Cry for the Mercenary

By Gabriel Wright

He was all they had . . .

In the face of a monster of a man, they were powerless. The couldn’t run, they couldn’t hide, they couldn’t fight. Every aspect of their lives were under his control. It was obedience or oblivion. When that monster of a man went down into a death spiral, he expected them to follow.

To break free they needed an outsider, a stranger, a mercenary. They found him.

With all his troubles, and all his flaws, they found him. With all his baggage, and even his reluctance, they cried for him. It wasn’t only a question of would he do it, but could he. It wasn’t only a matter of saving them, but of saving himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriel Wright
• Release date: Nov 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311118943

Book preview

Cry For The Mercenary

By Gabriel Wright

Copyright 2015 Gabriel Wright

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

About Author

Chapter 1

Not one, not two, not three or four, but five. Not one experienced, well-trained, smart and tough, tried and tested, field agent, but five. Not one mobile phone to check-in, report, or call for help, but five. Not one loaded gun to threaten, deter, draw and fire, to defend themselves and each other, but five. Five FBI Special Agents sent on one simple assignment, to one small town, for one day, and weeks later none of them had been seen or heard from again. Not one.

Special Agent in Charge, Nicholas Prisko, stood on the stage in the large auditorium of the small building. Farthest from the podium, where the large crowd in front of him was currently being addressed, but closest to several members of the media. They were only feet from him. Multiple camera lights and flashes focused solely on him, despite the speaker speaking at the podium. They were waiting for him. Hearing his name called and not wanting to, he made an involuntary scowl the cameras could not have missed. He had been announced from the podium by the son-of-a-bitch. Ordered to do this press conference, Prisko didn’t know if he could pull it off and tolerate having to look in the gloating face of the man who had just called his name.

That man, Sheriff Hailey Tulley, now watched him intently. Prisko could see his impatience waiting for him at the center of the stage. It made him seethe all the more. He returned Tulley’s gaze, pursing his lips. Then after a few seconds and a long breath, he walked the short, narrow, path to the podium. Having to snake his way between fellow law enforcement officials that lined the distance. There were several of them from various agencies. As he reached the podium, there was a brief but tense moment as he slipped past Tulley, just as the man stepped aside to let him through. The two passing only inches from each other. The friction between them was obvious. Prisko was extra careful not to make contact with him, because if they made contact – well, it was just better that they didn’t make contact.

They were in a town hall. The biggest space available. Appropriate for the size of the town but not the size of the crowd. It was currently holding close to two hundred, jam-packed, members of the media and their bulky communication equipment, along with several other members of law enforcement. All uncomfortably housed in a building designed to hold maybe half the number. A huge rainstorm had soaked the small town for the past twenty-four hours. Precluding this press conference from being held outside, as had all the others.

Prisko’s underlying fury had little to do with the press conference itself, he had been holding them daily since he got there. It had to do with the fact that, under orders, this would be the last. He had to confirm to the press what Tulley had just told them.

. . . the investigation is ongoing. Prisko said a few seconds after he got to the microphones. Slow, choosing his words carefully. He was given too little notice to have any statement prepared. . . . but for now, Sheriff Tulley is correct. I have been instructed by the Attorney General to call off the search. Prisko said and then paused for several seconds to let the sudden, stunned, grumbles from the crowd settle. That’s all. Thank you.

He took a few steps back to let Tulley get back to the microphones, but a bevy of questions were hurled at him from several reporters. He stepped forward again, gesturing his hand in a single cutting motion, no questions, thank you.

Again he stepped back. This time deliberately ignoring the ensuing questions. After several more, awkward seconds, with the questions still flowing, a miffed Sheriff Tulley slowly stepped back up to the microphones, looking back at him.

. . . is that all? Tulley asked him, incredulous.

Why is he talking to me, Prisko thought. He couldn’t respond the way the he wanted – by punching Tulley out – so instead he grudgingly nodded his head, just once. His eyes burning with such fire no one in the room could have missed it. With an annoyed sigh, Tulley turned back to the crowd.

Well, ok, then. So that’s it people. You heard it directly from the big man. There’s nothing else to say. It’s over. Go home. Tulley said.

Reporters continued to call out their questions, their shouting voices overlapping in a loud, indiscernible prattle. Then, one voice carried over the rest, . . . do you still maintain that the missing FBI Agents were never here? Was heard, then the room settled down.

