The phone rang.
Chip reached for it and Louis said, “When you gonna learn? You been smoking, huh?” He walked over to the sofa and picked up the phone from the end table.
“Ganz residence.”
A girl’s voice said, “Where’s Bobby?”
“He ain’t here.”
“You know where he went?”
“Didn’t tell me.”
“Well, when’s he coming back?”
Louis said, “Girl, I’m busy. Bobby ain’t here or ain’t ever coming back. So don’t call no more. You understand what I’m saying?”
“You understand this?” the girl’s voice said. “Get fucked.”
They both hung up.
Louis said to Chip, “Some girl looking for Bobby.”
Chip said, “Who was it?”
See the patience you had to have with this stoned ofay motherfucker?
“I just told you, didn’t I?” Louis said. “Some girl wanted Bobby.”
“I meant, what was her name?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Anyway,” Chip said, “you know where we can get a pump?”
Louis stared at the man, still not angry or anything, but thinking, Shit, put him in the pool.
There was a poster with the heading HANG ‘EM HIGH that showed a famous hanging judge of a hundred years ago, Isaac Parker, against a montage of condemned prisoners on scaffolds waiting to be dropped through the trapdoors.
Raylan would look at the poster, in the lobby of the Marshals Service offices in Miami, and feel good about their tradition. Not the hanging part-they had quit handing out death penalties in federal court-but the tradition of U.S. marshals as peace officers on the western frontier. Every time he looked at Judge Parker up there in the poster Raylan thought of growing a mustache, a big one that would droop properly and look good with his hat.
Rudi Braga would be sentenced in the central courtroom of the United States District Court for the Southern District of Florida, in Miami. Raylan and a three other marshals shackled Rudi’s wrists and ankles, brought him down to the basement of the new building, shuffled him through the corridor to the old building and up in the smelly prisoners’ elevator to the central courtroom holding cell on the second floor.
An old hand at court support, Milt Dancey stepped out to the hallway for a smoke and Raylan went along to ask him a question. The second-floor hallway was outside and looked down over a railing on an open courtyard with potted palms and a fountain.
Raylan said, “Does a kidnapping conviction always draw life?”
Milt Dancey, smoking his unfiltered Camel, told Raylan that kidnapping, abduction or unlawful restraint carried a base offense sentencing level of twenty-four. “Look it up in the guidelines,” Milt said, “it’s fifty-one to sixty-three months for the first offense. If ransom is demanded it goes up five or six levels, say to around a hundred and twenty months. And it goes up depending on how long the victim is held or if the victim is sexually exploited.”
Raylan admired Milt’s use of the word exploited, the way, Raylan was pretty sure, it would appear in the guidelines.
They removed Rudi Braga’s shackles before taking him into the courtroom and seating him next to his attorney at the defense table. Raylan and the three other marshals sat behind them, while the rows of spectator seats, like church pews, were nearly all occupied by people who could be friends or cartel associates of Rudi Braga. Watching them was a contingent of full-time court security officers in uniform, blue blazers and gray trousers.
The assistant U.S. attorney present, the one who’d prosecuted the case, was the same natty young guy in seersucker who had seemed anxious to prosecute Raylan following the Tommy Bucks shooting. Seeing him gave Raylan a momentary feeling of sympathy for Rudi, a bald little guy about Harry’s age and even resembled him, except Harry had hair. Rudi had been convicted of the unlawful importation and trafficking of a controlled substance, more than 150 but less than 500 kilograms of cocaine, and was facing, according to the presentence investigation report, 360 months to life. This was the reason, Milt Dancey said, for the crowd, nearly all Latins. The sole responsibility of Raylan’s group was Rudi. If he tried to run, demonstrate, or threaten the court, “We will assist him,” Milt said, “in regaining his composure.”
Raylan wondered if the court clerk would have a spare copy of the sentencing guidelines.
Waiting for the proceedings to start, he looked around thinking this was what a courtroom should look like: the ceiling a good twenty-five feet high, gold chandeliers, marble panels on the wall, the windows draped in red velvet, antique-looking lamps on the front corners of the judge’s bench. His Honor came in and everyone rose, sat down again and the court clerk called the case number, 95-9809, the United States of America versus Rudi Braga.
It gave Raylan another momentary feeling for Rudi, the whole country against the poor little guy. Then changed his mind about this rich little guy-Rudi’s attorney up to argue that his client shouldn’t have to forfeit his Learjet, his Rolls, his other cars, his boat and his home on Key Biscayne. Milt Dancey said, behind his hand to Raylan, “Near President Nixon’s old place.” Reverence in his voice.
The discussion went on for a while, the natty young assistant U.S. attorney wanting it all, arguing that Mr. Braga’s possessions could not be excluded for the reasons contained in the presentence investigation report, and the judge ruled in his favor.
There was more arguing, the defense attorney requesting a downward departure in the sentence, using the low end of the guidelines, 235 to 293 months at the most, because of Mr. Braga’s age. The assistant U.S. attorney argued that the defendant had been involved in criminal endeavors for over four decades and wanted an upward departure. Which Raylan understood to mean, throw the book at him. Raylan would listen to parts of the long-winded arguments, all the legal terms, while thinking about a house in Manalapan and a guy named Chip Ganz and the prospect of meeting him face-to-face, maybe tomorrow, if Dawn was right and Chip hung with the Huggers on weekends. Raylan had been thinking of that more and more, Chip trying to make money off runaways.
Finally he heard the judge say, “Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, it is the judgment of the court and the sentence of the law that the defendant, Rudi Braga, is hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of three hundred and sixty months to life as to the indictment.”
Raylan heard groans behind him, words in Spanish.
The judge stared out at the audience from the bench, pounded his gavel one time only, and there were no more sounds. He said, “The defendant is remanded to the custody of the United States marshal,” and it was over. Everyone rose.
Once they had Rudi in the holding cell, Raylan went back into the courtroom to talk to the clerk.
Milt Dancey was by the railing of the outside hallway smoking a cigarette. He saw Raylan coming toward him with the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm.
“You’re on Warrants,” Milt said, “investigating a kidnapping? How come I haven’t heard anything about it?”
Raylan started telling about Harry Arno and the collector Harry was supposed to meet at a restaurant a week ago today, Raylan wanting to give Milt a short version. But he kept talking-what did you leave out?-and Milt kept smoking and by the time he’d finished another cigarette Raylan had told him the whole story.
“What do you think? Have I got probable cause?”