The Hitman: Dirty Rotters (8 page)

The judge entered from a side door and
sat. He was a short black man, bald with no facial hair, in his
late fifties, shuffling paperwork with a look like he would rather
be anywhere else. A door opened from the side wall and a tall
bailiff entered, leading a line of inmates, all handcuffed in the
front, all wearing blazing orange jump suits with serial numbers on
their chests. Some were old with worried faces, some were young
with rebellious eyes.

Pamela’s killer was in that mix of
life’s failures. I started to look at each one closely, trying to
decide which one I thought it would be. I ruled out all the women
and the scrawny men right away. That left about half of them. A few
of them were tall and muscular, really scruffy looking. One was
very sharp, clean cut, like a banker with devious eyes and a
wolfish grin. But Sally began to talk to me and I didn’t get the
chance to judge them all based on appearance.

“
You look tired,” Sally
said. “You drove non-stop.”

I simply nodded to her. I was too
anxious to feel weary.

I sat beside an elderly couple, who
both looked like they were in Sunday morning outfits. They were
holding hands tightly, sitting close to one another. Their faces
were mad. They moved nervously. Parents to one of the inmates in
orange, I figured.

“
You made it in time.”
Sally bent close and spoke quietly. Her breath was warm, thick with
coffee.

“
I just can’t believe this
is actually happening. It’s been three years.”

Twelve inmates were lined along the
wall to my right. There was a guard in the front of the line,
another at the end. Cameras were mounted to the ceilings in the
corners.

The judge made a motion, said a name,
and the first inmate left the line and walked slowly over to the
defendant’s podium and stood beside an appointed lawyer. The lawyer
held a look like he was getting paid regardless. Grey suit, hair
gelled straight back. Clean cut, no conscious.

“
He’s next,” Sally’s head
motioned towards the front. “After this loser.” Her angry voice
carried. I think she wanted it to.

“
Dirtbag, low-life.” A man
said behind us with a deep, commanding voice.

But I couldn’t see the head of the
line. Too many people shuffling around and there was a huge
biker-looking man in fourth place blocking the two in front of
him.

I nodded to Sally. “Thanks for
calling.”

She patted me gently on the left
shoulder. “I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

Sally walked away, to the back of the
room. I turned my head slightly to make out the men filling the
bench behind me. All uniformed cops. They were still making remarks
about the man standing, the one being charged for mugging several
senior citizens. I turned to see him. I paid close attention. The
room was dead quiet. All I could see was the back of him. He was
older than me, by about twenty years, I thought. Dark hair peppered
with grey with a dark beard. He said nothing. His head nodded once
when the judge asked him if he understood the charges.

“
He’s a coward,” one of the
cops behind me said. He had a deep voice. A very big man. “The
world ain’t got no place for a scumbag like this.”

“
He needs to pick on
someone his own size. He won’t be so lucky then.” the other
replied. His voice reminded me of a plastic fork compared to the
other’s deep commanding boom.

The judge banged his gavel. The tall
bailiff walked over to the man and escorted him away from the
stand. The two old folks beside me made a celebratory noise and
embraced one another. They were crying softly. Their bodies were
shaking. They were praising God for justice. I felt myself getting
caught up with emotions as well. It was a day for
justice.

The bailiff brought the man towards
the side of the room where other inmates were waiting. The man
looked down. His wrists were locked together with stainless cuffs.
He didn’t look concerned.

“
Burn in hell!” the old man
next to me blurted, as if he simply couldn’t hold it any
longer.

The cops behind me began talking to
the old folks beside me. I was listening because I had no choice. I
could barely hear the judge ask for the next inmate, but I missed
his name on the account of the cops trying to comfort the old
woman.

By now there was another man in an
orange jump suit standing before the judge. People directly in
front of me were exiting, while others were entering. Press were
taking pictures of him. All of it was a distraction. I had missed
his name and now his identity. The cops behind me kept talking,
though hushed somewhat, I heard every word.

“
This creep too,” the deep
voice said. “Woman killer.”

I stared blankly ahead and saw the
judge’s lips moving. I didn’t have a clue what the judge had asked,
but the guy standing there alone and whimpering nodded quickly. It
was all done so fast. I could feel myself getting angry. I wanted
to tell the cops behind me to shut up. I wanted to jump up and
attack the man who I believe just pleaded guilty to the death of
Pamela and a few other girls. I thought I was going to have a heart
attack right there.

Gavel banged.

“
Next,” the judge
said.

The tall bailiff escorted the man away
from the stand by the arm over to the wall with the other inmates
as before. I had to wait for the bailiff to move because he stayed
right in my line of sight. I was so anxious. My adrenaline was
pumping. My hands balled into fists. I could feel my face getting
hot. I began sweating.

“
I give him a week,” the
deep voice said behind me.

The man was going to die in jail, is
what they were saying. He wouldn’t make it to trial. Inmates would
beat him to death. I was happy then. I wanted him to die. I wanted
him to suffer. It was a terribly dark feeling. I didn’t care if it
was wrong. Justice would be served.

I sat straight up, white knuckled,
with a hard look of vengeance as the bailiff walked over to another
inmate and escorted him to the stand leaving my eyes to focus
sharply on the man who admitted to killing the woman I
loved.

I saw his face. I saw into his eyes as
they looked nervously around the room and swept past
mine.

My breath caught in my
throat.

My jaw sagged open.

I was in stunned disbelief.

It was Angelo Garboni.

Chapter 7

I followed Sally home.

I sat numb. I didn’t remember leaving
the courthouse. Sally had stopped me in the parking lot and told me
I could stay at her house. She said I needed to sleep. I had been
up for about thirty hours straight. I agreed with no hesitation. I
watched her walk to her white Hummer H3 and get in, back out and
wave for me to follow. I got in the black El Camino SS and did so.
I didn’t remember turning the key, or putting it in drive, or
anything.

