

The People versus Clyde David Dunner – Day Three

The jury was back. Helen Eden, the Honorable Christine Weinberg, and John Oblinger were back as well. So was Dunner himself, who now sported a couple of bandages across his head. They all waited for the verdict.

"The defendant will stand and face the jury," Judge Weinberg said. Clyde did so.

"What is your verdict?" the Judge asked.

The jury foreman stood. "On both counts of Murder in the First Degree…We find the defendant, Clyde David Dunner, Not Guilty."

Helen closed her eyes in defeat. Clyde smiled and shook Oblinger's hand.

"…Bleeding A!" Clyde shouted, blowing the jury a kiss.

Homicide Division

Frank DiVinci was on the phone. "…When was the last time you saw him…? Uh-huh…And you haven't seen him since then?"

Jake Rodriguez strode up, looking panicked. "We gotta talk," he told DiVinci.

"Just a second," DiVinci said into the phone, which he then covered. "Calm down," he told Rodriguez. "I already heard. Clyde walked."

"No!" Rodriguez leaned in close. "Worse. Joe's gonna stand trial."

It took a few long moments for Rodriguez's statement to fully slam home; when it did so, DiVinci stared back at him.

"They found him mentally unfit to plead," Rodriguez explained, "So his attorney pleaded for him—Not Guilty By Reason Of Insanity."

"You gotta be kidding me," DiVinci responded.

"Yeah, I love to make people laugh; that's my life's work." Rodriguez's voice dripped sarcasm. "You hear the one about the two cops who wasted an undercover DEA man?"

That Night – Strip Joint

Cynthia Webb was on stage, in the middle of her most popular routine. The all-male crowd hooted and whistled. Yet Cynthia was not fully into her performance this time, as she pulled off the last of her clothing to applause and cheers.

()

An Asian man, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, was waiting for Cynthia in her dressing room.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in here!?" she demanded, just before turning and yelling down the hall, "Hey, Bob! There's some asshole in my dressing room!" She turned back to the Asian. "I suggest you get out before Bob gets you out. He doesn't like assholes in the dressing room."

"You're Cynthia Webb," the Asian man said.

"Bob!" she screamed down the hall.

The Asian stood up. "Aren't you Cynthia Webb, the famous dancer?"

"Yeah, nice try," she answered. "Get out."

The Asian man moved toward Cynthia and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, which he handed to her. "I liked your show very much," he said.

"What the hell is this!?" she asked.

The Asian exited without answering.

Cynthia stared at the paper. It was a subpoena. "What's this for!?" she hollered. "I didn't do anything!"

The Asian man was already gone. Bob, the huge bouncer, tore past the dressing room and gave chase.

Cynthia kept staring at the subpoena with which she had been served. "Oh, shit…oh, fuck!"

September 28th – Morning

Homicide Division

When the phone rang, it seemed shockingly loud in Frank DiVinci's dark and quiet bedroom.

He picked it up. It was Sergeant Ed Gardner.

()

The police station was alive with activity, even at this early hour. Hookers, pimps, pushers, and drunk drivers were being booked, being released, and/or being only slightly more obnoxious than the officers on duty.

"Sorry to call so late," Sergeant Gardner said, "But I got a hysterical woman here who says she needs to speak with you about a murder. She won't answer to anybody else."

()

Frank DiVinci, in bed with his wife Caroline, turned on a nearby light. He picked up his watch and looked at the time.

""I told her I couldn't call you at home," Gardner went on, "But she said that it was a matter of life and death. I know that matters of life and death are a dime a dozen these days, but—"

"What's her name?" Frank cut in.

"Cynthia…Webb, that's it. Cynthia Webb."

Frank perked up.

()

In the police station, Cynthia wasn't holding together well; she looked almost as freaked out as she felt.

()

"Tell her to wait," Frank said. "I'll be right down." He hung up and proceeded to dress.

Caroline DiVinci groaned. "What are you doing?"

"I gotta get down to the station."

"Now? What time is it?"

"Go back to sleep," Frank told her.

"Frank, this is no way to repair our marriage." She pulled the covers over her head, while he pulled on his pants.

()

It was 3:38 A.M. when Frank DiVinci pushed into the police station. He saw Cynthia Webb sitting on a bench, smoking, tapping her foot, looking around. She was a nervous-as-hell wreck.

Then she saw DiVinci and was immediately on her feet, moving over to him. "Frank, I can't do this," she said. "He came to the club. You gotta—"

"Not here!" He took Cynthia's arm and led her out of the station, into the parking garage, toward his unmarked car.

Cynthia was still carrying on. "You said all I had to do was pick him out, right!? I did what you said. That was supposed to be all."

"Shut up!" DiVinci opened the driver's door, pushed Cynthia in, and got in behind her.

Cynthia was a bundle of nerves, until DiVinci suddenly slammed the door. She was startled by his anger.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Cynthia opened her purse and produced the subpoena. "They want me in court."

DiVinci glanced at the subpoena.

"You promised me I wouldn't have to do anything! What's going on!?" she ranted.

It was yet another glitch that DiVinci hadn't counted on.

"I can't do this, Frank. I'm getting out of here!"

"No, you're not. You aren't going anywhere."

"Well, I can't go to court! This isn't what you said I'd have to do!"

"Okay, I admit it! This wasn't supposed to happen!" DiVinci roared back. "Now just calm down for one second and let me think!"

Cynthia glared at him and then turned away. She took a drag and blew a smoke ring. "Fine," she said. "Think away."

DiVinci hesitated as another car pulled out. Then he turned back to her. "Look. You're a witness, that's all. You got nothing to worry about. You saw something happen—"

"What did I see happen!?"

"I will tell you everything you gotta know. Understand? And that means everything. You will know exactly what to say."

Unsure, Cynthia looked at DiVinci, who gave her a confident smile.

"Look, it's just another stage," he assured Cynthia. "That's all. Just like dancing."

The unmarked car pulled quickly out of the parking garage.

Jail

Elliot Goff waited in the Meeting room. It was 8:33 A.M. when a guard opened the door and Joe entered, looking years younger; getting off booze had helped him immensely.

"Hi, Joe," Elliot greeted him. "You're looking much better."

"Jail's been good for me."

Elliot nodded and indicated a chair for Joe, who took the seat.

"The trial date's been set for next Thursday," Elliot went on.

"I've been thinking about what I did…" Joe said, "…And I don't think it's right that I get off."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to plead guilty. I killed a man; I should be punished for it."

Elliot was surprised. "Nobody ever wants to be punished for what they've done. It's just a new concept. I still think our defense is reasonable. I don't believe, under the condition you were in, that you were responsible for your actions."

"Why was I carrying a gun? Should I have been?"

"If you hadn't been carrying the gun, you might be dead now."

"And that man—Hudd, or whatever his name was—might be alive," Joe answered.

"I understand…Don't you want to think this over?"

Joe shook his head negatively. "I've already thought it over."

Elliot stared at him for several long seconds.

()

Two murder victims lay in the street. Uniformed officers had the crime scene under control. A few curious people had stopped to watch.

An unmarked car pulled up and stopped. Jake Rodriguez was driving, with Frank DiVinci riding shotgun.

"…What if Cynthia takes off?" Rodriguez asked.

"Even better; then we have no witness to put Joe at the scene." DiVinci answered.

"And what happens if she testifies and nobody believes her?"

"Perjury, maybe; but that's a fifty-fifty."

"Frank, she's a goddamn stripper, for Christ's sake!" Rodriguez protested. "Who's gonna believe her? Half the time, I don't believe her when she's telling the truth!"

