Burners (12 page)

 I was certain Officer James had said more stuff after revealing that his partner was named Emanuel Lewis. I knew this because I saw his lips moving. But I was fixated on the image of the little dude from
Webster
starting a new career as a suburban cop. How had Duane Wormley, the
Record
’s fluff piece maven, missed this human interest story? I scanned the courtroom for Emmanuel and settled on the only African American in the gallery.

Damn. Webster got big.

I semi-heard Lipscomb ask, “What happened next?”

“I was scanning the gathered crowd. It is often the case that an arsonist will stick around to watch the result of his efforts. So when I spotted a male in a red T-shirt, carrying a duffel bag, I alerted my partner. As I covered him, my partner rushed across the street, and proceeded to take down and arrest Mr. Beniquez on suspicion of arson and murder.”

“You read him his rights?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you then check the contents of his duffel bag?”

“We did.”

“What did you find?”

“Two empty gasoline cans.”

The gallery, and the jurors around me, began to murmur. Bob looked back at me and whispered, “This is getting good, isn’t it?”

I didn’t respond, but it was.

“Are the cans you found in the possession of Mr. Beniquez the ones entered as Exhibit A?” Lipscomb continued.

“Yes, they are.”

More rumbles from the crowd. I looked over at Jack, who was sitting in the back of the courtroom, arms crossed. Then I turned my attention to the defendant’s father, who had stood up from his seat. I wasn’t sure whether the judge or prosecutor had noticed, because they didn’t say anything as Carlos Beniquez walked forward, crouched when he reached the railing that separated the folks in the gallery from the main players, and removed a wooden panel about the size of a cutting board.

Now everyone was watching the self-made, hard-working carpenter as he stood and flashed a handgun he’d produced from the gaping hole where the panel used to be.

He was trembling just a little.

“Your gun,” he said, pointing his weapon evenly at the surprised bailiff. “Take it out and put it on the floor, or I start shooting.” He cleared his throat, and spoke again, louder this time. “If anyone tries to leave, I will shoot them.”

The bailiff took his gun from its holster, his withered hands shaking, as he placed it on the floor.

Carlos walked over, picked up the gun, and shoved it into the waistband of his slacks.

I saw Jack instinctively reach for a weapon that wasn’t under her armpit and come back with an empty hand.

No one tried to leave the courtroom.

  
 

R
ather than fear, the first thing I felt was astonishment.

The defendant’s father was pointing his gun at the jury, doing a slow, steady sweep.

But how did he get a weapon? How could he have stashed it in court?

I glanced first at Officer James on the stand, then at Officer Lewis in the gallery, both unarmed, probably because shoulder holsters would ruin the lines of their expensive, tailored suits.

Fail. But not as big a fail as me asking Phin to stay outside. While the arresting officers no doubt had military training, they likely had no idea how to react in a hostage situation. But Phin and I had plenty of experience in this area.

A moot point. I was unarmed, Phin wasn’t here, and things had gotten very bad very fast.

That’s when the fear came, like swallowing a large, cold stone.

People could die.

I could die.

Malvo was frantically pushing something under his desk. Then I remembered that most courtrooms are equipped with a panic button. The look on the judge’s face, and the fact that no one had come rushing in to see what was going on, told me this one wasn’t working.

The gunman signaled to the gallery. “Felipe, lock the doors.”

The tall Hispanic man I’d sat behind earlier slowly stood. The expression on his face suggested that what was happening was as much a surprise to him as to the rest of us. He walked to the back of the courtroom and turned the heavy bolt on the large oak doors.

“Now the latch at the top,” the gunman said, pointing to a brass slide lock that appeared to be brand new.

“Now look, you,” Judge Malvo, raising his voice as he began working toward standing.

“Sit down, judge. Don’t make me hurt anyone.”

Malvo grimaced, muttered something under his breath and slowly eased himself back into his chair.

“No cell phones,” the gunman said, then directed the bailiff, “Lock the door to the judge’s chambers.”

The old man did as instructed without protest or hesitation.

“Now the other door, on this side.”

The bailiff exchanged looks with Malvo as he walked across the front of the bench and for a moment I hoped they had some sort of pre-determined code, and maybe the bailiff would make a run for it, though running was probably a bit too much to expect, and go get help. But all he did was lock the door and shuffle back to his post.