I never said that, Tulley answered, not really knowing who asked. That would be calling Special Agent Prisko, and the entire FBI a bunch of liars. I have too much respect for them to do that. What I said was that those agents never reported their presence in this town to me and none of the town residents recall ever seeing or interacting with them. Now, if they say their agents were here, then I take them at their word.

So how do you explain the disconnect? Another reported yelled.

Disconnect? Is that some kind of big city word? Look, the only thing I can say is that these agents are not in Cole. And if they ever were, it seems to me after all this . . ., Tulley motioned his arms to indicate the entire room and everything and everyone in it. . . . there’s no way they would not have been found by now.

Are you relieved that the search is being called off. A reporter asked.

. . . as I said, I have the utmost respect for the Bureau and everyone in it. They’re the best law enforcement agency in the world. But they never bothered to inform me that they were sending any agents to Cole. Or that they were looking for this fugitive, Sorenson . . .

Sorenson? Prisko thought with surprise and some unexpected amusement. He had forgotten all about that name.

And had they informed me. . ., Tulley continued. I could have told them myself that Sorenson was not in Cole, nor has he ever been. Now I understand they’re concerned about their missing people, I have a deputy, if he was missing I’d be just as concerned. But as I’ve said before, what I don’t understand is why, for over a month now, they had to turn this town upside down and treat everyone in it like criminals. Cole has a little over 400 residents. All of them are law abiding, tax paying, God fearing citizens. They did not deserve to have their lives disrupted in this manner. Nor do they deserve this cloud hanging over their heads with respect to these missing agents.

With that Prisko stormed off the stage, bursting through the crowd and heading for the exit. Tulley watched him pushing his way through.

. . . but of course, if any harm has come to them, he continued, still watching Prisko, my heart goes out to their families, and the bureau . . ..

That was the last thing Prisko heard and all he could stomach. He walked into the drenching rain and stood motionless without bothering to cover himself. Then he noticed a contingent of press had followed him, along with their cameras. Before anyone could ask any questions, he proceeded to the FBI’s command trailer in the center of town. Having to dodge several media and law enforcement vehicles in the minuscule town center to get to it. All of which were transplants from Albany, New York City, and beyond. None of which would normally be found anywhere near here.

The small upstate, New York town of Cole was in the northernmost section of the state, near the Canadian border. A little less than three hundred miles from New York City. Like most of the state, it was a woodland area, full of forest and lakes. Having wide patches of uninhabited land, scarce roads, many of them even unpaved, and ultra-rural townships that loosely governed the residents. It was a part of New York many didn’t know existed unless they lived there. For those that did, Cole had seemed to become the center of the universe in the last few weeks. Ever since the FBI had come to town.

Prisko shook his head as he thought of the first time he ever heard of Cole, New York. It was a little more than five weeks ago that the assignment came in. Seeming like nothing more than a waste of time, it barely registered with him. A far cry from the setting of what now had the potential to be one of the greatest losses in the history of the FBI.

One of the Bureau’s statutory functions was to check on domestic leads from other federal agencies tasked with national security but not legally allowed to operate within U.S. borders. Agencies like Central Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, or National Security, among others. When those agencies had domestic business, leads to follow or other investigative measures to take, by law they must submit a request to the bureau for follow-up. Such requests were not altogether routine but not unheard of, either. Prisko had even been assigned a few when he was a junior agent. So when he received one of those requests, now as head of the FBI Albany Division, he thought little of it.

The call came from a man named Brett Burdick, a Deputy Director at something called the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA). A little known and often overlooked Defense Department agency whose job, Prisko discovered, was to combat the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction around the world. It was such an obscure little agency, Prisko himself, had to look them up. After verifying Burdick’s credentials through proper channels, Prisko heard his request, which required sending agents into Cole.

They were to investigate a report that a man wanted by DTRA was living in Cole. This man wasn’t wanted for any crime. It was only that the agency had some kind of prior relationship with him, and had somehow lost contact. They had been looking for him since 2003. Several leads on his location over the years never panned out. Burdick said the man was being deliberately elusive. It was thought that he had been out of the country when they received new reports of him living in Cole. The assignment was simple enough. The agents were to go to the town, determine if he was there or not, then report back to Burdick. That’s all. If the agents confirmed he was there, DTRA would send in their own people for further interviewing.