A uniformed officer, Miles LaRusso, walked to the car and knocked on its window. DiVinci rolled it down.

"We got two bodies out here and three more in the house," LaRusso said. "You're the primary on this one, right?"

"Yeah, we're coming," DiVinci replied. "Give us some room."

LaRusso backed off as DiVinci rolled the window up again.

"Cynthia might blow the whole thing," Rodriguez continued. "She could tie us in and that would be it. Our asses would be fried."

"If it looks like she's gonna crumble," DiVinci assured him, "we'll take steps."

"What kind of steps?"

"One more chalk outline in this city, more or less," DiVinci shrugged. "Who's gonna know, or care?" Rodriguez glared back at him. "Hey, you think I like this any more than you do?"

"Shit, Frank," Rodriguez said. "We can't just go around killing everybody!"

"Just a second," DiVinci snapped. "Look around. What do we have here? Two stiffs on the street, shot to ribbons, three more inside. That's five chalk outlines in one night, in one deal, in one neighborhood, in one city. Let me fill you in on some statistics…We're not killing everybody!" He caught his breath while the words sank in. "Look, this is strictly last resort. But let's not kid ourselves; if and when push comes to shove, somebody has to go down for it. If you got another, better candidate in mind, I'm willing to listen."

Rodriguez was silent as he watched DiVinci open the door, and then followed him to the scene of another crime.

Noon – Cynthia

From her kitchen, Cynthia Webb watched Sally Jesse Raphael interview yet another moron on television. Then the phone rang and she picked up.

"Hello?"

It was Richard Stein, calling from the District Attorney's Department. His office was cluttered with the myriad of case files he was forced to juggle.

"Cynthia Webb?" he asked.

"Speaking," Cynthia answered.

"I'm with the D.A.'s office. You're a witness in a case we're handling, and I'd like to talk with you as soon as possible."

Cynthia felt as if she might faint. Every muscle in her body suddenly tensed up like a bowstring.

"Ms. Webb? Any chance we could meet up today?"

Cynthia was a mass of nerve endings. "I'm…pretty busy."

"It won't take long. Will you be home about two?"

Her mouth was too dry to answer.

"Ms. Webb, are you still there?"

"Yeah, okay…Two it is."

"Good. Let me make sure I've got your correct address…"

Five minutes later, Cynthia was in her bedroom, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. When it was full, she slammed the suitcase shut and then headed out the door.

McCall Manor

The large two-story home sat on immense manicured grounds. In front of it was a circular, gated drive leading to a four-car garage. Just outside the garage, a parked BMW was being waxed by a couple of car-care specialists.

A black convertible Mercedes pulled into the drive and stopped near the mansion's front door. Arthur Baylor, wearing an expensive 3-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, stepped out of the Mercedes and headed over to ring the doorbell.

Arthur was a towering figure, both professionally and physically. His hair was graying, yet his imposing build remained a testament to the name he'd made for himself wrestling and playing football at the Texas University with which—strictly by coincidence—he shared a name. After graduating with honors, Arthur had gone into law school, where he'd impressed classmates and professors alike. His performance had been more than sufficient to get him work at a local firm, where Arthur had made partner within a year…and where he'd first met the man he was now here to see.

A butler showed Arthur to the mansion's patio. There Nathan McCall was seated behind a table, reviewing documents.

The butler spoke up. "Mr. Baylor is here, sir."

The bespectacled, 55-year-old host looked up and smiled as Arthur crossed over to shake his hand.

"Nathan. How are you?"

"Very well; thanks, Arthur. Would you like something to drink?"

Arthur shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Well, this is all quite a mystery. Your phone call certainly got my attention. So what's this all about?"

Arthur removed a newspaper from his briefcase. He opened the paper to reveal the photograph of Joe with the corresponding headline: UNDERCOVER DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENT GUNNED DOWN BY DERELICT.

Nathan looked at the paper. "You wanted me to see this? What's it got to do with…?"

Arthur's finger tapped the photograph. Nathan looked more closely, and turned pale.

"Oh, my God…"

Cynthia

At the bus station, Cynthia Webb stepped aboard a greyhound.

()

While Cynthia was getting the hell out of Dodge, Frank DiVinci was using his spare key to her apartment. He entered and looked around for her, but discovered only clothes strewn around Cynthia's bedroom near a half-empty closet.

DiVinci returned to the living room and pulled open the door. He almost ran into Richard Stein, who was just about to knock. Both men were greatly startled, and it took Stein a moment to recognize DiVinci; he then introduced himself from the D.A.'s office.

DiVinci was caught off guard. "Oh, yeah; sorry," he said, recalling their first encounter. "I didn't expect…What brings you here?"

"Well, I need to talk with Cynthia Webb," Stein answered. "She's a witness in…Wait, aren't you and Detective Rodriguez on this one?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm here," DiVinci vamped. "I wanted to go over some details with her."

"Me, too. Is she here?"

DiVinci shook his head.

"I was supposed to meet her at two." Stein looked at his watch. "Do you know her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I just…If she's not here…You were—inside." Stein smiled awkwardly.

DiVinci forced himself to return the smile. "Oh, yeah—the legal thing. Well, when a witness in a murder case doesn't answer a knock, and the door's open…It's my job to make sure there's no dead bodies scattered around." He pulled the door shut. "So keep this conversation to yourself, capisce?"

Stein shrugged acquiescently.

"See you in court," DiVinci smiled, and then headed down the hallway and around the corner. Now alone, Stein looked from the closed door to his watch and back.

Elliot

Elliot Goff was reviewing legal documents in his cramped office on the Public Defender's floor of the Criminal Courts building. He totally identified with his staff; they were all overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated.

There was a buzz of activity outside, followed by a knock on Elliot's door. "It's open," he called, without looking up to see who had entered his office.

"Elliot Goff?"

Elliot suddenly recognized his visitor, and snapped to it. "Arthur Baylor!?" he whispered in shock.

Arthur nodded. "I'm here to see you."

Elliot was stunned and flattered in equal measure. He stood up, scrambling for the right words. "My God, I…Would you…To what do I owe this…?"

"I'm glad you asked," Arthur said, shutting the door behind him.

Jail

Joe was led to the Interview room by a guard. He looked even better now, his dependency on alcohol having been broken by lack of access to it. Joe's hair was clean and combed. He was no longer depressed.

The guard shut the door behind Joe, who stopped in his tracks upon seeing Elliot and Arthur standing near the interview table.

Arthur looked closely at Joe, then at Elliot. "Mr. Goff, I'd like you to meet Willard McCall." He turned back to the other man. "Long time no see, Willard."

Willard stared back at him, as if fighting a lost memory. Finally, a smile of recognition crossed his face. "Arthur…?"

District Attorney's Office

Richard Stein faced a very unhappy Helen Eden. She was seated behind her desk, which was stacked high with case files.

"What do you mean, she missed the appointment!?" she demanded. "Did she forget you were coming? What are you telling me!?"

"If you want my best guess, I'd say she split."

"First the evidence, now our only witness…Can't we keep anything from disappearing around here? I mean, do I have to lock them in the trunk of my car!? Whatever's going on, I want that bitch back here and on the stand! That, or in jail; I don't give a fuck which one!"

Stein nodded. "I'll get her." With that, he spun on his heel and exited the office. He didn't like it when his boss was pissed, and right now his boss was beyond pissed.

Manny

The unmarked car pulled up on a seedy side street, halfway between the courthouse and the jail. Frank DiVinci got out and entered the bail bond office.

