Page 24 of The Devil's Advocate

‘I said hold it, goddamn it !’ cried Leonard. He stood in front of me and put both hands on my shoulders. He was about to push me back out the door, throw my ass on the street.

I didn’t dislike Leonard. It wasn’t personal. He was standing between me and a client. And that can’t happen.

My right hand closed into a fist and I threw it forward. A snap punch. Low. Way low. No one would see it coming. Especially Leonard. He was now only four inches from my face. My fist travelled six inches. That’s one of the secrets of putting power into a punch. You’ve got to aim the blow two inches beyond the target.

The thing about getting punched, hard, in the balls, is the delay.

You feel the impact, the sensation of something coming into sharp contact with that tender area, and then there’s a second where you think it’s not that bad. There’s no pain. It was just a glancing blow. You’ve cheated death.

And then a wave of hot agony shoots into your body, takes away your breath and you collapse. Just like Leonard did.

I stepped over him.

That’s when I felt something sharp hit my thigh. Then a nightstick appeared in front of me and I was down on the floor, face in the carpet.

My head ringing.

CHAPTER TEN

EDDIE

I saw boots all around me, felt strong hands cuff my wrists from behind. A knee landed on my back, then I felt the full weight of that sheriff leaning on me while they searched me. They took my cell phone and wallet. They hauled me upright, and I didn’t listen as they read me my rights. Something wet trickled down my cheek. Blood, I expected, from the nightstick. There were two of them. The sheriff, Lomax, and a squat, hairy deputy with no neck who looked as though he was mainly made out of butter and muscle.

They took my neck chains – a Saint Christopher’s medal, and a crucifix that had belonged to someone I lost. Someone special. They stripped my belt from my pants, took my shoes and sat me down. Lomax pulled out a chair and sat opposite me. Lomax and butterball were breathing hard. Leonard was still rolling around on the floor, both hands on his groin.

‘Now that was damn stupid, Flynn,’ said Lomax.

‘I didn’t do anything. I was trying to get to my client when your desk deputy rammed right into me. I hope he’s okay,’ I said. ‘Because I’m going to sue him, and you, for assault and false arrest.’

Lomax let out a wheezy peel of laughter that sounded like a bag of wet kittens.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to cool off, and then we’ll charge you and take you to court late this afternoon. If there’s any more trouble out of you …’ He waved his nightstick.

‘You threatening me, Sheriff?’

‘You’re goddamn right. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a long ways from New York City. We do things different around here. You should think about what you’re going to tell the judge. Now, let’s get you into the cell, nice and quiet. That’s where you wanted to go, isn’t that right?’

The butterball came around behind me, used my arms to get me up. I decided to play nice. He walked me through the steel door to a narrow hallway, brick wall on one side, cell bars on the other, the whole way to the end of the hall. A single exterior lamp glowed on the brick wall opposite each cell. I glanced ahead. There were five cells in total. Five lamps. The first had a guest. Single occupant. A man with long, silver, greasy hair, asleep on a bunk. He wore no shoes. The bottom of his pants had been torn up and the soles of his feet were dirty, red and blistered.

I could tell the next two cells were free. The iron bar doors were ajar. The door of the last cell was shut. Andy Dubois’ cell.

Lomax stepped in front of me. The Sam Browne around his waist held a Glock, two spare clips, and two sets of keys. He unclipped one set, hauled the cell door wide and stood back. Butterball was behind me, one arm on my shoulder. He rattled with keys as he moved. His belt was a lot wider than the sheriff’s. It moved and jangled with every step and every sway of his gut. He pointed me at the open cell door. I stood on the threshold, and just for a second, I pushed back. Part of it was instinct – no human is willingly locked up. Part of me pushing into him was deliberate, and not altogether altruistic. His response was predictable. He gave me an almighty shove in the back, and I knew I was going down, straight onto my face, my hands still cuffed from behind. I twisted to my right, threw myself onto the bunk. I landed awkwardly, but softly on the thin mattress, covered by a sheet and a brown blanket. I gripped the blanket as I stood, balling it, then let it drop back onto the bed.

Lomax slammed the door, locked it.

‘Approach the bars, turn around,’ said Lomax.

There was an open slot a little below waist height. I walked over, turned, put my wrists through. Lomax unlocked the cuffs. I rubbed at my wrists. They were red, and I’d lost some skin, but it could’ve been worse.

Butterball walked away. Lomax lingered. Then instead of heading toward the exit, he walked to the end of the hallway. He spoke softly. Not a whisper, not quite conversation level either. The walls amplified it, and I heard every word.

‘Andy, don’t you be talking to anyone in here. We just put a crazy in the cell down the hallway. Don’t listen to him. D’you hear me, boy?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Andy.

Lomax walked past my cell without even looking at me, then down the hallway, and out. I heard the steel door squeak, and the wedge of light thrown from the outer office grew wider on the concrete floor. He must’ve opened the steel door to the cellblock a little wider, keen to hear if I was talking to Andy.

It was around nine-thirty, my first day in Buckstown.