The Red Zone Read online

  On her way out of the kitchen, Charlene heard a small noise in the garage. She stopped and listened. Yes. There it was again. She wasn't afraid. Her neighborhood, although modest, didn't have a crime problem. And, besides, she had nothing anyone would really want to steal. She opened the door slowly and reached around in the dark for the switch.

  "Luther?" she said out loud.

  Charlene sensed the large dark shape of a man. She turned to run, but a strong hand suddenly clapped across her mouth. Her neck was encircled with a muscular forearm that began choking her. She fell backward and tried to scream. She struggled wildly, but the grip on her mouth was so tight that the only sound she made was that of her bare heels thumping uselessly against the linoleum floor. A knee came up into the middle of her back, jolting her with pain and causing her legs to go limp. Her eyes were wide with shock as she felt herself being dragged slowly back into the garage. Upside down, in the dim light from above the stove, Charlene saw his face. The thing she had always feared more than anything was there, wild, foaming, let loose. The wide deadly eyes of a madman. Tears streamed down her face and her head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side before the lack of oxygen to her brain caused Charlene to lose consciousness.

  When Lawrence pulled up to Charlene Kings house, his heart skipped a beat. Two Sunrise police patrol cars filled the small semicircular driveway. The driver-side door of the first patrol car was wide open, as was the front door to the house.

  "What the shit?" Lawrence uttered, looking sideways at his partner, who shrugged his shoulders.

  Lawrence pulled over to the curb and he and Gill popped out of their car. The Broward County deputy sheriff they were with pulled in behind them. Lawrence looked back and waited for the Broward deputy, whose name was MacDougal. MacDougal adjusted his hat in the reflection of his car window before sauntering over.

  "Looks like the locals got here before you," MacDougal commented smugly, eyeing the Sunrise cars.

  "Really?" Gill said, deadpan.

  "Lets see whats what," MacDougal said, puffing out his chest and heading for the door.

  The three of them almost bumped into the Sunrise patrolmen coming out of the house with a little boy who was clearly distraught.

  "Gentlemen, I'm Deputy Orin MacDougal, with the Sheriff's Department," the deputy said, extending his hand without a hint of the condescension he felt. It was ten times harder to be with the Sheriff's Department. Almost anyone without a criminal record could get a job as a local cop. But MacDougal wasn't the kind of guy to lord that over someone.

  The Sunrise police seemed confused.

  "I'm here to serve a search warrant with these detectives from Palm Beach County," MacDougal explained. "How about you guys?"

  "We've got a possible missing person," the taller cop said. "Got a nine-one-one a couple of hours ago from this kid here. Says his mom was here last night, then, bingo, he wakes up this morning and nothing, no one. They live here together, alone. There's no sign of struggle or nothing. Bingo, she's just gone. Kid says the mom's boyfriend is Luther Zorn, the Marauders player. I don't know. I guess we'll try to get in touch with him, see if he knows anything about the mom."

  Lawrence looked to Gill. Gill shrugged again.

  Lawrence cleared his throat and said to MacDougal, "Well, Deputy, I don't know if it's got anything to do with what we're here for, but why don't we proceed with our search?"

  Lawrence had been warned to conduct the search strictly by the book. This was MacDougal's jurisdiction. It made Lawrence sick, really, all the care and concern about doing everything just so. These days police work was more form than anything else. Killers roamed free because of undotted "is" and uncrossed "t's."

  MacDougal nodded. "We've got a warrant to search, so, we're gonna search the house. Um, I guess, well, what are you guys gonna do with the kid?"

  "Taking him to Social Services, I guess," the tall cop said in an incongruously high-pitched voice.

  MacDougal squatted down in front of Jamal and said, "Where's your mom at, pal?"

  Jamal shook his head that he didn't know, but said nothing. He was fingering some kind of pendant that hung from a gold chain around his neck.

  Gill gave a low whistle and quietly said, "Nice work, MacDougal."

