Perfect Justice

13.

AS BEN HAD NOTICED during his earlier visit, there were only three cells in the Silver Springs jail, and Donald Vick already occupied one, so Sheriff Collier was forced to divide everyone up into their respective teams: the locals in one cell, the ASPers in the other. With their best buddy Ben, of course.

Ben had protested his innocence to both Sheriff Collier and Deputy Gustafson ever since they picked him up, based on Mac’s identification of Ben as the “instigator.” The sheriff was not impressed. And Gustafson was treating Ben even more coldly than he had when they met.

After delivering a stern lecture on the evils of drinking and carousing, Sheriff Collier excused himself and left Deputy Gustafson to handle the actual incarceration. Vick eyed Ben as he passed down the corridor, but he remained silent. What must be going through the kid’s mind? Ben wondered. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, you see the deputy putting your lawyer behind bars.

Gustafson locked the locals in one of the vacant cells, then put the ASP men in the other. To Ben’s surprise, Gustafson closed the door to the cell and locked it while Ben was still outside.

Maybe there was hope yet. “Does this mean you’re letting me go?”

“Dream on,” Gustafson said curtly.

“Can you at least undo my handcuffs?”

“No.” Gustafson’s face was like a rock. No sign of warmth or humanity was apparent.

“You know, I didn’t lay a hand on anyone,” Ben said. “I had nothing to do with that fight.”

“That’s not what Mac said.”

“Mac was too busy crying over his pinball machine to get his story straight. I’m telling you, I’m innocent. And I can’t afford to spend all my time before the Vick trial in jail.”

“Don’t sweat it. The sheriff’ll let everyone out in the morning. After you’ve had a chance to sleep it off.”

“Sleep what off? I never finished my first beer.”

Gustafson whirled Ben around and grabbed him by the throat. “Look, you piece of crap, I’m doing the best I can to control my temper. So just shut up and don’t try my patience.” He shoved Ben down the corridor and out of sight of the cells.

“I don’t understand. What have I ever done to you?”

Ben could see right off the bat that he should have remained silent. Gustafson was seething; his rage was already on the verge of boiling over. “You remember that car your boys torched two months ago because you mistakenly thought it belonged to the Vietnamese?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Well, my little sister was on the sidewalk beside the car. Got caught in the explosion. She almost died—been having health problems ever since. Her face was ruined.”

“But that wasn’t me!” Ben protested.

“When something horrible like that happens to your sister, it just does something to you. Tears you apart. Makes you go a little crazy.” He looked up at Ben. “Makes you want to kill the man responsible.”

“I’m telling you, I never hurt—”

“She was beautiful,” Gustafson said, stony-eyed. “But now she’s—” With the sudden fury of a hurricane, Gustafson whipped out his billy club and pounded Ben on the back. The sudden pain was so shattering that Ben found he couldn’t make a sound. His knees weakened; his back felt paralyzed.

“My little sister never hurt anyone. That’s for goddamn sure. So don’t come crying to me for sympathy.”

Ben leaned against the wall for support. “But I … wasn’t involved … didn’t even know …”

“Liar.” Gustafson pounded him again, this time on the rib cage. “Admit it. Admit you knew about the firebombing!”

“I’m just”—Ben gasped—“a lawyer.”

Gustafson spun him around and shoved him face-first into the wall. Ben’s cheek scraped against the speckled concrete. “All the worse, as far as I’m concerned. At least the boys in Cell Block B believe in what they’re doing. You’re just in it for the money.”

Ben’s reply was smothered as Gustafson jerked him away from the wall. The next blow from the billy club caught Ben on the side of the head. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Gustafson rammed the club under Ben’s throat, drove his knee into Ben’s spine, and pulled upward. His knee burrowed into Ben’s back while the club flattened his larynx.

Then, abruptly, Gustafson removed the club and let Ben’s head fall to the floor. Ben braced himself for the next blow, but it never came. Instead he heard the sound of Gustafson’s boots moving down the corridor.

Wasn’t he afraid Ben would try to escape? Ben almost laughed. He couldn’t even move. The thought of trying to stand up hurt him more than he could bear.

He heard Gustafson open the door and leave the cell corridor. Ben lay there on the floor, unable to move, unable to help himself, racked with pain.

And he realized, with sudden and terrible certainty, that he was absolutely, totally—

Alone.