The office's interior was sparse. Several framed fight posters decorated the walls. Each poster featured Manny LaDrew, a tough young featherweight, in one of his best fighting poses—never the same pose twice. Every poster explained where and when the next bout would be…Yet every poster was at least fifteen years old.

Twin desks sat at the far end of the office. One was for the secretary, who was on vacation. The other was for Manny LaDrew, the ex-pugilist himself. He had put on some pounds in the intervening years, besides adding a thin mustache. Manny was on the phone when DiVinci came in.

"…Yeah, uh-huh," Manny took notes. "Why do you think he'd go there?"

DiVinci approached him. "We need to talk."

Manny covered the phone. "Just a second," he told DiVinci.

DiVinci grabbed the phone away. "He'll call you back," he snapped into the receiver, and then hung up. "When I say we need to talk, we need to talk now. No just a second about it."

Manny glared at DiVinci, whom he had never liked, now less than ever. But you had to make room for cops, whether you were fond of them or not. "What do you want, DiVinci?"

DiVinci pulled some papers out of his pocket and passed them to Manny. "I got a witness who took off. I gotta get her back. I don't have a lot of time."

"You're the police. What are you coming to me for!?"

"Don't ask questions. You just find her!"

Annoyed, Manny looked at the papers—which included a photo of Cynthia Webb. "Where have I seen her before?" he asked DiVinci.

"She dances."

"Yeah, right; okay, so what did she take off for?"

"I said—" DiVinci began.

"I know what you said! But if you want me to find her, I gotta know why she took off—so that I know where not to look! O-fucking-kay!?"

"She's supposed to testify in court. She thinks somebody might kill her, so she's hiding. That's where you come in. If she's right, and somebody is out to pop her, I don't want anybody else knowing where she is."

Manny never believed anything anybody else told him. You just didn't, not in this business. "How long I got?" he asked DiVinci.

"Two days."

"Shit, two fucking days!"

"Find her, puss-head." DiVinci glared back at Manny, then spun on his heel and exited.

Manny, his voice dripping sarcasm, called out after DiVinci. "Sure Detective. Always like to help out the police whenever fucking possible!"

September 29th

The People versus Joe Doe

The Accused was led into the courtroom by guards. He took his place at the Defense table, which included Elliot Goff and two young colleagues. The Prosecution table, which included Richard Stein and Helen Eden, was going over last-minute details.

People were taking seats in the gallery when Arthur Baylor joined the Defense table.

Richard Stein did an involuntary double-take when he saw Arthur, then turned to Helen and spoke in a bedroom-murmur. "Isn't that…?"

Helen turned and looked, then turned back and nodded. "…Arthur Baylor," she murmured back. She and Stein watched Arthur shake hands with Elliot and the two younger attorneys, and with the Accused.

"What's he doing here?" Stein wondered softly.

Arthur took a seat at the Defense table, glanced across at the Prosecution, and nodded. Helen and Richard were stunned.

"You tell me," she whispered back. "Then we'll both know."

The bailiff—a pretty yet tough-looking young woman—spoke up. "Hear ye, hear ye. All rise, face our flag, and recognize the principles for which it stands. Criminal Court, Department G, is now in session. The Honorable Harold W. Pine presiding."

Everyone rose as the black-robed man entered, took his place behind the bench, and sat.

"You may now be seated, thank you," the bailiff said.

Everyone sat. Judge Harold Pine did a double-take when he saw Arthur Baylor at the Defense table.

The bailiff passed a file to His Honor. "Everyone's been sworn in, Judge," she said. "Here's The People versus Joe Doe; Case #95-24705."

"Thank you, Bailiff," Judge Pine said. "Before we proceed, I'd like to ask the Defense if there's anything this court should be made aware of."

Arthur stood. "Yes, Your Honor. I have joined the Defense in the representation of Mr. Willard Bennett McCall, otherwise known to this court as Joe Doe."

Everyone turned to look at Joe—no, Willard McCall—who still didn't seem sure of who or what he was.

Arthur went on. "I have represented the McCall family for seven years before Willard McCall's disappearance a decade ago. It was assumed that he had died. However, since he has reappeared under these tragic circumstances, I would ask this court for a continuance…thus allowing the Defense to prepare adequately, in light of his real identity now being known."

"How long do you need?" the Judge asked patiently.

"One week should be sufficient," Arthur answered.

Judge Pine turned to the Prosecution. "Does the State have any problem with a week's continuance?"

Helen shrugged. "I don't believe so, Your Honor."

"Then this court grants a one-week continuance. We'll start the proceedings next Monday morning." The Judge tapped his gavel.

September 30th

In Helen's office, she and Richard watched incredulously as TV news reports flashed Willard McCall's photograph, alternated with scenes of him being led from the courtroom.

The newscaster was droning professionally. "…When it was discovered that this man, who has confessed to killing an undercover Drug Enforcement Agent, was actually himself thought dead for a decade. The man who signed the confession as Joe Doe is actually Willard Bennett McCall, younger brother of Nathan McCall. Both are sons of the couple who founded McCall International—a corporation involved with telecommunications, computer design and development, plus other related industries. The net worth of both brothers is estimated at over a billion dollars…"

()

On the other side of the city, an unmarked car was parked on the street. Inside the car, Jake Rodriguez was reading a newspaper to Frank DiVinci.

"…But Willard McCall shunned the business world for that of medicine, receiving his medical degree from Harvard in 1969. Then he again turned his back on the established norm and spent several years in Africa, performing organ transplants for the poor."

Rodriguez slammed down the paper. "This is who we pinned a murder on—a surgeon who did organ transplants for starving Africans!?"

"He was living on the streets! How was I supposed to know he was a doctor!?"

"He's not just a doctor! He's a regular Saint!"

DiVinci grabbed the paper away from him. Both were angry and upset, frustrated and scared to death.

Rodriguez kept ranting. "When we pick them, we really pick them, don't we!? We might as well have picked the Pope to pin a murder on!"

DiVinci ignored him, reading: "…He disappeared ten years ago, on September 19th, two weeks after the tragic death of his wife and two young children in a multiple vehicle accident. At the time, it was assumed that he had returned to Africa, but such was never confirmed. What Willard McCall has been doing for the past decade is now the mystery that the court will strive to unravel." He closed the paper and looked at Rodriguez. "Alright, let's think here. What's the worst-case scenario?"

"Are you asking me if I can think of something worse than what we've done that we can still do? Or something worse that might happen to us if this all blows up, we get convicted and sent to jail, then die in the electric chair and go to hell?"

"Just work with me here, will you?"

"Sorry; I'm on edge," Rodriguez sneered. "Would you repeat the question?"

"Even if the doc walks, there's no evidence that ties us to it. There's just one person who can connect us to Hudd."

"Okay, fine. I don't wanna argue about it anymore, either. Let's just kill her."

()

Late that afternoon, Manny LaDrew was pouring himself a cup of coffee, while his secretary typed up a letter at her desk.

"We need to talk." It was DiVinci's voice. Manny turned around to see him standing in the doorway of his bail bond office.

"Oh, fuck," Manny said to himself.

"Are you screwing with me or what!?" DiVinci demanded angrily.

"Well, this is a good one," Manny responded. "You're a cop and you didn't hear."

"Hear what?"

Manny sneered. "The cops got her. It's a gas, ain't it? She's been arrested, you're a cop, and you gotta find out from me. Is this a crazy world we live in, or what?"

That did it. DiVinci exploded.

He grabbed Manny and slammed him against the wall, one arm to Manny's throat. "What cops!? Who was the arresting officer!?"

"All I know is, when my people went to her sister's place, she was already gone. Her sister said some cops took her. I figured it was you!"

