Sean Black - Deadlock

‘ID, please.’

The blue-blazered security guard standing in the lobby of the Federal Court building in downtown San Francisco reached out a hand as the young white woman with the thick mane of blonde hair and baby bump squinted at him through the sunlight.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I need to see some ID,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, rifling through her bag and finally coming up with her California driver’s license The name on it was Jessica Summers, but her real name was Freya Vaden. To her associates, and those closest to her, she was known simply as Chance.

The guard glanced at the license for less than a second and passed it back to her. ‘Thank you, Ms Summers.’

Chance handed over her bag to be passed through the scanner and walked through the metal detector. The detector alarm sounded, bringing a call for a ‘female assist’ from a male supervisor.

‘Ma’am, if you could step to the side.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Chance said, her hands moving to rub her swollen belly.

‘Latisha, could you come check this lady for me?’

As Chance waited to be searched, she checked out the lobby and the steady procession of people in and out. Through the glass windows and doors of the entrance she could see a gaggle of TV news people. Next to them was a phalanx of heavily armed US Marshals, all of them here for the opening of the trial of six members of the Aryan Brotherhood on conspiracy charges.

A female courthouse guard stepped out from behind the scanner. Standing behind Chance, she performed a cursory pat-down.

‘When you due, honey?’

‘I’m only fourteen weeks, long way to go,’ Chance said, smiling.

‘This your first?’

Chance nodded.

‘I could tell. You got that glow about you. Now, I just need to wand you, OK?’

The female guard reached back and grabbed a hand-held metal detector as Chance held out her arms. As the guard wanded her chest there was a beeping sound.

‘Underwire bra?’ the guard asked matter-of-factly.

Chance looked at the floor and blushed.

‘OK, you go on ahead now,’ said the guard. ‘Oh, and good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

Chance gathered her bag and took a left towards the bank of elevators. She rode the elevator all the way up to the floor where the trial was taking place, then made her way towards the courtroom. A cheerful-looking black guy sporting the same blue US Marshals security jacket as the guards downstairs opened the door for her as she approached.

She ducked past him and into the courtroom. For a moment, she worried that proceedings would stop and people would turn to look at her. But no one did. It only worked like that in the movies anyway. The reality was that for most big trials court staff, attorneys, members of the press and members of the public flitted in and out of the courtroom all day.

Chance took a seat at the back, near to where she guessed the media were. Opening her bag, she pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen and began sketching the layout of the courtroom.

At the front of the courtroom a woman was on her feet. Chance recognized her from TV coverage as the lead prosecutor, Jalicia Jones. Jalicia was making some long speech, which Chance ignored, focusing instead on the men in the dock. Greying hair, the occasional pair of reading glasses, offset by old-school mustaches and beards — they looked like an eccentric gathering of grandfathers. Chance knew, though, that this was the leadership of the Aryan Brotherhood. Each sat with an accompanying armed guard. Two more armed guards, US Marshals, flanked the judge’s bench on one side of the court and the dock on the other.

Chance noted where everyone was positioned, along with the weapons being carried, plus all the entry and exit points. Then she flipped the page and started to sketch the layout of the courtroom in relation to the rest of the building.

By the time she’d finished sketching, half an hour had passed and a large LCD monitor was being wheeled in on a stand. Chance closed her pad and put it back into her bag. She’d have to wait until a break to leave now, plus she had her own reasons for wanting to stay a little longer, especially for this part of the proceedings.

Jalicia had wandered over to the jury. Chance took a while to study them. A couple of blacks. Three Hispanics. The rest were white, by the looks of them your typical middle-class San Franciscans. Wow, thought Chance, the guys in the dock didn’t stand a hope in hell.

Jalicia was speaking to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see is extremely graphic and disturbing. This was the footage mentioned in my opening statement, which was sent to my office prior to the initial indictments being made. It shows Agent Prager of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives being tortured and executed, alongside his wife and teenage son. What I will prove beyond a reasonable doubt is that these murders were ordered by the men you see in the dock today as part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. Remember from my opening statement that to order someone else to commit a crime makes them as guilty as if they had pulled the trigger themselves.’

Jalicia sat down, and the lights were dimmed. Chance noted how dark it became in the room. Not dark enough, though. Not with those big old windows running one whole side of the room.

She leaned forward to watch what was on screen. Partly because that’s what everyone else was doing, and she didn’t want to stand out. But mainly because she’d never seen herself on screen before.

After dinner, which Reaper had consumed in silence, Lock watched his new companion embark on a punishing regime of physical exercises. Midway through a series of combination push-ups and squats known as burpees, Reaper, his torso slick with sweat, glanced up at Lock and spoke for the first time since Lock had informed him why he was here.

‘So you’re a bodyguard, huh?’ Reaper asked.

‘Something like that.’

‘ My bodyguard?’

‘That’s how it’s going to work.’

‘That so? Well, let me tell you something, the one thing I don’t need around me is another guard.’

Lock lowered his voice, aware that while the block of cells was a cacophony of shouts and grunts as inmates worked through their own exercise routines, someone might be listening in. ‘Well, you’re stuck with me for now.’

Reaper got to his feet, rubbing away at the rivulets of sweat streaming down his body with a towel. ‘That’s what the last two guys who shared a cell with me thought.’

Lock had anticipated that an inmate like Reaper might not take too kindly to his presence.

‘Just so we’re clear, I don’t intimidate that easy,’ he said, standing right in close to him. ‘Plus, you do anything to me, and you can forget whatever deal you’ve cut with the US Attorney’s Office.’

‘Might not be me you have to worry about. Only one thing that cons hate more than a snitch.’

‘And what’s that?’ said Lock.

‘A snitch’s bitch.’

Lock jammed his thumb hard into Reaper’s neck just below the angle of his jaw. He applied just enough pressure to get his attention.

‘Listen to me, you piece of shit, you keep this up and you getting on to that stand won’t be an issue, because I’ll kill you myself. Now, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me, but for the next five days we’re stuck with each other, so you do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and we’ll be just fine.’

Reaper’s face was flushed. Lock dug his thumb in a little bit harder.

‘You got me?’

Reaper forced a nod. Lock gradually reduced the pressure, then let go, prepared for some sort of counter-attack. If Reaper had been criminally unstable before his incarceration, who knew the state of his mind now, especially given his near-suicidal demand to return to the mainline?