Riding the Rap

twenty-six

There was a poster with the heading HANG ‘EM HIGH that showed a famous hanging judge of a hundred years ago, Isaac Parker, against a montage of condemned prisoners on scaffolds waiting to be dropped through the trapdoors.

Raylan would look at the poster, in the lobby of the Marshals Service offices in Miami, and feel good about their tradition. Not the hanging part-they had quit handing out death penalties in federal court-but the tradition of U.S. marshals as peace officers on the western frontier. Every time he looked at Judge Parker up there in the poster Raylan thought of growing a mustache, a big one that would droop properly and look good with his hat.

Rudi Braga would be sentenced in the central courtroom of the United States District Court for the Southern District of Florida, in Miami. Raylan and a three other marshals shackled Rudi’s wrists and ankles, brought him down to the basement of the new building, shuffled him through the corridor to the old building and up in the smelly prisoners’ elevator to the central courtroom holding cell on the second floor.

An old hand at court support, Milt Dancey stepped out to the hallway for a smoke and Raylan went along to ask him a question. The second-floor hallway was outside and looked down over a railing on an open courtyard with potted palms and a fountain.

Raylan said, “Does a kidnapping conviction always draw life?”

Milt Dancey, smoking his unfiltered Camel, told Raylan that kidnapping, abduction or unlawful restraint carried a base offense sentencing level of twenty-four. “Look it up in the guidelines,” Milt said, “it’s fifty-one to sixty-three months for the first offense. If ransom is demanded it goes up five or six levels, say to around a hundred and twenty months. And it goes up depending on how long the victim is held or if the victim is sexually exploited.”

Raylan admired Milt’s use of the word exploited, the way, Raylan was pretty sure, it would appear in the guidelines.

They removed Rudi Braga’s shackles before taking him into the courtroom and seating him next to his attorney at the defense table. Raylan and the three other marshals sat behind them, while the rows of spectator seats, like church pews, were nearly all occupied by people who could be friends or cartel associates of Rudi Braga. Watching them was a contingent of full-time court security officers in uniform, blue blazers and gray trousers.

The assistant U.S. attorney present, the one who’d prosecuted the case, was the same natty young guy in seersucker who had seemed anxious to prosecute Raylan following the Tommy Bucks shooting. Seeing him gave Raylan a momentary feeling of sympathy for Rudi, a bald little guy about Harry’s age and even resembled him, except Harry had hair. Rudi had been convicted of the unlawful importation and trafficking of a controlled substance, more than 150 but less than 500 kilograms of cocaine, and was facing, according to the presentence investigation report, 360 months to life. This was the reason, Milt Dancey said, for the crowd, nearly all Latins. The sole responsibility of Raylan’s group was Rudi. If he tried to run, demonstrate, or threaten the court, “We will assist him,” Milt said, “in regaining his composure.”

Raylan wondered if the court clerk would have a spare copy of the sentencing guidelines.

Waiting for the proceedings to start, he looked around thinking this was what a courtroom should look like: the ceiling a good twenty-five feet high, gold chandeliers, marble panels on the wall, the windows draped in red velvet, antique-looking lamps on the front corners of the judge’s bench. His Honor came in and everyone rose, sat down again and the court clerk called the case number, 95-9809, the United States of America versus Rudi Braga.

It gave Raylan another momentary feeling for Rudi, the whole country against the poor little guy. Then changed his mind about this rich little guy-Rudi’s attorney up to argue that his client shouldn’t have to forfeit his Learjet, his Rolls, his other cars, his boat and his home on Key Biscayne. Milt Dancey said, behind his hand to Raylan, “Near President Nixon’s old place.” Reverence in his voice.

The discussion went on for a while, the natty young assistant U.S. attorney wanting it all, arguing that Mr. Braga’s possessions could not be excluded for the reasons contained in the presentence investigation report, and the judge ruled in his favor.