DiVinci glared at Manny for several seconds before storming out.

His secretary, who had been looking on the whole time, let out a deep breath. "What an asshole."

Manny looked down at her. "You're a good judge of character."

Dusk – Homicide Division

DiVinci sat at his desk, on the phone. "…Look, she's our witness. If she's in custody, somebody better tell me!" He slammed the phone down and sat quietly for a moment, then rubbed his face.

Jake Rodriguez crossed to DiVinci's desk and sat down.

"Anything?" DiVinci asked him.

Rodriguez shook his head. "In the words of William Goldman, nobody knows jack. The DA thinks she's gone with the wind. The DEA hasn't got a clue."

"If she was being held by police, we'd know."

"…Unless she said something."

"If she'd said something, we wouldn't be sitting here," DiVinci replied, and then something occurred to him.

()

Later that night, at his now-dark bail bonds office, Manny LaDrew was getting the shit beaten out of him. Two men hammered on Manny; one alternately shoved him against the wall and then yanked him up again. The other hit Manny in the stomach—never the face—and finally threw him across the room, over the desk.

DiVinci rubbed his gloved hand as he walked over to Manny, who was too hurt to get up. "Don't ever lie to me again," he warned Manny, who looked up weakly. Then DiVinci strode toward the office door, which Rodriguez opened for him.

October 6th – County Jail

Willard McCall sat on his cot, staring at the floor. His cellmate, Duncan Skaggs, sat nearby reading a magazine.

Duncan looked at Willard. "This your first trial, huh?"

Willard nodded.

"I got one piece of advice," Duncan went on. "When you break for lunch, don't get the pastrami."

The barred cell door opened. "Time to go," the guard said.

Willard got up and put out his hands, which a second guard shackled. A minute later, Willard was led down the hall by both guards, past rows of cells filled with other prisoners, outside to a waiting prison van. They got inside, and the van pulled away.

The People versus Willard McCall – Day One

"Hear ye, hear ye. All rise, face our flag and recognize the principles for which it stands," the bailiff said. "Criminal Court, Department G, is now in session; the Honorable Harold W. Pine presiding."

"Please be seated and come to order," Judge Pine said as he took the bench. "Has everyone been sworn in?" he asked the bailiff, who nodded.

"Here's The People versus Willard McCall; Case #95-24705," the bailiff said, handing the Judge a file.

()

Helen Eden introduced Clyde Dunner's .44 Magnum into evidence. "…When he pulled this gun and fired at the car's driver, killing him instantly. Let the record show that this is the weapon used in said crime, a Smith and Wesson .44-caliber handgun."

Willard sat at the Defense table with Arthur Baylor and Elliot Goff. All three watched the .44—the one with the black-stained handle—go to the evidence table.

Richard Stein, seated at the Prosecution table, leaned across to his young assistant. "All these guns are looking the same to me," he whispered.

Frank DiVinci took the stand, and was questioned by Helen. "When you arrested the defendant," she asked, "did he deny that he had killed Agent Lionel Hudd?"

"No, he did not."

"Can you describe the defendant's condition at the time of his arrest?"

"He was drunk. We could smell the booze on him. But we drew blood. He didn't object."

Helen picked up a blood test report. "We have the report which shows that he had four times the legal limit to drive. Let this be entered into evidence." And so it was.

Elliot crossed examined Jake Rodriguez. "…And you arrested the defendant four days after the killing. What led you to suspect Mr. McCall?"

"You ask questions, work the neighborhood," Rodriguez answered. "Find out who was on the street that night, and you'll have the answer to that question."

"Fair enough—but specifically Mr. McCall? He had no previous criminal record."

"We found someone who'd seen him in the area. So we picked him up for questioning. We didn't expect it to be him. But if someone saw him in the area that night, we'd want to talk with him. If he wasn't the killer, he might've seen the killer…Just routine, really."

"Where did you find the defendant?" Elliot asked.

"We found him on the streets. He was passed out at the corner of Third and Madison."

"How did you know this was the man you were looking for?"

"Based on his description," Rodriguez answered.

"Which was provided by whom?"

"Cynthia—something. I forget her last name."

Elliot moved to the defense table and glanced at Arthur, who nodded approvingly. Then he picked up a paper and looked at it. "I believe her last name is Webb…according to the statement filed the night she picked him out of the lineup. Is that name familiar?"

"Yes…That's her," Rodriguez said.

"Where did you find Miss Webb?"

"We found her on the street, in the same area."

"And she agreed to pick the defendant out of a lineup, is that correct?" Elliot asked.

"Yes, she did."

"Were you aware that Miss Webb disappeared after she was served with a subpoena?"

"Yes," Rodriguez answered. "My partner and I tried to contact her about the case, but we were unsuccessful."

"Thank you, Detective. That's all the questions I have."

Rodriguez got up.

That Night – Ethnic bar

A waitress cruised past tables to a booth in the back. She set down two scotch and waters to Rodriguez and DiVinci.

As the waitress retired, DiVinci raised his glass. "Here's to justice in all its forms."

Rodriguez did not touch his own glass. "We're not home free yet."

"Without Cynthia, there's no place they can go. We still got the confession, the gun, the ballistics; and I don't give a shit about all this African doctor crap. The man has been a drunk for ten years. So here's to drunks."

Rodriguez reluctantly lifted his glass. "To drunks," he agreed, and drank.

"That's the thing about life. You control it, or else it controls you. Most people don't understand that. They blame their fuck-ups on something or somebody else. But it's not like that. I don't wanna hear why your life's a mess. It's a mess because you're a mess, simple as that. They're waiting to live happily ever after. But when, after all the shit happens? Well, I got news for everybody: all the shit never stops happening. So you deal with it, or you get buried in it. I'm not talking about you; you know what I'm saying here."

Rodriguez nodded.

"Life doesn't work in mysterious ways. There's no enigma to it. You just work it. And you don't take it too seriously; you can't, or else you get fragile. And if you're fragile, you can't have any fun."

"Am I fragile?"

"That's the first sign of trouble, when you start asking other people," DiVinci told him.

Rodriguez nodded. "I just wish I knew where she was."

District Attorney's office

Helen Eden and Richard Stein were working late, over take-out Chinese.

Stein indicated some papers. "…So I think we'll have to rely on the confession for his description of what happened. He'll never take the stand, even if—" The phone rang, and he picked up. "DA's office…What…? When…? Where will—?" His eyes widened in surprise, and he turned to Helen. "They found Cynthia Webb."

"Where and when?"

Stein shrugged.

"Well, who the hell was that?"

"I don't know…They just hung up."

Stein put down the receiver. He and Helen exchanged a look.

"What is going on!?" she demanded.

October 7th

The People versus Willard McCall, Day Two

"Your Honor," Helen said, "The People call Miss Cynthia Webb to the stand."

Jake Rodriguez and Frank DiVinci were stunned. Elliot Goff was completely surprised. Arthur Baylor, however, was never shaken by anything.

The courtroom doors opened. Led down the aisle by a Sheriff's Deputy, Cynthia moved to the chair.

Then it was Willard's turn to double-take. He remembered her. Dear God, he knew Cynthia as the girl from that apartment building. He'd never seen who pointed him out, but he'd never expected it to be her.

"Raise your right hand," the bailiff commanded.

Cynthia did as she was told, but her look went right to Willard. She stared at the man she'd always known as Joe. She'd never seen him like this—cleaned up, trimmed, handsome—and never would have recognized him.

"Do you solemnly swear, on the Constitution of the United States, to tell the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—so help you God?"

