Read Online Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin - Free Book Online Page B

bulletproof glass, fancy locks that you have to punch secret codes into. The old station had featured an open front counter and doors you could have jimmied with a credit card. So far as I know, nobody had ever invaded the place, nobody had ever come in waving a gun, nobody had ever planted a bomb. Nevertheless: now, Fort Knox.
    â€œHi, Regina,” I said to the receptionist.
    Regina was a chatty type. I make a point to keep on her good side because she knows everything that happens in the law enforcement community and isn’t afraid to tell you about it in great detail. “Hi, Charley. Boy, they’re hot at you today.”
    I laughed.
    â€œThey already put Mr. Dane on the bus to the county lockup.”
    â€œNo problem. I’ve got another client. Leon Prouty.”
    â€œThat snakehead boy?”
    â€œThe who?”
    â€œThe snakehead.” When she saw I had no idea what she was talking about, she said, “The midnight landscaper, right?”
    I nodded, and Regina buzzed me through the door back into the innards of the building. Lisa slipped in with me. “I’m with Mr. Sloan,” she said cheerily, as Regina looked ready to object. “I’m Charley’s new paralegal.”
    The duty sergeant eyed me briefly as I came into the booking area, then looked back at the paperwork he was filling out.
    â€œHi, Fred,” I said brightly. “Coming to pick up a prisoner. Leon James Prouty.”
    â€œAfter that wiseass performance on the TV today?” the duty sergeant said. “You can call me Sergeant Ross.”
    â€œAw, come on. They always quote me out of context.”
    The sergeant ignored me for a while, started ticking things off on a pink form. Tick. Tick. Tick. Giving each line a great deal of study.
    â€œTake your time,” I said.
    Lisa was pacing up and down. Not only a bellicose drunk, it appeared, but a hyper drunk, too.
    The desk sergeant kept pretending to work. The way the room is set up, most of the prisoners are held in a corral behind the desk. If they stand in the right place, they can watch us.
    â€œHey!” It was a tall thin boy with dyed blond hair and lots of tattoos. “Mr. Sloan? You getting me out?”
    â€œHang on,” I said. “We’ll have you out in a jiff.”
    The sergeant ignored me. Another lawyer came in, Victor Trembly, probably the most despised criminal lawyer this side of Detroit. “Charley,
mi amigo
!” he said in his usual unctuous tone. “How’s the big star of the small screen?”
    â€œVictor.” I smiled noncommittally.
    Victor Trembly rapped on the desk with his gaudy Wayne State ring. “How’s she hanging, Fred? Need to pick up a scumbag, excuse me, a
client
by the name of Roe-shawn Beasleyyyyy.” He pronounced the name in a broad parody of a black accent, winking at me as he drawled.
    â€œRahShawn Beasley. Right away,” the desk sergeant said. “You got his bond and everything?”
    â€œAbsolutelayyy, mah brothah.”
    The desk sergeant pulled some forms out, set them in front of Trembly, then went back and unlocked the door of the corral. A bedraggled-looking black kid came out.
    â€œJust sign here, Mr. Beasley,” the desk sergeant said, handing him a clipboard. “Then here, and . . . yeah. Just like you did last time you were here.”
    The kid slouched over to his lawyer.
    â€œYour personal possessions are in here, Mr. Beasley,” the sergeant said, setting a small cardboard box on the counter.
    â€œI’ll take that, Fred,” Trembly said. He rummaged around in the box, came out with a couple of gold chains, two gold rings, and a gold tooth cap, then tossed the box back on the counter. “Thank you, Roe-Shawn. These will be applied to my fee. Let’s shuffle on out of here so you can get back to your
alleged
pharmaceutical sales stand before too much of your daily income has been lost.”
    Trembly and his