20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,92
man with blood pouring down his face and arms cried out, “I give up. I give up.”
The commando on his right set down his shield, grabbed the stout man’s arm, and in one fluid move pulled him to the ground.
That man wasn’t Barkley.
I got out of the car again and went up to Covington, who was ordering his men to get the injured man into a police car. I touched Covington’s arm.
He said, “Boxer?”
“Let me talk to Barkley.”
Covington reached for and opened the closest armored car door. Then he gripped my upper arms, lifted and moved all five feet ten inches of me like I was a doll, until I was behind the hardened-steel door and as shielded as much as possible from oncoming gunfire.
Then he handed me the bullhorn.
I took a breath, then spoke, my voice bouncing off the surrounding houses.
“Mr. Barkley, this is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. I’m in contact with Randi. Give yourself up, and you can tell her good-bye. Or in three seconds SWAT command is going to cut you down and take you out of that house alive or dead.”
I handed off the bullhorn to Covington.
The broken front door clattered apart, and Leonard Barkley emerged holding his hands above his head. I gave him a visual pat-down. Was he holding a weapon? A grenade? He limped out onto the front steps into the open air.
“I surrender,” he shouted. “It’s over. You should all be proud. The drug dealers win.”
CHAPTER 117
YUKI AND OPPOSING counsel Zac Jordan met with district attorney Len Parisi in his office that Friday morning.
Parisi was in a decent mood, and Yuki observed lipstick on his collar. Maybe that had something to do with his sunny, “Hello, you two. Come in.”
Zac shook hands with Parisi, and Yuki flung herself onto the couch. She was so emotionally exhausted, she’d dressed in jeans and a blazer this morning. In her mind, it was casual Friday and to hell with anyone who objected.
When Parisi was sitting behind his big-man desk, papers all straight edged and tidy, with the Red Dog clock on the wall showing 8:30 on the dot, Yuki began to explain the situation.
“Len, the death of Antoine Castro robbed the justice system but was a good thing all around. Castro is of no danger to anyone now, but he was an El Chapo wannabe. Some aspiring drug lord is going to pick up his business unless we get out in front of it.”
“What do you suggest?”
Zac said, “I’ve spent a couple of hours with my client, Clay Warren. As you know, he was almost killed in jail, presumably by Castro’s crew, who wanted to stop him from talking. He’s not a bad kid. I wouldn’t call him greedy or psychopathic. He’s about average intelligence for a kid his age, but he was smart enough to stop talking when he was arrested.”
Zac went on.
“I’ve got the real story out of Clay, and Yuki can back me up.”
Parisi said, “And you want to what? I’m not getting it.”
“If you agree with what you hear,” said Zac, “we’re hoping you’ll drop the charges. Because honestly, he’s not a criminal and the shanking he got is going to shorten his life. Maybe the judge will see that he’s been punished enough. Dismiss the case and get him to a place where Castro’s gang can’t find him.”
“Make it good,” Len said. “Right now he’s still on the hook for felony murder. Your trial is due to resume early next week.”
“Clay is outside,” said Yuki. “Let me bring him in so he can tell you himself.”
CHAPTER 118
ZAC HELD THE office door for Clay Warren, who leaned heavily on a cane as he came through the entrance.
Parisi stood as Yuki made the introductions, and Clay stretched out his left hand and said, “Thanks for seeing me, sir.”
“Hello, Mr. Warren. Have a seat.”
The teen was in obvious pain. Zac knew he had bandages wrapping his torso under his orange jumpsuit. He looked for and found a chair with arms, close enough to Parisi’s desk.
Zac stood and took a stance he might have used to examine a witness in court.
He said, “Clay, why are you now willing to discuss your relationship with Antoine Castro?”
“Because he’s dead, Mr. Jordan. He can’t personally hurt me, but I don’t feel exactly safe.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“He’s a gangsta, Mr. Jordan. I did nothing to Antoine, but snitches don’t live to sing. I didn’t say anything, and his crew just about destroyed my whatchacallits … organs. My stomach is