The Broken Window

death penalty law to save its life. Sorry, bad joke. But you’re still looking at twenty-five years. I can get you fifteen. Go for it.”
    “But I didn’t do it.”
    “Uh-huh. That doesn’t really mean a whole lot to anybody, Arthur.”
    “But I didn’t !”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, I’m not taking a plea. The jury’ll understand. They’ll see me. They’ll know I’m not a killer.”
    Silence. Then: “Fine.” Though it wasn’t fine. Clearly he was pissed off, despite the six hundred plus an hour he was racking up—and where the hell was that kind of money going to come from? He—
    Then suddenly Arthur looked up to see two cons studying him, Latinos. They were regarding him now with no expression whatsoever on their faces. Not friendly, not challenging, not tough. They seemed curious.
    As they approached him, he debated whether to get up or to stay put.
    Stay.
    But look down.
    He looked down. One of the men stood in front of him, putting his scuffed running shoes right in Arthur’s line of vision.
    The other went around to the back.
    He was going to die. Arthur Rhyme knew it. Just do it fast and get it fucking over with.
    “Yo,” the man behind him said in a high voice.
    Arthur looked up at the second, in front. He had bloodshot eyes and a large earring, bad teeth. Arthur couldn’t speak.
    “Yo,” came the voice again.
    Arthur swallowed. Didn’t want to but couldn’t help himself.
    “We talking to you, me an’ my friend. You no be civil. Why you a prick?”
    “Sorry. I just . . . Hello.”
    “Yo. Whatchu do for work, man?” High Voice asked his back.
    “I’m . . .” His mind froze. What should I say? “I’m a scientist.”
    Earring Man: “Fuck. Scientist? Whatchu do, like, make rockets?”
    They both laughed.
    “No, medical equipment.”
    “Like that shit, you know, they say ‘clear,’ and electrocute you? Like, ER ?”
    “No, it’s complicated.”
    Earring Man frowned.
    “I didn’t mean that,” Arthur said quickly. “It’s not that you couldn’t understand it. It’s just hard to explain. Quality-control systems for dialysis. And—”
    High Voice: “Make good money, huh? Hear you had a nice suit when you got prossed.”
    “I got . . . ?” Oh, processed . “I don’t know. I got it at Nordstrom.”
    “Nordstrom. The fuck is Nordstrom?”
    “A store.”
    As Arthur looked back down at Earring Man’s feet the con continued, “I saying, good money? How much you make?”
    “I—”
    “You going to say you don’t know?”
    “I—” Yes, he was.
    “How much you make?”
    “I don’t . . . I’d guess about six figures.”
    “Fuck.”
    Arthur didn’t know if this meant the amount was a lot or a little to them.
    Then High Voice laughed. “You got a family?”
    “I’m not telling you anything about them.” This was defiant.
    “You got a family ?”
    Arthur Rhyme was looking away, at the wall nearby, where a nail protruded from mortar between cinder blocks, meant to hold a sign, he assumed, that had been taken down or stolen years ago. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” He tried to make his voice forceful. But he sounded like a girl approached by a nerd at a dance.
    “We trying to make civil conversation, man.”
    He actually said that? Civil conversation ?
    Then he thought, Hell, maybe they are just trying to be pleasant. Maybe they could’ve been friends,watched his back for him. Christ knew he needed all the friends he could get. Could he salvage this? “I’m sorry. It’s just, this’s a really weird thing for me. I’ve never been in any trouble before. I’m just—”
    “What you wife do? She a scientist too? She a smart girl?”
    “I . . .” The intended words evaporated.
    “She got big titties?”
    “You fuck her in the ass?”
    “Listen up, Science Fuck, here’s how it gonna work. You smart wife, she goin’ to get some money from the bank. Ten thousand. And she gonna take a drive up to my cousin in the Bronx. An’—”
    The tenor voice faded.
    A black prisoner, six-two, massive with muscle and fat, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up, approached the trio. He was gazing at the two Latinos and squinting mean.
    “Yo, Chihuahuas. Get the fuck outa here.”
    Arthur Rhyme was frozen. He couldn’t have moved if someone had started shooting at him, which wouldn’t have surprised him, even here in the realm of the magnetometers.
    “Fuck you, nigger,” Earring Man said.
    “Piece of shit.” From High Voice,