The Quartet
Intro3
by ipam
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Pamela Joan Barlow
Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Tues. June 22. Balcony. Miami-Dade Federal Circuit Court Building. 173 East Flagler Street. Miami. Florida. 33131. court room 4. Sherman Cutter. Judge. partly sunny. 78*F. 7:45 a.m. Silver limo drops four figures into mobbed & crowded streets of downtown Miami court house pavilion, dresses as lawyers. Austin leads behind throng of rowdy, shouting & angry people of Miami, darts left towards uniformed court guard, then glides, slyly through second door known only to working court clerks, nods, silently to man, vanishes, coolly from heated and hot pebbled walkway
“Where…we fuckingly hiking?” Tom asks, casually, trails Austin.
“Fuckingly not a word, Tom.” Stu lectures, chuckles at silly baby bro.
“Court room.” Austin answers.
Tom stops, suddenly, frowns, funny, studies walls, ceiling, floor, talks, calmly. “Never been this way.” Frank veers, quickly as around Thomas & Austin as leader, since Austin is elected “babysitter for day.” Austin tugs, forcefully Tom in line toward court room.
“Learned something new today, Thomas.” Stu lectures, fatherly.
Tom frowns, ugly, shakes, sideways blonde skull, smartasses. “Don’t wanna learn something fucking new, the goddamn ‘old’ works perfectly fine…for me.”
Austin informs, arrogantly. “I wanna avoid the multiply checkpoints at the street entrance and courtroom doorway.”
Stu rumbles in deep bass drum. “Ya mean, you don’t want to get searched by x-rays, metal detectors or by hand…”
Frank stops, suddenly, pivots, soldierly, parts lips, inquires, very gravely. “Austin, are you carrying your weapon?”
“Hell, yeah, always!” Stu guesses Frank left his Ghost at home with Misty.
Frank curses, loudly, parks fists on hips. “Shit! Both of you.” He eye burns silly grinning Sawyer. “Tom?”
“I plea the fifth.” Tom quotes, jabblingly, chuckles, lightly, fist-bumps Stu.
Frank frowns, ugly, reminds, sternly. “Am I the only smart brother of the band?” He points, rudely at each fourth. “I’m not bailing you asswipes out of jail. Have you got that?”
“Don’t worry, Mangrove. We’re the fucking ass heroes of this story.” Tom announces, wildly, fist-bumps, twice with Stu. Austin smirks, slightly.
“Heroes...go to jail and get killed in real life, Tom.” Frank reminds, motherly, pivots, stomps first step.
“We won’t.” Stu sniggers, lightly, slaps, tenderly Tom’s back muscles, winks at Austin.
“Damn straight! I’ll call Jane. My wife’s got money and manners and good looks.” Tom declares, boldly, Stu & Austin chuckle, lightly. Frank frowns, ugly, marches up stairs.
“Where do the steps lead?” Stu asks.
“Up.” Tom muses, laugh, hardy.
“A private balcony used in the old days for hiding witnesses.” Austin informs.
Frank lectures, historically. “Actually, the Juliette balcony was built into the wall for the purpose of guarding defendants until the verdict could be read. In 1925, a man shot his adulterous wife before she could testify to the jury.”
“What happened historian Franklin, sir?” Stu encourages, wisely since Frank & Jace are official record keepers of past, present & future events for the Quartet.
“The guy was jailed, trialed and convicted of murder.” Frank details. “…for murdering her lover…a judge, no less.”
“No shit!” Tom remarks.
“So, the new judge built the secret place in case he got caught, also.” Frank ends.
“Our wonderful ancestors of Miami.” Stu cheers, happily.
“Wild fucking times in the roaring 20’s. Ya heard Grandpa’s thrilling stories.” Tom retells, claps hands like child, skips leathers on tile.
“Loud and clear. I try not to act that way.” Frank elects to be good boy.
“The wilds of Florida are a legend. I think we should continue the tradition.” Stu rules.
“We do.” Tom approves, grins, toothy.
“We do not.” Frank reacts, violently, frowns, ugly.
“Sneaking into a Federally secured court house with illegal weapons…” Tom dumps.
“Shut up, Tom.” Stu barks, fondly, neck snaps wandering guards or visitors.
Frank opens, gently door, reveals compact room with three enclosed concrete walls and cool air blowing from the vent ten feet above single maple padded bench holding six bodies, tightly. Platform is upper floor like bedroom with great wide view of gallery. Solid wooden balustrade encases clear window exposing judge’s bench, jury box, witness stand, defendant table and prosecutor side table along with single row of benches for expert key eyewitnesses.
“Wow! Great view!” Stu slides to armrest, watches motion down in the galley.
Tom sits next to Stu. Frank cuddles beside Sawyer. Austin protects other armrest. Frank inquires, seriously in tenor trumpet. “Why aren’t you on the floor, Tom?”
“Bail hearing. It’s not my turn, her’s.” He props, rudely leathers on polished balustrade, relaxes, enjoy ‘dog and pony’ show for entertainment.
Frank asks, sincerely. “Does she have a lawyer, Tom?”
“No.” Tom answers, straightens purple/yellow/white bow tie.
“No?” Austin repeats, eye burns Tom.
“No?” Frank voices, eye burns Tom.
“No.” Stu joins choir for fun, sniggers, lightly.
Tom laughs, hardy, quotes, ugly, chuckles, lightly. “Damn! Is that an echo?”
“Doesn’t she want one? Or is she defending herself?” Frank inquires, nosy.
“No lawyer.” Tom informs, brushes lint from navy pin-striped jacket, fluffs purple/yellow/white handy inside outer breast jacket.
“She has the right to one…now.” Austin proclaims.
Tom lectures, motherly. “Don’t get crabby, Austin. The last dust is no one wants to defend her ass. They’re afraid of siding with the Devil, being punished and hung up by their toes in a banyan tree on Miracle Mile. Hey! Wouldn’t you going to do that very thing, Austin?” He chuckles at kind act from Bad Ass Berrington.
“Who would defend that monster?” Stu proposes.
“She’s not a monster.” Frank insists, firmly.
“When a person kills 8,063 people including children, the person’s a monster or worse...” Stu lectures, motherly.
“Or worse?” Frank confuses, worriedly.
“Spawn of the Devil.” Stu adjusts, correctly.
“Spawnette or Devilette, female version.” Tom substitutes, brilliantly, sniggers, lightly.
“Shut up, Tom.” Frank barks, fondly.
“Has she picked an attorney?” Austin inquires.
“Nope.” Tom retorts, pulls leather wallet, re-counts bills in $100.00.
“Doesn’t she need to have a lawyer, Austin?” Frank asks Berrington.
Tom answers for Austin. “That’s what the letters ‘P’ for public piss ants and ‘D’ for defender dimwits, parked at the free State of Florida offices are for, representing asshole monsters.” Stu spreads finger pads in “high five.” Tom slaps it. They chuckle like silly elementary kids at play recess.
“Stop that, pups.” Frank reprimands his annoying brothers.
“Did you inquiry, Tom?” Austin concerns.
“Hell, yeah. I’ve asked.” Tom answers, wipes dirt off new navy leathers with tassels.
“And?” Austin leads.
“None of the older experienced piss ants want to defend her shitty ass.” Tom ends, pulls cell from jacket, punches “on.”
Frank grabs cell, shakes, sideways red skull, then pockets it, safely into his maroon wool jacket, asks. “Is there a reason?”
“Too hot?” Stu talks.
“Too risky?” Tom adds.
“What kind of reason is that?” Frank debates, logically.
“Looky…she’ll be assigned a junior lawyer from the large pool of...” Tom dumps, waves silly with finger pads.
“Junior, not senior.” Frank adjusts.
“Junior, not senior, very good Frank, ya got excellent hearing.” Tom compliments, fist-bumps with Stu.
“Junior, which means no working court experience in front of a live federal judge.” Austin disgusts, truly.
