Sam said, “You got a sidearm. Use it.”

Ed parked in a handicapped spot on the second level next to the walkway into the prison reserved for cops and prison personnel. The convicts were brought in through a different entrance, up on the sixth level, at the top of the parking structure.

The warden himself was waiting. “This, this is most unusual, officers.” The warden was in his sixties, with a head full of brilliant white hair and soft hands. He wanted to stop and talk in the corridor, but Sam and Ed blew past him, heading for the elevators. He hurried to catch up.

Ed said, “Call the Cook County sheriff and demand at least ten prisoner transfer buses, more if you can get ’em.”

“I talked to an Arturo Mendoza. He never did give me an adequate explanation.”

“Call the sheriff. Get as many buses as you can. Then turn on the goddamn TV.”

“I have received a call from the sheriff’s department. They have promised us their full cooperation.”

“What does that mean? How many buses, have they promised, specifically?”

“Three.”

“We need more.”

“It is my understanding that we are simply transporting the inmates to the holding cells at the Cook County facilities at Twenty-sixth and California. It may require two trips, three at the most. Three buses will be adequate.”

Ed stopped and put a hand on the warden’s shoulder. Ed said gently, “I’m not telling you how to do your job, but we’re gonna need more buses.” Sam recognized the good-cop, wise-older-brother tone. “Sure, we could pack everybody in here on a couple of buses, haul ’em down there and dump ’em, but there’s a lot of variables in this situation. We haven’t been able to talk to anybody down there yet, and so we’re not taking anything for granted. What happens if we get down there and find out that there’s no room? What then? You gonna leave eighty inmates locked on one bus with nowhere to go?”

The warden licked his lips and finally nodded. “I’ll call them back, see what I can arrange.”

He showed them into a briefing room, filled with guards. Most of the guards were watching the press conferences on TV. The cameras had just cut from the president outside the White House to the mayor at City Hall, who began to outline the details of the evacuation. The warden introduced Ed and Sam and explained to his men, “As many of you are aware, recent developments in the Loop have necessitated the evacuation of Chicago’s entire downtown area. CPD has seen fit to send us Detectives Jones and Johnson to oversee the transfer of every prisoner inside the MCC.”

The warden let that sink in. He turned to Ed and Sam. “Well, then. How can we help?”

Ed said, “First off, how many inmates are we talking about?”

“I believe the current population is five hundred and twenty-seven, both male and female. We’ll confirm that number, of course.”

“Where are they?”

The warden pulled down a large cross-sectional diagram of the prison and settled into the role of tour guide. “The MCC is a transition facility; that is, this is a way station for inmates who have been found guilty and are awaiting the details of their sentencing. Almost all of the inmates are waiting for further court hearings or to be transferred to a more permanent home. The average length of incarceration, at least within the MCC, is less than six months. We also feature a state-of the-art hospital, and anywhere from five to ten percent of our population have been transferred from other prisons within Illinois to receive treatment.”

He pointed to the diagram. The building had a triangle footprint, giving the guards clear sight lines for each narrow floor. “No prisoners are ever housed beneath the tenth floor. That gives us seventeen floors to utilize, and we have found it works to both our advantage and the inmates’ safety to spread them out, housing as few inmates as possible per floor. We pride ourselves on keeping our guests calm and comfortable.”

“Good. That’s our key,” Ed said and caught Sam’s eye.

The transitory nature of the prison made their jobs easier. The detectives realized that because inmates did not stay at the prison for any significant length of time, the institutionalized tribes that flourished wherever prisoners would spend decades behind bars, in crews bound by race or gang or belief, had failed to find a foothold. In a typical maximum-security prison, many of the inmates were facing life sentences, and had the time to establish structured organizations, forming hierarchies, protecting their tribe, as well as coordinating clever, vicious attacks against other gangs or the guards.

“Best way to avoid problems,” Ed said. “Keep everybody comfortable, but off-balance. I don’t want them to know what is going to happening next.”

Sam said, “We don’t want to give them a chance to get friendly with each other. If these boys ever got organized, they could overpower a bus without much trouble, and then we’ve got a mobile hostage situation on our hands.”

Ed addressed the entire room. “Understand this. Safety and security are our only responsibilities. There are only two things you are to communicate to the inmates. One, a state of emergency exists, and two, they are being transferred to a different location for their own safety. That is it. Don’t tell them anything else.”

“Except,” Sam said.

Ed said, “Except that a policy of zero tolerance has been implemented. If anyone steps out of line, guards will be shooting to kill.”

Ed and Sam watched as the guards had to fight their delight and hide their satisfied, victorious grins at finally being able to bolster their careers with a stamp of authority. Ed glanced at Sam. Sam closed his eyes and gave an imperceptible nod. The guards had been exposed to the institutionalized violence for too long, with no outlet, no way of turning the fear loose in a meaningful manner, no way of exorcising the demons that grew and multiplied in the dark in a place like this. In fact, letting off this kind of steam was frowned upon, and sometimes, it was flat-out illegal. Shooting ranges could only provide so much relief. It was like drinking near beer for an alcoholic.

Eventually, something had to give.

The guards were going to be a problem.

Sam could smell violence in the air, like a lightning storm on the horizon.

CHAPTER 58

12:39 PM

August 14

“That’s not the suit you’re wearing tonight, I hope.” Phil’s first words.

“No. It’s the suit I’m wearing right now,” Lee said. “The good ones are at the office.” Phil’s condescending attitude was getting tougher to swallow. “Never thought you’d be worrying about men’s fashion.”

“This might be the most important press conference of our lives. I’m worrying about everything.”

Bryan accelerated and shot down the side street to Upper Wacker. Phil explained, “All the interior roads are blocked. Right now, the only streets open to get into the Loop are Clark and Congress.”

“Shit. These people are serious.”

“You have no fucking idea.”

Bryan turned left on Clark, where they were met by staggered walls of sandbags and four soldiers, all carrying assault rifles and wearing surgical masks. They inspected Phil’s ID and checked their list. They came back and looked at Lee’s ID as well as Bryan’s. It must have checked out, because the soldiers waved them through.

“So listen, please, no jokes, okay? Don’t try to be funny,” Phil said.

“Why not? Nothing wrong with my sense of humor.” Lee tried to dismiss the whole thing.

Phil shook his head. “Absolutely not. Even those dago pricks only laugh to be polite, and they laugh at everything. You? You’re about as funny as a case of the clap.”

Bryan weaved through the sandbags and followed Clark down to City Hall. Lee glanced at the open plaza to the left, by the Daley Center, and was astonished to see that the giant Picasso sculpture was gone. He finally spotted it, lying on its side in the intersection of Dearborn and Washington, acting as a kind of barricade.