Page 2 of Omega's Fever

I knew who frame me. There’s no question about that. I’m fairly sure the cops know it too. Maybe even the last judge. The trial looked like it was going my way, so it had to get shut down.

Cobb Sewell has connections. Money. Influence. Everything I’ve never had and never will. He needed a fall guy for his operation when the feds started sniffing around, and I fit the bill perfectly. Big, scary, and stupid enough to trust the wrong people.

The processing room smells like stale coffee and fear-sweat. How many men have sat in these plastic chairs, waiting to learn their fate? How many walked back through those doors as freemen?

“Van’s here,” Antonini announces, checking his watch. “Let’s go.”

The walk to the transport vehicle is awkward with the leg shackles, but I’ve learned to manage the shuffle-step rhythm. The van waits in the loading bay, engine idling. Two guards I don’t recognize sit up front, probably borrowed from another facility for the day.

“Morning, sunshine,” the driver calls back as I’m loaded into the cage section. “Heard you’re quite the fighter.”

I don’t respond. Let them think what they want.

The van lurches into motion, and I watch the prison walls slide past through the reinforced window. For a few brief minutes, I’ll see sky that isn’t framed by razor wire or chain-link. Trees that aren’t surrounded by concrete. It’s pathetic how much I look forward to these trips.

“So, what’s the real story?” the passenger guard asks, turning in his seat to study me. “You really run those fighting rings?”

“Supposedly.”

“But did you?”

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I fought in them. Never organized a damn thing.”

“Right.” He doesn’t believe me. Nobody ever does.

The courthouse appears ahead, all glass and steel reaching toward gray October sky. Last time I was here, my third public defender barely managed to introduce himself before jury selection began. This time will be number four. Or five. I’ve lost count.

Poor bastard, whoever drew the short straw this time.

The van stops at the security entrance. More guards, more procedures. Out of the vehicle, through the metal detector, pat-down search number three of the day. The courthouse guards eye me like I might explode at any moment.

“This way,” one of them says, gesturing toward the elevator bank.

The handcuffs bite into my wrists as we wait. A group of lawyers in expensive suits cluster nearby, talking in the low, urgent tones that probably cost their clients five hundred dollars an hour. One of them glances my way and quickly looks elsewhere.

The elevator ride is silent except for the mechanical whir of machinery. Fourth floor. Courtroom C. Same place where my first trial fell apart six months ago.

“Judge Melkham’s courtroom,” the guard announces unnecessarily.

Judge Melkham. Sixty-something alpha who makes no secret of his disdain for anyone who isn’t wearing a three-piece suit. During jury selection last time, he looked at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe. Today probably won’t be any different.

My escort guides me to the defendant’s table. I settle in to wait. I don’t have to wait long.

Judge Melkham emerges from his chambers like a vulture in black robes. His gaze sweeps the courtroom, lingering on me with barely concealed disgust.

“Another one,” he mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Another what? Another criminal? Another trial? Another waste of the court’s valuable time?

I don’t flinch. I learned early that showing weakness only makes things worse. Foster homes taught me that. The streets reinforced the lesson. Prison hammered it home.

“Where is counsel for the defendant?” Judge Melkham checks his watch with exaggerated impatience.

The bailiff shrugs. “Should be here any minute, Your Honor.”

“This court’s time is not to be wasted by tardy attorneys.”

Right. Because the judge’s schedule is so much moreimportant than my life.