INFORMANT Page 25

  Everything is suddenly… over. I can’t quite process it. I can’t even breathe. I feel as though I’ve been knocked senseless, caught up in some gigantic wave and then spit out ashore.

  Several bodies are motionless—some are Sun Yee’s men, some are Miguel’s. The only people still walking around appear to DEA agents and local police. Miguel is handcuffed and sitting on the ground, spitting curses in Spanish. Two paramedics are bent over Ricco. So he’s alive, after all. They bandage his temple and ease him into a sitting position. His hands are cuffed behind his back.

  We won, I think. We got them. I should be thrilled. Instead, victory leaves me nauseous.

  As Miguel and Ricco are hauled to their feet and led away, they turn and glare at me, sending me murderous, seething looks. It doesn’t make sense… they can’t know what I’ve done, can they?

  Of course they can. I gave them the place and the time, not Ronnie. I did. Who else could possibly have tipped off the cops?

  Icy dread churns through me. I start to tremble all over. I was afraid they might put it together. They might question the turn of events. They might suspect. This goes well beyond that. They know it was me.

  I look at Beckett, yearning for him to put his arms around me. Our eyes meet. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. A thousand things pass between us, but it all remains unsaid.

  My gaze moves past him and falls on Ronnie. He’s on the other side of the pier. Miraculously, he looks unharmed. Except, something’s wrong. He’s in handcuffs, being placed in the back of a patrol car. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That’s not right.

  I wheel around to object. Reardon needs to fix this. I move toward him, but instead of talking to me, he catches my arm and spins me around. He cuffs my wrists behind me.

  “What are you doing? What the fuck is this? I have immunity, remember?”

  Reardon gives a curt laugh. “If you wanted immunity, sweetheart, you should have hired a better lawyer.”

  “What are you talking about? You signed my immunity agreement. You signed it.”

  “Exactly. I signed it.” He sighs and shakes his head. “The only one who can grant immunity is the DA—the District Attorney. My signature’s useless. That means that immunity agreement of yours isn’t worth shit. Your hot-shot lawyer should have known better.”

  He gives me a gentle shove toward Beckett. “Bring her in,” he says. “We’ll sort everything out at the station.”

  I want to protest, but my tongue doesn’t seem to work. I can’t speak.

  Beckett spins me around and frisks me. His touch isn’t rough, but neither is he gentle. Instead he is oddly detached, as though he and I are complete strangers. I am a criminal, and Beckett is processing me. Just doing his job. In a voice that’s strangely monotone, he recites my Miranda rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

  I’m listening, but my mind really isn’t all there. Maybe I’m in shock. My legs feel weak and wobbly, and everything around me keeps sliding in and out of focus.

  Media crews arrive, possibly tipped off by the police radio band. Reporters and cameramen launch themselves out of vans emblazoned with the names of local news stations. They set up their cameras and start filming. I reflexively duck my head, not wanting to catch myself on the morning broadcast.

  A woman appears beside me—a female cop. I am released into her custody. As she pulls me toward a waiting squad car, something horrible suddenly strikes me.

  The last time I will feel Beckett’s touch on my skin is when he handcuffed me.

  Day Ninety-Nine

  Afternoon

  San Francisco’s correctional facility is located on Bryant Street in the Hall of Justice building. This is actually true. The Hall of Justice building: home to superheroes and crooks like me. Women are housed on the 6th floor, in a crowded facility that smells simultaneously of bleach, fried food, pine-scented air freshener, and urine. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. In the spirit of spreading holiday cheer, someone has hung plastic snowmen in the halls and taped paper snowflakes to the windows in the cafeteria. I appreciate the effort, but I don’t think it’s working. No one, including me, is happy to be spending the holiday here.

  Unlike many of the other inmates, I’m somewhat privileged. I have a cell of my own. No roommate. That’s fine by me. I’ve been here for nearly two weeks, and all I do is eat and sleep. Mostly sleep. Months of anxiety have taken their toll—I had no idea how exhausted I was. I’m safe here, though. So now I sleep the sleep of the dead.

