Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he said, and then he gathered the required paperwork and walked out of the office to the jail.

There was a conference room at the jail designated for bail meetings, and when Adam arrived, they brought Rodney Bova in to meet him. To say the man looked shaken was an understatement. His face was pale and his hands actually trembled when he accepted the papers from Adam. He looked as if he might throw up, in fact, or faint. If he recognized Adam, he did not show it.

“This is crazy,” he told Adam. “Someone put these things in my truck. I don’t know what to do. I called a lawyer, but I don’t know if he even believed me. I don’t—”

“You remember me?” Adam said.

Bova looked genuinely puzzled. “Huh?”

“Adam Austin. We went to—”

“Oh, shit. Yeah, yeah. High school. You were the football star.”

“And you transferred out, right?”

Bova’s expression flickered. “Right, I got transferred. But, listen, I need to figure out what to do here. Someone set me up, man.”

“Did they?” Adam said, going for bored and dismissive, which was easy enough to fake, because half of the guys in this office claimed to have been set up. “Why?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t know. But this thing, it’s not an accident, right? Someone is taking a shot at me.”

When Adam did not respond, Bova ran a palm over his face. It came back sweaty. “Let’s just get the paperwork done, okay? Let’s just get me loose, and I’ll deal with it.”

“Fair enough,” Adam said, and he had to use effort to stay casual. He wanted all the secrets that this man held, wanted to bang his face off the wall until he provided them, as if the truth would leak out with the blood, but that was not the way to do this. “Your bond is set at fifty thousand dollars. The way this works is I guarantee the bond, and in so doing, I guarantee that you’ll appear in court or I eat that debt. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, the way I make money, which is what I need to do in order to take the risk of insuring your bond, is that I am paid a premium. This is a nonrefundable amount. It’s what keeps my light bill paid. Whether you’re convicted or not, whether the charges are even prosecuted or not, you do not receive a refund on the premium.”

“Ten percent?” This was the voice of a regular offender, someone who knew the drill.

“Yeah. So, five thousand dollars.”

Bova winced. “This is bullshit. I got set up, man, and—”

“That’s not my concern, Mr. Bova. My concern is making sure you appear in court. To get out of jail, you’ll have to pay someone a bond premium, and the standard is ten percent. Now… I can bring it down a lot if you’re willing to agree to help me on my end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t afford to have you skip out on me, right?”

“I’d never—”

“I don’t think you will,” Adam said. “Your credit is decent, you’re employed, all that good stuff. Because of that I will offer a premium reduction of ten percent to one percent if you’re willing to wear an ankle bracelet. We’ll have to file the paperwork as if it’s the standard ten, but I’ll charge you a different amount.”

Bova seemed uncertain. “I don’t know if that’s something I’d want.”

Interesting, Adam thought. You’d prefer throwing thousands away to wearing a tracking device? Why’s that, Rodney, old buddy?

He said, “Well, you think you’re going to get out of these charges, right?”

“Absolutely. Yes, absolutely.”

“Okay. When I hear that, it makes me happy, because I don’t have to worry about chasing you. Now, I worry even less about chasing you if you’re wearing the tracking bracelet. That’s why I can charge so much less.”

The only unprecedented move here was the price drop. Adam would sometimes require ankle bracelets from offenders with a history of skipping, or on particularly high-dollar bonds. He’d never offered to drop his fee in exchange for one. It wasn’t even legal.

Bova was still hesitating.

“The other element to consider,” Adam said, “is that your willingness to wear the tracking bracelet might help in court. It proves that you’re not a flight risk.”

The court didn’t give a damn what someone agreed to with a bail bondsman, but it sounded good, and he was immediately glad he’d played the card, because that’s what seemed to convince Bova.

“All right,” he said. “Sure. Yes, I’ll wear one so long as you promise me that people won’t notice it. It doesn’t go off like an alarm or anything, right? And nobody can see it?”

“Unless you wear shorts, nobody will have any idea, Mr. Bova. I think it’s a good option. Saves you a lot of cash.”

They completed the paperwork, Adam accepted credit card payment for the five hundred, and then, once they’d gotten the jailers to open the doors and send Rodney Bova back into the free world, he walked him down to his Jeep and got out the ankle bracelet he’d brought along.

“Nice and thin,” he said. “Won’t be a problem for you at all, and once you’ve gotten this mess cleaned up, you’ll be glad you saved all that money, won’t you?”

Bova rolled up his jeans and let Adam clasp the bracelet high on his ankle, just above the sock.

“So it… follows me?” he said.

“No. It just lets me know if you’ve left the county.” This was a lie—the bracelet sent out a GPS signal that would follow every step Bova took and return it to both Adam’s computer and his phone, tracking him on digital maps. He’d tested it at the office before Bova even called, putting in fresh batteries and making certain that it showed up on the map software. It did. He’d know every step Bova took.

“It’s got tamper detection,” he said. “So don’t get cute and try to cut it off. I’ll know immediately, and then you’ll be right back in jail for violating the terms of your release.”

That, too, was total bullshit—the monitoring was Adam’s private arrangement, not court-mandated—but he wanted to keep the already-scared Rodney Bova as scared as possible about trying to remove the thing. It was a bitch to cut off, but it could be done. What he wanted Bova to believe was that he had no interest in where he went. That was imperative.

“I won’t mess with it.”

“Good.” Adam straightened up, looked at him, and said, “My role in this is simple: just make sure you show up in court. Don’t make that a problem for me. Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal. Thank you.”

Adam nodded. “Okay, Rodney. You’re free to go now. Can I offer you a ride somewhere? I assume your truck was impounded.”

“That’s right,” Bova said. He’d clearly forgotten. “I’ve got to figure that out. But I’ll… I’ll take a cab. Or walk. Thanks, though.”

“Fair enough. Good luck.”

Adam got into the Jeep, slid his iPhone out of his pocket, and logged into his monitoring system’s application. A few seconds later he was looking at a map of Chambers and one slow-moving red dot.

“All right, Rodney,” he said. “Go find him for me.”

21

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, DURING the pep rally, Lorell McCoy took the microphone and told the student body what Kent had been anticipating for days: the season was officially dedicated to the memory of Rachel Bond, and when the Chambers Cardinals took to the field tonight, they would wear her initials on their cleats and on their helmets.

The crowd cheered, faculty joining the students, and Kent wanted to look away but he was standing out there in front of the whole school, and there were many eyes on him, so he just gave a small nod and kept his hands folded in front of him, head down.