Cynthia turned her eyes from Joe. "Yes, I swear."

The bailiff nodded. "You may be seated."

She sat down and looked at DiVinci.

Willard leaned across to Arthur and Elliot. "I know her," he murmured.

"She's the woman who identified you," Elliot murmured back.

"I don't mean that. I've seen her before."

"…How?" Arthur murmured.

"…I'm not sure, but I think I lived near her," Willard responded softly.

"Please state your name for the court," Helen said.

"Cynthia Webb."

"Do you see the man whom you identified in a police lineup, in this room?"

"Yes, I do."

"Is it the defendant, Mr. McCall?"

Cynthia looked at Willard, who looked back at her. Finally, she turned her eyes away.

"Yes, it is."

Helen went on, "Please describe what you saw the night of September 14th."

Cynthia looked at Helen. "I was coming out of an all-night minimart, with a bag of food. I walked down the street, and suddenly I heard a gunshot…followed by a car crash. I turned toward the sound and heard footsteps. Then I saw this man running. He had a magnum in his hand, still smoking. I just watched him pass by me and disappear, into the night."

"And you're positive the man you saw with said gun is the Defendant."

Instead of looking at Willard, Cynthia turned to Rodriguez and DiVinci—both of whom were seated a few rows behind the Prosecution table. They were looking back at her, waiting for her answer.

"Yes, I'm positive," she replied.

"No further questions," Helen said.

DiVinci offered a slight smile, and Cynthia turned away.

Arthur stood in front of Cynthia. "Miss Webb, had you ever seen the Defendant before that night—September 14th, as you just described to us?"

"No."

"Do you know what perjury is?"

"That's when you lie," she answered.

"It's when you lie under oath, in a court of law. And do you know what the penalty for that is?" he asked.

"You go to jail."

"That's right…Cynthia, have you ever seen the defendant before that night?"

Helen spoke up. "Objection, Your Honor…The witness has already answered that question."

"Sustained," Judge Harold Pine said.

"My apologies," Arthur responded. "I was merely giving the witness an opportunity to remember if she might have seen Mr. McCall anyplace else before the night in question."

DiVinci stared at Cynthia, as if willing her to give the answer he wanted her to give.

"Miss Webb," Judge Pine asked, "Do you understand the consequences of perjury?"

"Yes, I do," she answered.

The Judge nodded. "Let's get on with it, then."

"What did you buy, the night you went into the mini-mart?" Arthur asked.

Cynthia stared at him. "What did I buy?"

Arthur shrugged. "You remembered seeing Mr. McCall that night, hearing the gunshot and a car crash. So I just wondered if you also remembered what you bought at the mini-mart."

"…Shampoo, I think. Also some drinks and food."

"That's all?"

"Yes, that was all," Cynthia answered.

"Where do you live?"

"4356 17th Street, #37."

"Is that close to where this mini-mart is?" Arthur went on.

"Sort of, yes—somewhat close."

"How far would you say?"

"I don't know exactly," Cynthia said.

"Is it within walking distance?"

"No…I don't think so."

"Did you walk there that night, or drive?" Arthur asked.

"I…I drove."

"You drove. But, when you left the mini-mart, you stated that you walked down the street."

"That's right," Cynthia replied.

"How far did you walk?"

"…To the corner."

"Objection, Your Honor," Helen cut in. "I don't see the point to this line of questioning."

"Is there a point?" Judge Pine asked Arthur.

"Yes, Your Honor. Since this is the only witness, or so it seems, I'm establishing what the scene was like that night."

The Judge nodded. "Get there as quickly as possible."

"I always do; thank you, Your Honor." Arthur returned his attention to Cynthia. "How far away from the corner was the Mini-mart? I mean, was it in the middle of the block, or close to the corner?"

"It was closer to the middle."

"So you walked all the way to the corner. Then I assume you were walking back to your car?"

"…Yes, I was," Cynthia answered.

"Was there a reason you parked so far away?"

Cynthia was getting nervous. "…There were lots of other cars parked on the street."

"Were there any other people on the street besides you?"

"No, there weren't."

"Lots of cars, but no people…Any traffic?" Arthur asked.

"I don't remember—I didn't notice."

"So you were the only person to see Joe on the street that night?"

"I didn't see anybody else," Cynthia responded.

"So you heard a gunshot, saw a car crash, and then Joe ran past with a gun in his hand."

"Yes, that's right."

"What did you do then?" Arthur looked her in the face. "Did you call the police, 911?"

"I went home."

"You went straight home?"

"Yes, I did," Cynthia replied.

"And you're sure it was Joe you saw that night, when you went home?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"When you went home, you saw Joe," Arthur repeated.

Cynthia realized what she had just said. "No—I saw…When I—"

"Objection, Your Honor," Helen cut in again. "Defense is trying to confuse the witness."

"I am not trying to confuse the witness," Arthur responded. "The witness is trying to confuse this court. I have witnesses who will refute her testimony. Said witnesses were on that corner the night in question; they never saw Miss Webb or Joe, and never heard a gunshot or a car-crash. Miss Webb saw Joe outside her apartment building that night, because he lived in the alley next to it. Isn't that right, Miss Webb?"

Arthur turned dramatically to the now-scared Cynthia.

"Objection…!" Helen shouted.

Judge Pine cut her off with an abrupt wave. "I'll allow it."

"When I referred to him as Joe, you knew who I was talking about," Arthur went on. "This case is The People versus Willard McCall. Not Joe. The name Joe has never been mentioned in this trial, so how did you know to whom I was referring?"

Cynthia looked from Arthur to DiVinci and Rodriguez, who were frozen and sweating. Then she turned and looked at Willard—who stared back at her with pity, not with loathing.

"Miss Webb," Arthur repeated, "How did you know that the name Joe meant the Defendant, Willard McCall?"

Cynthia lowered her eyes to the floor. "He was homeless. He slept in the alley next to my apartment building."

Helen and Richard were stunned. "Oh, shit," she said to herself.

DiVinci and Rodriguez were doing their best to remain cool, calm, and collected. Their best was barely adequate.

"Why did you lie to this court?" Arthur asked Cynthia. "Are you afraid of someone? Are you protecting somebody?"

"I don't know," she responded softly.

"You don't know if you're afraid of somebody, or protecting someone?" Arthur repeated.

"Answer the questions, Ma'am, or I'll have to cite you for Contempt of Court," Judge Pine warned.

Cynthia looked up at the Judge. Her throat and mouth were frozen.

()

An hour later, Cynthia was having her mug shots taken, while she held a number.

The Streets

Frank DiVinci and Jake Rodriguez drove their unmarked car back toward the police station.

"…At least she didn't talk," Rodriguez said.

"Don't hold your breath."

"You think she'll talk?"

"I know she'll talk." DiVinci answered.

"We'll make it look gang-related."

"The problem is, we're gonna need another gun."

Rodriguez corrected him angrily. "The problem is, she's in jail. Or have you forgotten?"

"Since when does being in jail guarantee a long life? You just get a gun."

After dropping Rodriguez off at the Station, DiVinci pulled away into traffic.

()

Manny LaDrew, his face bruised and bandaged, looked up from his desk as DiVinci entered the office. "Now what'd I do!?"

"Everything's fine, Manny; I just came to apologize…" DiVinci turned to Manny's secretary. "…We need some privacy."

Glancing at DiVinci, Manny motioned for the secretary to take a walk. She shrugged, got up and exited.

"Just one more favor," DiVinci said. "I want you to bail somebody out of stir."

"You're kidding."

