it.
Different people in his growing-up years had suggested he had maybe gotten lead poisoning or mercury poisoning or some other kind of poisoning. Karl had always figured none of that was the case, else he would have been dead or sickly.
He’d been in jail before. A few times. Jail was not a place to draw attention. Especially not for men with certain proclivities. After his first brutal experience, he had managed to more or less stay out of harm’s way the next time, and the next. But he couldn’t be anonymous this time.
This time everyone in the jail knew who he was and what he had been accused of doing. Everyone in the place hated him. Guards and hardened criminals alike hated him enough to want to hurt him, kill him. Other inmates spat at him when they got the chance. Some shouted threats. It had been made clear that if he fell into the hands of the general population, he wouldn’t come out alive.
Today had been worse than most. Judge Moore had ruled on his “prior bad acts,” as the lawyers called them. News of her ruling had gone through the place like wildfire. The prosecution wouldn’t be allowed to talk about anything he’d been accused or convicted of prior to the Haas murders. That would be a good thing for him, except he didn’t believe a jury would acquit him, no matter what. One of the guards called him Dead Man Walking, and Karl figured that was about right if he stayed in jail.
He had his own cell on the suicide-watch row. Still, he didn’t feel safe. Jail was only meant to keep the common folk safe from criminals. On the inside, nobody gave a shit if a man lived or died, especially a man like Karl himself.
At least he had an attorney who was trying to do a good job for him. Knowing his lawyer would come from a pool of public defenders, Karl had expected the worst—to get some bored and bitter underachiever who would so hate the idea of defending him that he would all but hand him over to the Department of Corrections.
Kenny Scott was a decent enough guy. Karl thought Scott almost wanted to believe he was innocent.
A guard with a buzz cut and no neck opened the door to the interview room. “Time’s up, Dahl. Let’s go.”
Karl thanked his attorney, shook his hand, and rose from his chair. Scott had come to fill him in on the particulars of Judge Moore’s ruling and what would happen next.
“Let’s go,” the guard said in a stronger tone.
Karl shuffled out into the hall, his gaze on the floor so as to avoid eye contact. Like wild predators, the guards took eye contact as a sign of aggression and retaliated accordingly.
“You know, it’s not gonna make any difference,” the guard said. “You got lucky pulling Judge Moore, but no jury in this state is gonna let you off.”
Karl said nothing so he couldn’t be accused of giving lip.
“It’s just a damn shame we don’t have the death penalty,” the guard went on. “Bunch of goddamn liberals in the state government. You go outside the Twin Cities and ask the average person on the street, they’re gonna say you should be hanged in public. And you should be tortured first. Let Wayne Haas have an hour with you in a locked room.”
The guard punched a code into a security panel beside the door that led them back into the cells. A loud buzzer sounded. A red light flashed. The steel door unlatched with an audible clank. The guard opened it and Karl walked through ahead of him. The eyes of the inmates were on him instantly.
“Hey, you sick fuck!” one of them shouted.
“Put him in here with us, Bull! We’ll deal with that piece of shit,” said the cell mate, an angry-looking black man with a hundred zigzag braids in his hair. The rolled-up sleeves of his jail-issue jumpsuit revealed numerous gang tattoos up and down his arms.
Another inmate was walking ahead of Karl, being escorted to his cell by another guard. He walked with a swagger, even in shackles his head held high, defiant, arrogant. He was tall and heavy, a white
Different people in his growing-up years had suggested he had maybe gotten lead poisoning or mercury poisoning or some other kind of poisoning. Karl had always figured none of that was the case, else he would have been dead or sickly.
He’d been in jail before. A few times. Jail was not a place to draw attention. Especially not for men with certain proclivities. After his first brutal experience, he had managed to more or less stay out of harm’s way the next time, and the next. But he couldn’t be anonymous this time.
This time everyone in the jail knew who he was and what he had been accused of doing. Everyone in the place hated him. Guards and hardened criminals alike hated him enough to want to hurt him, kill him. Other inmates spat at him when they got the chance. Some shouted threats. It had been made clear that if he fell into the hands of the general population, he wouldn’t come out alive.
Today had been worse than most. Judge Moore had ruled on his “prior bad acts,” as the lawyers called them. News of her ruling had gone through the place like wildfire. The prosecution wouldn’t be allowed to talk about anything he’d been accused or convicted of prior to the Haas murders. That would be a good thing for him, except he didn’t believe a jury would acquit him, no matter what. One of the guards called him Dead Man Walking, and Karl figured that was about right if he stayed in jail.
He had his own cell on the suicide-watch row. Still, he didn’t feel safe. Jail was only meant to keep the common folk safe from criminals. On the inside, nobody gave a shit if a man lived or died, especially a man like Karl himself.
At least he had an attorney who was trying to do a good job for him. Knowing his lawyer would come from a pool of public defenders, Karl had expected the worst—to get some bored and bitter underachiever who would so hate the idea of defending him that he would all but hand him over to the Department of Corrections.
Kenny Scott was a decent enough guy. Karl thought Scott almost wanted to believe he was innocent.
A guard with a buzz cut and no neck opened the door to the interview room. “Time’s up, Dahl. Let’s go.”
Karl thanked his attorney, shook his hand, and rose from his chair. Scott had come to fill him in on the particulars of Judge Moore’s ruling and what would happen next.
“Let’s go,” the guard said in a stronger tone.
Karl shuffled out into the hall, his gaze on the floor so as to avoid eye contact. Like wild predators, the guards took eye contact as a sign of aggression and retaliated accordingly.
“You know, it’s not gonna make any difference,” the guard said. “You got lucky pulling Judge Moore, but no jury in this state is gonna let you off.”
Karl said nothing so he couldn’t be accused of giving lip.
“It’s just a damn shame we don’t have the death penalty,” the guard went on. “Bunch of goddamn liberals in the state government. You go outside the Twin Cities and ask the average person on the street, they’re gonna say you should be hanged in public. And you should be tortured first. Let Wayne Haas have an hour with you in a locked room.”
The guard punched a code into a security panel beside the door that led them back into the cells. A loud buzzer sounded. A red light flashed. The steel door unlatched with an audible clank. The guard opened it and Karl walked through ahead of him. The eyes of the inmates were on him instantly.
“Hey, you sick fuck!” one of them shouted.
“Put him in here with us, Bull! We’ll deal with that piece of shit,” said the cell mate, an angry-looking black man with a hundred zigzag braids in his hair. The rolled-up sleeves of his jail-issue jumpsuit revealed numerous gang tattoos up and down his arms.
Another inmate was walking ahead of Karl, being escorted to his cell by another guard. He walked with a swagger, even in shackles his head held high, defiant, arrogant. He was tall and heavy, a white
Similar Books
