Due Process (8 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Miranda heard the shouting first, and then gunfire. The sounds were muffled but she was certain she heard the sounds of glass breaking and a loud thud as if someone had fallen to the floor. She began banging on the roof.

“Help me,” she yelled as loudly as she could, trying to gulp air that felt like pea soup going into her lungs.

A noise caught her attention. It was like a cracking, and then a trickling sound, like water running.  She ran her hands along the sides of the hole she was in, exploring, searching. Then she found it.  One of the planks had split and sand was pouring in through the gap. She felt the floor.  There was already several inches of sand piling up.

“Quickly,” she screamed.

There was another snap, and another. Then her fear overcame her, welling up from inside as she imagined how she would die. The sand was growing deeper, covering her feet and creeping along her legs.  The air was becoming dusty. Her lungs felt like they were on fire.  She tried to cry out again, but her tongue was so swollen she could barely make a sound. She lifted her arm weakly and began banging the roof.  This is how it was going to be. She was going to suffocate. Maybe she would never be found. She closed her eyes and began to pray.

Her breaths were shallow now, and she was feeling disorientated and dizzy.  She didn’t know where the roof was anymore.  She clamped her hand over her mouth to try to stop inhaling the dust and sand, but she needed to breathe.  As the fear overcame her she finally gave in to it.

+   +   +

              When she finally opened her eyes it was daylight.  She slid her hands along the cool, soft sheets and pushed her head against the springy pillow.  There was a scent in the air of freesias, her favourite flowers.  The sweet smell had always reminded her of her grandmother.  She looked up slowly, her head spinning as the bright light filtered through the blinds at the window.  She saw the intravenous drip, the monitor, and moved her hand to feel the tabs on her chest, recording her heart rate. Beside the bed stood a glass and a jug of water. The liquid sparkled in the light, like a container of diamonds.

              “Water,” she croaked.

              A nurse was immediately beside her, lifting her head and dropping a few drops of the precious liquid on to her tongue. Never had a sip of water tasted so wonderful.  With the coolness of the water soothing her stump of a tongue, Miranda slept.

+   +   +

              It was two weeks before she left hospital.  Her bruises had dulled to a deep yellow, the cuts and scratches were healed, although she may be left with a few scars, she had been told.  It was the emotional scars that would take longer. Maybe they would never go away.

              Her boss had been to visit, and his words were ringing in her ears. Simon Buller was dead, killed because he had been careless. She remembered the big black Jamaican with the dreadlocks and the way he had thrown her into the ground. She remembered his yellow teeth and the whites of his eyes, and the hiss of his breath.  The threats were real, and they had to act on them. It was his words that were going to change her life forever.

              Whilst he was being interrogated, he had said

              “Tell Miranda Bell to remember me. Because I will remember her, and I will find her and make her pay.”

              They couldn’t ignore it.  He was the head of a huge gang with influential connections.  They had to break them down one by one.  The capture of the big Jamaican was a start, but she was no longer safe.

              As soon as she had given evidence at the trial, Miranda Bell had to disappear.  She would be given a new identity and a new life. She could only ever contact them again if the drugs gang found her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Less than a month later, Samuel King was at the Court House in Jamaica. Security had been tight for such a notorious prisoner.  He had been held at Tower Street because it was felt the most secure of the Adult Correctional Centres on the island.  Lawyers and Court clerks had worked long and hard to facilitate an early trial date because of the risk of escape. The date had also been kept secret, so that no-one on the outside knew when he would be transported to the Court House.

His trial had been a farce. He didn’t realize it was because he had refused to say a word, so the Court had assumed he was pleading Not Guilty and had to schedule a full blown trial.  He blamed the Court and the lawyers and the legal staff and every other official who ever walked the planet. But most of all he blamed the female agent whose actions had led to his capture. He glared at her as she gave her evidence, and he took in every feature of her face, listened to the tone of her voice, and absorbed every word that she said. His anger boiled.

The trial had been swift and the guilty verdict unavoidable especially in view of the fact that the defendant failed to say anything in his defence. His attorney had been unable to take a statement and had to wing it on the overwhelming evidence against his client.

Samuel King was very annoyed.  So annoyed, in fact, that he was grinding his teeth and digging his nails into the palms of his hands, even though they were in handcuffs.  All he could see was orange.  The orange jump suit he was forced to wear covered him from head to toe and he hated it.  He hated the way it made him look just the same as all the other losers waiting at the court house.  He hated the stupid smirks on the faces of the guards, and he hated the smell of the whole building.