There was more arguing, the defense attorney requesting a downward departure in the sentence, using the low end of the guidelines, 235 to 293 months at the most, because of Mr. Braga’s age. The assistant U.S. attorney argued that the defendant had been involved in criminal endeavors for over four decades and wanted an upward departure. Which Raylan understood to mean, throw the book at him. Raylan would listen to parts of the long-winded arguments, all the legal terms, while thinking about a house in Manalapan and a guy named Chip Ganz and the prospect of meeting him face-to-face, maybe tomorrow, if Dawn was right and Chip hung with the Huggers on weekends. Raylan had been thinking of that more and more, Chip trying to make money off runaways.

Finally he heard the judge say, “Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, it is the judgment of the court and the sentence of the law that the defendant, Rudi Braga, is hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of three hundred and sixty months to life as to the indictment.”

Raylan heard groans behind him, words in Spanish.

The judge stared out at the audience from the bench, pounded his gavel one time only, and there were no more sounds. He said, “The defendant is remanded to the custody of the United States marshal,” and it was over. Everyone rose.

Once they had Rudi in the holding cell, Raylan went back into the courtroom to talk to the clerk.

Milt Dancey was by the railing of the outside hallway smoking a cigarette. He saw Raylan coming toward him with the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm.

“You’re on Warrants,” Milt said, “investigating a kidnapping? How come I haven’t heard anything about it?”

Raylan started telling about Harry Arno and the collector Harry was supposed to meet at a restaurant a week ago today, Raylan wanting to give Milt a short version. But he kept talking-what did you leave out?-and Milt kept smoking and by the time he’d finished another cigarette Raylan had told him the whole story.

“What do you think? Have I got probable cause?”

“To get a warrant?”

“Yeah, go in the house.”

“What’s your probable cause based on?”

“I just told you.”

“You don’t even know a crime’s been committed.”

“I’m pretty sure Harry’s in there.”

“You hear what you’re saying? A guy is snatched and kept in the kidnapper’s home? How do you come up with an idea like that?”

“I’m psychic,” Raylan said.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?”

Raylan sat at a desk in the court support squad room to call Joyce at home.

“Did she show up?”

“After I sat there for almost a half hour. The reverend goes, ‘Oh, have you been waiting long?’ She looks like Marianne Faithfull with dark hair.”

“I told you she has that hippie look. How’d you get along?”

“I showed her up to Harry’s apartment and gave her the key. That was it.”

“I thought you wanted a reading.”

“The reverend was tired. She said she had to rest and meditate. If I want to come by in the morning she’ll see me.”

“She’s just gonna sit there?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never meditated.”

“Well, what do you think of her?”

“In what respect,” Joyce said, “her looks, her manner? Do I get the feeling she’s sincere, a nice girl? Or do I think she has you believing whatever she tells you?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Raylan said.

Melinda surprised him, walking up only a few minutes after the waiter had served Raylan his beer and conch fritters, on the sidewalk outside the Santa Marta. She said, “Well, hey,” coming to him with a big smile. She wore a blue tank top and a little purse that hung from her shoulder on a chain. Raylan had the Guidelines Manual open on the table. Sitting down, Melinda looked at it and said, “What’s that?” making a face. “Like you’re doing your homework.”

“Looking up things,” Raylan said. “I was afraid you might be in Hialeah, dancing.”

“I’m going later.” She smiled again. “You were waiting for me?”

People strolling past in their trendy outfits would observe the young girl sitting with the older guy in the only suit and tie on South Beach. Raylan would raise his gaze beneath the hat brim and they’d look away. He said to Melinda, “I’ve been thinking about you. You okay?”

It seemed to surprise her. “Sure, everything’s fine. Except I haven’t seen Do-do all week.”

“Who’s Do-do?”

“Bobby. Everybody calls him Bobby Deo? I call him Bobby Do-do.”

“He mind?”

“I don’t say it to his face. I did once and he tried to slap me around. I told him, he ever touched me again I’d leave. I don’t need that.”

“I guess not,” Raylan said. He took off his hat and laid it on the table and saw Melinda smile.

“You have nice hair. I thought you might be bald-why you wore the hat. Oh-I phoned Bobby today, where he’s working? Some colored guy answered and said he’d left and wasn’t ever coming back.”

Raylan closed the Guidelines Manual.

“Maybe to get rid of you.”

“He did. He goes, ‘I’m busy,’ and hangs up on me. Very impolite.”

