Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Mia crossed her arms and stood back a minute. “What a creative alibi,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. “If it weren’t for the pictures, and all we already know about you boys, I might let you walk out the door.”

“What pictures?” Castile asked. This didn’t sound good.

It wasn’t. A helpful cop quickly shoved a clutch of ten-by-twelve black-and-white photographs into Mia’s hand. Each was helpfully date and time-stamped. Mia flashed them up, one by one, long enough for all three men to enjoy a long gape. There was Jones picking his nose while seated in a nondescript gray car parked across the street from her house, taken a week before. Then Castile with his skinny, bony ass stuck up in the air, bent over, inspecting the lock of her side door in bright daylight only two days before-the time stamp said it was two in the afternoon. Mia was at work, and he wanted to be sure he brought the right pick for the break-in.

Then more shots of all three men taken at various times and in an assortment of angles and poses over the past week, observing her house, casing it, preparing the break-in.

The pictures were irrevocably damning. The alibi suddenly sounded stupid.

It struck Castile that this might be a good time to shut his mouth.

Mia said, very cool, very indifferent, “Breaking and entering, that’s good for seven years, minimum. But the bat’s a deadly weapon, and that has to be considered. I’d say at least another five.” She pointed at the bag by Jones’s feet. “I’m betting those ugly brown bricks are pure heroin. Looking at it, I’d say it’s about ten pounds’ worth, probably good for another thirty years. All told, that’s forty years, give or take a few. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“A little on the cheap side,” the cop in plainclothes opined. He scratched his big nose and looked thoughtful. “Conspiracy, too. You forgot that.”

“Oh, damn. Add another five.”

They let that sink in a moment, then the lieutenant shifted his feet and said, “But I’m guessing the guy without the bat or drugs will cut a deal and rat out the other two. The guy with the bat, well, he could avoid the thirty for the dope, so probably he’ll squeal, too. That leaves bozo here”-he pointed a thick finger in Jones’s face-“my money’s on him. He’s doing the long stretch.”

Poor Marvin Jones suddenly couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and nearly passed out. This was so unfair.

“Sucker’s bet,” Mia announced, playing along. “Definitely, he’s the lifer.”

“We ain’t talking,” Castile sneered, looking more at Jones than anybody else. “In fact, we want our lawyers.”

The lieutenant, a rough-looking type with a pot gut, edged forward. He got up in their faces. “I suspect you guys already know how this game works. Still, here’s a few tips. Cops hate lawyers. Know what I mean? They suck all the generosity out of the room. Sure, you can have your damn mouthpieces, any damn time you want, but the deals won’t be nearly as sweet.”

“Let’s separate them and see who’s willing to volunteer statements now,” Mia suggested. She pointed a manicured fingernail at Castile and Phillips. “Take them into separate rooms. See who wants to talk.”

Castile and Phillips were hustled out of the room. Castile disappeared into her bedroom, Phillips stumbled into the compact kitchen.

Mia and a uniformed cop with an evident affection for the weight room, along with a sulky-looking Jones, were left standing alone in the small living room. Nobody spoke. Not a word, not a whisper. Jones couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off the pattern of the Indian carpet on the floor. His chest was pounding. Sweat was forming a puddle in the small of his back.

After an interminable three minutes, Mia asked Jones, “Would you care to guess what they’re saying in there?”

He shuffled his feet a moment, then said, “My buddies would never screw me.”

“Jonesy, you’re an idiot if you really believe you’re worth thirty-five more years in prison to them. Could it be you’re even stupider than you look?”

His name. She knew his name, and that really shook him. Only one way that could happen, somebody was already talking, already ratting. In fact, as he thought about it, somebody had tipped her off about the break-in. How else could they have been caught in this setup? His body began shaking. He never imagined they would get caught. And nobody ever mentioned that the idiot hauling the dope got the booby prize.

“Thing is,” Mia continued, still very factual, “I should be very pissed at you. I’m betting that dope was meant to frame me, a federal agent.”

Another nail in the coffin. Was it worse when you tried to frame a federal agent ? Jones bit his lip and stared harder at the carpet. How much more did that tack on to his sentence?

“Odd, I know, but now I just feel sorry for you,” Mia said, and she sounded very genuine.

At least they had something in common. Jones was definitely feeling sorry for himself, too. Were it he in one of the other rooms, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment; without the slightest qualm he’d cut the fastest deal he could get, and begin shoving the blame at the idiot carrying the bag. The dope charge terrorized him. It was twelve pounds, not ten-not that the additional two made any difference. The sentencing guidelines for twelve pounds of heroin were brutal.

And they’d caught him fair and square, in the basement, holding a Hefty bag filled with junk in his right hand, with a big brick in his left hand.

“But there might be a way you can help yourself, Mr. Jones,” Mia offered, with only a hint of reservation.

Jones saw a ray of hope, for the first time. “Tell me. What is it?”

“You want to talk about TFAC? If you have anything helpful, I’ll do my best to get you a little slack.”

So she knew about TFAC, too. What didn’t she know? A lot, he hoped, because he suddenly felt an irrepressible urge to tell her anything she was interested in. Names, dates, his wife’s embarrassing incontinence issues-name it, and he’d talk her ear off. “What’s it worth and what do you want to know?” Jones asked, trying his damnedest to sound like he still had a choice in this matter.

“I’ll try to get twenty knocked off. That leaves twenty, max. Behave like a model citizen, you’ll cut that in half.”

The nods were so fierce he nearly broke his neck. Ten years suddenly sounded like a short holiday.

“TFAC hired you to do this job, right?” Mia suggested.

“Yeah, sorta. We’re contractors. TFAC brings us in for the occasional job.”

“Who brings you in? Give me a name.”

He thought about the twenty years knocked off his sentence-“O’Neal. Martie O’Neal.” The name couldn’t come out fast enough.

“What were you asked to do?”

“Look for dirt. Plant bugs in your phones. Leave a little gift somewhere in your home.”

“The heroin. To set me up, right?”

“I guess. What happens afterward, I don’t know.” He tried desperately to sound convincing. He would never knowingly try to hurt the nice lady with twenty years of his life in her hands.

“Who’s TFAC’s client for this job?”

“I dunno. I swear I don’t. They never tell us. I’d tell you if I knew, I just can’t.”

“Have you done a job like this before?”

“Yeah, coupla times.”

“When was the last time?”

“Seven, maybe eight months ago.”

“Who? Where?”

“Some rich guy. Up in Jersey.”

“Name?”

“Wiley. Uh, Jack, or John, I think.”

Mia seemed to be out of questions for the moment. The instant they got him to the station, he would spend hours being grilled on tape and filmed. Now that he was already squealing and on record with a few big admissions, the hardest part would be getting him to shut up.