Frank shakes, sideways red skull, remarks, brilliantly. “I don’t understand, Tom. There are numerous lawyers who want to make a name for themselves in previous infamous legal trials of O.J., Bundy, Manson, Oklahoma City, and...”
“And this would be one of the United States’s...” Stu adds.
“World’s.” Tom substitutes.
“The world’s biggest murder trial of two centuries...” Stu finishes, brilliantly, grins, toothy, fist-bumps with Tom.
“Stu, don’t start gossip.” Frank lectures, motherly.
“Also, a single killer of a bunch of people.” Tom adds.
“What?” Frank smartasses.
“Ya know…without accomplices like Bonnie and Clyde.” Tom remarks.
Stu chuckles, compliments. “Good pair of reference criminals, Mr. Sawyer.”
“What?” Frank smartasses.
“Not during war time, either.” Stu includes.
“Hold it.” Frank supervises, waves hold in air.
“War time criminals are always guilty.” Stu clarifies, perfectly.
“Excellent point, Dr. Gage.” Tom compliments, slaps “high-five” hand from Stu, chuckles, heavy.
“Enough, pups.” Austin calms the cat fight.
“What’s up your butt hole, Austin?” Tom inquires, surly.
“What happened to innocent before guilt, Tom?” Austin quizzes lawyer.
“I’m not the defendant’s fucking attorney. I’m a plain old goody citizen of Miami.” Tom retorts.
“Coral Beach.” Stu adjusts.
“Thanks for the correction, Dr. Gage. My point’s that I can judge her.” Tom expresses, curtly.
“Apparently, we ALL are judging her.” Frank notes, nods to Austin.
“Then, a tough defense is needed to combat the U.S. public opinion, I would say.” Austin strategies.
“Everyone’s judging...” Frank observes, studiously.
Austin adjusts, correctly. “…has judged, past tense, convicted and sentenced her to death.”
“Not good enough…” Stu starts, slowly.
Tom finishes, quickly. “Or swift enough…for us.” Stu & Tom laugh, hardy, exchange licks on biceps like wild animals.
“What happened to defend the ‘little people,’ Tom?” Austin quizzes lawyer.
“Don’t know.” Stu answers for Tom.
“Don’t fucking care.” Tom adds, slaps “high-five” hand of Stu.
“Stop that, Tom.” Frank reprimands, strongly, then eye burns somber Austin. “What are you talking about Austin?”
“A good lawyer, no, a great lawyer for defending Kathleen Scarlett Kattrell.” Austin starts the debate.
“Great lawyer?” Frank thinks, intellectually.
“Tom, name some great lawyers?” Stu tests the lawyer.
“ME.” Tom mice-squeaks, slaps hand to chest, laughs, hardy. Stu chuckles, lightly.
“Not you, asswipe.” Frank reprimands, lovingly.
“Tom, name two great lawyers, excluding yourself.” Stu re-tests his bro.
Tom lists, historically. “Thomas Jefferson.”
“Agreed.” Austin nod, once.
“Seth Hamilton.” Tom lists, shockingly.
“Who?” Frank hoots, loudly.
“No.” Austin huff, musically, eye burns slick Tom.
“Yes.” Tom counters.
“No.” Austin huffs, twice.
“Yes.” Tom counters, twice.
“Who?” Frank hoots, twice.
“One of the greatest, beside me…” He slaps chest, twice. “...fucking damn criminal minds in the U.S.” Tom cheers, arrogantly.
“You’re not a great criminal lawyer, Tom.” Frank insults, purposefully.
Tom examines navy leather wrist watch, challenges, swiftly. “I’ll debate that fine point with you, Mangrove, M.D., tomorrow at 10 a.m. sharp.” Stu chuckles, lightly.
“How did you know this fact, Austin?” Frank asks Berrington.
“Governor of Florida likes to drop names and brags about events in his Sunshine State.” Austin answers, quietly.
“He’s bad?” Stu interrogates Tom.
“He’s worse, the worse of the fucking worse. Talk about the goddamn spawn of the Devil. That man eats good Angels, sweet children and shitty monsters for fucking breakfast if you indeed break the law, judged by a jury of your peers and convicted of a crime in his court room.” Tom details, fully, purses lips.
“Wow. I’m impressed. Can I meet this guy?” Stu wants Seth’s autography, grins at Tom.
“Children, Tom?” Frank questions, reasonably.
“Child, children, kids, got a 12 year old convicted of second degree murder a couple of months ago in his home state of South Carolina.” Tom dumps, historically.
“Whoa!” Stu expresses, surprisingly.
“Who’s the monster, now?” Frank eye burns somber Austin.
“Him?” Austin adjusts.
“Her?” Tom corrects.
“She’s dead.” Stu adds.
“She’s not dead.” Austin corrects.
“She will be.” Tom announces, proudly.
“She will not.” Austin substitutes, arrogantly.
“Don’t start that same old fucking debate, Austin?” Tom lectures, motherly.
“I don’t plan too. I plan to end that fucking debate, Tom.” Austin retorts, sternly.
“What do you mean, Austin?” Frank inquires, curtly.
“My original question, doesn’t she need to be here? Where is she, Tom?” Austin persists.
“She canned.” Tom informs.
“Shut up, Tom.” Frank bark, fondly.
“Canned?” Austin wants to know why.
“She’s in lock down at the prison.” Stu clarifies, truthfully.
“Why, Stu?” Austin frowns, ugly, demands.
“Death threats.” Stu shares.
“How many?” Tom asks.
“Last count, 16,629,745.” Frank proclaims, mathematically.
Tom reacts, boldly. “Shit! Frank, you’re exaggerating, or the big accountant got the comma in the wrong place.”
“I state my numbers correctly, Thomas.” Frank defends, brilliantly.
“Holy crap! 17,000,000 people want her dead.” Tom surprises, whistles, lightly.
“And counting…” Frank continues.
“The entire state of Florida holds…” Stu empties, incompletely, eye burns number nerd Mangrove. “How many people, Frank?”
Frank rattles, swiftly. “19,201,200 as of January 15, 2012 with a predicted increase of 1.021 percent for the rest of the year.”
“Check it, Stu.” Tom orders, slaps, nosily hands, challenges Frank’s numbers to prove wrong so he can boast, loudly to the Heavens.
“Give me a sec.” Stu pulls, calmly laptop, un-zips bag, balances on kneecaps, pounds keys like concert pianist. Gage enjoys harassing Sawyer but also assists Tom to give the good doctor some pain and suffering, every once in a while. Tom’s always searching to prove Frank wrong and has not succeeded, yet. Stu sniggers. Austin snorts. Frank chills. Tom drools saliva over Stu’s arms watching the laptop process.
“That’s one per person excluding babies.” Frank calculates, precisely.
“Well, Stu.” Tom demands satisfaction.
“One more sec.” BEEP. CLICK. TAP. “He’s right.” Stu rewards the winner.
“Certainly.” Frank nods, once, smirks, deeply.
“Show me?” Tom directs.
“See, 19,201,200 on January 15, 2012.” Stu points to screen.
“Shit! I’ll get you sooner, or later, Mangrove?” Tom threats for fun.
“Doubt it!” Frank muses. “I smarter than you, asshole. More neurons here. From birth. My parents.” Frank points to skull. Stu laughs. Austin chuckles.
“Ya calling my folks dumb, Mangrove?” Tom attacks, viciously.
“Only the creative embryo of the your reproductively happily married male and female biological life forms.” Frank uses true scientific terms just to annoy Tom.
Tom ignores Frank, eye burns jolly Stu. “Did you call in, man?”
“46 times.” Stu answers, curtly.
“I only called a fucking 43.” Tom sours, surly.
“You better be joking, Stu.” Austin threats.
“Tom’s lying. I’m not.” Stu tattles.
“Holy crap!” Frank returns, violently. “You both are joking, correct?”
“Don’t answer Stu?” Tom warns.
“Why not?” Stu asks, calmly.