  "He don't say much," the tall Sunrise cop said.

  MacDougal scowled and stood up before he addressed the tall cop. "Well, I better get your names in case I need to follow up."

  "Go ahead on in," MacDougal said to Lawrence importantly, acting as if Gill was not worth noticing.

  By the time MacDougal had all the information he thought he needed from the Sunrise police, Lawrence and Gill had already hit pay dirt. Gill was taking photos of some scuba equipment the two of them had found jammed into a trunk in a locked closet inside the garage. Lawrence leaned back against the maroon Toyota Camry that was parked in the musty-smelling garage.

  "Got what you're looking for, huh?" MacDougal said, sidling up to Lawrence.

  "Got just what we're looking for," Lawrence said grimly. Then he turned to MacDougal and said, "Nice work, Deputy."

  MacDougal wasn't sure if Lawrence really meant it, or if he was somehow making fun. So, without a word, he opened the overhead garage door and went outside to sit in his car. When they were through marking the evidence and loading it into the back of their unmarked Crown Vic, Lawrence went over to thank MacDougal again through the open window of his Caprice Classic. MacDougal looked straight ahead, giving only a nod to let Lawrence know he'd been heard before throwing the Caprice into gear and driving off.

  Lawrence slid into his own car beside his partner and said, "A different kind of guy."

  "A dumbass," Gill said.

  Even though it was November, the afternoon sun was bright and hot. Just the hint of a breeze wafted across the dusty dry grass of the Marauders' practice field. The horizon to the east was marred by an eight-lane interstate highway, raised above the swampy landscape. To the north was the West Palm Beach Municipal Stadium. Everything else surrounding the practice field, beyond the acres of parking lots, was overgrown wetland rich with green tropical vegetation. The cars cruising by on the raised highway glinted like broken shards of mirror on a slow-moving assembly belt. Not a single player noticed when several bulky white television vans and an unmarked sheriff's car exited the highway, spiraled down the ramp, and sped directly toward them.

  Sweat ran down Luther's face and he drew deep breaths to recover his wind. They were nearing the end of practice and it had been a long day. The coaching staff seemed to be working them double time in preparation for the upcoming Dallas game. Opposite him, the team's third-string quarterback mimicked the cadence of Troy Aikman, the Cowboys' quarterback, whom Luther and his team would face for real this Sunday The ball was snapped, and the Aikman stand-in pivoted, then handed the ball off to another third-string Marauders player, this one disguised in a number twenty-two jersey as Emmitt Smith. Luther knew from the formation and the complex pattern of movement in front of him that Emmitt's double, although moving to the right, would cut back to Luther's left. Luther changed his direction before anyone else and accelerated up to the line of scrimmage, meeting the runner in the hole and upending him with a tremendous crack. Luther's defensive teammates whooped out loud, even though it was just a practice play.

  Luther allowed himself a smile and a few hand slaps. It was a good feeling to watch something time after time on the video screen, recognize what it was you had to do, and do it. It was a feeling of accomplishment that reinforced Luther's belief that with careful planning, you could negotiate your way through life as if it were a video game, scooping up treasures and deftly avoiding pitfalls.

  He looked to the sideline for the coach to signal the next play. Luthers back was to the stadium and the parking lot where the TV vans were pushing their satellite output antennae slowly toward the sky. Reporters and cameramen unloaded like storm troopers and jogged toward the field, trying to catch up with the two detectives in
dark suits and sunglasses.

  Luther relayed the play to his huddled teammates. It wasn't that the players and coaches were unobservant. It just wasn't uncommon to see television cameras and reporters scurrying about like schoolkids vying for the first place in line. The offense ran another play. This time, Aikman's body-double threw a wobbling pass, a poor imitation of the real thing. Luther dropped into his zone to cover a tight end and watched the pass float overhead like a wounded bird and drop out of bounds near the detectives, who were advancing. Luther noticed them for the first time and froze. He knew instinctively what was happening, but he couldn't decide what he should do. This was one play he hadn't seen on film. It was something he hadn't even imagined.

