Part Five: Cheese Wheel
Chapter Fifty-one: Mouse Trap
After Mickey woke up, a nurse came in immediately to give him more pain medication. Mickey told the woman to suck his dick, and since he had the right to refuse, the bitch withheld more morphine and left the room. He didn't want to be fucked up on morphine the entire time he was stuck in here. More over, he didn't want to have formed an addiction to it when he got out. Mickey might not have ever expressed his fear to anyone other than Mandy one weird Christmas morning, but Mickey was fucking terrified of becoming his mother. He had inherited a lot from her, and her addictive personality was only the half of it. In fact, the whole four years he had spent in Indianapolis sharing a bed with a heroin addict and pushing the drug himself, Mickey hadn't tried smack once. Had thought about it. Hadn't actually gone through with it, after tying up his arm and heating his spoon. So no, Mickey didn't want any more highly addictive painkillers. He would grin and fucking bare it.
He winced and cursed as he pushed himself up on the bed, holding his side. His inside felt like they were coming out. Like any minute his guts would spill forth through the bandaging. Finally sitting up, Mickey panted for a few minutes, his head spinning a little as a left over side effect of the morphine. He swallowed and rubbed his temples, still gripping his side.
"Mickey," Mandy said after Ian sat her back down, "maybe you should just take the morphine."
He let go of his head and frowned over at his sister. "I'm not taking fuck all of anything they try feeding me," he said bluntly, the took a sharp breath because talking made his side jiggle and that really hurt. "God!" he hissed out slowly, turning his head and closing his eyes, now griping his wound with both hands.
Ian, who stood by Mandy with his arms crossed, brow knitted and eyes wide with concern, shook his head. "Mickey, you're crazy," he said. "Why the hell not?" he pressured, and Mandy tugged his elbow meaningfully.
Mickey watched the interaction, scowling. Ian looked down at Mandy who was shaking her head slowly, mouth pursed, eyes warning. Ian just looked confused, then glanced back up at Mickey, cocking a brow as he watched Mickey press against his side.
"Just leave it," Mandy whispered, tugging Ian's elbow again. "He's fine," she said, this time stern.
Mickey rolled his eyes, breathing heavy, and leaned further into the pillows, trying to relax. He hated that he probably looked like a fucking pussy in front of Ian. But it couldn't be helped. Getting shot sucked majorly. It felt way worse in his side than it had in his leg. Growling, he slammed his head back a few times before going back to relaxing. Sort of. Lolling his head to the side, still a little loopy, Mickey looked over his sister. "You all right, Mandy?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheek to try not and wince from the pain again. This made him sound strained. But it was better than whining like a bitch.
"I've been better," Mandy said, giving him a weak smile and playing with a tissue she quickly plucked from the nightstand.
Mickey snorted. "So have I," he said bitterly. He looked away from her and straight above him. He knew better than to press Mandy yet. Mickey figured she had already been forced to give a report to the police, paramedics, maybe Gallagher. She wouldn't want to talk about what had happened again for a while. Mandy would probably just clam up and hold it all in until she exploded. Like she always did when she was upset. Mandy was definitely a Milkovich. Always played pretend until the act became too much to handle. She would eventually breakdown and stop trying to say she was fine. Because even Mickey knew there was no way in hell his sister was okay. Not after what Marcus probably put her through. Actually, Mickey really hoped Mandy would never tell him the details of what had happened to her. He would never ask. Because Mickey didn't feel like getting arrested for digging up a corpse and setting it on fire when he found where Marcus was buried.
Trying to breathe in a way that wouldn't upset his side, Mickey looked over again, this time at Ian. He stared, aware that Mandy was watching him. Figuring at this point hiding much was a moot point. His brow knitted some and he chewed his scabbed over lip, eyes moving up Ian and landing on the redhead's face. Ian seemed like he couldn't figure out how to behave. Mickey almost smirked at the fact. "How did you worm your way out of it?" Mickey asked, knowing Ian should be in jail right now.