“Bobby was there yesterday.”

“Oh, you saw him? Good. Was he working?”

“Taking a rest.”

“He must’ve finished; that’s why he left.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if he was working he’d still be there.” She looked up, as though Bobby might be coming along the street. “I should’ve asked what time he left. I sure haven’t seen him.”

Raylan said, “You really want to?”

Melinda gave him a look with half-closed eyes, putting it on. “You trying to move in?”

“I’m older’n Bobby,” Raylan said. “And he’s too old for you. Where’s home?”

“Perry, Georgia. You know where it is?”

“I’ve been through there.”

“Everybody who comes down Seventy-five has. You work at a motel cleaning rooms, making beds, or you get out of town. Here, I can waitress if I want and have something to do at night.”

“Bobby’s a bad guy,” Raylan said.

She seemed about to speak, maybe to defend him, and changed her mind to think about it first, looking out at the street.

“You can do better.”

She looked at Raylan now and nodded. “You’re probably right. I mean about him being a bad guy.”

Raylan said, “Can I ask you something? What is it about him you like?”

“Not much, when I think about it.”

“But you’re attracted to him?”

“Well, sure, he’s hot. Look at him, his hair… You should see him dance.”

“I’ve got another question. What’re you doing tomorrow, around noon?”

“What do you mean?”

“You ever been to a Huggers Gathering?”

It got her to smile again.

“I’ve been to a couple, yeah, and I went to a Deadhead party at the Miami Arena. I mean in the parking lot, I didn’t go to the concert. I don’t like the Dead, that grandpa rock. I like Pearl Jam, Spin Doctors… It’s funny, I think of Huggers and Deadheads as almost the same-they’re not all, but you see everybody smoking doobs and getting dosed on acid. I’ve done that and I’ve done nitrous oxide, everybody going around talking like Donald Duck. Those Hugger girls are a trip, they look at you funny if you shave your armpits. I do mine once a week, and my nails. Yeah, they’re fun, Hugger parties, except they’re always trying to hug you and I like my space. Where’s this one?”

“West Palm.”

“Sure, I’ll go, I’ve never been there. But I certainly don’t see you hanging out with Huggers.”

“That’s why I need you,” Raylan said, “help me find a guy I’m looking for without showing myself and spook him.”

“What’d he do?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, on the way,” Raylan said. “There was something else I wanted to ask you. Did the colored guy say Bobby had finished his work, so he packed up and left?”

“Uh-unh, just that he wasn’t coming back.”

“Does he have clothes up in the room?”

“A lot. He has like ten pair of shoes, these real nice silk shirts he wears when we go dancing-”

“You sure he hasn’t been back.”

“I’m positive.”

Raylan picked up his beer. “You want to have some supper?”

“I don’t mind. Sure.”

“Then I’m going to see a lady who tells fortunes.”

Melinda squinted at him, smiling a little. “Huggers and fortune-tellers; you’re into some weird shit, aren’t you?”

“It’s different,” Raylan said.

He imagined Dawn looking at him through the peephole before opening the door. She had on the same blouse and white skirt, no shoes though and seemed vulnerable, waiting with that expectant look in her eyes, hopeful. Raylan came in carrying the Guidelines Manual and she closed the door, not saying a word.

“Did you meditate?”

“Some.”

“Have anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He watched her go to the dining table by the kitchenette, it didn’t seem with any purpose. She picked up a deck of tarot cards and laid them down again, idly fanning out the deck on the bright varnished surface. Raylan wondered if she was being a poor soul for his benefit.

He said, “Bobby’s gone.”

It brought her around.

“Gone where?”

“That’s the question. Gone on down the road or gone from this earth plane?”

“How do you know?”

“Louis told a person I know Bobby left and wasn’t coming back. I was wondering, you suppose you could check with somebody in the spirit world, find out if he crossed over?”

Dawn kept staring at him. “You’re serious.”

“Or you could call the house and ask Louis.”

She said, “You think Bobby’s dead?” Sounding awed at the idea.

“The kind of person he is, the kind of people he associates with, I’m surprised he’s still with us-if he is. Bobby left your house with a bad attitude. Louis says he’s gone, and I’d like to know what happened to him.”

