Only the Hunted Run (10 page)

Sully had been so absorbed in the theater of Waters's entrance that he had not noticed that the regular bull-pen attorney for the U.S. attorney's office had stepped to the side, and Wes Johnston, a no-bullshit veteran, had materialized from a rear door and was now in the well of the court. He'd hoped Eva Harris would draw the assignment, his best source over there, but no such luck. Johnston was built like a linebacker, with a shaved head and a thin goatee; he looked like he'd just as well punch you out as prosecute you.

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Wesley Johnston, Your Honor, for the United States.”

“Janice Miller, Your Honor, PDS, representing Mr. Waters.”

“I'm Terry,” Waters said brightly, leaning forward, nudging Janice with a friendly elbow. “Terry Waters.”

Estes looked up, mildly, and said, “Thank you.”

A nervous titter ran through the gallery.

“Your Honor,” the clerk continued, “the defendant is charged with nine, no, make it ten counts of first-degree murder while armed, twelve
counts of attempted murder while armed, multiple counts of assault with a deadly weapon, multiple counts of assault, illegal possession of a firearm, and,” her voice trailed off, scanning down the sheet in front of her, “multiple other federal charges related to crimes of violence.”

“Your Honor,” Wesley started, “we have an affidavit from two detectives, which should be in front of you, stating there is probable cause in this case, on these and other charges—the charging document isn't complete—and we're going to ask you to find, ah, to find probable cause here. We're requesting Mr. Waters be held pending a hearing in federal court on Monday.”

Estes looked down at the paperwork in front of him and said, “The pretrial services report? Do we have that?”

The deputy clerk turned and whispered to him, Estes leaning over the bench to hear.

“It's incomplete, I believe, Your Honor, if I may,” Janice said. “It's been something of an exercise to get information from Mr. Waters.”

“‘GALVESTON, OH GALVESSSTTTOOON,'” Waters burst out into song, the deputy clerk jumping in spite of herself, the judge's head snapping up as he sat back in his seat. “I STILL SEE YOUR SEA WAVES CRASHING . . . AH, SHE WAS TWENTY—”

And a marshal was up in his face, pointing a warning finger, Waters cutting off the singing but doing some little doo-dah, doo-dah dip with his knees, like he was about to segue into “Camptown Races,” the spectator gallery erupting, reporters leaning forward, bursting into nervous laughter, elbowing the guy next to them, finally,
finally
something they could lead the broadcast with, top off the story, the long day not a waste after all, this guy was—

“Mmmiiisssstttteeerrr Waters,” Estes said, patiently, leaning forward, the din in the spectator gallery dropping off. The judge looked over his glasses at Waters and cut his gaze to Janice, who was already nodding. “Are you with us today?”

“Yes, sir!” Waters said brightly. “Right here.”

“Do you understand you're in a court of law?”

“Sir, I do, really. I do.”

“Okay. Then you know we can't have any more outbursts like that, correct?”

“Sir, I just love the song. Also, I have seen many Negroes today. This is also what I have on my mind.”

Another twitter from the gallery, this time drawing a glare from Estes.

“Ms. Miller, are we going to have a problem?”

“No, Your Honor.” She turned and whispered to Waters, who nodded rapidly.

“Okay then,” Estes said. “Okay. The pretrial report. Everyone just sit still a minute.” He sifted papers, then settled on a sheaf of stapled paperwork, scanned the front of it, then flipped a page, it being so quiet you could hear the pages rattle.

Sully eyed Waters, shaking his head without being aware of it.

“‘I CLEAN MY GUN AND DREAM OF GALVESTON,'” Waters bellowed, this time more on key, as if it were coming back to him, the melody.

“Mr. Waters,” Estes said, unperturbed.

The marshal got back in front of Waters, whispering fiercely, his face red with fury, the veins at the top of his balding forehead pulsing. The second marshal stepped in tight behind the defendant. The third marshal came from beside the Door to Hell, flanking Waters on his right.

Estes finally looked up. “Ms. Miller?”