The man was American but known to have many ties in the Middle-East. He had lived and done business in various countries over there for decades, Syria, Jordan, and particularly Iran. The country with the rogue nuclear program. Which, Prisko assumed, was probably why DTRA wanted to see him. The Middle-East was also where the man had supposedly made his substantial fortune. He was said to be a multi-billionaire. From what Prisko had read in the file they had on him, the man was known to be a little anti-authority, but not in a violent way. With already two lawsuits pending against the Federal government for harassment, he seemed much more the type to deploy an army of lawyers to fight his battles should he feel violated, than taking up arms. Aside from that, the man had more of a knack for avoiding government officials than confronting them. There didn’t seem to be any reason to feel that he was any kind of threat.

So Prisko, as he was required, assigned two junior agents to spend a day heading into Cole. He resented having to give up man hours to track down someone DTRA basically only wanted to say ‘hi’ to. Still, he was content to do it and get it over with. He would allow it a day, no more. The FBI had real and actual crimes to investigate, real and actual criminals to pursue. Two agents, twenty-four hours – that was all. Prisko made the assignment, honoring the request. And then Burdick amended the request.

It seemed that this time DTRA was quite confident that the reports of the man being in the town were true. So confident, they didn’t just hope he was there, they expected him to be. When Prisko asked what made these particular reports more credible than others, Burdick told him it was because of two reasons. One, the town of Cole, New York, had only existed since 2004, only a year after they had started looking for the man. And two, more obviously, the man’s name is Cole Bennington.

In light of that, but for no other logical reason Prisko could discern, Burdick recommended that a minimum of ten agents be sent, ten senior agents. Ten senior agents? Why would this kind of assignment require ten senior agents, Prisko asked. Was there some kind of danger involved that was not obvious from the file? Burdick assured him there was not. It was only because Bennington had eluded them before. A sufficient number of agents would preclude him from slipping out undetected. If they covered all of the exits out of town before Bennington realized they were there, they were sure to make contact with him if he attempted to leave.

That was absurd, Prisko protested. Without evidence of a significant threat or any kind of crime, there was no justification for deploying so many agents. Without being a wanted criminal or terrorist, they couldn’t even legally enter Bennington’s home let alone detain him in some kind of roadblock. Should he, in fact, decide to drive out of town after they drove in, what were his agents going to do, wave?

Burdick however, insisted on the ten agents just as much as Prisko refused. Thereafter followed several days of what can only be described as an intergovernmental standoff. Prisko was obligated to honor Burdick’s request, but Burdick had no authority to tell him how to complete it. He didn’t know what DTRA’s business was with Bennington, but the days of national security people pushing around law enforcement people went out with the Iraq war. Prisko wasn’t having it. He put his foot down. After some back and forth between superiors at both agencies, a compromise was reached. They ended up sending the five agents.

When those agents got to the town, they found out Cole had no cellular phone service and had to report in from a satellite phone they were issued. They reported that they had just entered the town and, as per proper procedure, were looking to make contact with local law enforcement authority, the town Sheriff. Soon after making that report, the signal from their phone stopped transmitting altogether. The agents were never heard from again. That was thirty-five days ago.

Thirty-four days ago, in his very first contact with the man, Prisko put in a call to Sheriff Hailey Tulley. He explained that he had sent five agents into Cole and lost contact with them just before they were due to report to his office. Right from the start, Tulley was belligerent and irreverent. Denying any agents ever reported to him and showing no concern for them. Instead, he demanded to know why they were sent to his town in the first place. Although Prisko didn’t provide him an answer, he was more than respectful, even apologized for Tulley’s perceived slight. After having to appease Tulley even more, he told Prisko that he would investigate and get back to him within twenty-four hours.

Thirty-three days ago, Prisko called him back. Tulley told him that, after a thorough investigation, he had found nothing. That he was pretty sure no FBI agents had ever entered Cole. That Prisko should try checking for his agents in some of the other townships in the area or contacting the State Police to see if their vehicle had met with some unfortunate accident on the road. Still respectful, he told Tulley that was just not true. For one, the agents were traveling in two vehicles, not one. He couldn’t see how an accident would have affected both vehicles. More significantly, they had the GPS record from the satellite phone the agents used to check in when they arrived. There was no doubt, they were definitely in Cole.

Tulley got even more belligerent. This time for Prisko not telling him about the two vehicles or the GPS record from the beginning. Then he complained that he had more important things to do than look for incompetent FBI Agents. Actually using the word ‘incompetent’. Nevertheless, Tulley said, he would investigate further and get back to him within another twenty-four hours. Prisko bit his tongue and waited.