"Her bail is twenty-five grand." DiVinci took out a piece of paper from his pocket. "I want her out tonight. And don't tell her who. It's a surprise."

"How am I paying for this? They don't take Discover."

DiVinci pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket, tossing it onto Manny's desk. The bag was filled with cocaine.

"We both know you can exchange that. It's worth a lot more than twenty-five dimes, so keep the change." DiVinci pointed to the cocaine. "I want her back in two hours—otherwise, I'll nail you for Possession."

"How'd you get to be such a piece of shit?" Manny sneered.

"DNA," DiVinci sneered back as he exited.

That Night – County Jail

Willard McCall lay on his cot. Even though he was in jail for murder, he was no longer Joe the Bum. He was a new man—clean shaven, hair cut, prison clothes neat.

Duncan Skaggs rolled over on his own cot. "You don't have to say anything, but…Are you really a doctor?"

"…I was…a surgeon."

"No kidding? I'm nobody to judge, but you must've been a smart guy. So who or what landed you here?"

Willard looked hesitantly at Duncan. "I had an affair with a nurse at the hospital where I worked. I can't even remember much about her…except that my wife found out. We had a fight. She left the house, took the kids…She was hysterical. I should've gone after them, or done something, anything…They were killed in a car accident about a mile from the house…I've never told anybody that…about why she left."

Duncan nodded. "Hey, doc, you can trust me. It won't go any further."

6th Street

Jake Rodriguez stood outside the Police Station, looking nervous and upset. Then Frank DiVinci pulled up in an unmarked car. Rodriguez got in and the car pulled away.

DiVinci noticed that Rodriguez was sweating. "You get the gun?"

Rodriguez nodded.

"Is everything okay?"

"Oh, sure everything's okay…We're just gonna kill a murder witness who's in jail because we snuffed a DEA mole. I'm sorry, but this kind of stuff troubles me."

"Take off the dress and get in the game," DiVinci told him. "We gotta do what we gotta do."

"Yeah, I know. Let's just get it over with."

DiVinci again glanced at Rodriguez—who, he noticed, was abnormally nervous.

County Jail

Manny LaDrew walked out the front doors with Cynthia Webb.

"I don't understand," she said. "What do you mean, you can't tell me who put up the bond?"

"Look," Manny replied, "A guy comes in, says bail her out and gives me the money, how can I say no? That's how I make my living; I bail people out of the cooler. So wait with me."

"Was it a cop?"

"Yeah, right; cops bail people out of the slammer all the time. Doesn't there seem to be a dichotomy there for you?"

"Why do I not like this?" Cynthia was getting suspicious.

"You wanna stay in jail, that's up to you. Otherwise, come with me."

"At least tell me what he looked like."

"You're a stripper, right? Lots of guys fall in love with your type. But they don't know how to get close, know what I mean? Somebody wants you to owe them something." Many shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

He started down the steps. Cynthia hesitated briefly and then followed.

()

From their unmarked car, parked down the street, Frank DiVinci and Jake Rodriguez watched Cynthia get into Manny's car.

"Frank. This is the last time we kill somebody."

"Yeah, sure it's the last time."

"This will be eleven. Eleven's more than enough."

"I get the picture." DiVinci told Rodriguez, who looked ill as he stared out the window. Something was not right here.

"It was all okay until we shot Hudd."

"What's going on here? Are you mad at me or something?"

"It wasn't my idea to start killing people, Frank. That's all I'm saying. We're in this mess because we—"

"I know why we're in this mess…! Drug dealers don't qualify as people; they never did, and never will. So what's wrong with you tonight? You suddenly worried about where all the money went?"

"I'm just sick of it, that's all."

DiVinci stared at Rodriguez briefly, and then keyed the ignition.

()

Minutes later, DiVinci turned the unmarked car off the street and stopped in an alley.

"What're we doing here?" Rodriguez wondered aloud.

"I need some fresh air," DiVinci said, stepping out of the car.

Rodriguez hesitated, and then stepped out after him. "Frank—"

"Just talk to me, okay?"

"…I don't know…I owe some money—actually, a hell of lot of money. And I don't know how I'm gonna pay it, unless…"

"You've been gambling, huh?" DiVinci shook his head. "Please, not again!"

"Yeah, I just couldn't…Frank…Let's forget about this, and just get out of here. We've got more than enough money, so let's get out of the country or something."

DiVinci turned toward Rodriguez, pistol drawn.

"What are you doing now!?"

"Take off your shirt."

"What for? What's this all about?"

"Just take it off," DiVinci said. "If there's nothing to worry about, then I'll apologize. But I'm not gonna argue with you. Lose the shirt, now."

"What is this, you piece of shit!? You don't trust me!? Is that the story here!? You don't trust me after all we've been through!?"

"…Take off your shirt. I'm not asking you again."

"Or you're gonna do what, shoot me?" Rodriguez growled back. "Then shoot me. But go fuck yourself with a broomstick, if you don't trust me."

DiVinci hesitated, not wanting this any more than his partner did. Then he lowered his gun. "Okay, I'm sorry. You're right; I'm nervous, like you. Forget it. This thing…Let's just get it over with." He holstered the weapon.

Rodriguez let out a deep sigh. Then he and DiVinci returned to their car and got back in.

DiVinci started up the engine. "I'll just feel a whole lot better when she's dead. Then we'll be off the hook."

Rodriguez nodded as DiVinci shifted gears—and suddenly threw his elbow into Rodriguez's face.

Then DiVinci was all over him like a tornado, slamming both fists into Jake's face repeatedly. Finally, he grabbed Rodriguez's shirt and ripped it open—revealing the tape recorder, strapped to Jake's body, which had been capturing their every word.

"You rat!" DiVinci put his revolver to Rodriguez's head.

Rodriguez, bleeding from the mouth and nose, looked back at DiVinci. "Yeah, I am a rat…I traded you, Frank. Simms knows everything."

DiVinci pulled back the hammer, ready to blow Rodriguez's head off.

"Just shoot me," Rodriguez said. "Get it over with. I deserve to die!" He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

It didn't come.

"You're wrong," DiVinci replied. "That's too good for you. What you deserve is to live." He ripped the wires off the recorder while holding the gun to Jake's head. Then, "…Get out—Out of the car, now."

As Rodriguez did so, DiVinci looked up at him. "This is why you can never—ever—lose your sense of humor." With that, he tore away in the car…leaving Jake alone in the alley.

Vic

Rodriguez unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed it open, entered and shut the door behind him. Then he suddenly erupted in rage, ripping off his coat and shirt. He finally ripped off the recorder taped to his chest, and pitched it across the room. The recorder hit the wall and shattered.

"I guess we caught you at a bad time."

Rodriguez spun around as Vic stepped into the moonlight which streamed through the window. Behind him was Cutlass Supreme.

"We all have problems, you know," Vic said.

Rodriguez charged Vic, yelling. There was an explosion, and a flash lit up the room. Vic stumbled to the door, flung it open and ran out, followed by Cutlass Supreme.

Jake Rodriguez was left on the floor, his skull blown apart.

October 8th – Morning

The Rodriguez apartment was swarming with cops and G-men, both DEA and FBI. The task of evidence collection was in progress. Agents Eric Simms and Bob Sarkasian stood over Jake Rodriguez's body.

"DiVinci must've figured it," Agent Sarkasian said. "I didn't think he'd kill his own partner, though."

Agent Simms shrugged. "He's an animal."

Agent Perry Hooper came up behind Simms. "The recorder's busted up," he said. "But we might be able to salvage some of the tape."

