Neely Tucker - Only the Hunted Run

“But the District doesn’t have the death penalty,” Sully said, eyeing her up, thinking. “The feds do. They’ll claim jurisdiction, a case like this. So they’ll kick it out of 500 Indiana over to 333 Constitution.” He indicated this with a jerk of his head, the federal courthouse being catty-corner across Marshall Park.

“So the State,” she said, nodding, “is going to want to medicate my client into sound mental health so that-”

“-that, that, they can execute him,” Sully said, finishing the sentence, getting it. “They’ll want to make him sane enough to execute.”

She patted his knee, teasing, playfully patronizing, but her tone betraying an undertone of bitterness. “Exxxactly. Know what a legal conundrum is? When the best thing you can do for your client is to keep him mentally ill.”

“Don’t they call this a Hobbesian trap?”

“I thought it was a Catch-22. As his lawyer, it would be insane for me to make him sane. And no, you can’t quote my quote.”

He started to respond but she was already gone, the Door to Hell swinging open, her client emerging, the room coming alive, the air gaining a static charge.

Waters entered, flanked by two U.S. marshals, one on each side, holding an elbow, another walking close behind. They had him in an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, his black hair pulled back in a ratty ponytail. He had a scraggly beard. One eye partially swollen shut, deep bags beneath them both, like he’d been up all night. A red gash on the right side of his forehead. Sully put his height at about five foot eleven, not that tall, really, slender if not muscular, hard to tell with the jumpsuit.

His hands were cuffed in front of him and a chain ran down to a pair of leg restraints, making him rattle when he walked. But the most startling thing about him, the one thing that stood so wildly out of place, was his demeanor. He did not smile, he beamed , absorbing the energy of the courtroom. He moved forward by shuffling his feet in a kind of jig, looking out at the crowd, happy as a clam. For a second, Sully thought he was going to wave when they made eye contact.

The spectator gallery came to attention, the small talk dying, even the babies seeming to hush, people turning now to see. The courtroom artist, perched in the jury box, his charcoal pencil skittering across the pad with such speed that it could be heard across the room, the only image from today that the outside world would see.

The deputy clerk, seated just in front of the judge, scarcely looked up. Her monotone, born of a thousand days and a million defendants, had all the spontaneity and excitement of a washing machine clicking over to the rinse cycle. “Your Honor, now before the court, we have the United States versus Terry Running Waters, criminal case two zero two eight. Counsel, please introduce yourself for the record.”

Sully had been so absorbed in the theater of Waters’s entrance that he had not noticed that the regular bull-pen attorney for the U.S. attorney’s office had stepped to the side, and Wes Johnston, a no-bullshit veteran, had materialized from a rear door and was now in the well of the court. He’d hoped Eva Harris would draw the assignment, his best source over there, but no such luck. Johnston was built like a linebacker, with a shaved head and a thin goatee; he looked like he’d just as well punch you out as prosecute you.

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Wesley Johnston, Your Honor, for the United States.”

“Janice Miller, Your Honor, PDS, representing Mr. Waters.”

“I’m Terry,” Waters said brightly, leaning forward, nudging Janice with a friendly elbow. “Terry Waters.”

Estes looked up, mildly, and said, “Thank you.”

A nervous titter ran through the gallery.

“Your Honor,” the clerk continued, “the defendant is charged with nine, no, make it ten counts of first-degree murder while armed, twelve counts of attempted murder while armed, multiple counts of assault with a deadly weapon, multiple counts of assault, illegal possession of a firearm, and,” her voice trailed off, scanning down the sheet in front of her, “multiple other federal charges related to crimes of violence.”

“Your Honor,” Wesley started, “we have an affidavit from two detectives, which should be in front of you, stating there is probable cause in this case, on these and other charges-the charging document isn’t complete-and we’re going to ask you to find, ah, to find probable cause here. We’re requesting Mr. Waters be held pending a hearing in federal court on Monday.”

Estes looked down at the paperwork in front of him and said, “The pretrial services report? Do we have that?”

The deputy clerk turned and whispered to him, Estes leaning over the bench to hear.

“It’s incomplete, I believe, Your Honor, if I may,” Janice said. “It’s been something of an exercise to get information from Mr. Waters.”

“‘GALVESTON, OH GALVESSSTTTOOON,’” Waters burst out into song, the deputy clerk jumping in spite of herself, the judge’s head snapping up as he sat back in his seat. “I STILL SEE YOUR SEA WAVES CRASHING… AH, SHE WAS TWENTY-”

And a marshal was up in his face, pointing a warning finger, Waters cutting off the singing but doing some little doo-dah, doo-dah dip with his knees, like he was about to segue into “Camptown Races,” the spectator gallery erupting, reporters leaning forward, bursting into nervous laughter, elbowing the guy next to them, finally, finally something they could lead the broadcast with, top off the story, the long day not a waste after all, this guy was-

“Mmmiiisssstttteeerrr Waters,” Estes said, patiently, leaning forward, the din in the spectator gallery dropping off. The judge looked over his glasses at Waters and cut his gaze to Janice, who was already nodding. “Are you with us today?”

“Yes, sir!” Waters said brightly. “Right here.”

“Do you understand you’re in a court of law?”

“Sir, I do, really. I do.”

“Okay. Then you know we can’t have any more outbursts like that, correct?”

“Sir, I just love the song. Also, I have seen many Negroes today. This is also what I have on my mind.”

Another twitter from the gallery, this time drawing a glare from Estes.

“Ms. Miller, are we going to have a problem?”

“No, Your Honor.” She turned and whispered to Waters, who nodded rapidly.

“Okay then,” Estes said. “Okay. The pretrial report. Everyone just sit still a minute.” He sifted papers, then settled on a sheaf of stapled paperwork, scanned the front of it, then flipped a page, it being so quiet you could hear the pages rattle.

Sully eyed Waters, shaking his head without being aware of it.

“‘I CLEAN MY GUN AND DREAM OF GALVESTON,’” Waters bellowed, this time more on key, as if it were coming back to him, the melody.

“Mr. Waters,” Estes said, unperturbed.

The marshal got back in front of Waters, whispering fiercely, his face red with fury, the veins at the top of his balding forehead pulsing. The second marshal stepped in tight behind the defendant. The third marshal came from beside the Door to Hell, flanking Waters on his right.

Estes finally looked up. “Ms. Miller?”

“Your Honor, we’re not going to contest probable cause. But this sounds like a random shooting, so we’ll ask those first-degree charges be set as second-degree while armed, at most, as there’s no evidence presented of premeditation, that Mr. Waters was carrying out some sort of planned act.”

Wesley leaned forward to speak into the microphone: “He came to the Capitol building with two semiautomatic firearms, other weapons concealed in a backpack. Premeditation. First degree.”