  Lawrence and Gill went for Luther. For all his prowess amid the cattle-sized men that huddled on that field, Luther seemed to be intimidated by the two men in suits. The cameramen tried to get close.

  "Luther Zorn," Lawrence said, "you're under arrest for the murder of Evan Chase."

  The words left everyone stunned and silent, and seemed to resonate across the field. Gill grabbed Luther's left wrist and twisted it behind his back. Luther spun toward the detective and swung a forearm into his shoulder, knocking Gill to the grass.

  Lawrence grabbed Luther's jersey and tried to pull him down. Luther swung an elbow toward the detective's head, but missed. Then Luther broke into a run, churning his legs and digging up clods of dirt and grass against the weight of the detective, who held fast to his uniform. In an incredible display of balance and strength, Luther kept churning but twisted his body about in a full circle as he ran. Lawrence couldn't hold on. He fell to earth as Luther streaked for the opposite sideline. He passed his open-mouthed teammates and kept going, heading straight for the undergrowth. Cameramen jogged after him across the far parking lot as far as their untrained lungs would allow. Luther never slowed. He hit the treeline and disappeared. Gill and Lawrence were smart enough not to chase him. Instead, they scrambled for their car to call in a chopper and some dogs. Lawrence cursed himself and his partner. Kratch would kill them for this.

  Chapter 18

  Madison listened intently to the scrawny fifteen-year-old kid. They were separated by a small Formica table. The boys wart-covered fingers fidgeted with the word Jiick, which had been scratched into the pale yellow tabletop by some previous inmate. His dirty blond hair was greasy and too long. It hung down in front of his face like a tattered curtain. Madison had to control the urge to reach across the table and sweep it back. Behind the hair was a pair of electric-blue eyes, alert, but scared as hell.

  The boy had killed his mother s boyfriend with a Colt .45 revolver. Shot him once, right through the heart, with a hollow-point slug. The incident took place when the mother sent the boy back to her boyfriends apartment to retrieve her clothes. After the last of many bitter fights, she had finally decided to leave. The boy snuck in through a window and was stuffing his mothers clothes into a battered suitcase when the boyfriend caught him. The gun was in the drawer. The boyfriend, a big potbellied truck driver in his mid-thirties, advanced on the kid, scornfully taunting the boy, saying he didnt have the guts to use the weapon. The blond-haired boy had been beaten by the boyfriend before, and was deathly afraid of the older man. He shut his eyes and pulled the trigger. The circumstances seemed not to affect the sympathies of the Travis County DA's office. They weren't even conceding the bigger, older man's threat of violence. Nor were they conceding the boy's act of self-defense. They were going for murder, and under the new statutory guidelines they would press for the defendant to be tried as an adult. He faced life in prison.

  This case was a free one, practically. Madison would be remunerated by the court, but only at the rate of twenty dollars an hour. Lately, she was able to bill her paying clients as much as four hundred an hour. Madison still took on pro bono cases, offering the best defense money could buy to those who often needed it most but who could afford it least. It helped her conscience, too, to know that people like Donald Fears paid the freight for kids like the one sitting before her.

  Madison glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She had to get back to her office and wrap things up if she was going to make it home in time for dinner. It was already four-thirty.

  "All right, Glen," she said. "I think I've got everything I need for now. Your mom told me she's trying to get together the money she needs for your bail, so hopefully we can get you out of here pretty soon. Are you okay?"

  The boy nodded. He was naturally taciturn, and Madison doubted he would say anything but that he was okay, even if he was on a train bound straight for hell.

  Back in her office, a memo from Chris Pelo stared at her from the middle of her desk. It was an outline for a plan to recruit a defensive lineman named Clay Blackwell, who played for the New Y>rk Giants. Madison glanced at it briefly and sighed. She had to give Chris credit for his persistence, and his planning. It was laid out for her exactly when she should place calls to the player and what the theme of each conversation should be, along with a list of points that she should make sure to get across. When she learned that Chris had done the same thing for Marty Cahn and that the strategy had proved overwhelmingly successful, she wondered at Chris's inability to make these contacts himself.

