Crescent City Connection

laughed, as if this were light conversation. The other Jurors laughed as well, and the sound was as sinister as their cheering.
    “See, what we do,” his father said, “is we let each person have a turn either with paddles or belts. As many strokes as he or she deems necessary. Keeps it fair that way. Everyone knows what could happen if he or she decides to betray us, knows how hard he or she has worked for what we have. So he is both punishing and reminding himself how important it is not to make a pact with the devil.”
    I can do this
, Daniel thought.
I can just breathe deep and get through it.
    “That’s one option. The other’s even more fair. It depends on the mercy of the good God. We can untie you, son, and you can pick your challenger. The Romans of old set Christians to the challenge.” He paused, ever the showman. “Course, they loaded the dice a little more than we do. We don’t have any lions here. We do not require you to fight to the death. But you may choose a gladiator’s contest, if you like. If you are innocent, know that God will give you the strength to overcome your opponent. And if that happens, know that we will cheer your victory.”
    Daniel thought of a medieval witches’ punishment he’d heard about: You threw the suspect in the water, and if she didn’t drown, it proved she was guilty.
    He thought crazily,
What’s the punishment for winning?
And somehow knew that it wasn’t such a dumb question.
    Nonetheless, the contest was the only choice he could stomach. He was a good fighter and in good shape. Dashan was the biggest of the bunch—he would almost certainly be able to take Daniel, but at least it would be a fight rather than passive submission.
    “What do you choose, boy?”
    “I choose the contest.”
    “Very well. Let the games begin.”
    Daniel remained tied up as he watched the others clear the dining room for the match. Since it had hardly any furniture in it, that didn’t take long, but Daniel used the time wisely. He took deep breaths, psyching himself up. He was almost looking forward to it when everyone suddenly left.
    Every single person.
    He had his eyes closed, didn’t even notice them disappearing. He simply noticed that it seemed unusually quiet and when he opened his eyes he was alone. Sitting there in the pitch-dark. They had turned the lights off so quietly he hadn’t even heard a click.
    He thought,
Maybe I can get out of this
, and began to work on his bonds, which were only a couple of extension cords, anyway.
    Dashan was good, though. They held. Daniel had succeeded only in making his wrists bleed when he was seized with panic. Where the hell had they gone?
    They came back in improvised robes, in most cases bathrobes, in some, women’s caftans or muumuus lent to the men. They were holding candles and singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
    It would have been laughable, the song itself and the way they were dragging it, except that it had the quality of a dirge. The entire procession was way too serious, too incongruous, to be anything but grotesque. He felt an underlying menace that he couldn’t put his finger on, but that had nothing to do, he thought, with his personal danger. It was a wild electricity in the room, an energy, almost a presence, and it was like a dog with rabies, something feral and carnivorous driven by a force it couldn’t understand.
    They stood around him in a semicircle.
    His father addressed him. “Daniel Jacomine, you have chosen a gladiatorial contest. The women among us are ineligible for the challenge and I am likewise ineligible. Of the remaining men, you may choose your challenger.”
    For a fraction of a second, Daniel felt something like hope. There has to be a catch, he thought. There just has to be.
    “Choose wisely,” said his father, “and the good God will protect you.”
    Wisely. What would be wise? There was bound to be a double cross, but he was too frazzled to try to figure it out, too wired by the wait and the ritual.
    He looked at the men. Surely Dashan, being the biggest and most powerful, was the poorest choice. He could probably take any of the others. But who could say? Maybe they all had black belts. One, named Ellis, was about five feet tall and young, but he couldn’t choose that one—it wasn’t even sporting.
    So not Dashan and not Ellis. That left two. There wasn’t much difference, but the one named Pete was slightly bigger than Al; he was the older of the two, but he looked