“Fifth amendment, buddy. Our constitutional rights.” Tom advices, freely, sniggers, lightly.
“Warden DOES want to her to get shot, correct? Is that why she’s missing?” Frank guesses.
“He does NOT want his guards to get shot would be the more accurate reason, Frank.” Stu addresses.
“Bullshit!” Frank reacts, viciously. “How did you find that out, Stu?” Austin asked.
“Warden told me…personally.” Stu shares.
“Personally. When were you at the prison?” Austin has missed some facts.
“Yesterday, I have Quartet guards assigned to guard the guards, the grounds, the building, the warden…” Stu empties, incompletely.
“…the girl?” Austin fills is being mistreated by the Quartet.
“Who gives a shit about a murderer?” Stu answers for all Floridians except Austin.
“Actually, you would state more accurately. Who gives a shit about a murderess?” Tom substitutes, brilliantly, chuckles, lightly.
“Quiet, Tom.” Austin orders, commandingly.
“Who gives a shit? This is a human being, not a piece of freeze dried meat.” Frank shares passion with uncaring brothers.
“You’re a good physician and have a kind heart, Frank. But let this go. She’s not human. She’s a monster. She’s guilty. She’s going to die.” Stu informs. Austin stares. Frank shakes sideways skull. Tom plops leathers onto railing for Hollywood show.
“Please rise for the Honorable Sherman Cutter.” Bailiff announces. Galley stands, soldierly. Judge enters, slides behind bench, bangs, loudly gravel. Galley sits. The Quartet remains seated in the balcony.
“Do you know Cutter, Tom?” Austin asks.
“Yeah.” Tom answers.
“Is he fair?”
“Yeah.” Tom answers, twice.
“Is he just?”
“Yeah.” Tom answers, thrice.
“Is he partial?”
“What’s with the fucking ass 50 questions, Austin? Yeah, he’s a good judge.” Tom ends.
“I’m interested in the facts, Tom.” Austin remarks.
“Now! Ya know, buddy.” Tom informs.
Cutter decides in tenor trumpet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have reviewed with great care the murder case of the accused Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell.” Muttering, immediately. Cutter announces, sharply. “Bail is set at $250,000,000.” He slaps hammer on wood bench.
“Hope she’s got saving bonds.” Tom jokes, chuckles, heavy.
“A little steep, don’t you think, Tom?” Frank interests, keenly.
Stu determines. “Not for a cold-blooded serial killing mass murderess.”
“Hey, Stu, got it right!” Tom announces, smiles, fist-bumps Stu.
conference room, Miami-Dade County Medical Coroner Office, 3rd Street, 85th Ave, S.W., Miami, Florida, 33124, 5th floor, suite 503, Ethan Allen Underhill, sunny, 82*F, 9:24 a.m. Austin, Tom, Frank & Stu sit, quietly, listen, acutely, behave, professionally at round table as licensed State of Florida medical psychiatrics explain Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell’s psychological condition.
“Katt…” Psychiatry #1 names.
“Cat…where’s the kitty cat?” Psychiatry #3 inquires.
“Asswipe.” Tom scoff, chuckles.
“Behave, Tom” Austin sits next to Tom as and reprimands as “babysitter for the day.”
“Katt is the shorten name of Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell, murderess of 8,063 souls. She is described as a precise, observant mindset of inhuman sight, feel and sensation with the lack of normal rhythmic cycles of life. She is insensitive to others and enjoys embarrassing death, not life.”
Psychiatry #1 analyzes.
“What the Hell does all that mean?” Tom injects.
“Quiet, Tom.” Austin remarks.
Psychiatry #2 shares. “She has circled around the fact that death is seen and heard but hardly touched by outsiders…like herself…her soul…her death of a person. The grave represented a person. The death of each soul served as a reflective and appropriate response to her angry and need of vengeance against the girl named Mouse.”
“Where….where’s the mouse in here?” Psychiatry #3 seeks.
“Dumb shit.” Tom scoffs, chuckles.
“No comment, Tom.” Austin reminds.
“Mouse is the pseudo name of the yellow discolored female found at the cliff where she died of an overdose of electric shock from a taser in which currently, F.B.I. is investigating that matter. She targets her angry against the entire world of girls and boys being an ironic echo of her own future fate, death.” Psychiatry #1 informs.
“She’s not dead…” Psychiatry #3 dumps.
Tom retorts. “Not yet.”
“Listen, Tom.” Austin reprimands.
“Katt is renegade serving as the enforcer of death.” Psychiatry #1 exclaims.
“The Angel of Death.” Tom quotes, famously.
“An apt description, Mr. Sawyer.” Psychiatry #1 notes, nods.
Psychiatry #2 emphasizes. “Katt isn’t part of any select social group, her family, her friends, her enemies. She is portrayed as a young naïve girl unmarried birthed a baby after her mother and father died of some kind of mysterious aliment. Katt shifts her personality overnight into an unsettled, slippery, sharp, sneaky persona on the surface but a tormented and guilty child inside her mental mind consisting of easy-going and smooth personality that transforms into a ruthless and aggressive killer? Or flawed psycho? Or deliberate killer?”
“The latter gets my vote.” Tom tallies.
“Hush, Tom.” Austin corrects.
Psychiatry #3 reports. “Katt sees deep-rooted, irrational hatred of one person, Mouse not looking beyond her own flaws to see alternatives for her hatred, hostility or hope.”
Austin injects, passionately “I believe Katt has hope.”
“Everyone has hope, Dr. Berrington.” Ethan nods, once, agrees, totally.
Psychiatry #1 exercises. “Hope for her to grow passed her madness, obsession and lead a full enriched life. I believe her hopeless. It’s hard for me to see hope when she used new tricks which included unconventional, nonhuman ways of dictating her personality flaws into death acts toward her victims. Someone that looks out for himself, not for his family or friends is a coward. She is a coward and will die a coward. End of story. So, let’s hear the story of female named Mouse?”
Psychiatry #3 questions. “Mouse did possess same killer instincts as Katt. As fact is shown, she attacked and threatened her victims with fear and death. But she didn’t kill, just threatened. However, Mouse acted out her threats by directly kidnapping Austin and Tom. I understand they might be twins in biology, or psychology medical terms? That is to be determined by…anyone care to comment?”
Psychiatry #2 presents. “Interesting, Mouse displayed true criminal values: act of kidnapping, crazed and malicious state of mind, intent of harm and the motive of revenge. But Mouse didn’t have a weapon.”
“Where IS the weapon? Is one needed? Mr. Sawyer, as the only lawyer in the room what are the criminal elements of murder?” Psychiatry #1 asks. Tom frowns, ugly, silents, permanently.
His time ain’t free. His advice ain’t cheap. He ain’t tattle tailing Tom eye burns lawyer Austin. Austin nods, slightly in agreement.
Psychiatry #2 answers for Tom. “Murder is an act and state of mind, which is evil within itself, making murder wrong by its very nature. And the very nature of the act, murder, lacking any specific definition in law is considered a crime. The act, the state of mine, the intent and the motive point to one person…”
“Mouse.” Psychiatry #1 answers.
“I don’t know.” Psychiatry #3 says.
“Mouse?” Psychiatry #2 agrees.
“I don’t know.” Psychiatry #3 says.
Frank whispers to Austin. “I’m not a trained criminal psychiatrist for the State of Florida but all legal elements points to the girl name Mouse, not the current inmate at the Miami Springs Correctional Institute.”
Stu intercedes between them. “You’re right, Frank, you don’t know.”
conference, Miami-Dade County D.A. Building, 203 Brickell Avenue, 43th floor, suite 29, Miami, Florida, 33133, Norman Prisetter, district attorney, sunny, 86*F, 10:23 a.m. Home’s that way!” Tom points manicured index finger South as limo paths North on U.S. 1.
“We’re not going home, Tom.” Austin informs his brothers.
