“I’m scared to death. Now let’s go.”
They started walking, a cop on each side of the defendant.
“Where are we going?”
“Juvenile Detention Center.”
“Is it sort of a jail?”
“It could be if you don’t watch your smart mouth.”
“You knocked my mother down, you know that. She’ll have your job for that.”
“She can have my job,” Klickman said. “It’s a rotten job because I have to deal with little punks like you.”
“Yeah, but you can’t find another one, can you? There’s no demand for idiots these days.”
They passed a small crowd of orderlies and nurses, and suddenly Mark was a star. The center of attention. He was an innocent man being led away to the slaughter. He swaggered a bit. They turned the corner, and then he remembered the reporters.
And they remembered him. A flash went off as they got to the elevators, and two of the loiterers with pencils and pads were suddenly standing next to Klickman. They waited for the elevator.
“Are you a cop?” one of them asked, staring at the glow-in-the-dark Nikes.
“No comment.”
“Hey, Mark, where you going?” another asked from just a few feet behind. There was another flash.
“To jail,” he said loudly without turning around.
“Shut up, kid,” Nassar scolded. Klickman put a heavy arm on his shoulder. The photographer was beside them, almost to the elevator door. Nassar held up an arm to block his view. “Get away,” he growled.
“Are you under arrest, Mark?” one of them yelled.
“No,” Klickman snapped just as the door opened. Nassar shoved Mark inside while Klickman blocked the door until it started to close.
They were alone in the elevator. “That was a stupid thing to say, kid. Really stupid.” Klickman was shaking his head.
“Then arrest me.”
“Really stupid.”
“Is it against the law to talk to the press?”
“Just keep your mouth shut, okay?”
“Why don’t you just beat the hell out of me, okay, meathead?”
“I’d love to.”
“Yeah, but you can’t, right? Because I’m just a little kid, and you’re a big stupid cop and if you touch me you’ll get fired and sued and all that. You knocked my mother down, meathead, and you haven’t heard the last of it.”
“Your mother slapped me,” Nassar said.
“Good for her. You clowns have no idea what she’s been through. You show up to get me and act like it’s no big deal, like just because you’re cops and you’ve got this piece of paper then my mother is supposed to get happy and send me off with a kiss. A couple of morons. Just big, dumb, meatheaded cops.”
The elevator stopped, opened, and two doctors entered. They stopped talking and looked at Mark. The door closed behind them, and they continued down. “Can you believe these clowns are arresting me?” he asked the doctors.
They frowned at Nassar and Klickman.
“Juvenile Court offender,” Nassar explained. Why couldn’t the little punk just shut up?
Mark nodded at Klickman. “This one here with the cute shoes knocked my mother down about five minutes ago. Can you believe it?”
Both doctors looked at the shoes.
“Just shut up, Mark,” Klickman said.
“Is your mother okay?” one of the doctors asked.
“Oh she’s great. My little brother’s in the psychiatric ward. Our trailer burned to the ground a few hours ago. And then these thugs show up and arrest me right in front of my mother. Bigfoot here knocks her to the floor. She’s doing great.”
The doctors stared at the cops. Nassar watched his feet and Klickman closed his eyes. The elevator stopped and a small crowd boarded. Klickman stayed close to Mark.
When all was quiet and they were moving again, Mark said loudly, “My lawyer’ll sue you jerks, you know that, don’t you? You’ll be unemployed this time tomorrow.” Eight sets of eyes looked down in the corner, then up at the pained face of Detective Klickman. Silence.
“Just shut up, Mark.”
“And what if I don’t? You gonna rough me up like you did my mother. Throw me down, kick me a few times. You’re just another meathead cop, you know that, Klickman? Just another fat cop with a gun. Why don’t you lose a few pounds?”
Neat rows of sweat broke out across Klickman’s forehead. He caught the eyes darting at him from the crowd. The elevator was barely moving. He could have strangled Mark.
Nassar was pressed into the other rear corner, and his ears were now ringing from the slap to the head. He couldn’t see Mark Sway, but he could certainly hear him.
“Is your mother all right?” a nurse asked. She was standing next to Mark, looking down and very concerned.
“Yeah, she’s having a great day. She’d be a lot better, of course, if these cops would leave her alone. They’re taking me to jail, you know that?”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me. I was just minding my own business, trying to console my mother because our trailer burned to the ground this morning and we lost everything we own, when they showed up with no warning, and here I am on the way to jail.”
“How old are you?”
“Only eleven. But that’s not important to these guys. They’d arrest a four-year-old.”
Nassar groaned softly. Klickman kept his eyes closed.
“This is awful,” the nurse said.
“You should’ve seen it when they had me and my mother on the floor. Happened just a few minutes ago on the Psychiatric Wing. It’ll be on the news tonight. Watch the papers. These clowns will be fired tomorrow. Then the lawsuit.”
They stopped on the ground floor, and the elevator emptied.
He insisted on riding in the rear seat, like a real criminal. The car was an unmarked Chrysler but he spotted it a hundred yards away in the parking lot. Nassar and Klickman were afraid to speak to him. They rode in the front seat in complete silence, hoping he might do the same. They were not so lucky.
“You forgot to read me my rights,” he said as Nassar drove as fast as possible.
No response from the front seat.
“Hey, you clowns up there. You forgot to read me my rights.”
No response. Nassar drove faster.
“Do you know how to read me my rights?”
No response.
“Hey, meathead. Yeah, you with the shoes. Do you know how to read me my rights?”
Klickman’s breathing was labored, but he was determined to ignore him. Oddly, Nassar had a crooked smile barely noticeable under the mustache. He stopped at a red light, looked both ways, then gunned the engine.
“Listen to me, meathead, okay. I’ll do it to myself, okay. I have the right to remain silent. Did you catch that? And, if I say anything, you clowns can use it against me in court. Get that, meathead? Of course, if I said anything you dumbasses would forget it. Then there’s something about the right to a lawyer. Can you help with this one, meathead? Yo! meathead. What’s the bit about the lawyer? I’ve seen it on television a million times.”
Meathead Klickman cracked his window so he could breathe. Nassar glanced at the shoes and almost laughed. The criminal sat low in the rear seat with his legs crossed.
“Poor meathead. Can’t even read me my rights. This car stinks, meathead. Why don’t you clean this car? It smells like cigarette smoke.”
“I hear you like cigarette smoke,” Klickman said, and felt much better about himself. Nassar giggled to help his friend. They’d taken enough crap off this brat.
Mark saw a crowded parking lot next to a tall building. Patrol cars were parked in rows next to the building. Nassar turned into the lot and parked in the driveway.