  The library cart rolls by. I shake my head at the volunteer. Not interested. The bulk of the reading material is perversely, almost deliberately cruel. Better Homes and Gardens, Gourmet Magazine, Family Life, and dozens of cheap Harlequin romances. As though intentionally reminding the women held here of the lives enjoyed by others, lives that are replete with beautiful homes, loving families who eat delicious food, and passionate love affairs that end happily ever after.

  Yes! The reading material screams, you could have had it all—if only you hadn’t screwed up and ended up in jail. I know I’ve screwed up. I don’t need the reminder.

  A guard pauses at my cell. Her keys rattle in the lock, and then she slides open the cell door. “Your attorney’s here. Looks like he’s brought some friends this time.”

  Really? Now that I’m interested in. I swing my legs off my cot, stand, and check my reflection in the small mirror mounted above the sink. I’m attired in mint green SF Correctional Facility pants and smock. If not for the inmate number printed on the back, I could almost pass for a nursing student on a surgical ward. Another life choice I might have made, but didn’t.

  I follow the guard to a small conference room designated for meetings with attorneys and police. Brad Morris is already there. He’s as sharply dressed as ever, his blond hair swept back and his tie elegantly knotted.

  Agent Reardon and Beckett sit across the table from him. There’s also a middle-aged man I don’t know. They are all dressed in business suits, and they all stand when I enter. No one smiles.

  My eyes go directly to Beckett.

  Beckett. Here. Standing just inches away. An icy thrill shoots through me at seeing him. I know this is wrong. I know it’s necessary for my survival to despise him, but I can’t seem to summon that emotion. I try, but it doesn’t happen. The sight of Beckett engenders a whirlwind of emotions inside of me, but hatred isn’t one of them. It just doesn’t come, no matter how hard I will it to.

  His gaze locks on mine, but his expression doesn’t change. This isn’t the Beckett I’m accustomed to seeing. There’s no emotion in his gaze when he looks at me. He looks… stripped. Stoic. It’s obvious that the past few weeks have taken their toll on him as well.

  Unlike me, he doesn’t look as though he’s been sleeping. For just a moment, I imagine bringing him into my bed, or up to the roof of his apartment. Wrapping my arms around him while he sleeps. His gaze travels over me, hungrily, seeking some silent reassurance, and then he looks abruptly away.

  My knees shake. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

  Brad holds out a chair for me and I slip into the seat beside him. He introduces the stranger as Michael Wreaks, the prosecuting attorney who’ll be handling my case. I glance around the room. Everyone looks uniformly grim. The mood is as solemn as a funeral rite. That can’t be good.

  “What is this?” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “Here’s the deal,” Wreaks says, his voice crisp and efficient. “We want to go for Murder One. To do that, we need you to testify against Miguel Diaz, Ricco Diaz, and the rest of their Cuban crew. Take the stand and go on record with what you saw that night of Carnaval. Testify that you witnessed the murder of Julio Juarez.”

  Take the stand and publicly testify against The Corporation.

  “I do that and I’m dead.”

  I look around the room, waiting for someone
to deny it. Finally Reardon shrugs. “We can make room for you in the federal Witness Protection Program, if we deem that’s necessary.”

  If we deem that’s necessary. I want to hurt him. I really do.

  “What about the rest of my family?” I grit out.

  “Oh. Right.” Wreaks consults his notes. “Yes. We are also asking your brother-in-law, Ronnie Hoyt, to testify against Sun Yee and the goings-on at the Lucky Dragon.”

  I take a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. “I meant, who’s going to protect my family? My mother, my sister, even my baby nephew. They’ll all be targets for retaliation. You know that.”

  Reardon leans back in his chair, his posture one of casual indifference. “If you really want to protect them, you’ll help us put Miguel and Ricco Diaz away.”

  My gaze shoots to Beckett. He returns my stare, but his eyes give nothing away.