“I’m tired. I want to go home.” Tom whines infantile tone, complains as usual when he doesn’t get his way.
“We’re going to the D.A.’s office.” Austin leads.
“What the Hell for, Austin?” Tom disapproves.
“Start the pre-trial stuff.” Austin reminds.
“You don’t need me. I’ll show up the day of the trial. Just call me, I’ll be there. Like the song.”
Tom sings in tenor saxophone, chuckles, silly. Stu laughs. Frank frowns.
Austin eye burns annoying Sawyer, lectures, fatherly in baritone trombone. “You, most of all, need to know the ends and outs of this murdereress case, Tom.”
“She’s guilty. She killed everyone, lots of everyone’s. There ain’t bodies we don’t found, yet. So, more than lots of everyone’s. Hang her, shit!” Tom tosses, wildly arms in air, concludes, uselessly, snorts, lightly.
“He’s rambling.” Frank diagnoses, medically.
“Tom should go home under doctor’s orders, right, Frank?” Stu suggests, nods at Frank. Frank frowns. Tom giggles, silly.
Austin commands, bossy. “Tom can go home after his meeting.”
“District Attorney’s Office.” Joe pipes over speaker, parks, illegally long limo main entrance of swinging glass doors, 56 floored skyscraper, home of Miami-Dade County District Attorney office on Brickell Avenue.
Austin stops, waits for elevators, neck snaps to brothers, orders, commandingly. “No comments, observations, questions, remarks, or opinions.”
“Agreed.” Frank nods, once, confirms, firstly.
“Why not, Austin?” Stu smart-asses.
“I have my reasons.” Austin does not need one. He is boss of the Quartet.
“No.” Tom challenges, bravely, folds arms over chest.
“What did you say Tom?” Austin dishes super-attitude at lawyer.
Tom retorts, loudly, stomps, loudly into elevator with brothers. “I say no. If I’m going to waste my time, here, I’ll going to offer my legal point of view.”
“We’re not wasting time, Tom when a life’s hanging by neck muscles on a hangman’s noose.” Austin expresses, personally.
“Let the bitch hang.” Tom judges in tenor saxophone, eye burns asshole Austin.
“Not without a legal just cause and an impartial trial.” Austin remarks, lawfully.
Tom eye burns asshole Austin, diagnoses, stingingly. “Something’s wrong with him, Dr. Mangrove. Get your medical kit and stab the Old Man with your tiny tap needles. Berrington needs a dose of reality.” He ponder, deeply Austin’s legal intent and internal mental problems. Frank shakes, sideways red skull.
Austin commands, nasty, eye burns each fourth. “No comments...or else.”
“God, now he’s threatening me.” Tom pouts, childishly, eye burns asshole Austin.
“Threatening us!” Stu includes, folds biceps over shirt, eye burns shit ass Austin.
Tom defaults, brilliantly. “We carry ALL the information, Austin.”
Austin nods, once, sum, quickly. “We do at that…which we accumulated on OUR time and at OUR expense.”
Stu stings, playfully. “Ya don’t want to share the toys in the playpen, huh?”
“Something like that.” Austin retorts, mysteriously.
“I need a better reason, or I’m spilling my imported Colombian coffee beans.” Tom doesn’t give up his legal battle.
“TOM!” Austin barks, respectfully.
Tom shakes, sideways blonde skull, zips, mentally deep emotions, surrenders, totally to asshole Austin, talks, meekly. “Fine.”
Austin whispers, softly to office receptionist, then leads the Quartet around corner into extend hand of District Attorney Norman Prisetter, Special Agent F.B.I. Phil Magnum, Junior & three quickly named lawyers working on murder case.
The Quartet is silent observers of information exchange. No verbal or hand signals. Austin means business, will personally kick their buttholes to Mars, even the gentle giant, if Big Man mutters a single grunt.
Norman greet, friendly, slaps thin paper folder on surface. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to begin our pre-trial information with new facts uncovered recently. The accursed Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell is known as ‘Katt” like kitty cat. Her name matches her birth certificate and drivers’ license…”
“What about her twin? The dead girl colored yellow named Mouse.” Lawyer #1 questions.
Norman waves off hand, continues. “Forget that yellow thing. The indictment charge is Crimes of Humanity. An international law, not common in the good ‘ole’ U.S for one single act of persecution on any large scale atrocities against a body of people, namely the exhumed graves of 8,063 bodies. Tell the media!” Lawyer #1 nods, silently. Norman informs. “They’re waiting on our formal legal statement. Do it after lunch.” He pauses, dramatically, reads, silently. “The accused nicknamed Katt pulls 77 grand per year a computer certificate, no formal college degree. She’s computer clerk, not analyst…nor programmer. Her motivation…which is our motive…” Norman grins, toothy, eye burns eager lawyers. “…is that Katt is murdering in cold blood patients for fun. She has been discovered. Her fun has ended. She has tons of money in her bank account. Single, no immediate or extended family member but…a kid.” Norman eye burns FBI Phil. Phil nods, silently. Norma inquires. “Did we find the baby’s birth records?” Phil shakes, sideways brown skull. Norman sighs, breathes, deeply. “We called all the Florida hospitals?” Phil nods, once. “We called all the Florida obstetricians?” Phil nods, once. Norman inhales, exhales, deeply. “Based on eye witness testimony...”
Lawyer #3 fills, incompletely. “….an individual named Mrs. Henrietta Hartmann living in Boyer, Florida. She’s the wife of the former employer Katt killed in cold blood. A man named Matthew Adams Hartmann, VII died of mysterious causes per the autopsy report, not murder. The FBI report states that deceased didn’t present colored yellow liver like the other 8,063 ones…here in Miami. But…we’ll use Mrs. Hartmann’s eye witness account seeing Katt standing over her dead husband. The woman didn’t call the police to arrest Katt as murderer ten years ago. At the time, the body is alive and fucking the girl.”
Lawyer expresses, chuckles, deeply. “Well, the man died happy. Katt’s a pretty little thing. I bet she can fuck your eyeballs out.”
“Back to Mrs. Hartmann…she has agreed to be the State’s character witness?” Norman asks. Lawyer #1 nods, silently. Norman curses. “Jesus. I wish she was deaf...”
Lawyer #1 reprimands. “Don’t start that same old debate, Norman? I agree the woman’s intolerable as a human being. Her language, her appearance, her manners…” Lawyer #1 chuckles, shakes, sideways brown skull, emphasizes. “Remember, Mrs. Hartmann’s words are important, not her dress code. I believe she can be labeled the vulgar term ‘white trash’. Atypical country backwoods hick from Alabama...”
Lawyer #3 corrects. “She lives in Florida.”
“Is there a difference ‘up there’?” Lawyer #2 says in poor Southern account.
“Be very careful, the defense is going to watch and nitpick and record and attack our biases on this murder trial, since Katt’s from the same small town in Alabama…” Norman dumps.
“In Florida.” Lawyer #3 corrects.
Norman leads. “Back to the accused, bank records indicate Katt’s net worth as $300,000. She’s going to need it since half that wad will go as retainer for lawyer then when the money runs out, she can use one of the piss ants dimwits the Dade Miami county public defenders. Poor kid! Who has the assignment do we know?”
“One of the nameless junior piss ants! I haven’t read a name, yet. The piss ant’s name doesn’t matter. We’ll win hands down with a junior representing her ass. A junior attorney won’t be able to counter our lack of ...just cause.” Lawyer #3 predicts.
“I’m going to use probable cause along with motive: kill for love of money and sex. She fucked her victims before she killed them…for fun quoted in eye witness testimony from Tiberius Clark’s depo. Jesus. Another colored horse of a different breed…” Norman dumps.
Lawyer #2 continues. “More like a poke-a-dotted zebra. He’s a basket case, claiming she kills with her hands….hence, her ‘Angel of Death’ title. Mr. Clark is set as last eyewitness on our last day of offense. Sooo, that brings us to the real weapon?”