Thirty-two days ago he called Tulley back again. This time Tulley told him he couldn’t account for what their GPS record said or how many vehicles they used, but he had covered the entire town and no one had seen, spoke to, or otherwise made any kind of contact with any FBI Agents. They just weren’t in Cole and there was no indication they ever were. Tulley said he didn’t know what else to tell him. He didn’t know what else to do. Prisko told him he did.

Thirty-one days ago, Prisko came to Cole with fifty-four agents. That was only for starters. Over the next few days the operation grew to over three hundred law enforcement personnel. Not only FBI but the New York State Police, the U.S. Marshall Service and even the New York National Guard. With such a large operation, the media quickly got wind and less than twelve hours after that, they too had bombarded the town.

Since then, Prisko’s army had, much as Tulley described, completely disrupted the town, and Prisko wasn’t apologetic about it. Five armed, FBI Agents in two official FBI vehicles had gone missing with no evidence of any serious accident or other unintended calamity. That left only foul play. Overpowering those agents and covering up their disappearance could have only been a group effort. There was a belligerent local sheriff more concerned about why the agents were there than what happened to them. In Prisko’s mind, he couldn’t disrupt the town enough.

He set up their command trailer dead center in the town square, and as many support vehicles as could fit. Deliberately cutting off all civilian traffic and only making room for the press vehicles when they arrived. The rest of the law enforcement vehicles he had surround the perimeter of the town. No Cole resident was barred from the town center, they just had to walk in, not drive. He commandeered the local restaurant as a makeshift field office and had all of the personnel that couldn’t fit in the command trailer headquarter there. Cell service had suddenly been added to the town since their command trailer had a built in cell tower. Along with built in listening software for every call that went through it. Every public structure was searched. He set up other search teams and scoured the woods surrounding Cole for a 25 mile radius. They had air searches, satellite photography, infrared, and bloodhounds. When that turned up nothing they put every home, some sixty-five residences, under surveillance, planted bugs and phone taps, stealthily and in some cases openly, tailed residents as they drove to and fro. All while giving daily press conferences on their progress.

Prisko refused to speak to Tulley again as a colleague. Except for that curt exchange at the podium, the two of them had never had a face to face conversation. He swore if he ever spoked to Tulley in person, it would only be when he had him in an interrogation room. Yet they needed some level of cooperation with him. If for no other reason than to act as a liason between the FBI and the local residents. So Prisko had his Assistant, Special Agent in Charge, Andrew Nguyen ct as a buffer between him and Tulley. No surprise, as militant as he’d been over the phone, Tulley was the complete opposite when he had half the FBI Albany Division in his face. He promised that every town resident would be at their disposal with complete cooperation. Also no surprise, he confirmed that Cole Bennington did, in fact, live in the town. Not only did he live there but he was the town patriarch.

In the press conference, Tulley said Cole had over four hundred residents. To be exact, there were four hundred and thirty-six. With the exception of Bennington himself, every single resident was present in the town and accounted for, just as Tulley said. They all voluntarily allowed their homes to be searched without warrants. As for Bennington, although there still had been no contact with him, all accounts were that he had been out of town on business since before the missing agents ever arrived. His home was the largest house in the town but Tulley told them Bennington had given permission for it to be searched as well. So they did.

However, for all their efforts after 31 days, their results were absolute zero. No agents, no sign of any agents, no sign of their vehicles or other equipment, not a single trace. If it wasn’t for the GPS record, there really would be no indication that they were ever in Cole at all.

Prisko walked into the command trailer, his suit drenched from the rain. Water pouring off of him and puddling at his feet. He pulled off his suit jacket, wrung it out without regard to being in the middle of the trailer then hung it on a hook next to the door. Taking off his tie and unfastening the top button of his rain soaked shirt, he took a seat next to the computer on a dash. It had been his usual command spot since they arrived in town. That was when he noticed his cell had been vibrating.

Half surprised that it was still operating despite being drenched, he pulled it out of his pants pocket. Motherfucker, he muttered as he looked at the caller id and immediately answered the call. Where the fuck have you been?! Prisko yelled.

Agent Prisko, said the calm voice. The voice of the man who had almost as much of Prisko’s ire as Sheriff Tulley. The voice of the man who had given him this assignment and had been ducking his calls since the agents first went missing. It was the voice of DTRA, Deputy Director, Brett Burdick. Feigning concern, how are you?

