An Ordinary Decent Criminal Read Online Free Page A

ached from the beating but I doubted there’d be any bruising. A professional hijacker I knew briefly in Millhaven Penitentiary had heard it called a “soft tissue workout,” cop and con slang for the new third degree.
    “The confession isn’t signed, right?”
    “No. But it really doesn’t need to be, there are witnesses who heard you admit that you murdered the three men after an argument.”
    Bracing myself against the wall, I started doing isometrics, pushing muscles against tendons and stretching through the pain, beating it into submission. I realized I was wearing orange detention overalls and I briefly wondered where my clothes were and then I put that out of my mind. Vaguely I remembered Walsh playing with my hands and bagging the confession afterwards, which meant the cops would have fingerprints to show I’d read the damn thing if they needed that.
    “Yeah. But a signature would’ve been nice. Now we’re going to have to work.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Thompson spoke without passion, doodling on a pad of yellow paper with a black and silver Montblanc pen.
    “I didn’t make any confession.”
    He snorted. “I’ve heard that one before. Three witnesses, though, three statements, all cops, you a felon . . .”
    I was offended and stretched some more as shooting pains spiked through my back and sides. I gagged on bile and water and finally spoke. “Ex-felon.”
    “All right, an ex-felon. Who’s the judge going to believe?”
    At that point I looked up and saw a video camera above the door. I grinned and covered with a cough before walking over to look at the unit from underneath. My lawyer cleared his throat as I checked out the thick-gauge wire basket around it and the armored cable feeding into the wall. He was staring at me with curiosity and something like fear when I came back.
    “May I? Thanks.”
    I took the pen from his hand and braced my wrist. Two steps and a hard thrust and I burst the lens amidst a shower of sparks and the smell of ozone. Thompson recoiled as I handed the pen back.
    “Are you crazy? That pen was from my mother. That camera was off, it’s never turned on when there’s an interview.”
    “Sure. The cops’ll be in right away so I’ll talk fast. I didn’t make the confession and I can prove it but if the cops find out how, then they’ll fix it.”
    I was lying (a little) and praying (a lot) at the same time, which didn’t matter to Thompson, who was just quietly furious. He remained on his stool and shook his head while gathering his stuff together to leave. It was interesting to watch as tiny flakes of dandruff rained down onto his shoulders and the pad of paper in front of him.
    “You’re dreaming. The cops aren’t watching, the camera’s standard equipment and it’s never turned on during interviews. They’d be breaking client/lawyer confidentiality rules.”
    Walsh came in with his hand on the butt of his Colt. “Any problems?”
    Thompson’s lips whitened and he looked at me through slitted eyes. I smiled and addressed myself to him. “All right, how’d they know the camera got broke unless it was on in the first place?”
    “Any problems?” Walsh repeated himself, looking everywhere but at the camera.
    Thompson stood up and exhaled through his nose. “Officer Walsh, do you have a room where I can do an interview? One without a camera?”
    Walsh rolled his eyes. “Well, they all have cameras. It’s SOP these days. You should know that, Mr. Thompson. Sorry.”
    He didn’t sound sorry.
    I waited and watched the man but my adrenals didn’t kick in, I guessed they were empty. I wanted to kill Walsh with my bare hands or some kind of tool but I was tired and sore and old. And then the pain started again.
    “What about the bathroom?” I asked.
    “The bathroom . . . you’ve got to be kidding.”
    “No. I’ve got to go.”
    “Well, sure, I’ll take you. Least we can do.”
    Thompson was livid now, his thin face pinched with rage.