“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Now Panitch spoke up, delivering what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “The bureau has specific standards and procedures, Agent Donovan, and you’ve violated a number of them. First, you assault a suspect, then a police officer, then you drive so recklessly you almost get yourself killed-”
Not almost, Donovan thought.
“-and now you attack a superior officer. We understand that you’re under a lot of stress. Anyone in your position would be-which is why we’re willing to overlook a few transgressions. But policy clearly dictates that we do what we should have done hours ago and remove you from this case.”
“In short,” Crow said, delivering the final, unnecessary blow, “you’re relieved of your command until further notice.”
The four men braced themselves for Donovan’s reaction, but he surprised them by not reacting at all. He just sat there, numb.
So there it was.
He’d known this was coming. Had known it even before he saw them getting out of their car. Before Waxman had taken it upon himself to call them.
And none of it mattered.
Did they really think that relieving him of his command would make a difference? He was a father first, a federal agent second-a sentiment he might not have agreed with a couple of months ago. Now, there was no doubt about it, and shunting him aside would not keep him from doing what had to be done.
“I know this is tough,” Doyle said, putting a hand on Donovan’s shoulder, face full of brotherly concern. “Nobody likes to do this to a fellow agent. But you’ve got to have faith in us. We have people coming in from all over the country to help us find your daughter. You’re not alone by any stretch of-”
“Shut up, Alan,” Donovan said. “Do us all a favor and just shut the fuck up.”
He was on the sidewalk and halfway to the car when Waxman caught up to him. “Jack, wait.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Sidney.”
“You think I wanted this?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Donovan said, picking up speed. “Congratulations on your new command.”
“Come on, Jack, that isn’t fair and you know it.”
Donovan stopped, turned. “Fuck fair, Sidney. Who gives a damn about fair?” He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “My daughter’s missing and all these chowderheads care about are a couple of bullshit procedural violations.”
“They’re just following protocol.”
“You think that makes it go down any smoother? I don’t exactly get off on being looked at like I’m some kind of freak.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m sure you all got a nice big laugh over Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.”
“Jesus Christ,” Waxman said. “You think I’m that big of a fool? Tell ’em something like that and they’ll be sizing us both up for straitjackets.”
Donovan glared at him, then continued toward the car.
Waxman moved after him. “Jack, come on.”
Donovan reached the driver’s door, threw it open, and climbed in. Waxman caught it before he could close it. “What do you want from me? You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry.”
Donovan looked up at him. “Screw the apologies.”
“What, then?”
“It’s simple. Either you bend a few of their precious rules and work with me, or you waste another twenty-four hours getting jerked off by a bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t find their asses in a bathtub with two flashlights and a pair of goggles.” He started the engine. “The choice is yours.”
Waxman sighed. Donovan knew he was considering the effect this might have on his career, but he wasn’t sure what the problem was. This was about Jessie. Either you do the right thing or you don’t.
He was about to give up on him when Waxman sighed again and said, “I suppose you have some plan of action in mind?”
Donovan killed the engine. “Don’t I always?”
41
"Mr. Nemo?”
The guy behind the glass was either a spic or a Jew, Nemo couldn’t figure which. He was short, had a faggy little goatee and wire-rim glasses. When Nemo took a closer look, he’d swear there was a bit of slant to the eyes behind them.
The guy was a mutt, no doubt about it, but that didn’t matter. Nemo wouldn’t trust him if he was Idaho white.
It was close to 6 p.m. on Nemo’s second day in custody and they were sitting in the reception room of the U.S. marshals’ lockup, where he’d been staying ever since that crazy motherfucker Donovan had stuck a gun up his nose.
The reception room wasn’t particularly receptive-a couple rows of cubbyholes that faced each other with a giant window of safety glass between them. Prisoner and visitor spoke over phones, a scene Nemo had watched at least a hundred different times on television-and replayed a few himself.
The guy behind the glass was waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “You are Robert Nemo, aren’t you?”
“You asked for me, didn’t you?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”
“So who the fuck else would I be?” Nemo had no patience for retards.
The guy took a business card from his breast pocket and pressed it up against the glass. “Simon Escalante,” he said. “Your attorney?”
Nemo squinted at the card, saw the name above the words ASST. FEDERAL PUBLIC DEFENDER, and groaned inwardly, thinking, now I’m fucked. Another shit-fer-brains mouthpiece who couldn’t make it in the real world. The last public defender he’d had managed to get him five years in stir.
Escalante returned the card to his pocket. “You did request an attorney, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Nemo said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “I just didn’t think anyone was listening.”
“Guess you were wrong about that. I may have some good news for you.”
“Oh?” Nemo figured this probably meant he’d get chocolate pudding on his dinner tray tonight, because on every other level he was about as fucked as you can get. Not even the late great Johnnie Cochran could change that.
“Do you know anything about federal criminal law, Mr. Nemo?”
“What’s to know?” Nemo said. The way he saw it, the only difference between a state and a federal rap was the color of your jumpsuit. The bunks in the marshals’ lockup were just as uncomfortable, and you still had to watch your backside in the showers.
“Title Eighteen, Section Five, of the criminal code prohibits holding a suspect in custody longer than twenty-four hours,” Escalante said. “Seems the Feds dumped you in here, then promptly forgot about you. That, coupled with the testimony of two eyewitnesses who say they saw you grievously manhandled by federal agents, makes a compelling case for your immediate release.”
Nemo stared at him. Somebody had actually seen those assholes attack him in the alley? “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I shit you not,” Escalante said, and smiled. “I’ve asked the court for a hearing, and I expect to be in front of a judge within ten minutes.”
“Isn’t it a little late for court?”
“This is an emergency situation. All I need is your signature.”
“Signature?” Nemo said, balking. “I’m not signing any friggin’ confession, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nice try, asshole.”
“Please, Mr. Nemo, I’m on your side. And if I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a single confession in your future. What I need you to sign is a waiver.”
“What the hell’s a waiver?”
“A simple document that says you waive your right to appear in court this evening.”
Nemo frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because,” Escalante said, “if you insist on being present for the hearing, the marshal will have to prep you for delivery to the courtroom and delay the proceedings for an indeterminate amount of time. If it takes too long, the judge may postpone until a later date-and I’d like to get you out of here as soon as possible.”
The guy was still smiling. Nemo studied him a moment, thinking there was something wrong with this picture. He was up for bank robbery, aggravated assault, and multiple murder charges. And hadn’t the Feds just told him they considered him some kind of homegrown terrorist?