He and six others were sitting on a wooden bench their feet shackled and their hands in cuffs outside court one. It was only when the door to the court opened and a suited clerk nodded to the guards that they were allowed to stand. As he towered over the other prisoners and guards the corridor became quiet and the other prisoners dropped their eyes immediately to their feet.  Samuel King was in their midst. They were in awe.

They shuffled into the court room as Samuel King strutted ahead. He was led to the front row of seats and the other prisoners sat behind him. From the day he had been captured, throughout the trial, whether in court or in a cell, he had not spoken a word. He glared at the judge as his sentence was pronounced.

“Fifteen years.”

The judge appeared not to be intimidated by Samuel and met his glare.

“Do you have anything to say before you leave the courtroom?”

“Oh, ya,” said Samuel, his voice deep and raspy, “ I just wanna say that I know where ya live, Judge Hopkins, and I’ll find ya. I always pay ma debts, as you may’ve heard.”

  Then he spat at the judge, at his Defence lawyer, and at the court clerk before three security guards tackled him to the floor. They restrained him by sitting on him whilst the judge listened to the prosecution’s request that he be moved from Tower Street, which was totally inadequate let alone insecure for such a high profile prisoner, and sent to a prison as far away from the island as possible. They requested special dispensation to send him to San Quentin, and the judge agreed.

*   *   *

Samuel’s cell was located in West Block. It was, literally, a block of cement. Each side was five stories high and each level had a walkway lined with iron railings. The windows at each end of the block were protected by iron bars and barbed wire.  The floors were hard and cold and the constant noise of doors clanging shut, inmates shouting and footsteps trudging backwards and forwards often made Samuel want to kill someone. Despite his criminal history he had never been incarcerated before and there were occasions, when he was alone, that the isolation got to him.  He had grown up in Jamaica, where the warm winds caressed the skin and the ocean dazzled and the women were easy.  Shut away for long periods of time in a room barely eight feet square gave him too much time to think.  If it hadn’t been for Miranda Bell he would be back on his island now, and those thoughts kept festering inside him like a tumour, growing and growing until vengeance occupied every waking moment of his day, and every dream.

He had a single cell, which was wise because probably any cellmate would have been butchered with Samuel’s bare hands in the blink of an eye. There was a bed, a table and chair, and a toilet.  On the wall were two planks of wood posing as shelves.  The shelves were empty. Samuel did not read books, watch television, paint, draw, use a computer, or otherwise entertain himself. He slept, he thought, he planned, and he slept again.

Being located near San Francisco bay meant that often Samuel could smell the ocean. It brought a determination to him that once he was free he would return to Jamaica and never again leave the island.  Before that, however, he had two scores to settle. Number one was Judge Hopkins.  He would be easy to find and dispose of. A word or two in the right ear by his men and job done. But he didn’t want it done just yet, because he wanted to wait until they were all feeling safe and secure. Then he wanted it to send a message out that he was still the King.

The second score to settle was Miranda Bell.  He had promised her she would pay for her betrayal, and he was, after all, known as a man of his word.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Five o’clock in the afternoon and the exercise yard was crowded.  Samuel would have preferred to stay in his cell, to not have to interact with the other inmates.  But it was an opportunity to feel the sun on his face and to breathe fresh air. At first he used to sit and mope, refusing to talk to anyone. After a while, however, the sunshine started to work its magic and he began to jog around the exercise track.

              At first he jogged about fifty metres, stopped to catch his breath, and then jogged another fifty. So it went on day after day until gradually he found he didn’t need to stop and catch his breath any more.  Within a few weeks he stopped jogging and began to run.  Seven, sometimes eight times around the track, until his legs cramped and his lungs screamed.

              It was at the end of a long run one summer evening that he heard footsteps keeping pace behind him.  Immediately, he tensed.  He was used to having the track to himself. No-one ventured to use it until he had finished. 

              He slowed, and then sprinted, but his follower stayed right behind him.  Suddenly, Samuel stopped and turned.  He looked into the eyes of Joe Wright, a black boy from New York.  Samuel had heard about him.  He had upset the governor of Sing Sing prison and got himself transferred to good old San Quentin. Joe had a loyal band of men who shadowed him at the jail, saw to his every need, got his cigarettes and dope when he needed it, and rumour had it he had a good network on the outside.

              Samuel waited for Joe to speak. Joe stared him fully in the eyes.