“But why do I have to call?”

“I’m asking you to,” Raylan said, “and if you help me it could keep you out of prison.” He saw her expression change. “Or reduce your time.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

Raylan walked over and dropped the Guidelines Manual on the table. He said, “Look up what you get for kidnapping, page forty-six,” and crossed to Harry’s desk, the phone sitting there, a white one.

“I told you,” Dawn said, “my God, all I did was ask Harry a few questions.”

“You were aiding,” Raylan said, “taking part. That puts you in it.” Raylan picked up the phone.

She said, “If I do this…”

“I’ll show you my gratitude,” Raylan said. He dialed the number and held the phone toward her. He could hear ringing and after a few moments a voice saying “Ganz’s residence.”

Dawn came over, took the phone from him and started right in. “Louis?” She said, “I want to ask you something,” turning away as she spoke, but still close enough to Raylan that he heard Louis’s voice again, Louis saying, “What’s wrong, baby?”

She had her back to Raylan now, walking away, going to a front window to stand looking out, Raylan seeing her nighttime reflection in the glass. He heard her say, “Bobby’s gone, isn’t he?” and watched her listening for a moment before she said, “Because I know. How do I know anything?” The psychic, using her stuff on Louis, slipping into her role. Raylan had to admire the way she did it, so easily. He heard her say, “Where is he then?” and watched her listening to Louis, staring at her own reflection in the glass. Now she said, “You’re lying to me, I know you are.” Listened and said, “’Cause he’s dead that’s why.” Listened and said, “I can see him. Louis, I know he’s dead.” She listened another few moments, then lowered the phone coming over to the desk and Raylan heard Louis’s voice again saying, “Dawn?” Saying, “Baby, you still there?” before she put the phone down and stood with her hand on it.

Raylan said, “What’s wrong, baby?”

It got him a mean look, Dawn turning nasty on him, saying, “You want to ask me if he’s really dead, and if I tell you yes you’ll say, ‘Oh, is that right? How do you know?’ ‘Cause you think you’re smarter than I am, you think I make things up. But you know what? You don’t know shit. If you don’t believe he’s dead, go find out for yourself. I’m not helping you anymore.”

Chip was in the bathroom during the call but had heard the phone ring; he came in the study asking who it was. Louis told him Dawn, and Chip frowned and asked what was wrong, Louis having a strange look on his face.

“She knows Bobby’s dead.”

“Who told her?”

“Nobody told her, she just knows. It’s the kind of thing she knows, man.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her she was crazy, but she knows, she say she could see him.”

“We got to pay her,” Chip said. “Jesus.”

“She hung up on me. I’m trying to tell her no, the man left, but she can see him.”

“In the swimming pool?”

“She didn’t say, but she knows. You know what I’m saying?”

“You see what she’s doing?” Chip said. “We got to pay her. Tomorrow, I’ll get some money.”

“We leaving tomorrow.”

“Before we go,” Chip said. “I’ll score, don’t worry. And I’ll sell some of my mother’s clothes, make a couple hundred bucks that way. Those Hugger chicks love to dress up and dance around on the grass. They all smell the same, that scent they wear, that patchouli?”

“She say Bobby’s dead, I felt the hair stand up on my neck.”

“I’ll go pick out some things,” Chip said and left the study.

Louis sat down on the sofa. He found a good-looking roach in the ashtray, lit it and sucked hard and held it in his lungs till he had to breathe.

He told himself, Okay now, be cool. What did he have to do outside of take Harry his supper? Louis put Harry on the TV screen, Harry among the trash with his bathing cap.

He told himself it was good he hadn’t put Chip in the pool just yet and have Dawn see him in there with Bobby and freak thinking he was taking everybody out and she was next, nobody left to tell nothing.

He told himself, Let the man go to the Hugger thing in the park and do whatever he does, sell his mama’s dresses. Don’t tell him where Dawn was. Put him on Mr. Walker’s boat when it came later on and when they got out in the ocean and couldn’t see land, push the man over the side.

What else?

Be cool. That’s all you have to do, Louis told himself. Be cool till the time comes to leave, then get your ass out, fast.