The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

Then when it was clear he was just one of those white guys who'd fucked up, life got ugly.

Jostling, challenges, taking his milk carton--just like in middle school. The sex thing wasn't what people thought. Not here. These were all new arrestees and everybody could keep their dicks in their jumpsuits for a time. But he'd been assured by a number of his new "friends" that his virginity wouldn't last long once he got to one of the long hauls, like Attica, especially if he earned a quarter-pounder--twenty-five to life.

He'd been punched in the face four times, tripped twice and pinned to the floor by psycho Aquilla Sanchez, who dripped sweat into his face as he screamed in Spanglish until some bored hacks (that is, guards) pulled him off.

Arthur had peed his pants twice and puked a dozen times. He was a worm, scum, not worth fucking.

Until later.

And the way his heart kept thudding, he expected it to pop apart at any moment. As had happened to Henry Rhyme, his father, though the famed professor had died not in an ignoble place like the Tombs, of course, but on an appropriately stately collegiate sidewalk in Hyde Park, Illinois.

How had this happened? A witness and evidence . . . It made no sense.

"Take the plea, Mr. Rhyme," the assistant district attorney had said. "I'd recommend it."

His attorney had too. "I know the ins and outs, Art. It's like I'm reading a fucking GPS map. I can tell you exactly where this is going--and it's not the needle. Albany can't write a 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."