Page 84 of The Right to Remain

Another punch, and then Baptiste gave his men an order. “Break open that cask.”

One of them had a tool bag—the guy who had broken the lock,presumably. He grabbed a small crowbar and with three blows punched a hole in the side. No liquid spilled.

“That’s one of the new ones,” said Theo. “It’s empty.”

“Yeah, empty,” he said. “But it ships out full, right?”

“Full of gin.”

“No, cousin,” Baptiste said, smiling thinly. “Full of whatever I put inside.”

“We ain’t cousins. Fuck off, you piece of shit.”

That drew another blow to Theo’s kidney, and there was no pretending it didn’t hurt.

“Here’s the way this is going to play out, cousin. You can ship as many barrels as you want. But for every barrel of gin you ship, I get to ship a barrel of my shit to wherever I say. Your docs will say it’s all gin.”

Baptiste didn’t have to spell it out any clearer. Maybe CJ knew where VanPoll’s gun parts ended up, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, Theo wanted no part of Baptiste’s pipeline of illegal firearms shipped in barrels of “gin.”

“Never gonna happen,” he said.

Baptiste leaned closer, and Theo felt his breath across his ear. “Well, that’s a shame, tough guy. Cuz your Uncle Cy is a very old man. A fall down the stairs would surely be fatal. You keep that in mind if you’re thinking about calling the cops.”

Theo cringed. This thug was no rocket scientist, but he’d done his homework, and he knew the pressure points.

“Now,” Baptiste said, “I want you to stay right here and don’t move until you count to a thousand. You’ll hear from me soon.”

The pistol pulled away from Theo’s skull, the “handyman” grabbed the tool bag, and the three men hurried out. The broken door slammed on their way to the alley.

Theo took a deep breath. Three years of work, and the upshot was that Uncle Cy’s gin might get Uncle Cy killed.

“Shit,” was all he could say.

Chapter 30

The smallest courtroom in the criminal justice center wasn’t small enough.

Jack and his client were seated just a few feet away from the witness stand, where Austen was a virtual peanut in a big oak chair. Judge Garrison had moved the hearing from the main courtroom to a “more intimate” setting in the best interest of the child, but Jack could see the fear all over Austen’s face. Behind the lawyers, beyond the rail, there were only three rows of public seating, but through the eyes of a six-year-old boy, there might as well have been three hundred.

Jack rose to address the court, speaking from the heart.

“Your Honor, if the court is at all inclined to close this proceeding to the public for this witness, the defense has no objection.”

Weller was quickly on her feet. “The State of Florida strongly objects. This is not a situation where the child is a victim of a crime. It’s not a child custody proceeding or a termination of parental rights. Like it or not, the public—including the media—has a guaranteed right to be here under the Florida Constitution.”

The judge nodded. “Ms. Weller is correct on the law. However, I ask counsel to be mindful of the tender age of this witness and his relation to the victim.”

“Of course,” said Weller.

Of course, thought Jack. Florida Constitution or not, the prosecutor’s suckup to the media was officially beyond the pale.

“Ms. Weller, you may proceed.”

The prosecutor thanked the judge and approached the witnessslowly. Her smile seemed out of place. If intended to put the witness at ease, it was having the opposite effect.

“How are you today, Austen?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said softly.