couple, and eventually, as Mrs. Patterson unpacked the kitchen utensils, the protesters got bored and drifted away.
CHAPTER 36
After his bank robbery stunt, the ghost of Alphonse Wheeler did not want to await his trial or sentencing. In fact, he didn’t even bother to hear the formal charges; Wheeler volunteered to pay his debt to society, promised he would save the taxpayers the legal costs of a drawn-out courtroom trial, and surrendered himself for voluntary imprisonment.
Realistically, for ghosts, all imprisonment is voluntary, but even so it was a nice gesture.
The penal system worked tirelessly to improve methods of spectral incarceration. While effective lockup methods had been instituted for garden-variety unnaturals such as zombies, vampires, and werewolves (both the monthly and the full-time types), criminal poltergeists and convicted ghosts posed the biggest hazard. Mediums and exorcists offered stopgap spirit-containment measures, but most of those didn’t work.
With the momentum of his Unnatural Acts Act, Senator Balfour had announced that solving the ghost-felon problem was his next crusade, advocating that the only punishment a ghost criminal deserved was a clean and straightforward disintegration, an eternal death sentence. He had already commissioned numerous ectoplasmic defibrillators from Harvey Jekyll and was ready to use them.
“It is the only compassionate method,” Balfour had said, not sounding the least bit compassionate. “We’re helping those troubled ghosts go to the light.”
Wheeler did not contest the fact he had committed a crime and needed to be punished. He promised to remain inside the jail for whatever sentence the judge decided to impose, provided it wasn’t eternity.
When Robin, Sheyenne, and I visited him in prison, Wheeler seemed comfortable and right at home, far less anxious than when we’d first met him in our offices. His ghost now manifested with a prison uniform instead of his checkered jacket. He liked the familiarity of incarceration and said he looked forward to making new friends.
“I’m sure you’ll fit in, Mr. Wheeler,” Robin said, as we sat across from him at a plain metal table in the community room.
Muted conversations blurred together at other tables. I saw a vampire woman holding hands with a convicted vampire felon, telling him that their request for conjugal visits had been denied.
A werewolf raised his voice, pounding his fists on a table. “But if they’re not twelve werewolves, then it’s not a jury of my peers!” His public defender cringed and told his client to calm down.
A bored and skeptical attorney took notes as a zombie covered with gangbanger tattoos insisted, “I swear, I just found the stuff! It wasn’t mine! I was going to give it to charity.” He glanced over at Alphonse Wheeler. The translucent robber gave him a thumbs-up. “Yeah,” the gangbanger zombie continued, “I was going to donate it to MLDW so they can keep doing good work.”
These were the cases we didn’t take on at Chambeaux & Deyer.
Wheeler leaned closer to us and said, “I want MLDW’s resources to go toward helping people like that. As for me, I’m in here for the duration . . . unless I decide to escape. Wouldn’t that be exciting? Alphonse Wheeler, legendary bank robber, in a great prison break?”
“It’s not all that exciting if you can just walk through the walls anytime you like, Mr. Wheeler,” I pointed out.
“Don’t take all the fun out of it for me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let me get serious for a moment. You’ve helped me, and I want to return the favor. Now that we’re here, with no one eavesdropping, I should warn you. . . .”
Robin, Sheyenne, and I gave him our full attention. When a ghost feels the need to deliver a dire warning, it’s a good idea to listen.
“Word gets around the Quarter—I know the cases you’re working on, the sweatshop golems you freed, the antidiscrimination suit against the Smile Syndicate and the Goblin Tavern, the murder of the pawnshop gremlin. I even heard you bid against Missy Goodfellow’s assistant at the estate auction, and before that you stopped by Smile HQ to talk with Missy?”
“Just introducing myself,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know the can of worms you’ve opened. Who do you think I used to work for in the old days? I robbed banks and gave half of my money to Oswald Goodfellow just to keep him happy.” He looked intently at all three of us. “The Smile Syndicate might have a pretty logo and a cute name now, but trust me—they’re still the mob. Don’t let Missy Goodfellow’s sweet face