clapping each other on the back and shaking Dexter's hand. Macklin stood up slowly, his eyes on the gang members doing their happy dance. Primo flipped him off.
"So that's it, they're free," Macklin said.
Yates was standing, stuffing his papers into his briefcase. "Yep."
"Isn't there anything you can do?"
"No, it's the law, Mr. Macklin."
"The kid confessed."
Yates glanced angrily over his shoulder at Shaw. " Maybe , but that doesn't matter anymore."
Macklin grabbed Yates by the arm. "That scum killed my father. You can't let them slither out of here."
"Let go of me, Mr. Macklin," Yates said coolly, carefully. Macklin glared at Yates. Fury raged in the pilot's eyes. Yates, for a moment, feared Macklin would crush his arm like an empty beer can. "Let go."
"Mack . . . ," Shaw said quietly.
Macklin saw his father, screaming in agony, fleeing across the street. He saw the blackened shape, twisted and smoking on the pavement. In that second, part of Brett Macklin died.
Macklin sighed and released Yates. Shaw felt something pass, saw the strange flatness in Macklin's eyes.
The prosecutor rubbed his upper arm. "Believe me, Mr. Macklin, I know how you feel." Yates slipped around Macklin and paused beside Shaw, who was still bewildered by Macklin's unnerving expression.
"You'll be hearing from me, Sergeant," Yates said, leaving.
The gang members began to file out, Primo strutting proudly and grinning as he walked past Macklin. "Hey, Jesse, I feel like some barbecued pork. How 'bout you?"
"Sure," Jesse cackled. "Sure, barbecued pork sounds good ."
Baldo grunted, strolling casually out of the courtroom with Hector Gomez at his side. Mario, grinning, pretended to sleepwalk out of the courtroom, his arms held out straight in front of him and his eyes barely closed.
Dexter smiled proudly, wheeling Cruz past Macklin and Shaw. "Next time, Sergeant, try to control your aggressive tendencies."
Esteban skirted by quickly, bumping Shaw and Dexter on his way out.
Shaw was left with Macklin. He didn't know what to say. Somehow, sorry just wasn't good enough. Shaw reached out to touch Macklin, hesitated, and walked out slowly, leaving Macklin alone with his thoughts.
Macklin slumped in his chair, the defeat sapping him of the energy to get up and walk out. The unfairness of it all, and his inability to do anything about it, drained him. He felt utterly powerless.
The justice system Macklin had believed in, the system his father had dedicated his life to, had turned around and kicked him in the teeth. Justice wasn't blind. To Macklin, it was comatose. And there was nothing he could do about it. The murderers would go unpunished.
They killed my father . How could the system let them free?
As he asked himself that question again and again, the despair began to fade and he became aware of another voice trying to be heard. He stared at the judge's bench, trying to clear his head so he could hear it.
Macklin enjoyed a moment of mental peace, the judge's bench the only image in his mind. Then he heard the whisper of his anger.
He felt his heartbeat quicken. The whisper was telling him something, he wasn't sure what, but it seemed to lessen the crushing feeling of unfairness. It offered him a way out of his defeat.
The whisper grew into a defiant shout that echoed in his head. The shout, thick with danger and violence, was a stony coldness that drowned memories and feelings and left anger in their place.
The shout became a scream, evoking a fury that burrowed deep inside him and carved a warm niche for itself in his heart. Suddenly Macklin felt energized, alive again, and he understood what the screams were telling him.
Make them pay.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Lieutenant, this is craziness," Shaw screamed, pacing in front of Lieutenant Bohan Lieu, who was leaning forward in his chair, unbending a paper clip.
"Ronny, I'm sorry. But you know the rules. You're doing desk work until this is cleaned up."
"You don't believe that shit . I
"So that's it, they're free," Macklin said.
Yates was standing, stuffing his papers into his briefcase. "Yep."
"Isn't there anything you can do?"
"No, it's the law, Mr. Macklin."
"The kid confessed."
Yates glanced angrily over his shoulder at Shaw. " Maybe , but that doesn't matter anymore."
Macklin grabbed Yates by the arm. "That scum killed my father. You can't let them slither out of here."
"Let go of me, Mr. Macklin," Yates said coolly, carefully. Macklin glared at Yates. Fury raged in the pilot's eyes. Yates, for a moment, feared Macklin would crush his arm like an empty beer can. "Let go."
"Mack . . . ," Shaw said quietly.
Macklin saw his father, screaming in agony, fleeing across the street. He saw the blackened shape, twisted and smoking on the pavement. In that second, part of Brett Macklin died.
Macklin sighed and released Yates. Shaw felt something pass, saw the strange flatness in Macklin's eyes.
The prosecutor rubbed his upper arm. "Believe me, Mr. Macklin, I know how you feel." Yates slipped around Macklin and paused beside Shaw, who was still bewildered by Macklin's unnerving expression.
"You'll be hearing from me, Sergeant," Yates said, leaving.
The gang members began to file out, Primo strutting proudly and grinning as he walked past Macklin. "Hey, Jesse, I feel like some barbecued pork. How 'bout you?"
"Sure," Jesse cackled. "Sure, barbecued pork sounds good ."
Baldo grunted, strolling casually out of the courtroom with Hector Gomez at his side. Mario, grinning, pretended to sleepwalk out of the courtroom, his arms held out straight in front of him and his eyes barely closed.
Dexter smiled proudly, wheeling Cruz past Macklin and Shaw. "Next time, Sergeant, try to control your aggressive tendencies."
Esteban skirted by quickly, bumping Shaw and Dexter on his way out.
Shaw was left with Macklin. He didn't know what to say. Somehow, sorry just wasn't good enough. Shaw reached out to touch Macklin, hesitated, and walked out slowly, leaving Macklin alone with his thoughts.
Macklin slumped in his chair, the defeat sapping him of the energy to get up and walk out. The unfairness of it all, and his inability to do anything about it, drained him. He felt utterly powerless.
The justice system Macklin had believed in, the system his father had dedicated his life to, had turned around and kicked him in the teeth. Justice wasn't blind. To Macklin, it was comatose. And there was nothing he could do about it. The murderers would go unpunished.
They killed my father . How could the system let them free?
As he asked himself that question again and again, the despair began to fade and he became aware of another voice trying to be heard. He stared at the judge's bench, trying to clear his head so he could hear it.
Macklin enjoyed a moment of mental peace, the judge's bench the only image in his mind. Then he heard the whisper of his anger.
He felt his heartbeat quicken. The whisper was telling him something, he wasn't sure what, but it seemed to lessen the crushing feeling of unfairness. It offered him a way out of his defeat.
The whisper grew into a defiant shout that echoed in his head. The shout, thick with danger and violence, was a stony coldness that drowned memories and feelings and left anger in their place.
The shout became a scream, evoking a fury that burrowed deep inside him and carved a warm niche for itself in his heart. Suddenly Macklin felt energized, alive again, and he understood what the screams were telling him.
Make them pay.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Lieutenant, this is craziness," Shaw screamed, pacing in front of Lieutenant Bohan Lieu, who was leaning forward in his chair, unbending a paper clip.
"Ronny, I'm sorry. But you know the rules. You're doing desk work until this is cleaned up."
"You don't believe that shit . I
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