“None.” Phil talks, firmly.
“Really, none?” Norman back-tracks.
“Really, no weapon.” Phil confirms.
Norman comments. “Seems to me… that’s a slight problem for us as the prosecution, prosecuting a murderer without a murder weapon.”
“We have solved that little problem, Norman working with the Charity staff…linking Katt’s precisely matched body fluids, needles, hypos, sprays, syringes, other medical items found at the hospital to the exhumed graves.” Lawyer #2 details, fully, grins, toothy.
“Impossible.” Frank blurts, flatly, forgets Austin’s instructions.
“The impossible is our mission, Frank. How’s that for a motto, guys?” Norman chuckles. “Quote that to the media?” Lawyer #1 nods, chuckles, scribbles quotes on notepad.
Austin growls into Frank’s eardrum. “I was thinking the same adverb.”
“Thanks, Austin.” Frank talks, meekly, relieves Old Man ain’t landing his healthy body in one of Charity’s Emergency rooms for afternoon.
Attorney #1 states. “Very poor evidence, there since to me…that’s one in a zillion chance of matching any germ, mold or trash on a victim. However, the evidence doesn’t matter for us. Katt is dead. A poor attorney, a poor strategy, a poor outcome...” Norman exclaims, victoriously.
“Guilty.” Tom rejoices, forgets Austin’s orders. Austin sneers like rabid dog at. Tom chin whips to chest, folds arms under armpits, recalls no talking, barking or peeing on D.A. rug.
Tom eye burns pissed off Stu. Big brother winks, protectively at worried Tom. Tom smiles, fully, folds spidery hands over blonde skull. Stu’ll protect him from asshole Austin. Gage’s insulted and fumed with Old Man’s verbal command, too.
“Very good, I agree, Sawyer.” Norman compliments. “Let’s break for an early lunch, I’m starving.”
Mercy Towers, 63 Mercy Way, Miami, Florida, 33131, 15th floor, suite 1508, physician practice, Jace Justin Jackson, Junior, M.D., sunny, 90*F, 10:46 a.m. Jace, Quartet’s private physician & trusted family friend poses gross glossy color pic center stage, details, medically. “I’d examined one of the hard coated yellow livers from four different victims inside the city morgue to gather a better understanding of this odd phenomenon when I flipped it over and examined the underside. It consists of soft pliable tissue. I have discovered the hepatic artery, the hepatic vein and portal vein, the nerve of celiac ganglis and vagus are all clogged with the dried bilirubin enzyme.”
Tom whines, baby-tonish. “You’re going to catch something, Jace, then give it to me. Didn’t your Mama teach you not to play with germs?”
Stu holds three fingers in air before Tom’s cornflower blue eyes. “We need intent, motive and weapon.”
“Oh! Yeah! Right! Forgot! The big three!” Tom sums, chuckles, dives perfectly white straight teeth into chicken salad sandwich.
Jace starts, slowly. “The liver is an organ…”
Tom injects, violently as food shoots from lips across plate and table. “Know that. It plays a role in metabolism along with functions in the body including glycogen storage, plasma protein synthesis and detoxification. Oh, yeah! It’s the largest gland in the body and lies below the diaphragm of the abdomen and produces bile, an alkaline compound which aids in digestion and regulates high-volume biochemical reactions requiring specialized tissues.” He has learned all medical information from the Homestead laboratory reports, Jace’s medical fact sheets and Frank’s annoying lectures each night at the dinner table.
Frank compliments, delightfully. “Very good, Thomas. You should’ve become a doctor.”
Tom stands, carefully, holds loaded China plate of food, announces, wildly. “Forget it! I like being a lawyer. Know enough. Can I go, now, Austin?”
“Tom, you must listen, learn and absorb all medical data for this murderess trial.” Austin dictates, bossy.
Jace leads. “The medical term comes from the Greek word for liver or hepatic. The adult human liver weighs between 3.5 to 6.5 pounds and it exhibits boomerang shaped but not pinkish brown any more…”
“I’m going to be sick.” Tom complains, weakly.
“Nothing makes you sick, man, except when I see you eat.” Stu adds to Tom’s complaint.
Jace lectures. “The liver is positioned on right side of the upper abdomen below the diaphragm and lies on the right of the stomach and gallbladder which stores the bile. The splenic vein joins the inferior…”
Tom whines, baby-tonish. “Austin?”
Austin commands, authoritatively. “I agree with Tom’s whining. More layman explanation, save the medical babble for the court room with the medical experts.”
Jace concludes, medically. “The liver is among the few internal human organs capable of natural regeneration of lost tissue with as little as 25% of the original liver regenerating into a whole liver, again. However, Katt’s victims did not regenerate. 100 percent of the liver was too contaminated, too fast and too full of toxin killing all 8,063 exhumed bodies, quickly including your godson, Austin and Bree’s grandmother.”
Frank observes, brilliantly. “Mmm! The medical lab report assumes liver coating is exposed or leaked bilirubin. Normally, bilirubin enzyme is yellow when broken down from the heme catatbolism. When levels are elevated for certain diseases, color of bruises are yellow and feces are brown.”
“Shit! You’re talking about black, brown or green shit. I can talk shit, too.” Tom supports, chuckles, loudly.
“May I hit him…please?” Stu frowns, ugly then eye burns fatherly Austin. Austin shakes, sideways skull.
“Yeah! Let’s see if his bruises turn yellow or brown, first.” Frank muses, chuckles, threats annoying Tom.
“Spoil sport, Frank.” Tom tattles, lobes pink tongue covered with food at asswipe Frank. Stu chuckles. Austin stares.
“I try.” Frank eye burns medical reports.
Jace is used to the pups playing, continues his analyze. “The bilirubin changes its conformation when exposed to light. A good example is phototherapy of jaundiced babies when illuminated version of bilirubin is more soluble than the un-illuminated version.” Both physicians laugh, hardy. Jace eye burns confused brothers, explains, funny. “Don’t you get it? The liver lights up like a firecracker under the lights and then basically explodes. POOF!” Physicians laugh, twice.
Tom scoffs, nasty. “No smart ass doctors. I missed that data in my tenth grade biology class. What does this fucking tidbit of stupid data mean? Nothing? She’s guilty. Hang her. May I please leave, now, Austin?” Tom stands, swiftly. Austin points at padded chair, silently. Tom re-seats, finishes potato salad.
Jace sobers, quickly, reports, medically. “Were any of the dead patients, especially neonates noted with days of jaundice in the sclera of the eyes or in the skin before death?”
Frank reports, flatly. “Not presence. I checked the lab reports. Wait a minute, Jace. I believe this to be another angle of the bilirubin that the labs boys didn’t expose.”
“The light explosion...let me work some theories up for discussion with you later, Frank.” Jace continues. “The main physiological role of bilirubin is cellular antioxidant. At the cell level, the organ can expose toxins on its own.”
“Reasonable levels of bilirubin are beneficial for the body. Research evidence shows bilirubin can protect tissues against oxidation damage caused by free radicals and other reactive oxygen cells. Also, people with high normal or elevated bilirubin levels in blood have lower risk of cardiovascular diseases. So, maybe the yellow coating was trying to protect the liver from the toxins secreted from germs or viruses within the host body.” Frank uses.
Jace announces. “Good theory. I’ll run more tests for detailed cell structures. Large amounts of accumulated bilirubin in certain brain regions lead to kernicterus. First, only in neonates and secondly, that was tested by the lab boys. Check that off the list, Frank. Unconjugated hyperbilirubinaemia in neonates are present due to the lack of intestinal bacteria that breaks down and excretes into shit. Checked? None present.”
Frank studies reports & lectures. “Red blood cells generate heme and amino acids which are water soluble becoming bile. It travels out of the small intestine, large intestine...”
“But if the liver is damaged…” Jace talks, thinks. “Or the biliary drainage blocked, it is excreted through urine. Maybe, it wasn’t excreted but re-absorbed for a second time since the ducts were blocked creating the yellow hard coating around the liver, not underneath the organ.”