What the fuck do you mean, ‘how are you’?! I got missing agents. That’s how I am. I’ve been calling you for four weeks! Where you been?

I haven’t been under a rock, Agent Prisko. I know what’s going on.

You told me to send ten agents, you son-of-a-bitch. You knew something was gonna happen. You fucking knew it!

Prisko, I understand you’re upset. If anything happened to your people, I feel for you. I truly do.

What the fuck happened to my agents?!

What makes you think I know?

You told me to send ten!

. . . and you didn’t! Burdick snapped back.

Prisko got up and started pacing around the trailer with the phone to his ear. That thought had been gnawing at him ever since the first time the agents didn’t check in. He accepted responsibility but he couldn’t let that guilt stop him now. There would be plenty of time for it later.

A little calmer, Prisko said, who is Cole Bennington?

I wanted to thank you for not bringing his name into it.

Don’t thank me. The Director ordered me not to. Who the fuck is he?

You have the same file on him I do.

You found him, didn’t you? Cause it’s kind of funny you gave us the assignment to find him but never followed-up to see if we ever did.

Burdick doesn’t respond.

Did he contact you? Is that the reason we got the order to clear out?

Prisko . . .

If I find out he harmed my agents, and you covered up for him, I’m gonna find you. I might find you, anyway.

Agent Prisko, there really is no need to resort to those kinds of threats. You’ve been ordered out of the town. That’s all. Nobody told you to stop looking for your agents. Nobody told you to shut down your investigation. Nobody’s covering up anything. But after thirty days of turning that place upside down and not finding anything, does it really seem so outrageous that someone says ‘maybe it’s time to look somewhere else?’

Bullshit.

. . . you really need to leave now.

You’re not my superior.

I’m repeating the message from your superior.

We’re still wrapping things up. It’s gonna take some time.

You’re stalling.

What if I am? Prisko said but didn’t wait for a response. He pressed the soft button on the phone to close the call.

Then for the first time, he noticed everyone in the trailer. As well as the glaring inactivity and dejected look on all of their faces. There were ten agents there including his second in command, Special Agent Nguyen. He hadn’t told them about the order to call off the search. So they only found out during the announcement like everyone else. Prior to that, a peek into this command trailer would’ve looked something like a crisis center. With full digital map displays lining the walls, multiple crisscrossing phone and radio conversations, incessant keyboard tapping, bright lights of computer displays rolling across everyone’s faces. Now, it was all still and silent. The mood, somber. The group wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Prisko took a seat.

They caught Sorenson in Seattle. About an hour ago. Nguyen said after a minute.

Prisko nodded in acknowledgment, not caring in the slightest. Rudolph Sorenson was a suspected, three-time, abortion clinic bomber who was on the run. Had been on the FBI’s ten most wanted list for months. He never had anything to do with Cole. Prisko had been ordered by the Director not to mention Bennington. So when the media asked why those agents were sent to Cole, Sorenson was the first name that popped into his head, so he blurted it out.

What now? Asked Agent Marlon Henson who was seated at the far end of the trailer. He was the youngest agent on this assignment, a four year bureau man in his mid-thirties.

Prisko looked up at Henson. Then did another sweep of the faces in the room. Most of them now more blank than dejected. They were looking to him for guidance. He had none for them. All he knew was that, despite his orders, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 2

Standing in the well of the courtroom, his hands cuffed behind his back, his triceps in the firm hold of a heavyset court officer, he waited. Noting the cold, hard, stare down from across the room originating from the cop that arrested him, he ignored it. Turned his head away from the man the instant he saw him. Everyone else in the room were oblivious of him, even the court officer whose grasp he was in. He waited for the flinch he knew he would make when his name was called. He didn’t want to hear his name called. He never did.

The room was large and easily seated over a hundred in the audience gallery. The building having gone up in the 1930's, it was an old fashioned courtroom with beige walls and black, vinyl tiled, floors. Golden-stained oaken woodwork dominated the room. Making up the bench structure for the judge, witness stand, court clerk and several feet away, the lawyers tables and podiums. It also comprised the thigh high guard railing that lined the front of the room and even benched the audience in seven long, split, rows.

The audience was scarce in the gallery this morning, normal for these routine proceedings. Most of the people in the room were inside the guard railing, clustered at the front near the bench. The players. They were the judge, the lawyers, the court clerks, the court officers, and the group he belonged to, the defendants. They were in a long line fed into the courtroom from a secure waiting room that essentially started from Central booking.

