Nothing to Lose

times.
    “Lawyer?” he asked.
    “You know any?” the desk guy asked back.
    “The public defender will do.”
    The desk guy nodded and locked the gate and walked away. Reacher was left on his own. The cell block was otherwise empty. Three cells in a line, a narrow corridor, no windows. Each cell had a wall-mounted iron tray for a bed and a steel toilet with a sink built into the top of the tank. Bulkhead lights burned behind wire grilles on the ceilings. Reacher ran his right hand under cold water at the sink and massaged his knuckles. They were sore, but not damaged. He lay down on the cot and closed his eyes.
    Welcome to Despair, he thought.

6
    The public defender never showed. Reacher dozed for two hours and then the cop who had arrested him clattered down the stairs and unlocked the cell and gestured for him to get up.
    “The judge is ready for you,” he said.
    Reacher yawned. “I haven’t seen my lawyer.”
    “Take it up with the court,” the cop said. “Not with me.”
    “What kind of a half-assed system have you got here?”
    “The same kind we’ve always had.”
    “I think I’ll stay down here.”
    “I could send your three remaining buddies in for a visit.”
    “Save gas and send them straight to the hospital.”
    “I could put you in handcuffs first. Strap you to the bed.”
    “All by yourself?”
    “I could bring a stun gun.”
    “You live here in town?”
    “Why?”
    “Maybe I’ll come visit you one day.”
    “I don’t think you will.”
    The cop stood there waiting. Reacher shrugged to himself and swung his feet to the floor. Pushed himself upright and stepped out of the cell. Walking was awkward without his shoelaces. On the stairs he had to hook his toes to stop his shoes falling off altogether. He shuffled past the booking desk and followed the cop up another flight. A grander staircase. At the top was a wooden double door, closed. Alongside it was a sign on a short post with a heavy base. Same kind of thing as the restaurant sign, except this one said: Town Court. The cop opened the left-hand panel and stood aside. Reacher stepped into a courtroom. There was a center aisle and four rows of spectator seating. Then a bullpen rail and a prosecution table and a defense table, each with three wheelback chairs. There was a witness stand and a jury box and a judge’s dais. All the furniture and all the structures were made out of pine, lacquered dark and then darkened more by age and polish. The walls were paneled with the same stuff. There were flags behind the dais, Old Glory and something Reacher guessed was the state flag of Colorado.
    The room was empty. It echoed and smelled of dust. The cop walked ahead and opened the bullpen gate. Pointed Reacher toward the defense table. The cop sat down at the prosecution table. They waited. Then an inconspicuous door in the back wall opened and a man in a suit walked in. The cop jumped up and said, “All rise.” Reacher stayed in his seat.
    The man in the suit clumped up three steps and slid in behind the dais. He was bulky and somewhere over sixty and had a full head of white hair. His suit was cheap and badly cut. He picked up a pen and straightened a legal pad in front of him. He looked at Reacher and said, “Name?”
    “I haven’t been Mirandized,” Reacher said.
    “You haven’t been charged with a crime,” the old guy said. “This isn’t a trial.”
    “So what is it?”
    “A hearing.”
    “About what?”
    “It’s an administrative matter, that’s all. Possibly just a technicality. But I do need to ask you some questions.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    The guy asked, “Name?”
    “I’m sure the police department copied my passport and showed it to you.”
    “For the record, please.”
    The guy’s tone was neutral and his manner was reasonably courteous. So Reacher shrugged and said, “Jack Reacher. No middle initial.”
    The guy wrote it down. Followed up with his date of birth, and his Social Security number, and his nationality. Then he asked, “Address?”
    Reacher said, “No fixed address.”
    The guy wrote it down. Asked, “Occupation?”
    “None.”
    “Purpose of your visit to Despair?”
    “Tourism.”
    “How do you propose to support yourself during your visit?”
    “I hadn’t really thought about it. I didn’t anticipate a major problem. This isn’t exactly London or Paris or New York City.”
    “Please answer the question.”
    “I have a bank balance,” Reacher said.
    The guy wrote it all