looked up at Hudson and back down at his pad.
“Oh yeah. Pissant jumped me with two other punks last time I was in here. One of them had a shank.” He held up his arm with the scar. “They got me real good.” Moon stared off into space, his jaw muscles twitching as he gritted his teeth. “There was a time, you know? Not too long ago. When I would have given a lot just to watch that little motherfucker die, slow and nasty.”
“Now?”
“It’s just a big waste,” Hudson said softly. “Waste of him. Waste of me.”
“Any more questions?” Redpath asked. “We’ve only got a few minutes today, and I want to make some other stops. They need the room.”
“How’d somebody like you kill anybody? You mean, like, flying airplanes in Vietnam or some shit?”
“Please,” Redpath said with a snort. “Take a look at me, Moon!” Bill got up abruptly and walked over to a table against the wall that held a plastic jug of water and a stack of paper cups. “I’m a little old for Vietnam. Ever hear of Korea?” He was pouring the water, spilling a little.
He took a sip and continued. “I was a teenage corporal in a heavy weapons platoon, toting a .30 caliber machine gun. Can’t say I’m proud of myself.” He began filling a second cup, more carefully now, and spoke looking down at the table. “Caught them with the sun in their eyes. Most of those Chinamen weren’t even shaving yet. They looked like girls.” He nodded over at Hudson. “You want some water?”
He returned to his chair, sat down heavily, and pushed a cup across the table toward Hudson. “As Justice Holmes said, no man shot below the rib cage dies a hero’s death.”
Redpath’s voice rose to drown out the background shouting, which had started again louder than ever, accompanied by a metallic clang. The noise stopped abruptly, making his question a little too loud. “Is it all right if we get down to business now?”
Redpath pulled his copy of the indictment out and flipped to the first count, reminding himself of the date of the incident. It would not be a bad place to start. He pressed his liver-spotted hands onto the tabletop to keep them from trembling. Korea. It never left him.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Sandra says you were home with her the morning Delgado was shot. Is that true? Or is she just playing the dutiful wife?”
Hudson ignored the question. “With me, it was April 2008. Skinny little Los Solidos warlord named Breeze in the White Castle parking lot. With my Glock. Old Breeze just looked surprised. Dropped his cheeseburger and sat down in the pricker bushes.” Hudson shifted in the metal chair, making it squeak faintly. “Waste of him, waste of me.”
“Yes,” Redpath said quietly. “A complete waste.”
Moon looked at the table and nodded to himself. “Now it comes around.”
They each drank their water. Moon finished, crumpled his cup and, in one agile movement, tossed it neatly into the small wastebasket in the corner of the room.
“Moon, we need to get started. Were you and Sandra …”
“Let me ask you another question, Bill. Sorry. Why are they bringing this in federal court? What’s up with that? Is it just because of the, you know, because of capital punishment?”
“Let’s not call it that, okay?” Redpath finished his water, crumpled the paper cup, and eyed the wastebasket. As Moon watched, he lobbed the ball of paper; it hit the wall and bounced in. Moon raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly. It was a beginning.
“ ‘Capital punishment’ makes it sound like something in a philosophy book. I call it the death penalty, because that’s what it is. The government wants to strap you down on a wagon, wheel you into a little room, and have a doctor stick a needle in you to stop your heart. Nothing fancy.”
“Okay,” Hudson said. His finger moved slowly back and forth along the table’s scar.
“So, yeah,” Redpath said. “The first reason you’re in federal
“Oh yeah. Pissant jumped me with two other punks last time I was in here. One of them had a shank.” He held up his arm with the scar. “They got me real good.” Moon stared off into space, his jaw muscles twitching as he gritted his teeth. “There was a time, you know? Not too long ago. When I would have given a lot just to watch that little motherfucker die, slow and nasty.”
“Now?”
“It’s just a big waste,” Hudson said softly. “Waste of him. Waste of me.”
“Any more questions?” Redpath asked. “We’ve only got a few minutes today, and I want to make some other stops. They need the room.”
“How’d somebody like you kill anybody? You mean, like, flying airplanes in Vietnam or some shit?”
“Please,” Redpath said with a snort. “Take a look at me, Moon!” Bill got up abruptly and walked over to a table against the wall that held a plastic jug of water and a stack of paper cups. “I’m a little old for Vietnam. Ever hear of Korea?” He was pouring the water, spilling a little.
He took a sip and continued. “I was a teenage corporal in a heavy weapons platoon, toting a .30 caliber machine gun. Can’t say I’m proud of myself.” He began filling a second cup, more carefully now, and spoke looking down at the table. “Caught them with the sun in their eyes. Most of those Chinamen weren’t even shaving yet. They looked like girls.” He nodded over at Hudson. “You want some water?”
He returned to his chair, sat down heavily, and pushed a cup across the table toward Hudson. “As Justice Holmes said, no man shot below the rib cage dies a hero’s death.”
Redpath’s voice rose to drown out the background shouting, which had started again louder than ever, accompanied by a metallic clang. The noise stopped abruptly, making his question a little too loud. “Is it all right if we get down to business now?”
Redpath pulled his copy of the indictment out and flipped to the first count, reminding himself of the date of the incident. It would not be a bad place to start. He pressed his liver-spotted hands onto the tabletop to keep them from trembling. Korea. It never left him.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Sandra says you were home with her the morning Delgado was shot. Is that true? Or is she just playing the dutiful wife?”
Hudson ignored the question. “With me, it was April 2008. Skinny little Los Solidos warlord named Breeze in the White Castle parking lot. With my Glock. Old Breeze just looked surprised. Dropped his cheeseburger and sat down in the pricker bushes.” Hudson shifted in the metal chair, making it squeak faintly. “Waste of him, waste of me.”
“Yes,” Redpath said quietly. “A complete waste.”
Moon looked at the table and nodded to himself. “Now it comes around.”
They each drank their water. Moon finished, crumpled his cup and, in one agile movement, tossed it neatly into the small wastebasket in the corner of the room.
“Moon, we need to get started. Were you and Sandra …”
“Let me ask you another question, Bill. Sorry. Why are they bringing this in federal court? What’s up with that? Is it just because of the, you know, because of capital punishment?”
“Let’s not call it that, okay?” Redpath finished his water, crumpled the paper cup, and eyed the wastebasket. As Moon watched, he lobbed the ball of paper; it hit the wall and bounced in. Moon raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly. It was a beginning.
“ ‘Capital punishment’ makes it sound like something in a philosophy book. I call it the death penalty, because that’s what it is. The government wants to strap you down on a wagon, wheel you into a little room, and have a doctor stick a needle in you to stop your heart. Nothing fancy.”
“Okay,” Hudson said. His finger moved slowly back and forth along the table’s scar.
“So, yeah,” Redpath said. “The first reason you’re in federal
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