  “And if I refuse?” I say.

  The question hangs in the air for a long minute, then Reardon gives a sly smirk. “You’re not in a position to refuse. No immunity, remember?” He idly rubs his palm across the table. “You try to walk away now and I’ll say you flipped—fell in love with your target. It happens.” He pauses and gives a philosophical shrug. His eyes meet mine and his tone hardens. “I’ll testify that you extorted half a million from the DEA, and then tipped off Ricco and his father we were coming. In other words, Missy, go against me, and a whole ball of shit will roll your way.”

  I silently absorb this. Not good news, but not a surprise either, given that it’s coming from Reardon.

  A million questions flood through my mind, but my guard chooses that moment to return and announce it’s time to escort me back to my cell. Meeting’s over.

  We all stand. Brad Morris brings his hands together and gives a bright, jovial smile, self-appointed Master of Ceremonies. “Very good,” he announces as the DEA team and prosecuting attorney files out. “A very productive meeting. Obviously you’ve given my client a lot to think about.”

  Beckett shoots me one last look, and then he and Wreaks leave without another word. But Agent Reardon can’t resist tossing out a little holiday spite on his way out the door. “You thought you had it all figured out, didn’t you? Not so clever now, are you? See you in court.”

  Brad watches him go, and then shakes his head in disgust. As he’s about to leave, he passes me a cylindrical tube wrapped in bright, cheerful paper. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “A little something to brighten your cell. Didn’t want you to think I forgot you.”

  I think I know what it is, but I wait until later, when I’m alone, to open it. Turns out my guess is correct. Brad’s Christmas gift? One of the Study Abroad posters from his office.

  A slow, satisfied smile curves my lips. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted.

  Day One Hundred and Three

  Morning

  I am standing in Courtroom 34-A. The training bra of courtrooms. Brad Morris is beside me. He’s repeatedly reassured me that my arraignment hearing is just a formality, but I can’t help being nervous. So much depends on the outcome of the next few minutes.

  The residing judge at is an attractive black woman named Patricia Ellis. Judge Ellis. The combination of her appearance and no-nonsense demeanor reminds me of Shari, my friend at the Karma Café. Except Shari is known to smile every now and then. I’ve yet to see that facial expression on Judge Ellis. She’s all business.

  The deputy hands her my case file. She flips through it, then shifts her reading glasses to the tip of her nose and peers down at me. “It states here,” she says, indicating the file, “that you are fully prepared to cooperate with the DEA.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I reply.

  “In exchange for your testimony, the DEA is prepared to drop all charges against you.”

  How kind of them. I grit my teeth and say nothing. Judge Ellis shuffles her paperwork. After a moment, she looks at Brad and continues, “Mr. Morris. You are requesting your client be released on her own recognizance.”

  Brad gives an affirming nod. “My client poses no flight risk,” he says. “She is a native San Franciscan with no prior criminal record. She is a student in good standing at San Francisco State University and holds a part-time job in the city. She has cooperated fully with everything she has been asked to do. She has agreed to cooperate further. Ms. Porter has given her word she will testify—there is nothing further she can do.”

  Prosecuting attorney Michael Wreaks opens his mouth to object, but Judge Ellis holds up her hand to silence him. This is her courtroom and she’s calling the shots.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Morris,” she says. Then she looks at me and restates our deal. “You agree to give your full and complete testimony pertaining to the matter of California vs. Diaz?”

  I nod. “Yes, Your Honor. I do.”

  She thinks about this for a second. “In light of the complications inherent in this case, I’d like a written statement from you.”

  I nod again. “Agreed. I can do that.”

  “Very well.” She gives her gavel a sharp rap. “You are hereby released on your own recognizance. You are free to go. I look forward to receiving your testimony, Ms. Porter.”

  Relief pours through me. Just like that, it’s over.

  #

  Brad Morris drives a sleek silver Jaguar convertible. It’s flashy as hell, totally unsuitable for the San Francisco climate and an attorney who wants to project a respectable image. It suits Brad perfectly.