"I want that son-of-a-pimp. You understand me?" Simms responded. "I don't care what it takes; I want him!" Then Agents Hooper and Sarkasian followed him out the door.

()

A car pulled up in front of Manny's Bail Bonds.

The office was deathly quiet. Manny LaDrew was sprawled in his chair; nearby, Cynthia Webb was sprawled on the couch. There was no blood, no signs of anything.

The door opened. Two men entered, both wielding guns.

Manny and Cynthia woke up with a start.

"Who are you people!?" Manny demanded.

One of the visitors produced a badge. It was Agent Sarkasian. "Miss Webb," he said, "We'd like you to come with us."

Cynthia, pissed, looked at Manny. "This was the big secret? Shit, you're an asshole."

She put her coat on and headed for the door. Manny stared after her, not knowing what the hell was going on.

()

Cynthia was escorted to an office in the local federal building. Drug Enforcement Agents Hooper and Sarkasian loomed over her, as did fellow Agent Eric Simms.

"Who set it up?" Agent Simms asked her.

"It was DiVinci, wasn't it?" Hooper chimed in.

"Who pulled the trigger?" Agent Sarkasian demanded.

Cynthia's answer was always the same: "I don't know."

Simms looked Cynthia squarely in the eyes. "Detective Rodriguez was shot in the head last night," he said.

That got Cynthia's attention. "He's dead?"

"With that big a hole in his skull, in the long run, he's better off. But that's beside the issue," Agent Simms smiled grimly at her. "Rodriguez was wearing a recorder, which DiVinci found. You do the math."

"Not full of shit, or anything," Cynthia retorted.

"Just tell us what you know," Sarkasian said.

Cynthia glared back at them. "Where's DiVinci now?"

"We haven't found him yet," Simms answered. "But we will."

"Will you?" Cynthia flashed him a sarcastic smile. "Right…I don't know fucking shit."

Agent Simms turned to Hooper, who took Cynthia by the arm and led her outside—closing the door after him.

Then Simms turned to Sarkasian. "Get a copy of that tape to Baylor. But make sure it doesn't come directly from us."

That Afternoon – County Jail

Cynthia was sitting alone in her cell when she heard footsteps and looked up.

A guard approached. "Your attorney's here."

"What attorney?" Cynthia wondered aloud.

She was taken to the Interrogation room. As the guard shut the door behind her, Cynthia found herself facing Arthur Baylor. A tape recorder was on the table between them.

"Hello, Cynthia," he said. "Won't you sit down?"

"I've got nothing to say," she retorted.

"So I'm told," Arthur replied as he pushed the Play button.

"…Take off your shirt. I'm not asking you again."

"Or you're gonna do what, shoot me? Then shoot me. But go fuck yourself with a broomstick, if you don't trust me."

"Okay, I'm sorry. You're right; I'm nervous, like you. Forget it. This thing…Let's just get it over with…I'll just feel a whole lot better when she's dead. Then we'll be off the hook."

Arthur watched Cynthia's reaction to DiVinci's voice and words. Yet Cynthia had seen enough not to be shocked by anything. Her reaction was subtle; Cynthia knew better than to reveal what she was actually feeling and thinking.

"You rat!"

"Yeah, I am a rat…I traded you, Frank. Simms knows everything…Just shoot me. Get it over with. I deserve to die!"

"You're wrong. That's too good for you. What you deserve is to live."

Arthur shut off the machine. "I'm sure we both know my client is innocent. That's all I care about. But I don't blame you for being scared. You're already facing perjury charges; my guess is, your involvement runs much deeper than that. However, I'm not after you; I get nothing if you go to jail. But I'm positive that I can help my client by helping you."

She gazed at him inquiringly.

"William didn't kill Lionel Hudd, did he?"

Cynthia shook her head no.

"Are you sure you won't have a seat?"

She pulled up a chair.

That Evening

Agent Eric Simms furiously paced the floor of his office. "There's no way I'm going to grant that whore immunity! She lied on the stand, after protecting Hudd's killers. She's involved up to her neck, and I want them all on the chopping block."

Arthur, who had been sitting across from him, now stood up. "Before I leave, let me remind you that you have jack for a case. So, if you really care about seeing justice done for your late partner, don't blow this deal. Immunity for her testimony is a small price to pay for bringing down a dirty cop. It's the only way she's going to talk."

Agent Simms glared at him.

"Moreover," Arthur went on, "Willard McCall walks, right now, all charges dropped. Agreed?"

A look of resignation crossed Simms's face. "…If what she says is any good, then we've got a deal. If it isn't, then nobody goes anywhere."

October 9th – Morning

Criminal Courts

Two guards led Cynthia Webb down the hall to an office. Inside, Agents Perry Hooper and Bob Sarkasian stood beside a desk where Agent Simms sat waiting. Arthur stood on the other side of the desk, flanked by two technicians.

Both guards withdrew, closing the door behind them. Cynthia looked from the gathering of men, to the tape-recording equipment on the desk, to an empty chair directly before Simms. A microphone sat before the vacant chair.

Glancing at Arthur, Cynthia took the empty seat.

Noon

Reporters swarmed around Willard McCall and Arthur, as they exited the courthouse.

"Mr. McCall, how does it feel to have all this over with?"

Arthur and Willard headed down the steps to a waiting limousine.

"In view of everything that's happened to you over the past month, what are your future plans? Or have you decided yet?"

"I'm going back to work," Willard answered, "as a surgeon at the County Hospital."

"Any thoughts on the confession you signed? Were you coerced by the police, or did you—?"

"I'm sorry," Arthur cut in, "No more questions, please." Then he and Willard got into the waiting limo, which pulled away.

Nathan was in the backseat of the limo, flanked by his wife and their nine children—five daughters and four sons—aged 13 to 30. They all smiled at their brother and uncle, who sat next to Arthur.

"Good to have you back, Will," Nathan said.

Willard smiled back. "…I'd like to make one stop," he responded.

Nathan's smile became a grin. "I figured you would."

()

Nathan's limousine was parked curbside at the cemetery. While Nathan waited with his family and Arthur, Willard strode about halfway across the lawn, carrying a large bouquet of long-stemmed roses. Then he stopped and looked down.

The tombstones were for Willard's wife and children. He sat down beside them and proceeded to divide the roses evenly among all three graves. Very soon, he was down to just one rose. Suddenly, for the first time, he noticed something nearby.

It was Lionel Hudd's grave.

Willard got up, walked over to Hudd's tombstone, and placed the last rose atop it. Then he turned away to rejoin his family.

Dusk – McCall Manor

A giant party was in progress. Expensive cars parked along the drive.

The mansion was filled with well-wishers in tuxedos and gowns. Arthur Baylor and Elliot Goff were in attendance. Elliot wasn't used to this much glory, but he was taking where he could—with a pretty young woman who happened to be Nathan's eldest daughter.

"…It just didn't make sense, a man wanting to be punished for a crime? How many times does that happen?" he asked Arthur, who was also receiving his share of the credit.

"Once in a lifetime, I can tell you," Arthur answered. "To tell the truth, I had no other witnesses to refute her testimony. But she didn't know that. I was counting on her reluctance to testify. In my line of work, that's among the first things you learn—to look for the signs." With that, he reached out and shook Elliot's hand. "Elliot, in the words of Humphrey Bogart, I feel this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." He beamed at the younger attorney…who beamed back, clearly looking forward to such himself.

Willard was surrounded by his nephews and nieces.

"We thought you were dead, Uncle Will. It's just incredible that you're back," one of the boys said.

"It's ironic, isn't it?" one of the girls commented. "If you hadn't been arrested for killing that guy, you might still be on the street."