What I did remember was the look in
Angelo Garboni’s eyes. The look of an innocent man scared out of
his mind. Everything he knew and understood was flipped upside down
and pulled inside out. A captured animal. A sheep to slaughter. A
simple man whose greatest enjoyment came from collecting empty pop
cans, now was locked behind bars with ruthless men who enjoyed
cruel and demented acts on the innocent.

It was all a mistake. Justice was not
being served. Not like this.

How the hell did he get
mixed up in a mess like this?

According to the clock on the Kenwood
radio, we were at Sally’s house twenty minutes later. It was
nothing like what I had expected. A white picket fence was strung
up along the curb guarding two acres of lush green grass beyond.
The driveway was long, smooth blacktop. A small cottage sat nestled
between towering Elms. Flowerbeds lined the front of the house at
either side of the porch. It was an off white color, with light
pink shutters, and plenty of windows. It was well taken care of.
Sally Rhode surprised me.

She parked in front of the garage. It
was attached. I parked beside her. We got out and she led the way
around the house to the front porch and then inside. Hardwood
floors and oak paneling. There was a gas fireplace with circular
stone hearth a few feet from the door we came in. It had a ‘home’
feel to it. Open floor plan with plenty of natural light. Flowers
in vases, pictures on the wall in white frames. A large screen
television hung on the wall above the fireplace and the scent of
cinnamon filled the air. I told her it was nice. She nodded and
told me it was expensive and a lot of work.

Nothing at all as I had pictured it
would be.

“
I’ll get you a drink.
Orange juice okay?” Sally said. She walked to the
kitchen.

I slumped on the sofa. It was soft and
a shade lighter than pea green and easily the most comfortable
thing I have ever rested on. I could see Sally walk into the
kitchen, to the stainless refrigerator. Her kitchen table was made
out of knotty oak. The grain was very busy and I didn’t care for
it, other than the excellent shine. I watched her pour a large
glass of orange juice. I could very easily have been watching it
all unfold on a television late at night. I still felt numb. None
of it seemed to be real.

“
I can’t believe I’m back
here,” I said casually.

Sally came back and handed me the
glass, which I took and drank gratefully, realizing then how hungry
and thirsty I was, and she sat down in front of me on a chair that
looked soft and comfy, large enough for her to sit in and feel
swallowed. No easy task.

“
You think he’s innocent.”
She stated with no real emotion.

I nodded. The orange juice was great.
My favorite; no pulp. My glass was empty in a second. “He’s not a
killer, Sally. I know him. He has the mind of a child. Even
physically I don’t think he could manage. I just don’t see how it’s
possible.”

Blank stare. I didn’t know what she
was thinking. If she was thinking at all, really. Then she began,
leaned forward towards me like she was explaining something
important to a kid.

“
He did confess. Witnesses
can put him in the area.” She spoke gently. “People with simple
minds can still commit heinous crimes, even though they do not
always understand what they are doing.”

“
He’s innocent, Sally. Look
at him.”

“
We can’t judge someone
based on their appearance, Michael. You know that. And a confession
to a cold case is hardly something anyone in their right mind is
going to toss out simply because of someone’s less than
intimidating physical condition.”

“
I don’t care about the law
right now, Sally. I’m telling you that there’s no way on this
planet that Angelo Garboni killed anyone or anything in his
life!”

“
His confession states
otherwise.” Her face didn’t change. I was a kid who didn’t
understand the facts.

“
I need to talk to him,
Sally. You have to get me in to see him.”

“
His lawyer is being very
strict on who gets to see him. But I’ll find a way to get you in
later today.” She stood. “Listen Michael, I have a guest room all
set up. Why don’t you use it. Take a shower. Get some sleep. When I
get back later today we can catch up on everything.”

I didn’t want to wait. But I
understood. I must have looked like a train wreck. I stood as well
and smiled. “Thanks, Sally. That would be nice.”

She smiled back. “Help yourself to
whatever you need. Get something to eat. Make yourself at
home.”

Genuinely nice. I thanked her again.
She looked pleased enough when she walked out the door. I heard her
Hummer start up, saw it drive back down the driveway and turn
right. I took my jacket off and slumped it over the side of the
sofa. I wasn’t feeling well. I needed food and sleep. But I would
be forcing myself to do both. So I did.

Sally had plenty of food. What I saw
in the freezer left no reason to believe she was any sort of
vegetarian. I was too tired to cook, so I ate two bowls of cereal
and then went into the guest room, rolled back the quilted blanket
with a black and white checkered pattern, laid down and got comfy.
The guest bedroom was spotless as well. Not a trace of dust
anywhere. The blankets and pillow cases smelled freshly washed. It
occurred to me that she had went to the store and cleaned her house
spotless because I was going to be there. I was asleep five seconds
later.

I awoke in the middle of the afternoon
to a ray of sunlight creeping in through the red curtains right
into my eyes, with Pamela’s face fading into the brightness. It
hurt like I was losing her all over again. It hurt because I knew
they were going to pin an innocent man with her murder. It hurt
that justice was not going to be served.

I could feel myself growing angrier. I
had waited a long time for justice and this wasn’t how it should be
happening. Angelo Garboni was the wrong man and I couldn’t sit back
and let this happen to him. My stomach began to churn with anxiety.
I was at the threshold of a bad idea. But I knew the way the system
worked, and I knew no one else was going to step in and do the
right thing. Sally had been right about how it all would unfold.
The more I thought about it, the hotter I felt. I realized then
that my hands were clenched into the blankets like an eagle’s claw
and my eyebrows were slanted down to my nose.