Scott Pratt - Injustice for all

“I’d like to talk to you for a minute, if you feel up to it,” Anita said.

“Get out of my house,” came the reply. The voice was cold, full of contempt.

Anita turned and walked out the front door. As she walked toward the car, her cell phone buzzed. It was Rama.

“Talk to me,” Anita said.

“Bad news,” Rama said. “He spotted us first thing when we pulled into the complex this morning. I don’t know what the hell he was doing out that early, but he ran like a rabbit. We’ve spent the whole morning looking for him. No luck so far.”

“The car?” Anita said.

“No sign of it yet. We’ll stay on it.”

Anita closed the phone. Her only viable suspect, a kid, was staying a step ahead of her. Now both he and his vehicle had disappeared. Anita had nothing solid to tie Tommy Miller to the judge’s murder. But if he had nothing to hide, why would he run?

As Anita got into the car, her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and turned to Norcross.

“It’s the boss.”

“Like I told you before,” Norcross said, “I’m glad he didn’t dump this case on me.”

Judge Green’s murder dominates the radio broadcasts as I drive through Boones Creek toward Jonesborough the next morning. Hannah’s disappearance merits a brief mention. I’ve left home later than usual because I’m too tired to work out. I decide to take a detour and stop by my sister’s house. It’s several miles out of the way, but I haven’t seen or heard from her since Christmas, when she suddenly announced to everyone that she was four months’ pregnant. Since she’s forty-four years old, unmarried, and hasn’t been exactly a model citizen, the news came as quite a surprise. We had a short discussion that resulted in her storming out of the house, and I haven’t spoken to her since.

Sarah lives in the house that belonged to my mother before she died of Alzheimer’s a few years back. She’s a year older than I, a beautiful, green-eyed, dark-haired woman who has never been able to get past my uncle raping her when she was a child. She’s spent most of her adult life addicted to booze, drugs, and rotten men. She’s been in jail a half dozen times.

After our mother died, Sarah pulled herself together for about a year, although she replaced her addiction to substances with a religious zeal worthy of the pope himself. During that time, she met a man named Robert Godsey and moved away with him to Crossville, Tennessee, which is about a hundred and fifty miles west of Johnson City. Godsey turned out to be a jerk and beat her terribly-twice. During the second beating, Sarah defended herself by hitting Godsey with a fireplace shovel and wound up being charged with attempted murder. The charge was eventually dropped and Sarah moved back, but I’ve seen very little of her since. She’s working at a deli in Johnson City, slinging sandwiches for the college lunch crowd.

As I pull into the driveway off Barton Street, I see a large chopper parked outside the garage door in the shade of an old sugar maple. The first thing that pops into my mind is that Sarah’s taken up a new hobby. The Harley is painted a glossy black, with shiny chrome wheels and leather saddlebags. It can’t be Sarah’s. She’s strong, but she’s eight months’ pregnant now, and the bike has to weigh more than half a ton. There’s no way she could handle it.

I walk to the front porch and ring the doorbell. It’s a little after eight. I know she has to be at work by nine, so I figure she should be up. She comes to the door wearing an oversized black T-shirt that says “Biker Bitch” in white letters across the front. Her face is full and pink, and her pregnant belly is pushing against the inside of the shirt.

“What are you doing here?” Sarah says matter-of-factly.

“Just thought I’d stop by and say hello. Haven’t seen much of you lately. Damn, you’re as big as a house.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. It just surprised me. You look good. You really do. You look healthy. A little tired maybe, but healthy.”

“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze.” Her tone is unfriendly and sarcastic.

“Caroline misses you. So do I.”

“I see Caroline once in a while.”

“Really? She hasn’t mentioned it.”

“I guess she doesn’t tell you everything, does she?”

“Have I done something to piss you off?”

“Not lately.”

“Well, are you going to invite me in for a cup of coffee or leave me standing out here on the porch?”

“I have company.”

“So introduce me.”

She shrugs her shoulders and opens the door. I follow her through the living room and into the kitchen. Standing next to the sink is one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. He’s a good five inches taller than I and looks to weigh in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. He has a huge belly, but other than that, he looks like a weight lifter. He’s wearing a white T-shirt under a black leather vest, blue jeans, and boots. He has a brown beard that reaches to his collarbone, and both of his thickly muscled arms are covered in tattoos. His brown hair is pulled into a ponytail that falls to the middle of his back.

“This is my friend Roy,” Sarah says.

He peers at me through expressionless blue eyes. Though I’m intimidated by his size, I step toward him and put out my hand.

“Joe Dillard. Sarah’s brother.”

His hand is rough, calloused, and as big as a ham. He squeezes tightly, as if to let me know he could crush me if he wanted to.

“They call me Mountain,” he says in a raspy bass.

“I can see why. That must be your bike out front. Nice.”

He nods and drains the last of his coffee as I back away from him slowly. He looks at Sarah and says, “Gotta hit the road, babe.”

Sarah walks over to him, and he bends down to kiss her. While he’s at it, he grabs two huge handfuls of her butt.

“I’ll stop by sometime tonight,” he says, and then he lumbers past me and out the front door. As he’s walking away, I see a patch on the back of his leather vest. It’s a red skeleton with a wicked smile on its face and a long, pointed red tail. It’s wearing a beret and carrying a rifle. Beneath the skeleton are the words “Satan’s Soldiers.”

Satan’s Soldiers is a notorious motorcycle gang. I know they’re heavy into the crystal methamphetamine business. They also deal in guns and explosives. I have to hand it to Sarah. She sure knows how to pick ’em.

I walk over to the coffeemaker, pour myself a cup, and sit down at the table. Sarah walks down the hall toward the bedroom. I sip the coffee and hear the chopper roar to life in the driveway. A few minutes later, Sarah, wearing a yellow blouse and a pair of black jeans, walks back into the kitchen.

“How long have you been dating Roy?”

“About a year, I guess.”

“Classy guy. I especially enjoyed the ass grab. Where’d you meet him?”

“Tonto’s.”

Tonto’s is a biker bar on the outskirts of Johnson City. I’ve never been in the place, but I’ve driven by it plenty of times at night on the weekends. Dozens of motorcycles-maybe up to a hundred-are always in the parking lot.

“Didn’t know you ever hung out at Tonto’s,” I say.

“Lots of things you don’t know. Did you stop by to pass judgment?”

“Nah, I just stopped by to say hello. Didn’t exactly expect to find a gangbanger in Ma’s house, though.”

“It’s my house now. And I’ll invite anyone I please.”

“Does he know I’m an assistant district attorney?”

“Yeah. I told him.”

“Do you know what they do, Sarah? That gang? They manufacture and sell crystal-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she barks. “Mind your own business. And you’d better get used to the idea of having him around. He’s the father of the baby I’m about to have.”