Chapter Five

Jack stared at the television in disbelief. He was seated at a table in the detention center lounge with a corrections officer whose walkie-talkie was crackling with updates from the dispatcher: “Backup needed, zone five. Backup, zone five.”

The Faith Corso Show was coming in loud and clear on an old fifteen-inch television that rested on the counter next to the coffeemaker. BNN’s coverage had switched to an aerial shot from the helicopter, the studio having temporarily lost contact with the camera crew in the field. Jack increased the volume as Corso described the carnage to her national audience from her studio desk.

“Once again, friends, you are watching BNN’s exclusive coverage of the live action outside the Miami-Dade County Women’s Detention Center. We are trying to reestablish contact with our reporter on the scene, Heather Brown, but this much we know. At approximately twelve nineteen A.M., Shot Mom was spotted on the north side of the building. As incomprehensible as this sounds, her defense team apparently thought she could slip through the crowd unnoticed. Things have gone terribly wrong, riot police are trying to establish order, and we can only hope that no innocent people have been caught up in this maelstrom.”

A camera from a media helicopter tracked an ambulance as it sped down Seventh Avenue, orange and yellow lights flashing as it pulled into the parking lot.

“Emergency vehicles are now on the scene,” said Corso, “and I’m told we have reconnected with Heather Brown. Heather, what is the situation on the ground now?”

“Utter and complete chaos,” said Brown. There was audio contact, but no video.

“Do we have official confirmation that Shot Mom was, in fact, in the parking lot?”

Brown said something to her cameraman, and the on-screen image switched from the helicopter view to ground level. Brown was standing on the sidewalk, just outside the perimeter of panic and confusion.

“Faith, there is no official word yet from the Department of Corrections, but we have accounts from eyewitnesses who have stated in no uncertain terms that Sydney Bennett is somewhere in the middle of all this. We are trying to bring one of those eyewitnesses over here now to talk with us on camera.” Brown adjusted her earpiece, listening to her producer, then spoke with greater urgency. “Faith, I am told we do have someone with us now,” she said.

“Mic her up so I can talk to her,” said Corso.

“She’s right here. I can ask her directly.”

“Heather, this will work so much better for everyone if you just hand over your earpiece and microphone and let me speak to her.”

The “my show” attitude was what Corso’s fans loved about her. Even Jack was starting to find her schtick engrossing in its own way. As the reporter on the scene complied, Corso set the dramatic stage for her own breaking-news moment.

“Once again, friends, you are watching Breaking News Network, live from the women’s detention center, where we are just moments away from bringing you an exclusive eyewitness account of this very dangerous situation that Shot Mom and her lawyers have created.”

“That her lawyers created?” said Jack. It was involuntary, and the corrections officer next to him ignored the fact that Jack was talking to a TV.

“Hello, this is Jenna Smith.”

The voice from the television was weak and shaky. Alone and on camera was a frightened young woman clutching a BNN microphone. The crowd in the background flashed from red to orange to yellow, as a full complement of swirling lights from emergency vehicles bathed the parking lot.

“Jenna, this is Faith Corso with Breaking News Network. Thank you for joining me. I understand that you were right in the thick of this terrible, terrible mess. Can you tell us what happened?”

The young woman gnawed her lip, timid in her response. “Uhm, we were, like, it was Celeste and me, and we were just. . oh, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Take a deep breath,” said Corso, using the voice of a skilled prosecutor who had comforted countless victims in court. “Who is Celeste?”

“Celeste. My BFF. We’re roommates at the U. We wanted to go to Club Vertigo. They had this party.”

“Where is this Club Vertigo?”

“South Beach. Tonight it was, like, you drink free if you come dressed up. Celeste was so perfect.”

“Wait a second,” said Corso, her tone no longer so soothing. “You’re saying that a South Beach bar was giving away drinks if you got dressed up?”

“Right.”

“Dressed up how?”

“They had this Sydney Bennett look-alike contest, and-”

“A look-alike contest?”

“Mmm-hmm. Celeste should have won first prize, but it was like so rigged, the bouncers wouldn’t even let us in. So we, uhm, decided to come here. We thought it would be funny, you know? And like, all of a sudden, people were screaming, ‘There she is, there’s Sydney!’ It was like people went crazy or something. I got knocked down by some jerk, and then. . I don’t know. A group of women were screaming about bloody money, and when I tried to get up, somebody bashed me in the arm with a pipe. Maybe a baseball bat-I don’t know what it was. My elbow feels like it might be broken.”

“Where is your friend Celeste now?” asked Corso.

“I don’t know,” Smith said, her voice quaking. “I got whacked in the arm, and then I saw Celeste go down.”

“She got hit?”

“I’m not sure, I-”

“Coming through!” a paramedic shouted. A member of BNN’s sound crew pulled the girl aside, and the camera captured a team of paramedics racing past with a woman on a gurney.

“Celeste!” the woman shouted. “Oh, my God, that’s Celeste!”

The BNN reporter grabbed the microphone and earpiece, and the young woman chased after the gurney. The reporter didn’t miss a beat, her voice racing with excitement.

“Faith, that would appear to be the friend identified by our eyewitness as Celeste. I did manage to get a good look as paramedics raced past us with the gurney. An oxygen mask covered the young woman’s nose and mouth, and while I can’t say whether she was breathing or not, she did not appear to be conscious. I hate to speculate, but the paramedic at her side had a defibrillator at the ready, and the entire team looked gravely concerned to me.”

Corso lowered her head, took a deep breath, and expressed her “heartfelt concern” for the injured young woman, the young woman’s family, and young women everywhere in the world who suffered at the hands of evil, the kind of evil that was personified by people like Shot Mom and her lawyers.

It was amazing to Jack, the way Corso could turn even a touching expression of compassion into one more shot at her enemy.

“Mr. Swyteck?”

Jack turned at the sound of the guard’s voice. “Yes?”

“Our plan was to bring inmate Bennett down now, but I wanted to advise you that the warden has put your client’s release on hold until further notice.”

“That’s a bad move,” said Jack.

“It’s for your client’s safety as much as anyone’s.”

Jack’s gaze returned to the television. BNN’s coverage had reverted to the aerial view from the helicopter, tracking the ambulance as it left the parking lot.

“This is already beyond your control. An innocent young woman in the hospital isn’t going to make people calm down.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Wait for what? An hour from now the bars will start closing. A hundred thousand drunks will be looking for something to do, someplace to be. And how much longer before the insanity out there spreads to your overcrowded population in here? These walls aren’t soundproof. This craziness is contagious, even if you’ve never heard of Sydney Bennett.”

The guard didn’t answer, but he was seasoned enough to know that prison uprisings weren’t just for men.

Jack said, “I’ve had enough of the Sydney Bennett circus. I’m betting you have, too. Tell the warden I need to see her. My client and I are leaving. Tonight.”

Загрузка...