He hadn't been in a place like this in years.
Not since Charles Rane was a boy had he entered any barred facility. He slowly but surely adjusted himself to the sparse illumination and animal calls in the cell block he was being walked through. For years he had managed to avoid prison as a British aristocratic terrorist. His handshake deals with Arabs promised tranquility from the law, even in their fine print. It seemed nobody was more supplemental then these Eurasian men with detestable faces on the Most Wanted list. He was given three-piece-suits, briefcases that would labor James Bond, hotel room reservations, stealth weaponry that would lift Stallone's eyebrows, and false ID's that satisfied routine study. Normally a traveling man might have been sheepish about presenting his goofy-faced driver's license to a clerk. But not Rane. His face was the seal of his limitless power and the icon of his megalomania. And what he loved more than his deceptively handsome face was being in control as well as the challenges to meet it.
Rane didn't know how many times he had gone to meet a Middle East bigwig, had AK-47 rifles in his face, had been frisked with an audacity that government agents didn't have, all under the studious frown of the bigwig sitting behind a desk. A frown amplified by a thick unibrow, and eyes bordered with dark sockets, all flagging a lethal intuition. A sight like this validated the stereotype of the Arab man, in fact it was comic-book evil come to life. But Rane could maintain. He kept his disdain for these despicable, poorly hygiened men in check. Speaking with a lushness that only a man with his love of control could muster, he articulated the very kind of talk that these political thugs wanted - and needed - to hear. Rane spoke the guy's language. And the Arab could not resist Rane's blue eyes, which were unemotionally cunning, melting away inhibition even in this Arab nut job who had leveled cities in the name of Allah. The mugshot face would then twist into a smile, grains of sand falling from the cracks of his desert-worn face. With flickering nerve, he promised Rane hospitality and luxury with a handshake.
Thats what Rane was used to. The foul breath and greasy hand of a dark skinned consort.
As his past triumphs played in his mental cinema, Rane heard the taunt of inmates. He met the foul breath and greasy hands of dark skinned pushers, carjackers, rapists, muggers, and murderers in the surrounding cells as they observed him passing by. Rane ignored them, not like a frightened newcomer but like the callous guards who gripped his arms. His cinema of memoirs played on, being the only light in his dark mind and romancing his vanity. Rane was not like these misfits off the street but he did wonder how many murderers were housed here. They wouldn't know what murder was. Because Rane's murders, if you could call them that, would not just fill a slot on a local TV station, they would fill the frequencies on a satellite. A lot of people knew that. Rane would either be treated better or worse than others in this place. He knew his resume' was long but that gave him no unease. Not with his megalomania, which many had mistaken for garden-variety narcissism and never estimated the true magnitude of his intentions. For a long time he hadn't been in any prison but his cunning knew no bounds. If all he had was his chitchat, that wouldn't fail him. And chitchat awaited him as he rounded a corner. Not with someone wearing a number, but wearing a suit. Not inside a cell but a big room with a locked door.
Rane gazed through the crosswiring over an observational hole, like a lion watching a deer through tall grass. Guards slammed the latches into the unlock position, and without shoving him into the room, opened it up and allowed him to enter the room. He walked a couple paces toward an acquaintance seated at a table, and stopped to allow a formality.
"Attorney Phillips" he said.
Lawrence Phillips watched the guards lock up the door, glanced at Rane and quickly turned back to documents laid out on the dingy, rusted table. He inflated his nerve with a deep breath. Normally a client would get a smile and nod from him, but the emotional void between him and Rane did not allow this. He barely even favored Rane as a human being and it made him question his own morals. Sometimes Phillips felt they were as gray as his suit, and his salt-and-pepper hair. Because he was defending a man who killed crowds. Not some jagoff who killed someone he mistook for a mugger, but a powerful man who killed crowds. He bombed buildings full of people in significant locations, the kind of buildings people use on a joyful holiday such as train stations and airports. Soon Rane would sit before a judge who would have one eye on the party with the most weight - the prosecution. Phillips also had a good idea of the trial's aftermath. There was a chance of him crossing paths with the families of the hundreds of victims, and of negative celebrity that would last a couple years. He wondered how he got to this position. But he stayed professional.
"Have you found out where they intend to take me?" Rane asked.
"Los Angeles" Phillips replied. "They won't say when"
Rane paced around the room. "It'll happen quickly. Notify my people, they'll know what to do"
"California has a death penalty"
"Its a progressive state. I'll have to visit it sometime"
"The feds have a witness that can prove you're responsible for two airline bombings in the past year"
"I'm responsible for twice that amount"
Phillips sighed, partly because of Rane's perceived gloating and partly in relief. Rane would almost certainly be proved guilty of all charges. If Rane was acquitted or received what the public called a light sentence, Phillips saw himself defending his career on Carson and on Letterman. And it didn't look like this would happen. But in spite of this prospect, he allowed legal procedure to intrude. Rane bled the same color as the men who wrote the Constitution, he unfortunately had rights.
The attorney made his proposition.
"I'm afraid the most we can hope for is to claim insanity for you"
Rane stopped pacing. Rage began to swell up inside of him. But then, he knew his attorney didn't have the greatest of tact. Keeping a grip on dignity, he gave Phillips a chance to salvage those previous words.
"Given your...childhood history, we should be able to make that stick"
Rane lost control. He yanked back Phillips' head by the hair, slammed his head on the table and pulled it back to where his ear was at whisper distance from Rane's mouth. Rane clawed his other hand into Phillips' wrinkled jowls.
"Never...mention...my childhood!" Rane growled, the word "childhood" trembling with fragile angst. "Have I made myself clear?"
"Yeah!" Phillips moaned. He breathed like a dog after a game of catch, his eyes like golfballs.
"It is the nature of man to confuse genius with insanity!" Rane hissed, pulling his hand off Phillips' neck. With his other hand still gripping hair, he pivoted the attorney's head in what was essentially a puppet manuever.
"Now," Rane said, as if enjoying the erotica of command. "Repeat...after me: Charles Rane is not insane"
Phillips' throat gurgled as he tried to muster a sound. "Ch-Charles...Rane! Is not...insane!"
"Again" Rane said, loosening his grip on the gray hair.
"Charles Rane is not insane"
"Continue"
As Phillips spoke the mantra more calmly, Rane wandered over to the window. He stood majestically, watching clouds gather in the evening sky. His excitement was slowly diluted by a grim sense of satisfaction. His control had been maintained.
Outside, a storm began. The atmosphere clapped with searing resonance. Water sloshed the glass pane.
But Phillips hardly noticed.