Double Jeopardy

16

6:22 P.M.

THE FEDERAL MARSHALS TRANSFERRED Moroconi from the courthouse to the midway detention room, where he waited for county sheriff’s men to escort him back to his cell. The feds didn’t have their own holding cells in Dallas County; they had a contractual agreement with the state to use their space as necessary.

The marshals pushed Moroconi into the detention room and began looking around impatiently. “I don’t know where the hell those state cops are,” one of them grumbled. “Lazy slobs. They think their whole life is one big trip to the doughnut shop. Never want to do a damn thing they don’t absolutely have to.”

He removed Moroconi’s handcuffs and shoved him down in a chair. “They think they have it so tough. They ought to take a walk on the federal side, just for a day or two. Spend an hour at Leavenworth. Find out what tough really is.” He sneered at Moroconi. “Couple days with scumbags like you, they’ll be begging for a nice job at Burger King.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Moroconi mumbled.

The other marshal’s eyes flared. “Wiseass. Let me bust him in the chops, Frank. We’ll say he was trying to escape. Just once, that’s all. I’ll make it count.”

Marshal Frank grinned. “I’m sure you would, Jim, but forget it. This sleaze is on trial, remember? If he shows up in court tomorrow all beaten up, the prosecution’s case goes into the dumper. And our ass is grass.” He leered eye to eye with Moroconi. “We’ll just wait. After he’s convicted, he’ll be sent to the pen. And the cons there just love rapists.”

“Oh yeah,” Marshal Jim replied. “Those that give, so shall they receive.”

The two men laughed uproariously and walked to the door. “Now we’ll be right outside, Moroconi. Don’t even think about trying to leave.”

“Shucks, Frank, don’t spoil the fun. I’d like to see him make a break for it.” Marshal Jim patted his pistol. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to apprehend a fleeing felon.”

Still laughing, the two men strolled out the door and locked it behind them.

Moroconi sat in his chair, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress his temper. Miserable bastards. I’d like to meet them just once when they didn’t have a goddamn holster strapped around their bloated bellies. He made two more entries on his mental list of people he wanted to take care of, along with Travis Byrne and his old pals Jack and Mario.

Once he was certain they were not returning, Moroconi walked to the far left corner of the room. He examined the paneling on the ceiling. Standard sound-resistant panels held in place by thin metallic strips. He’d tried them the first night he was left in here—they wouldn’t budge. But tonight just might be different.

He counted panels, starting with the one directly above his head. Six to the right, two to the north, three to the left. That’s what the man said. He drew his chair beneath the panel, stood on the chair, and pressed up.

It moved. Standing on his tiptoes, he pushed up and tossed the panel back. Yes! Mr. FB-fucking-I actually came through.

Moroconi grabbed one of the now exposed cross beams and pulled himself up into the opening. Not an easy task, but he hadn’t been doing those chin-ups on the bunk bed in his cell every night for nothing. As quietly as possible, he replaced the ceiling panel. Careful to put his weight on the cross beams, he slithered through the small enclosed space between the ceiling and the roof.

Eventually, Moroconi reached a small ventilation window on the far wall of the building. Pushing with all his strength, he moved the rusty window slowly upward. At last the opening was wide enough for him to slip through, feetfirst. He lowered himself out, then dropped onto the porch just outside the front doors of the building.

The lights inside the lobby were on. Moroconi could see his two federal friends silhouetted inside. He thumbed his nose silently, then turned away. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the steps until he had already stumbled over them. Losing his balance, he tumbled down the steps and crashed headfirst onto the concrete sidewalk.

“What the hell?”

Moroconi rolled over and saw Marshal Frank running to the door, pistol raised. Damn those goddamn steps!

Moroconi jumped to his feet, sprang up the steps, and slammed the edge of the door on Frank’s hand. Frank screamed and dropped his gun.

Marshal Jim rushed through the other door. Moroconi tackled him, knocking him back into his buddy. In the half second that bought him, Moroconi picked up Frank’s gun.

“Son of a bitch,” Frank said breathlessly. “That’s my gun.”

“Then I’ll give it to you,” Moroconi replied. He fired. Blood spurted from Frank’s neck. The wounded man’s face went ashen, then he crumpled to the floor.

Panicked, Marshal Jim turned and ran. Moroconi shot him in the back.

Moroconi shoved the gun in his pants and sprinted toward the street. He knew he had to hurry. Cops and sheriffs and marshals and every other cocksucker wearing a badge would descend in a matter of moments. He bolted toward downtown Dallas, where he knew he could lose himself in no time at all.