“Your Honor, we're not going to contest probable cause. But this sounds like a random shooting, so we'll ask those first-degree charges be set as second-degree while armed, at most, as there's no evidence presented of premeditation, that Mr. Waters was carrying out some sort of planned act.”

Wesley leaned forward to speak into the microphone: “He came to the Capitol building with two semiautomatic firearms, other weapons concealed in a backpack. Premeditation. First degree.”

Estes nodded. “I'm going to find probable cause, which, by federal statute in the District of Columbia, requires me to order that the defendant be held until further notice.”

“Could we get a twenty-four-hour screening at St. E's, Your Honor?” Janice said. “Mr. Waters has had lifelong mental-health issues, apparently, and has been without a fixed address for quite some time, at least since his father died. It's been difficult to communicate.”

“You're saying he can't assist in his defense or he's psychotic.”

“Either. Both. I would argue he meets both prongs of the standard. I think we're going to wind up with a thirty-day eval at St. E's, but for now, if we could just get the screening.”

“Counselor?” Estes said, turning to Wesley.

“No problem with that.”

“And, Your Honor,” Janice said, “let me introduce this to the court now. Should the issue of forced medication arise, we're going to object as invasive and prejudicial to—”

“Okay, problem,” Wesley cut in.

“—basic best interest, I know, I hear you, I'm just making sure we're on record as—”

“This seems preemptive, Ms. Miller,” Estes said.

“—as, as, I, well, Your Honor. I suppose. It is. But this is very clearly going to come before the court, and I wanted our position clear.”

“You can argue that over at 333 Constitution at the appropriate time.”

“Of course.”

“Other business?”

The attorneys shook their heads.

“It is so ordered that Mr. Waters will have a twenty-four-hour screen. This matter will be taken up on Monday by Judge Arrington, in district
court, but we are likely looking at a full thirty-day psychiatric eval in St. E's, given this case's nature.”

Bang bang
went the gavel and it was done, Wesley and Janice putting away their papers, the deputy clerk asking the marshal, over an open mic, if there were any more cases. The man turned to ask his colleague and Sully saw it, even before it happened.

Terry Waters leaned back from the hips, as if he were a man leaning out of his window trying to see something on his roof. Then he rocked forward and snapped his forehead into the marshal in front of him. It caught the man off guard and in the temple. It made a sound like two croquet balls colliding. The marshal dropped, out cold even before his knees buckled.

Janice and Wesley turned. The marshals behind and to Waters's right came forward. The gallery audience bolted to their feet, the court artist dropped his sketch, the room off kilter and gone wrong, erupting, as Waters bunny-hopped in his leg chains toward the bench.

“DO YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTAIN ME, YOU BLACK-ROBED PIECE OF SHIT? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA OF MIRIAM'S POWERS? DO YOU KNOW THE REIGN OF DEATH YOU—”

He was at the front of the dais by then, the deputy clerk ducking below her seat, Estes rising, banging his gavel and yelling, the marshals tackling Waters from the back and the side, Sully standing to see it, Waters's head hitting the wooden dais, going down to his left and sideways, the two marshals piling on top of him. And still, you could hear him, cackling, bursting into a laugh that ricocheted off the ceiling and the cheap fluorescent lights, words that shot over those assembled in their spittle-flecked madness:

“THIS IS THE SHIT, WHOOO!!!”

“THAT LITTLE SHIT STAIN
is going to be at St. E's a lllonnnggg time,” R.J. muttered, looking at the story on the computer screen.

Sully and Keith were standing behind him, looking over either shoulder, the newsroom all but empty at this hour. Eddie was in his office, reading the story on a printout, glasses down on the end of nose, copy editors at their desks, eternally slouched in front of their screens, the last barricade against reportorial failures of grammar, common sense, and third-grade mathematics.

The rest of the place, save for the guys in Sports, had gone dark. It gave the low-slung cubicles and filing cabinets a lonesome atmosphere, where sound traveled and the dimmed lights in the hallways absorbed the echoes.