Willard took it all in, just smiling and nodding. "Life works in the strangest ways, that's true."

Another girl gave him a big welcome-home kiss. "Uncle Will, you look marvelous. After what you've been through…Well, I'm not sure I even want to imagine."

Then a well-dressed man about Willard's age came forward. It was Doctor Donald Sinclair, Nathan's former college roommate. "Willard," he said, "I've already spoken to the medical board; they're prepared to re-certify you anytime you're ready. I can put you in the emergency sector, until you work the rust out. We all want you back; we can't afford to waste someone of your talent."

Willard grinned. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

Four Months Later – Strip Joint

The neon blared as usual. Cynthia Webb was bumping and grinding to the music. Her life hadn't changed at all, and she knew it. But there was nothing else Cynthia could do.

Midnight

Cynthia entered her apartment and shut the door behind her. The light wouldn't go on.

Suddenly, a man's voice sounded from the darkness next to her. "I guess you had no choice."

It was Frank DiVinci.

His hand grabbed Cynthia's arm to prevent her from moving.

DiVinci stepped into the light. He looked like hell; he was a man on the run, desperate and dangerous. DiVinci hadn't shaved, and his clothes were filthy.

Cynthia looked up at him. He looked like…like Joe used to look, before his true identity had been revealed.

"You just had to do the right thing, didn't you?" he asked rhetorically.

She answered the question with another question. "What do you want?"

DiVinci shoved Cynthia hard across the room. "Why are you asking me what I want? Are you gonna grant me three wishes, like some genie? Gosh, I don't know where to start. Let's see…Money would be nice. Love would be better. But loyalty…You can never get enough of that." He moved up close and pushed her into the bedroom. "We'll start with money."

Cynthia went to her closet, pulled out a box and opened it. Inside were her savings. "This is all I've got."

DiVinci grabbed the money and shoved it into his jacket.

"They'll catch you," she said.

"Don't bet on that," DiVinci responded, putting aside his gun and shoving Cynthia down onto the bed. "Because I'm following my heart," he explained, leaning in face-to-face with her. "And they don't have a clue where that is."

"So tell me about your plans," she said. "I'd like to hear them now."

He gave her an almost-remorseful look. "Loyalty is what it all comes down to. Nothing holds together when that's gone. And once it's gone, you don't get it back…not ever." His tone became icy. "You should never have told them."

"There are a lot of things in my life I never should have done. But that's not one of them."

"Then let me tell you the only difference between a witness and a liar. One of them knows exactly what he's doing at all times. The other…"

Too late, she saw the gun.

()

The shot sounded like a muffled boom from the street outside. A minute later, DiVinci exited the apartment building, visibly upset.

Back in Cynthia's apartment, white feathers fell like snowflakes on her body—which was draped across the bed. On the floor beside her was a pillow, its stuffing blown out. In Cynthia's chest was a hole, right above her heart.

()

Manny LaDrew unlocked the door and entered his Bail Bonds office.

DiVinci's voice cracked like a whip. "Shut the door and lock it."

"Jesus Christ!" Manny looked toward the voice. "You scared the shit out of me."

DiVinci was crouched on the floor, out of sight, holding his revolver. "I need one more favor, Manny. First, lock the door…now."

Manny did as he was told. "So when did I become such a good friend?"

"I'm taking some time off. I want a car—here, tonight—and a driver. You can do that, right?"

"Yeah," Manny answered, his voice oozing disgust. "But you're one hot potato. And there's a thing about drivers who don't talk…They don't come cheap."

"I got the money. Just put it together."

Hospital

The ambulance raced up to the emergency entrance.

Two paramedics pushed a barely-conscious Cynthia Webb on a gurney down the hall. Fading, she looked up at the ceiling.

The gurney was pushed past the Operating Room, from which two surgeons emerged. They both pulled off their masks, along with their bloody rubber gloves.

One of the surgeons was Doctor Willard McCall.

The other surgeon was Doctor Donald Sinclair. He patted Willard on the back. "Easy as riding a bike," he said.

Willard breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

()

Downstairs, next door to the organ recipients, Cynthia's vision slowly went black in spite of the glaring overheads. She heard Frank DiVinci's voice in the back of her mind.

"You surprise me sometimes. Here I think you're just a hard case, and I discover your heart of gold…You're an organ donor to boot. That's really nice, except for one problem—they'll never use your best parts."

Even as Cynthia died, the man she formerly knew as Joe was en route to disprove those words.

Manny

A black Lincoln, with tinted windows, pulled up in front of the Bail Bonds office.

Manny LaDrew looked out the window. "Leather upholstery, moon roof, CD player…What more could anybody ask?"

Frank DiVinci looked out, gun in hand. Having cleaned himself up, he was now wearing a Hawaiian shirt with matching slacks. "This better not be a setup," he warned Manny.

"Would I do that to you?" Manny sneered.

"Just walk me to the door."

"You'll probably want me to hold your hand, too."

The Lincoln idled at the curb. DiVinci and Manny exited the office. DiVinci glanced up and down the street, as they moved toward the car. Manny opened the back door. There was nobody inside.

"I think I'll let you live," DiVinci smiled.

"You're a real prince," Manny replied. "So, where's my money?"

DiVinci handed him a wad of cash from his pocket, then got into the Lincoln's backseat. "You never saw me," he said, shaking one finger dangerously at Manny. "Remember that."

"Don't I wish it were true," Manny shot back as he closed the door. He watched the Lincoln pull away and move off down the street. "Have a nice trip, shithead."

()

From the back seat, DiVinci could see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror—but nothing else. The front seat was too dark.

"Head south and get on the interstate," he directed. "And don't break the speed limit."

The driver said nothing, but gave him a thumbs-up without turning around.

DiVinci settled into the leather seat. "You know, the one thing about life…You can never lose your sense of humor. Without that, you've got nothing."

Suddenly, the driver turned around. He was holding an all-too-familiar Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, its handle stained black.

He had just a split second—which was all it took—to recognize the driver. Then DiVinci's head snapped back, as the rear window was blown out of the Lincoln.

"…Fucking A!" Clyde David Dunner laughed, while driving the Lincoln onwards to a local chop-shop which he knew of.

Hospital

The surgical lights shone brightly.

"…Run the cardioplegia," Willard McCall said, as Doctor Donald Sinclair looked on. "She's fibrillating. Go on bypass."

Several medical machines kicked in around the OR.

"Forceps," Sinclair said, and Nurse Lisa Dinkins passed them. "Just like old times," he told Willard.

"I wouldn't have done this without you," Willard responded. "I owe you."

"Lucky to have a donor," Sinclair commented. "Never would've survived the night, otherwise." He turned to Nurse Dinkins. "Is the suture ready?"

She nodded, picking up a suture. "I heard it was a stripper's heart."

Willard looked at Dinkins, who explained further. "She was shot through the chest, a couple of hours ago. They think it was gang related."

Epilogue – Hawaii

Waves crashed on white sand. Clear blue water raced up the sand to a sensationally-beautiful blond in a 1-piece bathing suit. Her soft, silky-smooth skin was flawed only by a scar above her heart—which she had attempted, with limited success, to camouflage by tattooing a Chinese hieroglyph over it.

She stared out at the ocean, and then up at the palm trees shading her. The girl leaned back, hands behind her head, and beamed contentedly. Then she heard slack-key guitar music.

Strumming nearby was Clyde David Dunner, who gazed at the girl and smiled.

She returned the smile, got up, and beckoned him wordlessly. Setting aside the guitar, he came over to join her for a swim.

The End