"I hired a good lawyer," Ian replied, sitting down gently on the nightstand, looking at Mickey intently.
"I don't think I'm suited for jail," he joked, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
Snorting, Mickey suppressed a yawn. "Nah, they'd have eaten you alive," he said.
There was a long pause before Ian opened his mouth to respond, but was instead cut off by Lip's entrance. All eyes turned to Lip. He came into the room, carrying a plastic shopping bag of what Mickey figured was Mandy's wadded up clothes. Following behind him were two men in suites. Mickey's stomach sank when one of the two men, the fatter one with a balding head, flashed a badge. Lip stepped aside and let them in front of him, shooting Mickey a worried glance before going toward Mandy.
"Mickey Milkovich?" the fat man began. He pointed to himself saying, "I'm detective Shane Townsend and this is my partner, detective Marshal Adamsen."
Mickey eyed them both, frowning. Adamsen was a short, frail looking older man with thick glasses and long gray hair. He looked kind of like a rat. Townsend was tall, fat, and already on Mickey's shit list.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to place you under arrest," Shane Townsend said, rather polite.
"You understand why?" the partner pressed.
Mickey's mouth fell open. "Right now?" he asked, laughing, but then winced and grabbed his side again. "Fuck," he smiled bitterly, "my day keeps getting better!"
Mandy blanched and Lip gripped down on her shoulder. Ian stood up, shaking his head. "He's been admitted to the god damned hospital," Ian spat, scowling.
"I understand," Adamsen nodded, "but he will have to be transported to the infirmary for further treatment."
It was a week later, walking mostly fine now, that Mickey stepped into an interrogation room, uncuffed because he posed no threat, and waited for his lawyer to show up. The detectives and the rest of their posse, probably the prosecutor, were waiting just beyond the one way mirror. Mickey knew this because he had been in similar situations before. None quite so dire, but still. The cop who had escorted him in stood in the corner like a statue, hands cupped in front of his hips and staring straight ahead. Mickey sighed. His side ached only a little now. Putting his elbows on the table, Mickey pressed the tips of his fingers together and hoped his lawyer wasn't a complete idiot. The ones appointed by the state usually were.
Mickey hopped his foot beneath the table, antsy. The room was a little too warm, and Mickey figured that was on purpose. He tried to ignore it. Finally the door opened. Mickey dropped his hands and jerked his head up, face blank as the woman who he assumed was his lawyer stepped in carrying a briefcase. She was young looking, maybe only ten years older than Mickey. Too tan. Her hair was pinned to head head in a tight black bun and she wore frameless glasses. Her face was pointy. She took a seat across from Mickey and extended her boyish hand. Mickey furrowed his brow. He didn't fucking shake hands. Only once had he given in to that behavior, and that instance had gone terribly wrong. She got the point and withdrew her hand, sitting back evenly and scooting forward. She introduced herself as Tabatha Godfrey and stated that she had been hired by Mickey's sister. Mickey would not be bothered with wasting time on a court appointed attorney. He cocked a brow as she told him this. Mickey was leaning back in his chair now, holding his chin, elbow propped up on a lazily crossed leg. Her voice was confident and she used too many large words for Mickey to keep up half of the time. He wished she would just speak in layman's terms. She must have caught on to that too, maybe because of the look Mickey hadn't know he was giving her.
"Mickey," she said, leaning forward and undoing the suitcase, "you aren't getting out of this innocently, I'll just be honest."
Mickey grunted. He had kind of figured that, given that he had taken the law into his own hands and had ended up killing a man. Tabatha cleared her throat and slid a picture toward Mickey. He caught it before it slid off the table and looked up at her confused before glancing back to the photograph. Feeling a twist in his gut at the face he stared down at, Mickey looked away quickly. He stared back at Tabatha. He guessed he was fucked worse than he thought.
"Julio Valdez," Tabatha stated, motioning to the picture Mickey held.
