The Innocence Game Part 25

The shank tickled my cheek, and I could feel his breath in my ear. He'd take my life. And so easily. That was the part that really p.i.s.sed me off.

I reached back and clawed again at his face. Randall grabbed a hunk of hair and pulled my head back. I waited for the slash across the throat and the blood. Preferred it to anything else my cellmate might have planned. Instead, the pressure eased. Randall climbed back into his berth. I pulled myself off the floor and crawled back into mine. Minutes pa.s.sed. I closed my eyes and listened to my own strangled breathing until it settled. It was my cellmate who spoke first.

"You're in for rape."

My eyes flicked open.

"Them cops offered me a deal to snitch."

"Why?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing. What's your name?"

"Ian. Ian Joyce."

"Well, Ian Joyce, the machine got you now. So maybe it don't matter."

"Why did you let me go?"

"That's my business." There was a pause. Then the steel shank dropped from the upper bunk onto mine. Its handle was wrapped in gray tape. "Next time someone gets up in you like I did, stick him. First time. First thing. Maybe you'll be all right."

"I'm not gonna be in here too long."

Randall rolled over and yawned. "Keep the shank. And learn how to use it."

Five minutes later, my cellmate was snoring. The adrenaline rush had left me jittery, and I had no idea what time it was. I only knew there was no way I was going to fall asleep. Right up until I did exactly that.

Somewhere a steel door slid open and slammed shut. I opened my eyes and studied the springs on the bottom of Randall's bunk. The shank he'd given me was under my pillow. I felt for it. The footsteps got closer, then stopped. A female officer stood just outside my cell. She had a set of cuffs and a belly chain in her hands.

"Ian Joyce?"

I came up off my bunk. I'd never been so happy to hear my name. "I'm Joyce."

"Back up, please."

I moved back from the bars and wondered how long I'd been out. The officer came in and cuffed me. Randall kept his face turned to the wall. The officer took me to an interrogation room with a tinted mirror running the length of one wall. I sat in a chair and swore to myself, no matter what, I wouldn't go back to the cell. Then the door opened. Coursey came in alone. He was wearing a different suit than the last time I saw him and carrying a soft briefcase with a Chicago police crest on it.

"How you doing, college boy?"

"I'd like a lawyer."

Coursey pulled out a set of keys. "How about I undo those bracelets?" He stepped close and undid my handcuffs, then the belly chain. "Better?"

"Thanks."

"You know where you are?" Coursey wrapped and unwrapped the chain around the meat of his fist as he spoke.

"I'm in a police station."

"You're in the fun house, son." Coursey gestured to the gla.s.s behind him. "Two-way mirror, right?"

"I suppose so."

"Ain't no one back there." He clattered the chain down on the table and unzipped the briefcase. From inside it, he pulled out a clear plastic bag.

"I like this. Put it over the f.u.c.ker's head and watch him turn blue." Coursey held the bag up in front of me. "How long you think it would take before you signed whatever I wanted you to sign? I can tell you ... not long."

The plastic bag disappeared, replaced by a black folder. "Know what this is?"

I shook my head.

"Believe it or not, it's worse than a f.u.c.king bag over your head. This here is evidence. More than enough to punch your ticket to Stateville. I figure you for dead inside a month. And it won't be pretty."

"If you don't have the b.a.l.l.s to do it yourself, Detective, just say so."

Coursey was no different than my cellmate. If he wanted to have his fun, he'd have to work for it.

"Where were you last night?"

The question caught me off guard. Maybe that was the point, because I found myself answering.

"I went out for a beer."

"Where?"

"Pete Miller's Steakhouse. It's in Evanston."

Coursey took out a pad of paper and wrote something down. "Who were you with?"

"I was by myself."

The detective looked up, then returned to his questions. "How about after Miller's?"

"I went home."

"What time?"

"Eleven. Eleven-thirty."

Coursey put the pad aside and looked at me. Then he read me my rights. "You understand all that?"

He should have done that before he started to question me, but I got the sense it didn't really matter. In the end, it would happen whatever way Coursey said it happened.

"Am I under arrest?" I said.

"Shut up." Another pause. "You were home by eleven-thirty?"

"Yes."

He was back to taking notes. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"I told you. My house was empty except for me."

Coursey pulled a picture out of the unmarked folder and put it down in front of me. "This was taken from a traffic camera on Sarah Gold's block. You see that?"

I knew what Coursey was pointing to. It was my car, idling under a streetlight.