“Sit down and listen, Tom. The medical information’s important in this murderess case.” Austin orders to wandering Tom.
Tom sits at doorway, bores, drinks pure sugar and sweet milk combined with black rich coffee beans between nasty comments. “The lab coats are important for the murderess case. She’s guilty. She’s dead. End of fairy tale for me…” He snickers, lightly, eats another buttered roll.
“Her yellow coloring has been confirmed an outcome of toxin poisoning.” Jace confirms.
“Medical term is toxin venom…like snake….hissssss.” Tom substitutes, silly.
“Tom, back to business.” Austin reprimands.
Stu updates, academically. “Jace, Frank, I did my homework. We ready for my report.” Jace nods, silently as head medical officer on murderess case. Stu clears, nosily throat. “I read that the venom of the scorpion called Uroplectes lineatus is clinically important in dermatology. One of the earliest occurrences of the scorpion, or Scorpio, in culture is one of the twelve signs of the constellations known as the Zodiac by the Babylonian astronomers during the Chaldean period.”
“Fascinating shit, Mr. Non-Spock.” Tom whines-baby-tonish.
Stu adds. “The symbol of the scorpion in North Africa, South Asia and the Middle East is perceived both as an embodiment of evil as well as a protective force to combat evil…”
“In another context, the scorpion portrays human sexuality.” Frank injects, smiles.
“Where’s the sex act located, Franklin?” Tom inquires, eats buttered roll.
“I’ll have to find the proper sex act later for ya, Tom.” Frank reminds.
Tom demands. “I want to see that sexy article, Frank. He’s lying like always making shit up to piss me off.”
Stu continues. “In folk medicine in South Asia, scorpions are used in antidotes for scorpion bites.”
Tom shakes, sideways skull, reasons. “How can you antidote yourself with the antidote? That shit doesn’t make any sense. Another smart ass doctor making shit up to really piss me off.”
Stu lectures. “In ancient Egypt, the goddess Serket is a scorpion, one of several goddesses that protected the Pharaoh. That’s where the sexuality reference comes from, Frank.”
“Hell, no.” Tom voiced.
Jace remarks, impressively. “This is a medical miracle that Mouse Girl could absorb poisons…”
“Venom.” Tom corrects.
Jace leans, heavily into chair. “Ya know, based on the accumulated evidence…lab tests, visual inspections…of mysterious toxins/poisons within her living body.” Jace stops, suddenly, eye burns Frank. “…maybe Mouse Girl’s touch could pass it along to others, hence, killing alive and breathing patients at the hospital.”
Tom reacts, violently, shakes, sideways skull, waves off suggestion. “No, no, no. That’s impossible, scientifically and fictionously.”
“Fictionously, that’s not a vocabulary word, Tom.” Stu corrects.
“Yeah, it is, look it up stupid asshole Professor Gage with four degrees...” Tom challenges, surly.
“Quiet, pups.” Austin commands.
Jace diagnoses, medically about Mouse Girl. “Depending on the location and the damage surrounding brain structures, either compression or infiltration will produce symptoms involving cognitive and behavioral impairment, personality changes, hemiparesis, hypeshesia, aphasia, ataxia, visual field impairment, facial paralysis, double vision, tremor or worse stoke or permanent brain injury.”
“Point of intent for Mouse Girl, one of the big three factors for murdereress of 8,063 souls. I’ll state before...” Frank dumps.
“Don’t bother repeating, Frank?” Stu commands. “You…do…not… know. Jace, you’re the head medical expert, keep searching for clinical clues connecting both Mouse Girl and Katt Girl.”
Austin nods, once, concludes. “I agree with Stu. You must verify your first set of findings of Mouse Girl, Jace.”
Jace nods, once. “You don’t need to remind me about proper research techniques. I find this quite amazing stuff.”
Frank asks to Austin. “What about the D.A.’s office?”
Austin repeats. “What about the D.A.’s office, Frank?”
“Do we share our little discovery with them? They are the working prosecution.” Frank concerns.
“Tom.” Austin yells at food table.
“Over here.” Tom grab item, shuffles to Austin and Frank. “What?” He holds couple of sweet fruit filled guava Cuban pastries.
“Do we share the new medical data with the D.A.?” Austin asks.
Tom thinks, mentally, sighs, breathes, deeply, decides. “No.”
“No...but the….” Stu argues.
“No, this adventure is on our time, our money and our results. Let the city lab boys do their job for once and earn our taxes.” Tom eye burns Old Man. Austin nods, silently.
“I like that answer, Tom. You’ve changed.” Frank compliments, greatly, slaps, brotherly Tom’s biceps.
“You guys keep finding ‘right’ evidence in the ‘wrong’ direction with the ‘wrong’ person. Why ya fuckingly dissecting Mouse Girl, anyways?” Tom noses about Jace’s role as medical leader.
“Fuckingly, that’s not a word, Tom.” Stu counsels, wisely, laughs, hardy.
“Yeah, it, look it up, Gage.” Tom say, bites into pastry.
“Answers, real answers.” Jace talks.
“Truth, real truth.” Austin adds.
“Keep thinking, Tom.” Frank compliments.
“More analysis is needed to find these real hidden answers for Katt Girl.” Jace dubs, chuckles.
“Why, Jace?” Austin smart-asses.
“I just explained my rational scientific purpose, Tom.” Jace lectures to Tom.
Tom frowns, ugly, finger points at him. “I didn’t ask the damn question. Austin did.”
“Why, Jace?” Austin smart-asses.
Jace clarifies. “Austin, you told me to solve the medical mysterious Mouse.”
“Say that three times faster, Jace.” Tom acts silly, eats food bites.
“Shut up, Tom.” Frank barks, fondly.
Austin nods, silently. Jace proposes. “I need a standard to compare the twins. I need Miss Kattrell’s hair, nail, skin and blood samples.”
Stu offers, quickly. “I’ll be happy to arrange that meeting.”
Jace names. “Stuart?”
Stu announces, wildly, smirks, slightly. “I gots connections too. Girls! Guys! Prisoners of war! As a matter of fact, ‘Angels of Death’ are my specialty.” Tom laughs. Austin grins. Jace smiles.
“You can’t touch the babe, Jace. You die, remember based on loosely formed theoretical guesses.” Tom reminds.
“I’ll use the best P.P.E. equipment money can buy.” Jace considers safety, first & foremost in research work for medical staff and human subjects. He grins, toothy at Frank. “Do I get my new toy, Frank?”
“Getting a new car, Jace.” Tom claps, silly. “What kind? Color? Fast. Faster…”
Austin nods, once, fills request. “Set up the new lab, Frank.”
“What new lab, Austin?” Tom asks. “Ain’t that going to cost the Quartet…more money?” Tom fumes, crams pastry down throat. “Where is it?” Tom spits food onto Jace’s carpet.
“That’s a secret, Tom.” Frank boggles Tom’s psyche.
“Just follow the broken beakers and smoking buddy burners.” Jace directs, chuckles, lightly.
Tom doesn’t know. “What’s a buddy burner?”
“Wasn’t he in Cub Scouts?” Jace remembers his boyhood fun in the Boy Scouts.
Frank joshes, chuckles, arrogantly. “He failed. They kicked him out.”
“Did not. I was a Cub Scout, Boy Scout. Hey, I got my Eagle badge just like you guys. Hey, guys! I passed.” Tom yells, loudly last in line as brothers pad to street for limo ride.
jail, Miami-Dade Correctional Institute, 14052 N.W. 82 Avenue, Miami Lakes, Florida, 33016, cell number 47, Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell, inmate, windy, 81*F, 12:53 p.m. “Second limo?” Frank identities familiar transport belonging to Stu.
“Rotating guards…” Stu clarifies, stands over Frank, bellows like cow in heat. “This is a top secret job, Austin. Lots of media! We have to make a good impression.” Tom nods, silently.
