Case of John Doe #17, Your Honor,” announced the clerk.
“Who?” asked the vexed judge. “What did you say?”
“John Doe #17, your Honor,” chimed the clerk and prosecutor as one.
“We don’t know who he is, your Honor,” explained the public defender.
Proceedings in Courtroom 107, in the Washington, DC Moultrie Building, ground to an irritated halt.
“What do you mean you don’t know who he is?” snapped Judge MacDonnell. “How can a person not know who he is? Are you really telling me that no one knows who John Doe #17 is?” The owly, graying judge stared penetratingly at Hamilton Turbee, who was sitting in the prisoners’ dock. He drummed his fingers on his desk, turning to glare at the hapless young prosecutor, then at the public defender, then back at Turbee. It was the beginning of the week, and the court docket was crowded with all manner of felonies and misdemeanors. The judge wasn’t happy about already being delayed.
“You there, you slobbering mess. State your name, now. This is a courtroom. This is an order. State your name.”
Turbee didn’t respond. He continued to make small spitting sounds, and moved his right arm rhythmically back and forth. He was wearing the same clothes he had put on the day of the Haramosh Star disaster days earlier; his last day in the TTIC office. His last day in a world that had made sense. Both his eyes were encircled with angry purple bruises, and his nose was swollen and disfigured, the result of the vicious blows dealt by the Zigster and his supporting cast. He appeared shocked and bewildered, and was in obvious need of medical attention. Not that anyone was going to offer.
MacDonnell was in no mood for charity. Thirty years on the bench had jaded him. Most of his time was spent in remand court, fixing trial dates, taking pleas, setting bail, and imposing sentences. The drudge of humanity came through his courtroom — the DUI cases, petty larceny, theft and mischief cases, family violence, and the rest of the misery that is the underside of any city. At this stage of his career, approaching retirement, he was more concerned about the state of his prostate than the health needs of a prisoner.
“What are the charges?” he growled, looking at the prosecutor.
“Creating public mischief, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer,” came the response.
“By the look of him, he’s probably a crystal meth addict,” said Judge MacDonnell, noting Turbee’s skinny frame, his pale complexion, and his unusual mannerisms.
“I would think so, your honor,” replied the prosecutor. “I think he’s probably still high.”
The public defender shrugged his shoulders, not seeing any reason to disagree. He never stopped to wonder how it was that the petty prejudices of the street could find their way into an American courtroom, although that was obviously what was happening.
“What do you think, gentlemen? Do we send him away for a few more days on a psychiatric assessment, until he sobers up, or gets straight, or whatever? What do you think, John Doe?” MacDonnell asked sarcastically, turning his piercing judge-eyes back to Turbee. “Maybe a week or two there will loosen your tongue, young man. I will give you one last chance to state your name. Now what the hell is it?”
Turbee’s mind was struggling to understand what was going on around him. He was off his medications and had suffered, in the past days, crippling physical and psychological blows. His system was still reeling from the concussion that the gangsters’ kicks and punches had caused. He didn’t understand where he was, or how he’d come to be there. His only thought was how to get away from this nightmare and get home. Not to his apartment, but to his home, his father’s home, where he grew up, where he still spent most holidays, and where he went when he needed to rest. He turned around and saw someone coming through the rear doorway of the courtroom. With a supreme effort, he gathered his thoughts and began to study his surroundings. He saw the business of the place — lawyers with briefcases, taking last-minute instructions, having quick, whispered conversations with other prosecutors. He saw the social workers, court workers, and other people moving back and forth, fretting over their business. He gulped, then saw through the doors the huge central foyer of the large and busy building, and the blue sky beyond. Home was out there. His concentration narrowed, and he began to see his path.
He flexed his hands slowly; he hadn’t been handcuffed or placed in shackles or restraints for his court appearance. The security officers didn’t consider him much of a threat, given his size and apparent condition. He glanced around surreptitiously; everyone had already forgotten he was there. Suddenly, in a move that astounded everyone, Turbee catapulted himself out of the dock and made a beeline for the foyer. He slipped and twisted through the bodies in the aisle, and bolted out the door. The security officers attempted to race after him, but were less efficient in moving their burly bodies through the crowded Monday morning remand court.
Turbee made it through the front doors of the building, and was half a block down Indiana Street, before his painful rib injuries and the inability to breathe brought him to a careening halt. The security detail gang tackled him as he stood gasping, and he went down under a heap of uniforms in the center of the street. He rolled and squirmed and twisted with all his might to escape and, in the melee, struck the officers several more times. One of the men responded by falling full force on Turbee’s chest, causing one of the previously fractured ribs to puncture a lung. Pain carved through him like a searing knife.
“Stand back, boys,” said another officer. “I’ve got a taser. That’ll slow him down.” He took his taser in hand and zapped Turbee with a 200,000-volt shock, paralyzing him, and causing his legs and arms to twitch uncontrollably.
“We’d better whack him with a couple more of those,” said another, and, with the consent of all except Turbee, tasered the youth three more times.
“Aw, dammit George,” said the first man. “You’ve made him shit himself. Now look at the mess.”
“Screw it. Someone at the detention center will sort him out. Let’s drag this sorry meth addict back to Room 107.”
Before the day was out, three more charges of assault, two more counts of resisting arrest, and one count of escaping lawful custody were added to the docket sheet on someone who was beginning to look like a dangerous criminal. Judge MacDonnell insisted that a count of contempt of court also be added. From there on, Turbee was kept shackled and cuffed. At the end of the day, when he was thrown back in a heap on the floor of his dark cold cell at St. Liz’s, no one bothered to clean him up. In addition to the fractured ribs, and the now punctured lung, his skin was burned from four taser shots. The control he had found during the escape disappeared, and he tipped completely into full-blown psychosis. More troubling still, at that point the DC criminal court system proceeded to lose track of John Doe #17 completely.
25
Yousseff was tucked snugly into his cot, in the midst of a deep sleep, as his Gulfstream made the long trip from Karachi to Los Angeles. He was dreaming of turning 21, and remembering what it had been like. It was a wild and exciting time for him and his friends. With Marak’s assistance, Yousseff’s competitors from the Frontier Province had started disappearing. Most went to jail. If one of them was clever enough to avoid the police, he disappeared in the dead of the night, never to be seen again. There were many mountain passes in the Pashtun lands along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, where bodies could easily disappear. Even with all their success, though, Yousseff realized that he needed his security to expand beyond just the Frontier Province and the Path of Allah. Marak could not assist him on the southern reaches of the Indus; he had no authority in Hyderabad, and certainly none in Karachi. In these areas, there were still problems, still competitors, still chances of being caught.