Kara Lennox - Outside the Law

Mitch still wore yesterday’s clothes. The Coot’s Bayou Jail wasn’t exactly the Ritz. He hadn’t been allowed to shower or shave or brush his teeth, and the meals they’d served had as much appeal as warmed-over roadkill.

The bailiff handcuffed him and prepared to escort him back to his cell, across the street.

“Is that necessary?”

Mitch groaned inwardly. Beth. She’d proved herself useful during the interrogation, speaking with confidence and authority to Lieutenant Addlestein when it came to matters of evidence. But why was she still here?

He’d rather spend another week in jail than have her see him like this.

“Standard procedure with any felony suspect,” the bailiff said, unconcerned as he gave the handcuffs an extra twist. Mitch winced.

“Beth, what are you doing here?”

“Working on getting you out of jail. Permanently.”

The bailiff made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

“Don’t you have other work? Other innocent people you can save with your microscope and test tubes?”

Beth shrank back a bit. She looked hurt by his dismissive words, and he felt a pang of guilt. “Daniel says you’re a priority.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it, reflecting nothing of yesterday’s confidence. “If our positions were reversed, you’d be working just as hard to get me free, wouldn’t you?”

“No one would ever accuse you of murder. The whole idea is ludicrous.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” She appeared anything but flattered.

“Time to go.” The bailiff grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the exit. Physically, the guy was no match for Mitch. Mitch found himself imagining how he’d take the guy out. A simple ducking maneuver, an elbow to the gut, a knee to the face and he’d be down for the count.

“You’ll be free soon,” Beth called after him. “Try not to worry.”

Yeah. Right. Louisiana was a death penalty state, and the judicial system in Bernadette Parish was so crooked, he couldn’t count on an acquittal no matter what kind of evidence Project Justice came up with.

But Beth was good. She and Raleigh would give these good ol’ boys a run for their money. And when it was all over, if by chance he was a free man, he’d be lucky if Daniel let him keep his job after the trouble he’d caused for Project Justice. He was pretty sure Beth would never look at him the same way again.

He’d started to really enjoy their time together, to count on it, even. But after this was over, she would probably cross the street to avoid speaking to him. He was in for a long and ugly fight, one that was likely to consume him. One that he might not win. He might go to hell for a lot of reasons, but involving sweet Beth in this mess wasn’t one of them.

The bailiff put Mitch back into the same stinking holding cell in which he’d spent the night, and he sat there for another hideous three hours. What the hell was taking so long? Though coming up with two million dollars wasn’t something that happened in ten minutes, if Daniel had made the decision to bail an employee out of jail, he would make things happen quickly. So either Mitch should get out, or they should take him to Bernadette Parish lockup, where prisoners awaiting trial were kept.

At least there he would get a shower and a clean jumpsuit.

His cell mate, with the unlikely name of Canthus, had been affable last night when they’d thrown him in here because he’d been drunk. Now he was good and sober…and mean. He’d already taken a swing at Mitch, and the only thing that had prevented Mitch from flattening the guy like a roach was a reluctance to add more charges to his record.

Canthus was currently crouched in a corner, twisting a dreadlock. “You gonna make bail?” he asked, apparently having forgotten their argument of ten minutes ago over who got to sit on what bench.

“I don’t know yet. You?” He didn’t even know what Canthus was in for.

“Naw, no one’ll bail me out. A few days would be okay, if they feed me. But I’d seriously rather sleep under a bridge.”

Mitch hadn’t seen any signs of food this morning, and he was getting pretty hungry. Didn’t prisoners have rights? Then something Canthus had said sank in. “You homeless, man?”

Canthus straightened his spine and stared at Mitch with dead, obsidian eyes. “You want to make something of it? I suppose you live in a mansion on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Mitch said affably. He had no desire to duck any more punches by the increasingly sober man. “I was just wondering if you might know a guy used to be a friend of mine. Larry.”

“Just Larry?”

That’s all Mitch had ever called him. But Addlestein had mentioned Larry’s last name…Montford? No, Montague. “Larry Montague. I used to hang with him. Back then we called him Crazy Larry ’cause he’d do anything for a laugh. Scrawny guy, long blond, curly hair, real pale skin. He has a tat on his upper arm of a snake and a heart.”

Mitch remembered the night Larry had gotten the tattoo, on his twenty-first birthday. Mitch, only sixteen, had watched in fascination as the needle had puckered Larry’s skin, and marveled at how Larry hadn’t even winced.

Suddenly the light of recognition dawned in Canthus’s eyes. “That Larry! He is crazy. Saw that guy jump off a railroad trestle once when we was running from the cops.”

That sounded like Larry. “You happen to know where he is?”

Canthus shook his head. “No, man, ain’t seen him for months. He might’ve said he was going to New Orleans for the winter. Huh, kinda stupid. It’s not much warmer there than here in the winter.”

If Larry had gone away for the winter, that meant he might be returning soon. “If you see him, do you think you could let me know? I really need to talk to the dude.” Mitch pulled a card out of his pocket. He always kept a few there, though he seldom needed them since his work usually kept him at the office, behind a computer.

“You work for Project Justice? I’ve seen those dudes on TV, man. At Brewskies, they’re always watching those crime shows on the TV over the bar. You got it made, man. Hey, think they could get me off? I’m looking at sixty days.”

“I can’t make any promises, but if you find Larry for me, I’ll see what we can do.”

“That’d be cool, man.” Canthus started cleaning his nails with the corner of Mitch’s business card.

Mitch didn’t hold out much hope. How would Canthus locate Larry from jail?

Finally, the bailiff returned. “Looks like you got some friends in high places.”

“I made bail?” Praise be.

“Yeah, but there’s a small complication. Remember, the judge said you had to stay in Bernadette Parish?”

“Sure, no problem.” Once he was out of this place, he would worry about how to get around that rule. He’d get Raleigh to talk to the judge again. Maybe the judge would remand him into Raleigh’s custody. Or Beth’s.

No, not Beth’s. He gave himself a swift mental kick, but that didn’t stop a forbidden fantasy from popping to mind involving handcuffs and a riding crop. He ruthlessly squelched it. Beth wasn’t that kind of girl.

“See, the thing is, the judge won’t just take your word for it. So you have to be fitted with a monitor.” The bailiff got the cell door unlocked, but Mitch just stood there.

“You gotta be kidding me. Where am I going to stay? I don’t live here anymore.”

“You got kin here, right?”

“I’m sure as hell not staying at my brother’s house.” He’d rather be thrown into a cold dungeon and starved than endure living under the same roof as Dwayne and Linda. Dwayne was bad enough, but Linda—she had obsessive-compulsive disorder. Dwayne’s high school sweetheart freaked out if she couldn’t count her French fries before eating them. Mitch could remember her making Dwayne clean her hubcaps with a toothbrush.