“In a limo...” Austin confuses, neck snaps to Stu, frowns, funny.
“First impressions count the most…for the infamous Quartet.” Tom injects, chuckles, nods at Stu. Stu returns skull motion.
“In a limo…” Austin confuses, twice, frowns, funny
The Quartet and good friend, Jace separates brothers into padded bench as limo small mounted TV blasts into eardrums. “…bearing a grudge over her treatment of working conditions at hospital. Kattrell entered the department and quit before I could explain how I’d amend the working situation. Then, I find out Kattrell committed all the murders including the innocent little boy and the nice reporter for the Miami Herald. I would’ve turned her into the police, not fired her.” Male pauses, dramatically, inhales, vocals into protruded microphone and eye gleams the TV camera. “She blamed everyone for her troubles, me, the analysts, programmers. She conned me into thinking she was scared and frightened. I signed her time card and sent her packing. She collected over 180 thou working for me including overtime and her pension plan that day she left my office to hide at West Coast for her crimes, Crimes against Humanity…against 8,063 souls.”
“Thank you, Mr. Elliot Asquith, IT director for Charity Healthcare System and former supervisor of Kattleen Scarlett Kattrell providing his acutely and accurately observation of the ‘Angel of Death’. Our next guest is Maxine…” TV reporter dumps.
Austin commands. “Kill it.” Frank depresses remote.
“Pun, Austin?” Tom taunts, playfully, chuckles.
“Irritation, Tom.” Austin returns, stingingly.
“I want to kill it, too.” Stu concurs.
“You’ll get your chance, Stu.” Tom reminds, chuckles.
“Pull the plug.” Stu teases, sniggers with Tom.
“Ya mean the push the switch.” Tom corrects, laughs, hardy with Stu.
“Plug, switch in the electric chair...” Stu decides, chuckles.
“…or table.” Tom substitutes, chuckles.
“The chair or table in Tallahassee, I signed us up for the main event.” Stu announces, proudly, grins, toothy, fist-bumps Tom. “I’ve placed our names, like it was a problem, on the list to the governor for ‘THE’ reservation. The place gets crowded, quickly. Ya gotta be swift.” Stu chuckled. Tom snickered. Frank frowned. Austin stared. “Jace, you want to come. I’ll tell the Gov.” Stu invites, sweetly, grins, toothy.
“I absolutely, positively do not want to be privy to any barbaric lynch mob, bombarding the steps of our capital in Florida regarding life or death inhuman matters of an innocent...” Jace growls in bass drum.
“A ‘no’ will, suffice, Jace. Don’t get jealous! There are plenty of platitudes to go around.” Stu tops lid of laptop, reviews business emails.
Limo hits I-95, paces speed limit, slows, then stops mile marker 124. Austin recognizes strawberry patch fields before exit of secret hidden prison holding their prisoner for the murdereress trial of two centuries, taps speaker. “Problem?”
“Traffic jam, Austin.” Joe talks over speaker.
“Go around.” Austin orders.
“Yes, sir.” Joe acknowledges, enjoys his job when Austin wants, illegally breaking all Florida traffic laws. He never gets caught as long as Austin’s in the limo, grins, toothy, exits hard shoulder of I-95, plows, rapidly down exit ramp, tosses trash, sand, pebbles & shit onto window shields of stalled cars, trucks, vans & utility vehicles, eases full stop, announces. “Highway 83 blocked with vehicles, impossible to pass, Austin.
“What’s going on here?” Frank surveys parked cars and walking people along I-95 paved roads leading to side streets.
“I wouldn’t know for certain.” Stu winks at Tom. Tom giggle, girly. Stu purses lips, acts like Hollywood movie star. “O! I guess I forgot to…” Stu grins, toothy, chuckles, lightly eye burns somber Austin. “…to mention Warden wants to make money to cover all the extra guards, food, weapons and security equipment around the prison.”
Frank frowns, ugly, smacks, sharply. “Make money? How does a prison make money, Stu? Federal and State government has collected US taxpayers’ hard working monies to foot the bill for all prison facilities, personnel and supplies. The institution is a non-profit entity within any business atmosphere.”
“For profit, now.” Tom talks, softly, chin whips to chest, holds, dearly deep dark secret from his brother, Stu, not wanting to spoil the surprise.
“Warden, he came up with a great idea.” Stu whips arms, widely, grins, toothy, launches surprise. “A center stage grand exhibition….of Katt Girl.” Austin snarls, nasty. Stu nods numerous times, talks, excitedly about new profitable venture. “Hand over a 20, children are free, of course, ya can see the bitch for three seconds in her cage behind the containment cell that I constructed. Great idea! Warden made close to 55 thou since Friday.” Stu jabs arms back and forth, compliments, greatly. “This is a stroke of genius. She’s on display...like a damn lion...”
“Lioness, female version.” Tom corrects, chuckles, fist –bumps with Stu.
Austin punches, violently speaker. “Joe, run over every bitch and bastard standing in my way. Get me to the prison overhang…now.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe presses heavy gas, accelerates down shoulder, flows into side street and keeps going.
Stu updates, grins, toothy. “She’s displayed from six in the morn to nine at night for a look see of three seconds for 20 bucks...”
“Who do I pay?” Tom interrupts.
“We don’t pay.” Austin growls in baritone trombone.
Tom points manicured index finger nail, rejoices. “Damn straight, Austin! We’re the heroes of this fucking fairy tale storybook hour.” He grins, toothy, fist-bumps Stu.
Stu provides. “Warden figured for each showing of three seconds. He attracted 20 people a minute, 1,200 folks an hour and for 16 hours, the prison can hold easily 19,200 residents from the Sunshine State along with all those folks coming down North of Tallahassee.” Austin snarls, nasty injecting his special effects over Stu’s deep bass drum. Stu cautions, brotherly. “Be careful there, Austin. Warden doesn’t want a partner.”
“Or splitting the cookie dough!” Tom adds, chuckles.
Limo advances snail’s pace down U.S. Highway 83 slow at a snail’s pace. Road ditches spring, mechanically with assorted R.V. campers, trucks, S.U.V.s, cars, motorcycles, tents, barbecues, chairs, benches, umbrellas & bicycles under hot Florida sun like tailgating party for Miami Dolphins football game.
Vertical long row of people leads to secret hidden Miami Correctional prison. Joe blasts, viciously car horn, scatters sightseers, parallel parks, illegally center stage of prison overhang. Second limo stuck in traffic on I-95 since Austin didn’t communicate with Stu’s driver.
Austin leaps, pissed off tiger-like out limo door, trails Jace then Frank racing into prison. Stu & Tom exit, slowly from limo, wave, freely, smile, toothy, pose glamour pics for numerous national and international media reporters, offers friendly handshakes.
Austin shoves, violently thrusted microphone & nosy reporter to left, gallops to double doors. Reporter objects, ferociously. “Hey!”
Jace halts, suddenly, inquires, fatherly to parent holding young child’s hand. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t bring your youngster to a prison.”
Parent pats, tenderly child’s skull, talks, loudly. “He wants to see ‘Angel Death’ girl.” T.V. invited all of us…here. Pay and see…”
“Ma’am, I can assure you the ‘Angel of Death’ is not here. Please take me advice and carry your young child home for educational benefits.” Jace offers, peacefully. Parent moves away, silently. Jace rotates neck muscles viewing numerous reporters, T.V. vans & camera crews stomping manicured lawns. Jace sighs, breathes, deeply, eye burns pissed Austin then paths toward entrance of prison, yells. “Austin.”
Guard demands. “20.” Employed Prison guard cocks, sideways brown skull, blinks, twice, grins, toothy, offers, peacefully. “Mr. Berrington, sir, sorry, please enter, free of charge, of course.” Voices react, nasty.
“Cut.” Nameless face #1 calls.
“Hey!” Nameless face #2 yells.
“Back of the line, buddy...” Nameless face#3 screams.