It wasn’t unfamiliar to him. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been in this situation, standing in a court room somewhere, waiting to be judged. This may have been the first time he was in the Bronx Supreme Court. He was used to the Bronx Family court where they handled juvenile cases, but to him a court was a court. Considering he’d also been in the juvenile courts of Kings County, New York and Suffolk counties as well. Maybe he didn’t lose count after all, maybe he just wished he had.

Wanting to throw his head back, spread his arms and drift away, the handcuffs made that impossible. He could only close his eyes, roll his head, and take in successive deep breaths. He knew they were watching him, and what their thoughts would be. His lawyer would think he was crazy, the judge would think he was detached, the prosecutor would think he was disrespectful, and the cop would think he was mocking him. He didn’t care.

It was reflexive. As he heard the judge call for the next case, which he knew was his, his name about to be announced. As he felt the grip of the court officer tighten around his triceps to walk him to the podium. As he saw the cop sit up on his seat, anxious for him to stand in front of the judge to be judged. He yanked his arm away from the officer and rammed his shoulder into the burly man. Sending him barreling over the guard rail that separated the players from the spectators - and into the lap of one of the spectators. More enraged than hurt, the officer immediately tried to regain his footing but he attempted to do so without fully regaining his balance and only ended up falling further, completely to the ground.

He braced himself for the next wave of court officers who would come at him, standing poised for anything except what he couldn’t see. He was grabbed from behind by at least two pairs of hands. Not knowing who they belonged to, he tried to shake them off for several seconds to no avail before seeing the court officer he had just thrown over the guard rail coming back at him, baton raised. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he was defenseless. He braced himself for the blow. Then . . .

What the hell is going on here!! Came an outraged voice from the center of the southern end of the room. In essence, the center of the room. It was from the judge, who was now standing.

All motion in the room stopped for several seconds. Then the officer, who was about to bash him over the head with the baton, put it away and only walked up to him, forcefully grabbing his triceps again.

Who is this?! The judge yelled, looking at his clerk.

Your honor, this is Jester Masterson. The clerk replied.

That was it, his name. Jester hated his name. Some woman who didn’t raise him, or care for him, saw fit to name him after a clown. And the system that did raise him but never cared for him, saw fit to let him keep it.

. . . he’s being charged with aggravated assault, the clerk continued.

No surprise there. The judge said, looking at Jester and taking his seat again. Apparently this young man is too stupid to know that this is his arraignment hearing where I’m to decide if he gets out on bail or stays locked up until his case is dispensed. Does he have an attorney present?

With that Jester’s court appointed lawyer, a man he’d never met until less than an hour ago, announces himself.

You’re not going to try to argue for bail after that, are you? The judge snapped at his lawyer.

Your honor, the lawyer started, my client is a juvenile . . .

Oh . . . look at this record! The judge cried out while looking at his computer screen, cutting him off. He was referring to Jester’s juvenile record.

Your honor, the confident prosecutor started, the defendant was found standing over his victim, beating him mercilessly. Had police not pulled him off, he surely would have done a lot more damage. Possibly have even killed him.

Who is the victim?

The victim? The prosecutor asked.

Yes, the victim. Who is it? The judge asked after several seconds, looking up at the prosecutor. Surprised he didn’t get a complete answer the first time he asked.

A little less confident, well, the victim was uh . . . well, the victim . . . was one . . . a Mr. Tyshiek Morgan, your honor. Said the prosecutor.

The judge looked up from his computer, Tyshiek Morgan? Really? He asked. His demeanor instantly changing from frustration to surprise – maybe even a little impressed. I thought that guy was locked up.

Paroled, your honor. Replied the prosecutor. The defendant attacked Mr. Morgan . . .

"He attacked Morgan?" The judge cut the prosecutor off, pointing to Jester.

Yes, your honor.

Your honor, my client disputes that. Jester’s lawyer added.

We are talking about the same Tyshiek Morgan, right? The one who’s been in my courtroom many times? Forty-something, 6'5- 6'6ish, 280 - 300ish pound, Tyshiek Morgan?

Um, yes, your honor. The same one. Answered the prosecutor.

"Notorious drug dealer? Suspected in at least three murders that I can think of, and even more assaults? The guy your office had to settle for convicting of simple possession because you couldn’t get anyone to