John Lescroart: A Certain Justice

Then, from the street, out of Shea's vision, chilling him. 'Hold him down! Don't let him go!'

Arthur Wade was strong and agile. He worked out whenever he could, at least three times a week, at the Nautilus place they had installed upstairs at Rand & Jackman. His percentage of body fat was a lean fourteen, and he still weighed the same one-ninety-one he had maintained at Northwestern, where he had played varsity third base his last two years.

But this thing had developed too quickly, taking him completely by surprise. Something hit him – hard – in the head behind his ear, knocking him sideways, against the pickup he'd parked next to, slamming the other side of his head.

'Hey…!'

A body slammed into him. Another. Fists into his sides.

What was going on? But there wasn't any time for figuring. He elbowed one man, then another, with his arms free swung at a third.

But they just kept coming, ten of them, twenty. More.

One of the men he'd elbowed came back, hitting low, jamming his genitals and he half-crumbled. There was no winning this one. He turned, kneeing up, connecting with a jaw. He kicked at the man, broke for the street.

But they'd come around parking spaces, spilling over from the sidewalk. Cars honking now in the street but pulling around the crowd, no one stopping. He straight-armed the first guy he ran into, but the guy was big and didn't go down. Somebody caught the back of his collar and pulled back at him, choking him.

'Get him! Hold him.'

His legs got hit. They had him from both sides now, between his car and the truck. He turned back, chopped at the arm that held his neck and heard a crack. The surge abated for an instant. He raised a leg onto the truck's running board and hurled himself over the roof of his car, rolling and coming down kicking by the street, twisting his ankle.

But there was a hole. He could get through. He punched another man, straight-armed again and had a clear break. A couple of steps, the ankle giving under him, but he could force it. He had to.

But then a car, turning onto 2nd Avenue, out of nowhere, was blocking his way.

He slammed up against it – more honks now, and the squealing of brakes – was somebody finally going to help him? Panting, he broke left, up 2nd, but the crowd had overflowed onto the street, screaming 'Get him, get him!'

There was a crushing hit from the side of his knees – somebody who had been trained to tackle – and he went down, skidding five feet on the pavement, ripping the leg of his suit and the skin off his leg. A bunch of the beer-smelling men were pinning his hands and feet. He couldn't get any movement.

With disbelieving horror, he realized that somebody was forcing a rope over his head.

At the periphery of the mob, Kevin Shea decided he couldn't let this happen.

The jerk, the lunatic – he guessed it was still him – had thrown one end of the yellow rope – almost glowing in its brightness – over the arm of the first streetlight up 2nd Avenue. Now some of the men were jumping underneath the free end, trying to grab it, while the rest of them were chanting, 'pull him up, string him up!' He had to move.

He put a shoulder down and pushed. He got pushed back but everybody's attention was on the scuffle on the street and he kept pressing into the tight mob.

But it kept getting tighter the closer in he got. Pulsing, almost. Pushing toward the center.

He raised his head. Someone had gotten on some shoulders and as Shea watched, he gained the rope and pulled it. Both sides, which had been dangling, came straight. Taut.

'Yeah! Do it! Do it now!'

The unbelievable bedlam rose around Shea and he used his elbows and knees, pushing, now within ten feet. He got his first glimpse of the man – bleeding from the head now, still struggling, in what looked like a white shirt and tie.

He dug in again with his elbows, and somebody jabbed him back. With all his strength he threw the back of his arm into the man's face, pushing forward.

'Hey! Come on!' Was that him , yelling? Screaming at the top of his lungs. 'Wait a minute. Don't do this!' But whatever he was saying was getting lost in the rest of the din.

He was hit again. And again. On the mouth. His sides.

He kept pushing. The Swiss Army knife he always carried – it was out, opened. He slashed at the legs of the man in front of him, and he went down, yelling. Shea stepped on him, pushing forward.

But he wasn't any closer. The mob holding the black man had moved closer to the light, everyone else parting before them.

The noise, the noise. Unlike anything Shea had ever heard or imagined – a kind of sustained moan, tension wound to the nth, like the last minute of a close basketball game, except with this inhuman, animal quality. There was a guy next to him in the streetlight's glow, spittle coming from his mouth, yelling non-words. Others had started moo'ing, the way they used to do in the halls of high school. And always the teeth-on-edge screech of the car alarm, underscoring it all.

He kept fighting, using the flow now to help him, getting closer, his knife still out. He jabbed again, randomly, in front of him, striking out with his other hand, getting people out of the way.

But not enough of them.

Suddenly, the tension released itself with what almost sounded like a cheer. The black man, only four feet in front of him, was off the ground, above the crowd, the rope tight. At the rope's other end half a dozen of the men kept pulling, raising him up, higher – now his waist at the height of Shea's head.

The hanging man reached above his own head, grabbing at the rope. A second's reprieve. Maybe a minute's. How long could he hold out? Somebody yelled that Shea should grab the feet, pull down on his feet.

God. Animals.

Suddenly, pushing all the time, Shea got himself there – to the man's feet. He was still holding the rope above his head with his hands. Shea hugged the legs and lifted up, trying to relieve the pressure.

He pushed his right hand up. 'The knife,' he screamed above him. ' Take the knife .'

Maybe he could cut himself down. He seemed to hear him. There was a shift in the weight and the knife was grabbed from Shea's hand. There were flashes of light – somebody taking photographs? Drops of something wet splattered against his jacket.

Someone in the crowd yelled, 'That's it, pull down! Pull!' The rest of the crowd took up the word in a chant. 'Pull, pull, pull, pull…'

The hanging man was struggling above him trying to slash the rope with the knife, but with only one arm, even partially held up by Shea, it took an immense and sustained effort. He was not getting it done.

Paul Westberg was the photographer.

He was a twenty-three-year-old freelancer trying to break into the small time, the free presses, some ad sheets, boudoir shots of housewives a couple of times a week. He'd been walking, taking the occasional art shot , heading east on the north side of Geary near 2nd a couple of blocks from his home as the dusk snuck up behind him. The light was terrific, casting a burnished glow over the city.

And then he heard the crowd over the hum of six lanes of traffic on Geary. News! And – astoundingly – he was here. Prepared. Hooey!

But the light – the fantastic light – had changed. With the sun now just under the rim of the horizon he'd need his flash on the north- south street, where the action was. He had to get it attached, change his stops. All almost automatic, but taking time.

He did it all before crossing to the south side. But something was really happening over there, like a rally or something. He made his way, jay-running, through the eastbound lanes, waited on the center strip, darted forward.