Young pretty girl #1 yells, waves, viciously arm in air. “Austin Berrington, that’s Austin...over here, Austin. Look at me.”
Young girl #2 screams, tries to grab attention of single and available billionaire. “Austin Berrington is the most manly man I’ve ever known.”
Young girl #3 hollers, bounces on grass. “Hey Austin, you’re the sexist thing ever. Your intelligence, cute and witty...”
Young girl #4 shouts, drools. “Berrington’s adorable and irresistible...”
Young girl #5 calls, waves hands like flag. “Marry me, Austin.”
Guard raises arms in air, identifies, swiftly. “This is Austin Berrington who captured the ‘Angel of Death.’ He’s admitted free. He’s a hero to the great State of Florida.” Austin’s stomach flip flops, violently from words so true and so wrong to his eardrums as hands claps & voices cheery, loudly.
“Thank you.” Austin talks, meekly to guard, nods, once, smirks, slightly, remembers his Mother’s teachings of proper South Florida gentleman behavior.
Austin parallels single line composed of teens, small children, young adults, middle age and older adults carrying in their hands or on collar bones camcorders, cell phones, cassette recorders and digital cameras for recording the historical Earth captive: “Angel of Death.”
“Damn it to Hell!” Austin sneers, snorts, snarls, shoves, pushes his way down tight, hot, crowded corridor as Prison guards on left sell food, drinks, popcorn, balloons, T-shirts smiling and laughing with throngs of guests leaning red velvet ropes like hot Hollywood movie premium in California.
Austin block aid runs into glass booth corralling massive bodies, entering one-at-a-time into X-ray machine…in case one particular upset and displeased visitor has some kinda inner evil plot of murder…maybe involving one or two firearms. Some Florida residents ain’t keen on letting Miss Kattrell live for another minute, hour or day, much least waiting for the enclosed private murderess trial of peers for Crime of Humanities like newly discovered Nazi war officers of old Germany.
Plastic cheap red gate touches Austin’s kneecaps as baritone tuba thunders, kindly. “Whoa there mister, there’s a line here. Go back! Wait your turn!”
Jace slams, painfully into Austin’s back muscles as Berrington holds off human-sized bull elephant. Jace threats, dangerously over Austin’s collar bone to smiling Prison guard. “Forget this crap, Austin. I demand to see the girl now, asshole.” Frank assists, swiftly, grabs, quickly expensive jacket sleeve before Jace attacks, mauls & kills guard, gate & goggling guests. Guard touches, gingerly side pistol. Austin pulls Florida drivers’ license from wallet, presents, promptly item.
Guard stares, studiously at license, light bulb brightens. “Sooo, you Berrington, you Mangrove. Where’s the other part of your Quartet? Is Stu with ya?” Stu & Tom strut, timely behind Frank as they chat, laugh, hand shake, back slap with fellow Quartet & Prison guards, act “real life celebrity” billionaires.
“Stu…” Austin attends. “This gentleman needs an introduction.”
Stu neck snaps to Austin then growling guard, order, commandingly. “What? Hell, man, let him in.”
Guard nods, once, obeys, faithfully. “Yes, sir.” Gate lifts upright, starts horse race of Austin & Jace. Jace in massive bull-elephant frame like an Olympic sprinter overtakes fit & muscular Berrington.
Austin sprints alongside Jace. “You know where to go?”
“I worked with Stu on the containment cell. I helped with the construction while you guys were vacationing on the west coast in the sand and sun.” Jace annoys, purposefully.
“I wasn’t vacationing.” Austin growls in baritone trombone.
Yelling, shouting & mad visitors line along gray walls, fling fighting fury at galloping Jace & Austin. Jace halts at first door jarred open with steel hammer, growls, deeply. First containment door displays electronic box punched with single top secret numeric password and ensures safe passage of five persons communicating with Kattleen Kattrell: Dr. Jace Jackson, Warden and three rotating 24 hour guards. Second archway frames enclosed walls on North and South. East side decorates two-way reflective window if activated by interior computer console viewing trapped & contaminated Kattrell inside oxygen-enriched negative air pressure flow 20 x 20 x 30 private prison cell with single cot for sitting and slumbering.
“Lights, camera, action!” $20 visitor screams, viciously, waits, impatiently, fist bangs, roughly on bullet-proof glass, calls, loudly. “Turn on the damn lights! I can’t see a fucking thing. I want to see “Angel Girl.”
Jace shoves $20 visitor far left into observing Prison guard, orders, commandingly. “Stop that banging, sir.” Lights off. Cell dark. Guard holsters his weapon. Austin whispers into Guard’s face. Guard stores weapon, steps back against wall. Jace stares into darkness, demands. “Turn the lights, on.”
“Automatic. Light flicks on every five seconds for a view, then punches off by computer.” Guard educates, then containment cell illuminates in whitish-yellow light upon gray covered curvy lump cuddled against gray wall on gray bed sheets. Not moving. Incoherent mutters, softly. Mouth gasps, nosily. Soles shuffle, loudly. Darkness invades as eyeballs adjust to dull interior lights.
“Hey, I’m paid for my turn to see that bitch.” $20 visitor grumbles, angrily, moves closer to window.
“Sit over there, sir.” Austin shoves, forcefully $20 visitor against guard. Second Prison guard tugs visitor from containment cell into hallway, safely.
“Lights on, now.” Jace commands, brutally. Stu, Frank and Tom arrive, shockingly for verbal confrontation.
“Stu.” Austin commands. Gage eye burns pissed off Austin.
Stu neck snaps to guard, orders, ferociously. “Get the god damned lights on, now, Yardley.” Guard blinks, twice, thinks, mentally. Stu rumbles in deep bass drum. “Now, Yardley.”
Light hovers upon gray lump like dirty sleeping dog. Austin arches fist for smack. Jace catches bicep, clarifies. “Don’t bother? Sound and air proof. How do you signal Miss Kattrell?”
Guard chuckles, talks, nasty. “Turn the red light on...for fun.” He snickers. “Red means food in the bend box…like this.” Red light brightens up dark cell. Guard chuckles, explains. “Won’t get the food in bend thro, she don’t eat anymore started about the other day. She gets her three squares per day…at eight, noon, six.”
“Past noon, did Miss Kattrell eat her lunch?” Jace asked.
“Naw, she quit eating on Sunday. Told ya, she’s starving to death before her trial to avoid the gas chamber.” Guard smart-asses.
Lump shifts sideways, kicks tanned legs from blanket. Lump drops blanket, reveals golden tanned skin under gray cotton fabric top with matching short, twists black knotted hair over clothes, eye burns spying reflective mirror. Face paints reddish-gold sunburn, black eye circles, bright red chapped lips. Katt closes eyelids, chin whips to chest, slides into blanket, disappears, totally.
“Good God! She’s weak.” Jace yells, viciously, neck snaps to guard. “Ya son of a bitch, you feed her sustenance only three times a day. I demand you get the damn warden down here and take me to the kitchen, guard.” Guard snarls, vocally.
“Now, Yardley.” Stu orders, motions into hallway.
Guard leads down the hallway around the corner to double doors. You could smell lunch being cooked, baked, boiled and grilled on the open fire pit stoves and heated ovens.
“Who are these people, Yardley?” Plump pale male, sweaty pink cheeks, clean shaven, wears Chef’s hat & food stained apron intros. “I am Chef Louie.”
“I want to eat Miss Kattrell’s lunch meal.” Jace dictates, demandingly.
Chef puzzles, then smirks, slightly, pivots, slowly, walks near row of refrigerators away from hot steaming cooking pots and pans on stove, returns to Jace, displays small round plastic plate, decorates glued 4 inches x 2 inches x 2 inches brownish rectangular-sized bread slice on edge of table, calls, amusingly. “Bon appetite.” Austin growls. Frank sneers. Stu flexes biceps. Tom yelps.
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(Pages 1-46 show above.)