Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“And I thought cops did it up nice,” Art commented as he exited St. John’s Catholic Church and saw the endless line of fire engines jamming the street in the foothills above Pasadena. Red, yellow, white, green…all colors of rigs had come from across three states to honor the memories of their brethren killed at 1212 Riverside.

“They will,” Frankie said. That memorial service, in remembrance of the sheriffs deputies killed, would be on Monday, about the same time Luis Hidalgo, Jr., would be laid to rest…at least in spirit. “I can’t imagine having a funeral with nothing to put in the ground.”

Art pressed his way through the side of the moving crowd and stopped on the church’s front lawn. “I know that’s bothering Lou. It can’t be helped, though.”

“I know.” Frankie and her partner waited as the stream of firefighters filed past. At the end of the procession exiting St. John’s were the families of the men, being led out by the priest who had officiated at the service. “There’s Lou.”

Art watched as Hidalgo thanked the pastor and moved down the walkway with his children toward a waiting car. The A-SAC ushered his children into the vehicle with one of their aunts, then came over to speak with his agents.

“How are you, Lou?” Art asked, no verbal answer needed. The dark glasses and the puffy cheeks said all that was required.

Hidalgo nodded a bit. “Hanging in there.”

“Is there anything you need?” Frankie offered.

I need you to find the bastards that made this happen. “Thanks, no. How is it coming along?”

“Slow,” Art answered honestly.

“Royce?”

“Pretty much a wash on the surface,” Frankie said.

“We’ve got three teams working him and his company exclusively,” Art informed his grieving friend. “Looking for any link other than the job. Anything that smells bad.”

Again Hidalgo nodded. “What’s on the schedule for today?”

“Everything,” Art answered. “Everybody is in. Frankie and I are going back straight from here.”

“Good. You call me if you get anything,” Hidalgo directed. “Anything. All right?”

“We will, Lou,” Art promised. “Go home now.”

The A-SAC went to the waiting car and climbed in. It pulled away behind an escort of fire department battalion chiefs.

“What are we going to do, Art?” Frankie wondered. “Three days and this thing is going nowhere. No one knows Allen, or where he’s been, or who he’s been with, or anything. King is Kostin. Royce hasn’t done anything other than ‘try to help the country.’ We’re at a wall, partner.”

“You want to go around, over, or through?” Art asked, lightening the moment as much as possible. “ ‘Cause we’re getting to the other side one way or another.”

Art was a bull, Frankie knew. Through the wall it would be. “Back to work, partner?”

“That’s the only way.”

“I’m not doing it, Dad,” Moises Griggs yelled defiantly, wisely standing across the living room from his father. “I’m not going to some shrink just to make you feel better.”

“Lower your voice,” Darren insisted, looking toward the closed bedroom door. “Your mother is asleep.”

“She’s always asleep, Dad. Don’t you see that? There’s nothing left of her.”

“Shut up,” Darren said, his eyes going as wide as his son had ever seen them.

“She never comes out of that room, and you just tiptoe around her like she’s dead. You know why? Because she is. And so are you.”

“I said shut up!”

“You both are dead because some damn crackers killed Tanya,” Moises yelled, his face contorted as he challenged his father, the man he had once revered but now felt only contempt for. “And you’re afraid to do anything about it.”

Darren advanced toward Moises, backing him up. “You shut that foolish mouth before I—”

The right hook took Darren completely by surprise, knocking him back and sending him tumbling against the couch and end table, knocking a ceramic lamp to the floor in pieces.

“You sorry little fuck!”

“Come on, Dad,” Moises said, motioning like a bully for his father to rise up again. “I’m not afraid to fight. Not afraid of no one!”

Darren eased himself to a crouch, testing his jaw with one hand as the other struck like a coiled snake at his son’s midsection.

“Oooh!” Moises doubled over and gasped for air. His father had hit him!

Darren followed his strike with an open-hand slap across the face that spun Moises into the buffet. Pictures and the other family treasures cascaded off the heavy wood object.

“Mother fuck—”

This time the fist was closed, catching Moises from above and slightly behind. It hit him on the cheek like a sledge and drove him to the floor.

“You never talk like that in this house,” Darren screamed, his fist coming back again. “Do you hear—”

“STOP IT!”

Darren’s head swung left, toward the scream, his son’s coming up from a cower.

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Felicia Griggs stood in the opening to the hallway, a worn nightgown hanging from her wasting form like a burial shroud.

“Felicia…”

Darren’s wife looked at him with eyes that asked why? , and to her son with the same… The pictures!

“Mom…”

Felicia ran to the spot where her son was doubled over and pushed him away, her hands frantically searching the pile of broken glass and mangled photos for… “Tanya.”

Darren watched his wife pull the picture of their little girl to her chest as she rocked back and forth on her knees. “My baby. Tanya, my baby.”

Moises slid backward away from his mother, blood trickling from his lip and leaving a trail of red splotches on the hardwood floor.

“Honey,” Darren said softly as he knelt down next to his wife. He placed a hand on her shoulder, which she recoiled from instantly.

“How dare you two do this!” Felicia practically spat out the words. “How dare you!”

Moises continued sliding away, the venom in his mother’s stare hastening his withdrawal toward the door.

“Sweetheart, please, I’m sorry,” Darren begged.

“This family is half dead already, and you two are trying to kill the rest.” She looked to her son, his eyes fearful yet unflinching. He rose up from the floor and opened the front door without looking, disappearing into the night with only the sound of running feet across the porch as an explanation.

Darren, his eyes now brimming, felt weak and small as his wife’s stare focused entirely on him. “I’m so sorry. Please…”

“I’ve lost just about everything, Darren,” Felicia said with a sorrow so profound it seemed almost too much for one person to bear. It almost had been. “I don’t want to lose you and Moises. That just can’t happen. It can’t.”

Darren pulled his wife gently into his arms, the picture of their little girl between them. “I won’t let it, sweetheart,” he promised, knowing that would be easier said than done. But it had to be said, for Felicia’s sake. “I won’t let it.”

Mile four. A month before this was the point when that steely fist would start socking him in the gut, but Art Jefferson now felt that reminder of his distance ability around mile six.

But he was able to run, to make it this far, which was a miracle to some considering his physical and emotional state just two years earlier. His daily eight-mile jogs had strengthened him in both respects. Muscles were leaner and more powerful. The heart was as good as it had ever been. And his mind, free to wander during the hour-long workout, was crisp, recharged by the solitude and the accomplishment of simply being alive.