Strikers by Ann Christy Read Free Book Online Page B

his head no. Jovan lets out a sigh of relief but that just stokes my anger.
    I turn on him and say, “You could do us the favor of not looking quite so happy they’ll die and you won’t get into trouble.”
    We’ve been in here too long and I know it. I’m taking my pain out on him and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s risked quite a lot, including his entire future, to get us these precious minutes and I should be thanking him, not berating him. I blow out a breath and say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
    It seems Connor isn’t done yet. The two dark lines on his neck almost throb with his pulse when he says, “He’s a Foley and all the offenses happened at the same time. He’ll get one strike. At most, two. You know I’m right, Karas.”
    The look I give Connor is so cold even I get frostbite from it and he has the good grace to look away. The problem is he’s not entirely wrong. Justice is written clearly, but it’s a puddle of muddy water in the way it gets practiced.
    The rules for Immediate Final Adjudication are clear. Murder, rape, sexual offenses against children and anything like that gets you the needle the minute a guilty verdict is read. No problem. Everyone understands that.
    For lesser crimes, the ones worthy of a strike, things are not so clear-cut. A single event can wind up costing all five strikes if there were many crimes committed during that event. But that would defeat the purpose of strikes—distinguishing who is a habitual offender versus someone having one really bad day—so they aren’t judged that way. Instead, it’s up to the judge and a simple majority of jurors to decide which, if any, offenses can be combined.
    They might take a strict view and say that each element required thought and offered an opportunity to stop, giving more strikes. Some might take a looser view and decide that once begun, all offenses were part of the same crime. The simple truth is that coming from a good family with money and connections means fewer—or no—strikes, while families like Connor’s and mine can expect to get more.
    He’s right. If I had to make a bet, I’d bet Jovan will walk out with two at most. None if he says we made him do it.
    But I’m not willing to bet on anyone’s life. That’s where I differ from my mother, Connor’s parents and all the others who think this system is the right way to do things.
    “No,” I say and hope it sounds like it’s a final decision that brooks no argument.
    It’s too bad all the men now standing at the bars of their cells don’t like my answer.
    The man with the scar and the pulled up lip presses his face to the bars and says, “You try to leave and I’ll bring them all in here.” He grins and it makes his face look even worse, if that’s possible. His grin widens and he adds, “All it’ll take is a yell. And I’ve got some good lungs on me.”
    This is bad. Mostly because he’s right. I can tell that Jovan is just this side of panicking. He’s been looking behind him like he expects someone to march in for the past two minutes. We are way past his five minute mark. We’re probably inching toward ten.
    I have no idea what comes over me, or even how I might describe it. It’s some automatic reaction that makes me take two steps toward Jovan, reach out and snatch the gun from his holster, then hold it up a few inches from the forehead of the man in the cell.
    For the span of a long breath no one says anything. I look at him and he looks at the barrel of the gun. Then he backs away and holds his hands up.
    “Hey, now. I didn’t mean it,” he says.
    That’s a lie and we both know it. The gun stays steady when I turn to Jovan, his mouth hanging open and eyes on the gun.
    “We’ve got to go. Now,” I say.
    Jovan seems to shake out of it and holds out his hand for the gun. “Right, give me the gun.”
    “Once we’re gone,” I say and give the man in the cell a level look. “Just in case I need to use it.”
    Connor is