              “Word is,” he said, “you got some business on the outside.”

              Samuel said nothing.  He had learned to trust no-one, to say little, and to learn from those who forgot to keep those rules.

              Joe stood rock still, his eyes sliding to the side of the track to make sure his men were close by in case the bear of a man before him tried to attack him.

              Joe tried again.

              “Thing is, I got contacts.  I can help you.”

              “And why ya wanna do that?” Samuel asked, aware of the men watching but not wanting to cause a disturbance or draw attention to the little meeting.

              Joe smirked.

              “Well, see, I got myself a little problem.  I need a supplier, and you need information. Seems to me we can help each other.”

              Samuel waited as rivulets of sweat from his exercise poured down his back and the beads of perspiration on his face began to dry as the sun beat down.

              “Just what information do ya think I need?” he asked quietly.

              Joe eased forward.

              “I hear you after a Judge.  I got lots of people want to do a Judge.  Cops too. Just give me the word.”

              Samuel beckoned Joe forward and he put his face against the New Yorker’s ear.

              “I gotta word for you,” he whispered, and brought his hand up behind Joe, placed it on his shoulders so it looked to the world like a friendly gesture, and then slid his fingers to the top of the man’s neck and drove his forefinger and thumb into the cavity. 

              “The word is goodbye,” hissed Samuel.

              Joe Wright was still falling to the ground as Samuel jogged away.

              He expected some sort of retribution, but there was nothing. Months passed but no-one said a word. If anything, he was treated with more respect, if that was possible. Samuel didn’t care one way or another, he had no need of protection or special attention. He wanted to keep himself to himself until he was able to instigate whatever contact he wanted to achieve his goals.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Judge Peter Hopkins had been born in England.  In Macclesfield, to be exact. His consistent childhood memory was being covered from head to foot in mud after the regular Saturday morning football match, trudging home head bent against the rain and wind, and his fingers so cold he couldn’t do up the buttons of his coat.

              His parents lived in a two bedroomed terrace house in a never-ending street where the roofs disappeared into the distance like a railway line. The rooms were small and dim and in winter they had to have the lights on all day. For the endless evenings he would huddle in bed with a torch under prickly blankets and read travel magazines.

The dark nights of winter lingered long into what should have been spring, and he would often scowl at his own pale skin and that of his friends. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that when he became an adult he would leave England and move to a country where the sun always shone and where the skins were dark and blankets didn’t exist.

He dreamed throughout secondary school, amazing his teachers and parents by being top of the class in all subjects.  To Peter Hopkins, studying was easy for him because it would one day be his ticket to the sun. He sailed through his exams and was one of only fourteen students from his school that went on to further education, and of those, the only one to go to University. He studied law and left three years later with a First Class Degree.

He was articled as a clerk to a law firm in Liverpool and spent three years preparing briefs and taking statements. He knew the money was in trusts and estates, but they didn’t interest him, so he chose to specialise in criminal law.  Another five years with his own client base after he qualified, and then finally the day in August when he passed the Bar exam and became a barrister.  He remembered the day well not only because of his success, but because it was the middle of an English summer, and it was raining.

He still read his travel magazines, even though he was thirty-two years of age, although no longer under blankets with a torch. He earned a good salary, rented an apartment in an up-market area of Liverpool, and travelled to work by taxi.  There had been several girlfriends, but Peter was determined to have no ties to England, and so the romances were brief.  He used his substantial earnings to travel, looking for that special place in the sun that he would call home.

It was two years later that he travelled to the Cayman Islands.

*   *   *   *

He arrived on Grand Cayman more by mistake than desire. He had been exploring the Caribbean islands and whilst staying at a five star resort on Jamaica had met Jeff Lewis, an ex-pat lawyer living and working in the Caymans.  They formed a friendship over their week-long stay and Jeff invited Peter to visit him at his home in Grand Cayman.

              The island itself did not appeal. It had been over developed for many years and the place heaved with loud American tourists who had discovered the pure white beaches and superior hotels and realised it was accessible with just a short plane journey.  Cruise ships docked twice a week, and George Town quickly cashed in on the huge influx of dollar-wielding visitors.  Banks purchased impressive buildings with designer interiors to lure the companies and investors who saw the opportunities the island and its tax-free status offered,  law firms expanded and moved to larger offices, and property developers and real estate agents made their first million.  Even Marks and Spencer saw the potential and opened up a branch.