"We had the plates blown up," Coursey said. "Your car, Joyce. The time stamp is twelve forty-seven a.m." Coursey held up a thick finger. "First lie. Breaks the cherry. You want to keep going?"

"Since when is it illegal to sit in your car on the street?"

Coursey nodded his head. He had me talking now and knew I wouldn't stop. He reached into his folder again. This time it was a close-up of Sarah Gold. Her left eye was half closed. The other stared back at me.

"Banged her around pretty good, Joyce."

I pushed the picture away.

"What were you doing in the car?"

"I want a lawyer."

"We have a witness who saw you on her street. Witness puts it at around two-thirty."

"Your witness is mistaken."

Coursey shook his head and chuckled. He pulled out a third photo and stacked it on top of the first two. "How about this one, college boy?"

It looked like another shot from a traffic camera. My profile, caught in a wash of light. I had my hands jammed in my pockets and was walking toward Sarah Gold's apartment. It was bad, but not nearly enough for a jury. At least that's what I hoped. And then there was Sarah herself. What would she say?

"She didn't see her attacker," Coursey said, seeming to read my mind. "And you're probably thinking none of this is enough."

I felt my face grow hot. Definitely reading my mind.

"If you were a n.i.g.g.e.r," Coursey said, "or a spic, forget it. You'd be flushed in a heartbeat. But you're not a n.i.g.g.e.r. And Sarah Gold is whiter than you are. People are gonna care about her. And they're gonna remember you. That's why we're gonna get the rest." Coursey began to pack up his materials.

"The rest of what?" I said.

"Forensics. From what I hear, they pulled a nice load out of her."

The first thing I thought of was Sarah and Jake-a jumble of images that flared and died in the same breath. "Are you saying there's DNA to test?"

"And they say Northwestern's a dummy school."

"I didn't rape her, Detective. And I didn't have consensual s.e.x with her."

"The second part, I believe."

"If there's material to test, then I'll be cleared. Simple as that."

"You just don't get it, do you, college boy?" Coursey walked behind my chair and hooked me up, squeezing the cuffs until they bit. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear. "If we decide we need someone's DNA somewhere, we figure out a way. Whatever it takes." Coursey picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. "Welcome to the fun house, Joyce. Make yourself at home."

And then he left.

36.

I sat in the room and tried to latch onto a productive train of thought. But all I could think about was DNA. If they had it. If they really had it. James Harrison's face flashed before my eyes. And the others. Mug shots and numbers. Case files stacked up. Shelf after shelf. Paper and ink. Now flesh and blood. My flesh. My blood. Fifteen minutes crawled by. Then another fifteen. My hands were numb from the pinch of the cuffs. Maybe that was Coursey's plan. Cut off my circulation and kill me in pieces. Hands, arms, legs. I'd wind up like the Black Knight from Monty Python. I thought about that scene and almost laughed. Jesus, I was f.u.c.king delirious. Maybe that was Coursey's plan. I figured he was watching, so I made my face blank. Just then the doork.n.o.b turned. Someone was trying to get back into the room. Asking for a key. m.u.f.fled voices. Then the sound of metal sc.r.a.ping inside a lock. The k.n.o.b turned again, and the door opened. Judy Zombrowksi walked in.

"You make a splash, Mr. Joyce. I'll give you that."

Z took the chair Coursey had been sitting in. Vince Rodriguez followed close behind. The detective walked around and snapped off my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists and looked at my professor.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Z shook her head.

"Where's Sarah?"

"Never mind about Sarah. You need to focus on you."

Neither of my visitors seemed inclined to say anything further, so I waited.

"You realize why you're here?" Z said.

"I didn't rape Sarah."

"You were seen outside her apartment in the middle of the night."

Z must have spoken with Coursey. I wondered if she was part of his strategy. Maybe she was being used by the cops. Get her to get me talking. But wasn't I already talking? And why was Rodriguez here?

On cue, he spoke. "Ian, we're going to take a ride."

"When?"

"Right now. We'll fill you in as we drive."

They took me out a side entrance. Z on one side. Rodriguez on the other. Coursey was nowhere in sight. We walked through a fenced-in police lot to a silver Crown Vic. It felt like the middle of the night, but I couldn't be sure. Rodriguez directed me to the backseat of the car. Z got in beside me. I very much noticed they didn't cuff me.

Rodriguez pulled out of the parking lot and stopped at a red light. "How are you feeling, Ian?"

"Hungry."