“Shoots up the Capitol, goes ape shit in C-10?” R.J. rattled, twiddling the cursor back and forth. “He's going to be the next Hinckley up there at St. E's. An institution at the institution.”

“Nobody is happier about that than Jodie Foster,” Keith said, staring at the screen. “R.J., let's put ‘bizarre' back in the lede. ‘Waters's bizarre outburst.'”

R.J. half turned in his seat, arching a bushy eyebrow.

“You don't think a mass killer breaking into a Glen Campbell song
and assaulting a marshal in court is bizarre on its face?” He put it back in, his fingers on the keyboard. “You think we got to explain that?”

They all looked at it.

“Never liked ‘Galveston,' all that much, myself,” Sully said, thinking it over. “Now, ‘Gentle on My Mind,' that's your quality Glen Campbell.”

“He sang ‘Rhinestone Cowboy,'” R.J. said, “I'da shot him myself.”

“Okay, you're right,” Keith said. “Take it back out.”

Eddie came out of the office, flipping the sheets on the story, not even looking up, coming to an abrupt stop at the side of R.J.'s desk. “Do we know who this ‘Miriam' is that he was raving about?”

“No,” Sully said. “That whole thing was off, you ask me. He was not anything like that, the times we talked.”

Eddie shifted his feet, staring at the papers in front of him, deciphering his scribbled notations. “Maybe his meds wore off once he was in lockup. And look, there's nothing in the piece, no charges, about him shooting up La Loma, taking potshots at Sully.”

“He's not charged with it,” Keith said. “Yet.”

“They arrested him at the scene with the gun in his hand.”

“Right,” Keith said, “but they are drowning in the paperwork, the filing, on the Capitol. They're wanting to get that straight.”

“And then, what, they fit—”

“Eddie,” R.J. cut in, softly. “The hour.”

He looked up at them. Sully could see the irritation flare in the upper reaches of his face, the eyes, the forehead. It wasn't like Eddie didn't spend a good chunk of his life threatening or intimidating people himself. Man lived in a Georgetown mansion. Sully pitied the dude repointing the brickwork who didn't get it right the first time.

Eddie looked down at R.J., then at his Rolex. “Jesus. Alright. Do we know for certain where he, Waters, is at the moment?”

“Central detention facility,” Sully said, “the cells beneath police HQ. They've got isolation cells. Or he's already at St. E's. Or in transport.”

“And they'll put him in Canan Hall, same as Hinckley? That's c.q.? Even though he's pretrial?”

Keith nodded. “It's the building for the criminally insane, yeah, but, legally, it's a hospital ward. The question is danger to himself or others. It's like gen pop at D.C. Jail. You got guys waiting for trial, guys serving time. Like that.”

“Gen pop?”

“General population.”

“Okay,” Eddie nodded. “Okay. Not bad work here. Not shabby at all. Any update on his physical condition? The marshals?”

“Nah,” Sully said. “They shut down C-10 for the night after the dustup. Estes was plenty pissed, that sort of thing going down on his watch. Marshals are just saying bumps and bruises, a laceration to one guy's forehead. It might be worse, but they're not going to want to own it. Waters, for the record, had ‘minor' injuries. They called it a ‘scuffle.'”

R.J. snorted. “Bet it wasn't a scuffle once they got him back in the cell.”

Eddie, playing the principal to the classroom, didn't smile. “This strategy from Miller, that's going to be the legal tangle. She's just predicting what the AUSA's office is going to do, but of course they're going to want to force-medicate him.”

“She'll argue that his
medical
best interest, which would be to get treatment for a profound illness, is not in his
legal
best interest?” R.J. said, pushing his chair back, propping his feet on the desk.

“Yes,” Sully said.

“If it wasn't a capital case, I don't think there'd be much of an issue,” Keith said. “They'd be able to force-medicate. But here—”

“Keeping your client suffering but alive,” R.J. cut in, hands crossed behind his head now. “In an insane asylum strong room for the rest of his godforsaken life, listening to voices coming from the light fixtures and picking lice out of his beard. I love lawyers.”

“Beats being dead,” Sully shrugged.