              But after a few days Peter saw beyond the concrete jungle.  The sun shone every day and he believed Jeff when he said the temperature never dropped below twenty-five degrees. Jeff’s firm, Bodden and Associates, specialised in commercial law but they were expanding, like everything else on Grand Cayman.  There was a lucrative business in criminal law, not with petty thieves and motoring offences, but with the drug barons and traffickers who would pay large sums for a good defence.

              It didn’t take Peter long to accept the opportunity, and on a damp and cold January day he left England and arrived in George Town, Grand Cayman, ten hours later, tired, a little apprehensive, but warm.

              Bodden and Associates grew rapidly, developing their expertise and acquiring other lawyers who specialised in property law, tax and investments, and international acquisitions.  They preferred to recruit British lawyers, their training was excellent and they always seemed more willing to settle on their concrete island.

              Peter found a little piece of heaven in a quiet corner of Grand Cayman called Cayman Kai.  Impressive houses had been built on beach lots well away from the regular tourist areas. Peter chose a four-bedroomed home with a pristine wrap around porch where the crystal waters lapped placidly at his front steps and the only sound he could hear in the mornings was the whisper of the wind and the call of the gulls.

              He began to move in high circles, being regularly invited to the Governor’s home for drinks and dinner.  It was during one of these occasions that he met the British Ambassador’s daughter, recently divorced, sun-tanned and slim, with legs that went to her armpits. Mostly, Jennifer made him laugh.  She had lived on the island for five years and never wanted to return to England.  They began dating and were married a year later.

              It was shortly after his marriage that Peter was invited to apply for the position of circuit judge.  The position would require him to travel around the Caribbean sitting at a variety of courts but specialising in criminal matters.  Travel was first class and the salary was $150,000 a year.  It didn’t take Peter long to accept graciously.

*    *    *

The Samuel King trial had been Peter’s first major trial.  He had spent a few months learning the ropes of the judicial system which appeared to vary considerably depending on which island he was on. But the mundane days of familiarity were becoming boring, so when he was offered the chance of his first trial, he jumped at it.

              Even though the Prosecutor and Defence would put their cases to him, he read everything beforehand.  He sifted through the police evidence and carefully read through the wad of statements so that by the time Samuel King stood before him, he knew the case backwards.

There were also other factors at work.  He was new on the block and wanted to make an impression.  He wanted to have a reputation as a strict judge who operated to the letter of the law, not a soft touch who might be up for a bit of corruption or bribery.  So he came down hard on Samuel King, issuing the maximum sentence and readily agreeing to the request for incarceration at San Quentin. The threats by the prisoner meant nothing to him.

One of the benefits of Grand Cayman being so developed was that it had a streamlined transport system off the island. Owen Robert Airport boasted three flights a day to Miami, and with the flight just sixty minutes, Peter took regular trips to the mainland. Jennifer would often accompany him and hit the shops whilst he explored the outskirts of the city.  It stopped him getting ‘island fever’ and kept his wife happy.

Sometimes he would hire a car and cruise along the coast, and on other occasions he would take the MetroRail because it was an elevated line and he could see more of the city than if he drove.

It was a Saturday, but the station was still busy with chattering tourists.  His journey had a purpose because he planned to visit the museum district and find out a little about the history of the West Indies. He heard the whoosh of an approaching train and shuffled forward with the crowd. He had been waiting a few minutes and so was at the front of the platform. He felt the man’s presence beside him before he spoke.

“Remember Samuel King?”

Peter was surprised. He started to turn toward the man even as he felt the hand at his back.  The people around him were laughing and shouting to each other above the noise of the locomotive which was now almost at the station.

The man was saying something, but Peter could not hear him.

              “Pardon?” he asked, at the same time reaching behind him to take the man’s hand from his back.

“I said, he remembers you…”

Those were the last words Peter heard as he was pushed hard, struggled to stop his fall, failed, and landed heavily on the rails. He hardly had time to lift his head as the train hit him.

*   *   *

              After Samuel had been at San Quentin for about eighteen months, someone slipped a newspaper under his door. He was slightly annoyed by this as he never spent his time reading, be it books or newspapers. But the headlines of the front page caught his attention.

Judge falls in front of train.

              One look at the photograph accompanying the article showed it to be Judge Hopkins. Samuel smiled.  His men had done well.

              One down; one to go. But Miranda Bell was not going to get off as easy as the judge.  He would think of something extra special for her.  After all, he had the time.