"What about him?" Mickey said, keeping a neutral face. He had no idea where this was going. He had thought this bitch was supposed to help him, not dig his grave deeper by delving into his business in Indianapolis.
"You know him," she said, didn't ask, and slid another photo across to Mickey.
He looked at it and then looked to the side, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His legs hopped harder.
"That is a photograph of you and Mister Valdez outside of the Gold Brick Tavern in Indianapolis, Indiana," Tabatha continued. She cleared her throat again, and touched her throat, apparently suffering a cold. She dug through the briefcase and produced more pictures, throwing them Mickey's way in no necessary order. Looking at Mickey pointedly, the lawyer tapped two fingers on the table and said, "The Indianapolis police have been trying to send Julio upstate for years. Give him up and I can get you a get out of jail almost free card, with promised released under witness protection."
Mickey shook his head. "Go to hell," he spat, lip raised in disgust and crossed his arms.
Tabatha rolled her eyes at him. "Mickey, as your lawyer, I am telling you that not only are you looking at a minimum twenty year sentence for your actions here in Chicago—''
Mickey threw a hand out in annoyance, exclaiming the reasoning behind his actions in a booming voice.
Tabatha remained calm, staring at Mickey in wait. When he finished, she pursed her lips. "Finished?" she said. When Mickey just looked at her in a mix of anger and uncertainty, she nodded. "May I continue now, Mister Milkovich?" She looked behind her at the mirror, then back to Mickey before going on. "Twenty for that, plus now the Chicago courts are aware of your life in Indianapolis, and involvement with the Latino inner city gangs," she waved a hand over the photos he held. "We're talking life, Mickey. Life imprisonment in the Indianapolis federal prison. Do you understand that?" she asked firmly.
"I'm not a fucking rat," Mickey hissed, slamming his fists on the table.
Tabatha sighed. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you," she said, "until you are willing to help yourself."
Mickey's neck vein bulged. How dare this fucking whore? Baring his teeth he jumped up from the table and stared murderously. "Help myself get fucking nicked?" he growled. "You think you can protect me? This man," he waved the photograph in Tabatha's face, "already thinks I'm dead. I'm fucking safer in prison for the rest of my life than letting him know I'm alive!"
"Sit back down," the police officer ordered from behind Mickey.
Mickey whirled around and flipped him off. "Fuck you," he spat.
The guard began moving forward, but Tabatha raised a hand and he stepped back into place, watching Mickey carefully. Mickey turned back to Tabatha as she called his name.
"Think about it," she said, standing and collecting her things. "The prosecution is giving us until tomorrow morning to make the deal. You should take it," her words sounded final as she snapped the briefcase closed and looked at Mickey hard.
Time passed slowly for Mickey. Finally it was October first, seven o'clock in the morning. Mickey sat in his cell, contemplating what he had just agreed to. He almost wanted to take his words back. But it was too late now, he had already given a statement on record. It was done. Mickey had never fancied himself a rat. In fact, being a god damned snitch had been not even listed on Mickey's to do list. Yet here he was, waiting for an officer to pick him up and have him meet with fucking Chicago PD at a motel outside of the airport. It was like he told Ian when the redhead visited him the previous evening, after Mickey's meet with the lawyer; Julio had too many people on the inside of every jail and prison within a three state radius of Indianapolis. Mickey wasn't fixing to get shanked in prison. And starting over somewhere else, living in a constant state of fear sounded only slightly better. But Mickey had taken the later option.
"I'm fucked either way," Mickey said into the phone, morose.
Ian looked heartbroken. "You know that means you won't be able to contact anyone you know, ever," Ian said, swallowing hard as he stared at Mickey with sad eyes through thick glass. Again.
Mickey nodded. He couldn't even bare to look at Ian.
Mickey laid back on his bed, staring at the wall, holding his head and chewing his tongue. He had thrown up numerous times and now had a horrible taste in his mouth. His throat ached. His chest ached. Mickey almost wished Chrissy had actually succeed in slitting his wrists. Almost.