  He puts it in gear and heads away from the courthouse. “Where to?” he asks me.

  “Macy’s. Union Square.”

  He cocks one blond brow and slants a glance my way. “Ready to do a little celebratory shopping?”

  “Something like that.”

  He catches my smile, but doesn’t remark on it. He also doesn’t take me directly to Macy’s. Instead, we do a loop through the city, both of us silently drinking it all in. Twin Peaks, Pacific Heights, Russian Hill, the Castro. We tour Chinatown and Little Italy, zip around the cable cars on Powell Street, gawk at the freezing tourists stumbling through Ghiradelli Square. We take one last cruise through Haight Ashbury (I blow a kiss to the Karma Café) and amble through Golden Gate Park, driving past the bison paddock. We even meander down the insanely crooked Lombard Street. San Francisco. It’s all so beautiful it breaks my heart.

  Finally we arrive at Union Square. Brad pulls into a No Parking zone and slips the Jag into park. He reaches into his glove compartment, retrieves a thick manila envelope, and passes it to me.

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  His gaze meets mine. He studies me for a moment in silence, and then flashes his trademark brilliant smile. “Happy trails.”

  “You, too.”

  Who would have guessed my sleazy legal ethics instructor would turn out to be a decent guy after all? What can I say? Life’s full of surprises.

  I step out of the car and head directly into Macy’s. For a moment I’m caught off guard by the gaudy holiday decorations, the massive piles of consumer goods, the sheer number of people swarming the aisles. Then I quickly get my bearings. I stride past the cosmetics counters and dodge the perfume testers, heading to the men’s department. I don’t stop there, either. I head to the exit and step outside, onto O’Farrell Street.

  I spot the dark green BMW wagon idling at the curb.

  Beckett.

  I open the passenger door and slip inside. Without a word, he drags me over the console and pulls me into his arms. His mouth meets mine, all hunger and relief and naked anticipation. My hands can’t stop touching him. He can’t stop touching me. I kiss him until I’m breathless, until he’s breathless, until I think the hand brake is going to pierce my chest. Or maybe that pressure is just my heart, so full it’s ready to explode.

  After a few minutes, Beckett reluctantly pulls away and puts the car in drive. We both want more, but it’ll have to wait. It’s time to go.

  We’ve got a flight to catch.
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br />   Dear Judge Ellis,

  As you’ve probably guessed by now, this will be my final communiqué.

  Please don’t take it personally that I skipped town—particularly after you were kind enough to agree that I posed no flight risk and released me on my own recognizance.

  As a condition of my forthcoming trial and sentencing, you required me to testify to my involvement in the events pertaining to the arrests of Miguel Diaz, Ricco Diaz, Sun Yee, and various other drug dealers here in the Bay Area.

  I’ve done that in these pages, just like I promised I would. I’ve given every detail of my involvement, leading right up to the moment of my arrest and subsequent jailing. All the legal maneuvering and plea deals that followed (courtesy of my high-powered and media loving attorney, Brad Morris) are a matter of public record. I think you’ll agree that I’ve held nothing back.

  So I’ve kept that promise, but I’ve broken another. I won’t be there to verbally testify in court. I can’t. Even the most naïve among us will agree that would be a death sentence. Not that that would matter to anyone else.

  Here’s a fundamental truth, albeit one that took me months to learn: the DEA was never on my side. Beckett wasn’t the only one who lured me into this mess. Everyone at the DEA knew that Ricco was taking over his father’s west coast operation. Sarah, with her perky ponytail and sunny smile, knew. The straight-shooter Agent Reardon knew. The creepy tech guy who miked me knew.

  Everyone at the DEA knew they were taking a nineteen-year-old college student and using her as bait to trap a drug lord. A girl with no money, no connections, no future. I was supposed to be disposable. Thrown away after everything was done. I don’t think that particular fact was going to come out at my trial, was it? It probably wouldn’t look very good for you, or the San Francisco PD, or the DEA.