“I don’t want to shoot nobody, but I must protect my son and get the truth. Everyone take your hands out of your pockets, and put your purses on the floor. If you don’t, I will shoot you.”

Everyone listened. I don’t know what the gunman actually hoped to accomplish with this stunt, but desperate men do desperate things. Was he really hoping to break Tony out of custody? Once he left the courthouse, how far did he think he’d get? And how was he going to get out now that he’d secured all of the doors?

Facing away from the bench, eyes continuously scanning the courtroom, the gunman took several deliberate steps back, until he was no more than a dozen feet from Judge Malvo.

Malvo looked like he was ready to throw up.

On the far right of the judge’s bench, the court reporter, a woman in her mid-forties, her bottle-colored black hair cropped short in an indistinct style, had stopped typing. She started up again, however, when the defendant stood and said, “Papa, don’t do this.”

The defendant was standing behind the table, the assistant attorney clutching his arm.

“Sit down, Tony,” his father ordered.

“You’re going to get into trouble for this. I’ll be okay. The jury will figure out I’m not guilty.”

“No, no mijo, they won’t. These people are trying to set you up. All they want is to send you to jail.”

The gunman waved his weapon around the room, causing several onlookers to slump in their chairs. Then he pointed to the gas cans with his free hand. “My son did not do this!”

I rifled through my options, they weren’t especially encouraging. No doubt someone in the room had discreetly dialed 911, or someone on the outside figured out what was happening, so the place would be surrounded soon. I could announce myself as a police officer, try to talk Mr. Beniquez down, but he didn’t seem enamored with cops at that moment. The best course of action was to wait for the cavalry to arrive.

James and Emmanuel each looked fidgety, and I worried that one of them might do something stupid and endanger themselves, civilians, or me.

“No, your son did not do this.”

The voice didn’t come from the gallery or behind the bench, where Judge Malvo’s face, slick with sweat, was turning different degrees of pale. It came from the jury box, and I didn’t have to look to know whom it belonged to.

“Como se llama, usted?”

I’d never heard Chapa speak Spanish before, never gave it any thought, really. The gunman turned to face him, and I knew what James was thinking. If the guy let his guard down…

“Que?” the gunman asked, clearly surprised to see someone standing in the jury box, hands raised.

“Su nombre? Como se llama?”

“Me llamo Carlos, Carlos Beniquez.”

Chapa nodded and began to make his way out of the jury box. What the hell was he doing?

“Yo se que su hijo es innocente. El no hizo por lo que esta acusado.” Chapa seemed to be searching for the last word, which told me his Spanish might not be all that good. In which case, we might be one verbal misstep away from things turning even uglier.

Seeing the gunman’s attention had been momentarily divided, Lewis stood from where he was seated near the back of the gallery. But he didn’t get far with whatever he’d planned because Carlos Beniquez quickly turned and pointed the gun at him.

“You sit down.”

“Just let me pull out my cell phone and call someone who can—”

“Sit down now!”

“—who can help resolve this situation in a peaceful—”

“Do I have to shoot you? Or shoot someone else?”

I saw Lewis glance over at James, who calmly nodded. Lewis slowly sat down, but Carlos kept the gun trained on him, until he seemed to remember Chapa.

“Are you a cop?” Carlos asked, without switching back to Spanish.

Chapa shook his head.

“No.”

“A lawyer?”

“No, even better,” Chapa said, and struck a pose that would’ve put John Wayne to shame. “My name is Alex Chapa, I’m a newspaper reporter. And I know your son is innocent.”

I rolled my eyes and swore under my breath. Maybe Chapa had never been shot at, so perhaps his fear of loaded weapons and unstable gunmen wasn’t as healthy as it needed to be. Whatever he had in mind—and I knew Chapa well enough to know there had to be something knocking around in there—was risky as hell.

But in the silence that followed, I didn’t hear the sounds of rescue sirens. I didn’t hear a hostage negotiator calling to us with a megaphone from the street. I didn’t hear the court phone ring.

I remembered where we were. Not in the heart of Chicago, where help, in the form of backup, a SWAT team, or hostage specialist, was never too far away, but in a sleepy suburb, where news still traveled slowly.

Right then, we were on our own.

And Chapa was risking making things a whole lot worse.