because you must be smoking serious crack if you think I’m signing a confession to anything. You’re nuts, it won’t even hold up in court. I asked for a lawyer and you refused, that’s enough to throw everything out as is. Shit, I still haven’t been Mirandized. None of this will hold up.”
“If it won’t hold up in a court of law then there’s no reason for you not to sign it, right? So sign it, we’ll get you a court-appointed lawyer and you can make your case before the judge.”
“I’m not signing anything, I’m not confessing to anything. Fuck you.”
Another hard hook to the kidneys from Collins and this time Slick yelled out loud. Brower just shook his head, packed up his stuff but left the sheet of paper on the table. He stood and stared at Slick a moment, waiting for him to catch his breath.
“Let me explain something to you, Jon, in simple words so you’ll understand. I’m stepping out of this room for a few minutes. While I’m gone, you’re gonna have a choice before you, and it’s this. You either sign that confession or Wally here is going to beat you to death. I’m not exaggerating or speaking metaphorically, he will kill you with his bare hands, he’s done it before, he likes it.
“You’ll die here, in this room, and no one will bat an eyelash about it. Trust me on that. Your only out is to sign that confession.”
Slick thought but a moment on that. Nodded. “Everyone’s gotta die at some point, here is just as good as anywhere.”
Brower shook his head in mock sadness, nodded to Collins and opened the door. Loud shouts echoed out in the main office area. Heated, angry words peppered with colorful profanity bounced off the walls. Slick smiled when he heard them.
“You know who’s doing the shouting, deputy?” Slick asked.
Brower stopped. Stared at Slick.
“You don’t, but I do, I know exactly who it is. And if I were you, I’d put a leash on this steroid freak of yours here, at least until you find out what’s going on. It’d be in your best interest. Just my advice, of course, the choice is yours. We all have choices.”
Brower listened to the shouting and considered it.
Finally, he jerked his chin at Collins, who stepped back, glowering. It was true, the pimple-scarred bastard had wanted to beat Slick to death, Slick could see it. Brower grabbed the unsigned confession and stuffed it into his pocket.
Slick let out a deep, deep breath of relief. That had been far too close.
4
“L isten to me, you piss-eyed bunch of inbred colicky pig-fuckers, if you don’t bring my friend Jon out here right fucking now, we’re gonna have a situation, I mean it!”
Thumper brought his fist down hard on the counter, cracking the glass. The well-fed deputy behind the counter flinched, unsure of what to do, and looked for help.
“Answer me, motherfucker! Where’s my friend?”
Thumper was not tall. That was the first thing most people noted. He wasn’t a tall man. Five-foot five or thereabouts, but his chest and arms were corded with hard muscle, he walked light on the balls of his feet and the scar tissue around his eyes and nose suggested he’d done a lot of fighting on a professional level, which he had. Anyone just glancing at him could sense the danger as Thumper held himself as a man capable of handing out a considerable amount of physical damage to anyone at any time.
And he was supremely pissed. The fat deputy, named Moore, looked around for salvation, but no one wanted any part of this problem. What was shocking to all the uniformed men in the room was that Thumper had absolutely no fear of them whatsoever. They weren’t used to that, even from a fellow white man. Moore cleared his throat and tried to take control.
“You need to calm down, your friend is being processed—”
“Bullshit, save that horse-hockey for the cheap seats. He was arrested yesterday, fat boy, so he was processed yesterday. Don’t fucking lie to me, asshole. Bring him out here,
“If it won’t hold up in a court of law then there’s no reason for you not to sign it, right? So sign it, we’ll get you a court-appointed lawyer and you can make your case before the judge.”
“I’m not signing anything, I’m not confessing to anything. Fuck you.”
Another hard hook to the kidneys from Collins and this time Slick yelled out loud. Brower just shook his head, packed up his stuff but left the sheet of paper on the table. He stood and stared at Slick a moment, waiting for him to catch his breath.
“Let me explain something to you, Jon, in simple words so you’ll understand. I’m stepping out of this room for a few minutes. While I’m gone, you’re gonna have a choice before you, and it’s this. You either sign that confession or Wally here is going to beat you to death. I’m not exaggerating or speaking metaphorically, he will kill you with his bare hands, he’s done it before, he likes it.
“You’ll die here, in this room, and no one will bat an eyelash about it. Trust me on that. Your only out is to sign that confession.”
Slick thought but a moment on that. Nodded. “Everyone’s gotta die at some point, here is just as good as anywhere.”
Brower shook his head in mock sadness, nodded to Collins and opened the door. Loud shouts echoed out in the main office area. Heated, angry words peppered with colorful profanity bounced off the walls. Slick smiled when he heard them.
“You know who’s doing the shouting, deputy?” Slick asked.
Brower stopped. Stared at Slick.
“You don’t, but I do, I know exactly who it is. And if I were you, I’d put a leash on this steroid freak of yours here, at least until you find out what’s going on. It’d be in your best interest. Just my advice, of course, the choice is yours. We all have choices.”
Brower listened to the shouting and considered it.
Finally, he jerked his chin at Collins, who stepped back, glowering. It was true, the pimple-scarred bastard had wanted to beat Slick to death, Slick could see it. Brower grabbed the unsigned confession and stuffed it into his pocket.
Slick let out a deep, deep breath of relief. That had been far too close.
4
“L isten to me, you piss-eyed bunch of inbred colicky pig-fuckers, if you don’t bring my friend Jon out here right fucking now, we’re gonna have a situation, I mean it!”
Thumper brought his fist down hard on the counter, cracking the glass. The well-fed deputy behind the counter flinched, unsure of what to do, and looked for help.
“Answer me, motherfucker! Where’s my friend?”
Thumper was not tall. That was the first thing most people noted. He wasn’t a tall man. Five-foot five or thereabouts, but his chest and arms were corded with hard muscle, he walked light on the balls of his feet and the scar tissue around his eyes and nose suggested he’d done a lot of fighting on a professional level, which he had. Anyone just glancing at him could sense the danger as Thumper held himself as a man capable of handing out a considerable amount of physical damage to anyone at any time.
And he was supremely pissed. The fat deputy, named Moore, looked around for salvation, but no one wanted any part of this problem. What was shocking to all the uniformed men in the room was that Thumper had absolutely no fear of them whatsoever. They weren’t used to that, even from a fellow white man. Moore cleared his throat and tried to take control.
“You need to calm down, your friend is being processed—”
“Bullshit, save that horse-hockey for the cheap seats. He was arrested yesterday, fat boy, so he was processed yesterday. Don’t fucking lie to me, asshole. Bring him out here,
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