  "Madison?"

  She looked up to see Chris himself standing there in her doorway.

  "Chris, come in," she said, "I was just thinking that you don't really need my--"

  "Madison, you've got to see this," Chris said, cutting her off and switching on a small TV that rested in the corner of her bookshelf.

  Madison looked to Chris for an explanation, but he had his back to her and was watching solemnly as CNN came out of a commercial. Madison's eyes widened and her mouth slowly opened as she watched Luther Zorn being led from a Florida swamp, handcuffed between two SWAT officers, still wearing his football pants and cleats underneath a torn and filthy T-shirt. The anchorwoman's voice ran on while pictures of helicopters flying overhead appeared on the screen. The anchorwoman outlined the story of how the star football player had broken free from local sheriffs who had attempted to arrest him for the murder of Evan Chase. The screen was suddenly filled with a flattering shot of Chase, looking rakish and almost handsome. Then footage of Luther's escape from the practice field was shown while the anchorwoman explained that he had eluded capture for over three hours by hiding in nearby swamps before being cornered by police helicopters and dogs.

  Following a live report from a correspondent outside the Palm Beach Sheriff's Office, which detailed Luther's background, Chris turned down the volume and looked at Madison.

  "Unbelievable," she whispered.

  Chris nodded.

  "I know what you're thinking," she said, looking at her phone as if she expected it to ring at any moment.

  "I don't know Florida procedure," Madison said. It was the best she could come up with. "I've never tried a case outside Texas ..."

  Chris looked at her skeptically and said, "You can get local counsel to help you through the rough spots. Other famous lawyers have tried cases between states. It's not unheard of. If we try to back out of this, we'll never get another client in the league. Luther will make it known that we went back on our word, all our talk about loyalty--"

  "We said nothing about representing him in a murder trial," Madison protested, but it sounded weak, even to her.

  "We promised him our loyalty as agents, as attorneys," Chris said. "If a client got into a scrape with the IRS, I'd be expected to help them. That's the way it is."

  Madison was quiet for a few moments. Then she said, "I don't really think I'm a 'famous' lawyer."

  Chris said nothing. He just looked.

  "Well?" he said, finally.

  "I don't know," she said. "Do you think he planned it this way? All that talk about loyalty . . ."

  Chris shrugged and gave her a pained look. "Loyalty is probably something a guy like Luther hasn't seen much of in his life," he said. "It's not that unusual for
a player to demand it. Besides, it certainly wouldn't hurt your practice."

  "I was surprised at how easily we signed him," Madison said, almost as if she was speaking to herself. "Chase was killed before the ink was dry on that contract, and I'm certainly better qualified to represent him in a murder trial than I am in a contract negotiation ..."

  "I don't know," Chris said, "maybe it's just a coincidence."

  Madison stared at Chris and said, "You know as well as I do that what looks like a coincidence may really just be nothing more than careful planning."

  Chapter 19

  Aaron Crawford was a sad-looking man, with thick dark hair and fashionable silver-rimmed glasses. Despite his gloom, he looked quite a bit younger than his forty-eight years even though the meanness in his dark baleful eyes was immediately evident. He wore a pin-striped, double-breasted charcoal suit and a gold and black silk tie. He stood facing a window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, his posture as stiff as the heavily starched collar of his bright white shirt. Although the evening sky was heavy with gray storm clouds, the window afforded a grand view of the city of Memphis. In fact, the view gave Crawford the distinct impression that he was standing on top of the city.

  Crawford had his hands locked behind his back and his upper lip clamped between his teeth. As was most often the case, his plans were going well. However, as was always the case, he wanted everything, every single thing, to go his way. When that didnt happen, he was miserable. He prided himself on pushing people to their limits; and on having things exactly the way he wanted.