“Does it? It's the Vietnam argument of destroying the village to save
it, if you'll pardon a reference from my generation. Maybe the jury would come back guilty, but not for execution. It's the District, after all. Or maybe not guilty by insanity like Hinckley, and he could wind up in exactly the same bed, on exactly the same floor, but medicated and in some semblance of existence.”

Eddie nodded, done with the BS session. “In any event, her client might be crazy but she's not. It's a cogent argument, compelling. Well argued, this could go to the Supremes. So. R.J., be so kind as to punch the button and send it to the desk. It's at, what, fifty-seven inches, and we're budgeted for fifty, but I think layout will accommodate us.”

R.J. sighed and pulled his feet down and put his hands back on the keyboard. Keith and Sully started to shuffle off. Eddie wasn't done.

“Keith. Any chance we'll have access to Waters over the next few days? Court appearance, anything at St. E's?”

“None. No chance. Estes made noise about a hearing in federal court next week, but I don't think so. We have no shot at access at St. E's. Canan Hall is the most forsaken of the godforsaken. Waters will be on lockdown, talking to a couple of shrinks for the next thirty days.”

Eddie nodded. “Gossip query. I got asked this at poker the other night. Is Hinckley really dating that inmate up there, the woman who killed her kids?”

“I think you'd want to qualify ‘date,'” Keith said, “but they've been seen together at some of the dances, the social functions they have up there for patients, yeah.”

“A fly on the wall with those two,” R.J. said. “‘I shot the president, babe.' ‘Ooooh. That makes me so hot. All I did was whack my children.'”

“Homicidal psychopaths need to get laid, too,” Sully shrugged.

Eddie, cutting it off, pointing at Keith: “I want you all over Miller's idea, that she's going to refuse force-medication. Work the Rolodex, track down your experts on the golf course or at the beach tomorrow. See if you can turn a daily on this for Sunday.”

Keith shrugged, nodded, yawned, headed for his desk.

“Sullivan,” Eddie said, “walk with me.”

He started back to his office, Sully falling in step beside him. The glass offices on the South Wall, the home of the brass, lay ahead, Eddie's the only one still alight. They were moving away from the copy desk, moving alone, a private conversation in what was usually a very public place.

“Exceptional work the other day at the Capitol,” Eddie said, looking ahead, tapping the rolled-up printout on the palm of his hand, some jazzy little rhythm known only to him. “Truly special.”

“Thanks, boss.” Sully, hands in pockets, was ready to go home, have a late dinner with Alex and Josh, knock back some Basil's and sleep for a month.

“You okay? From last night?”

“I suppose. But I don't follow.”

“I'm asking if you're okay. The shooting at the Capitol, the dead people, Waters trying to, for Christ's sake, shoot you and Alex. Are you mentally, emotionally solid? That's what I'm saying.”

“It sort of sticks in memory,” he said, slowing as Eddie did, keeping his face flat, voice steady, alert for the probes Eddie was sending. Not wanting to come off as defensive, or gung ho, and certainly not angry. Just normal. Why did that sound like an act?

“You know, it was kind of crazy there for a few minutes at La Loma. But I feel okay. The hands are steady.”

“You need time off?”

“What? No. Eddie, don't even think about taking me off this.”

“HR tells me you've been going to the therapy sessions, no problems.”

“That's right.”

“You back to the sauce?”

“Not a drop.”

“Good. Then pack your bags. You're going to Oklahoma. We need to find out who this son of a bitch is. Boo Radley of the res, my ass.”

“I thought we had Elaine, Richard, whoever out there.”

“Had, yes. That's the operative phrase. They've finished their takeout. It's running tomorrow, but it doesn't tell us anything we don't already know. Now we've got a tropical storm, turning into a hurricane, in the Gulf. Richard's headed back to Texas in the morning. Elaine, she's in the middle of this piece on police brutality in Chicago. Besides, neither one of them, nor anybody else, has been able to get a goddamn thing on Waters. He's a ghost, a phantom, the fog, the mist. Get out there and remind us why you're the big swinging dick, the world-class parachute artist.”