Neely Tucker - Only the Hunted Run

“She’ll argue that his medical best interest, which would be to get treatment for a profound illness, is not in his legal best interest?” R.J. said, pushing his chair back, propping his feet on the desk.

“Yes,” Sully said.

“If it wasn’t a capital case, I don’t think there’d be much of an issue,” Keith said. “They’d be able to force-medicate. But here-”

“Keeping your client suffering but alive,” R.J. cut in, hands crossed behind his head now. “In an insane asylum strong room for the rest of his godforsaken life, listening to voices coming from the light fixtures and picking lice out of his beard. I love lawyers.”

“Beats being dead,” Sully shrugged.

“Does it? It’s the Vietnam argument of destroying the village to save it, if you’ll pardon a reference from my generation. Maybe the jury would come back guilty, but not for execution. It’s the District, after all. Or maybe not guilty by insanity like Hinckley, and he could wind up in exactly the same bed, on exactly the same floor, but medicated and in some semblance of existence.”

Eddie nodded, done with the BS session. “In any event, her client might be crazy but she’s not. It’s a cogent argument, compelling. Well argued, this could go to the Supremes. So. R.J., be so kind as to punch the button and send it to the desk. It’s at, what, fifty-seven inches, and we’re budgeted for fifty, but I think layout will accommodate us.”

R.J. sighed and pulled his feet down and put his hands back on the keyboard. Keith and Sully started to shuffle off. Eddie wasn’t done.

“Keith. Any chance we’ll have access to Waters over the next few days? Court appearance, anything at St. E’s?”

“None. No chance. Estes made noise about a hearing in federal court next week, but I don’t think so. We have no shot at access at St. E’s. Canan Hall is the most forsaken of the godforsaken. Waters will be on lockdown, talking to a couple of shrinks for the next thirty days.”

Eddie nodded. “Gossip query. I got asked this at poker the other night. Is Hinckley really dating that inmate up there, the woman who killed her kids?”

“I think you’d want to qualify ‘date,’” Keith said, “but they’ve been seen together at some of the dances, the social functions they have up there for patients, yeah.”

“A fly on the wall with those two,” R.J. said. “‘I shot the president, babe.’ ‘Ooooh. That makes me so hot. All I did was whack my children.’”

“Homicidal psychopaths need to get laid, too,” Sully shrugged.

Eddie, cutting it off, pointing at Keith: “I want you all over Miller’s idea, that she’s going to refuse force-medication. Work the Rolodex, track down your experts on the golf course or at the beach tomorrow. See if you can turn a daily on this for Sunday.”

Keith shrugged, nodded, yawned, headed for his desk.

“Sullivan,” Eddie said, “walk with me.”

He started back to his office, Sully falling in step beside him. The glass offices on the South Wall, the home of the brass, lay ahead, Eddie’s the only one still alight. They were moving away from the copy desk, moving alone, a private conversation in what was usually a very public place.

“Exceptional work the other day at the Capitol,” Eddie said, looking ahead, tapping the rolled-up printout on the palm of his hand, some jazzy little rhythm known only to him. “Truly special.”

“Thanks, boss.” Sully, hands in pockets, was ready to go home, have a late dinner with Alex and Josh, knock back some Basil’s and sleep for a month.

“You okay? From last night?”

“I suppose. But I don’t follow.”

“I’m asking if you’re okay. The shooting at the Capitol, the dead people, Waters trying to, for Christ’s sake, shoot you and Alex. Are you mentally, emotionally solid? That’s what I’m saying.”

“It sort of sticks in memory,” he said, slowing as Eddie did, keeping his face flat, voice steady, alert for the probes Eddie was sending. Not wanting to come off as defensive, or gung ho, and certainly not angry. Just normal. Why did that sound like an act?

“You know, it was kind of crazy there for a few minutes at La Loma. But I feel okay. The hands are steady.”

“You need time off?”

“What? No. Eddie, don’t even think about taking me off this.”

“HR tells me you’ve been going to the therapy sessions, no problems.”

“That’s right.”

“You back to the sauce?”

“Not a drop.”

“Good. Then pack your bags. You’re going to Oklahoma. We need to find out who this son of a bitch is. Boo Radley of the res, my ass.”

“I thought we had Elaine, Richard, whoever out there.”

“Had, yes. That’s the operative phrase. They’ve finished their takeout. It’s running tomorrow, but it doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. Now we’ve got a tropical storm, turning into a hurricane, in the Gulf. Richard’s headed back to Texas in the morning. Elaine, she’s in the middle of this piece on police brutality in Chicago. Besides, neither one of them, nor anybody else, has been able to get a goddamn thing on Waters. He’s a ghost, a phantom, the fog, the mist. Get out there and remind us why you’re the big swinging dick, the world-class parachute artist.”

“SO YOU’RE GOING?”

“If you can help me out with Josh, yeah.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Alexis asked in the dark, them in bed, the hour late, the ceiling fan turning. Light from the street outside filtered through the shutters. She sounded on guard, her head on the pillow, turned toward him. He couldn’t see her features well enough to tell if she was being playful or offended.

“More or less staying at the house, babysitting, making sure he doesn’t set anything on fire.”

“What about while I’m at work?”

“That class at the Corcoran? He goes every day, all day. Kid’s a phenom. Also, introverted and sort of nonverbal. His parents, that’s my sister Lucinda and her husband Jerry, they’re extreme Christians, so he’s a little weird, you ask me. I let him hang out in the basement, watch all the horror movies he wants, drink some beer, ignore that he’s watching porn on pay-per-view. Lucinda calls, you can skip that.”

“My, but aren’t we the funny uncle.”

“Boy needs to be normal.”

“Jerking off in the basement is normal?”

“He’s fifteen.”

“What does ‘extreme Christian’ mean?”

“Jim and Tammy Faye.”

“What does he eat?”

“What do you mean, what does he eat? He’s not a dog. Pizza. Cheeseburgers. Boy food.”

“I don’t know anything about boys.”

“Think the grown version, only more gross.”

“How much are you paying me again?”

“Scoot closer and I’ll make a down payment.”

“Not a chance.”

“Well then. You can go with us to this cookout John and Elaine Parker are having tomorrow night, before I take off the next morning. He usually grills seafood. Man knows his charcoal.”

“He’s the homicide chief?”

“And his spouse, yes. Regular sorts. John, his momma is from Shreveport. Ellen, she’s from Myrtle Beach.”

“Who else is going to be there? I mean, I don’t want to go if-”

“Just us. I haven’t been over there all summer. This isn’t a D.C. function. This is some Southern ex-pats eating proper food and drinking beer.”

She yawned. “Okay. So I’ll take the cultural excursion. I’ll let you know your tab for Josh after I see how bad it is.”

“Kid’s a piece of cake.”

“So long as I don’t have to watch any porn.”

“Wait, we’ve never actually discussed this. You don’t like porn? You never struck me as a prude.”