“I don’t want out, mate. Not until I get justice.”
“That could take some time.”
“As may be.” He set his shoulders and tried to look tough and stubborn. “The fact is I made the front page and called attention to a very bad situation. While I stay here I’m making a statement they can’t ignore. Reckon I can hold out a little longer, long as I’m doing some good.”
“They’re going to put you out in a couple of weeks anyway, Nicky.”
“I can wait.”
I stood up and waved at the guard. “I already paid.”
He looked stubborn. “I won’t go.”
“As your counsel, it is my duty to advise you that the large officer standing behind you is going to commit an act of police brutality on you if you don’t get out of his jail. And there are no members of the media present.”
That seemed to be the clincher. Nicky wasn’t afraid of much—except maybe a virus that would kill hops—but he wanted attention for his Cause. If there wasn’t any to be had, why take the lumps?
The paperwork took a few more minutes. I had never realized how hard it is to bust somebody out of jail if they don’t really want to go. But I finally bullied him into signing the last of the forms and got him out the front door.
When we stepped outside there was a small cheer from the clot of protesters, and Nicky gave them a little speech. He told them the fight wasn’t over and letting him out of jail couldn’t break his spirit. Then he said there would be a big rally for Haitian Awareness tomorrow night and they should spread the word.
The sound of four people clapping was thunderous, but I managed to get him safely through the crush and home.
• • •
But as I drove Nicky home it hit me that he had a master plan for getting justice, and I was a big part of it. So when he stopped talking to a take a breath, I asked him. “What is it you think I can do?”
He beamed at me. “Fix it, Billy. It’s something you’re good at. You’ll get this whole thing straightened out.”
“What whole thing?”
He just kept smiling. “The Haitian thing, Billy. The Haitian problem. This body I found is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve checked into it. The coppers aren’t interested because this is an ordinary event. Happens all the time.” He whacked my arm.
“Ow,” I said.
“Does that strike you as a wanky little bit bizarre, mate? There’s so many of these bodies they think of it as normal? I mean, if the captain got hit on the head by a frog turd he’d investigate, but if seven tons of reptile shit fell from the sky he’d call it weather? Eh? That make sense to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the way cops work. You can put your finger in a dike. You can’t put your finger in the ocean.”
He waved his finger at me. “Wrongo, Billy. Hundredth monkey. We can make a difference. Every one of us. Mass murder happens because nobody can believe it’s happening. Nobody thinks they can stop it. And so Hitler invades Poland—”
“Nicky, hold on. This isn’t mass murder—”
“Isn’t it?”
“—this is just one Haitian refugee who didn’t make it. I’m sorry, but it does happen all the time. They sail in tiny, leaky boats, so crowded they can’t float—”
“With no money, Billy? With nothing in their pockets except a picture of Saint Patrick?”
I blinked and turned to look at him. He was still smiling, but it looked a little dangerous now. A horn snarled and I turned back in time to avoid broadsiding a van filled with bright pink Canadians. “What the hell are you talking about, Nicky?”
“I saw the file, Billy. The man’s pockets were empty. A refugee has some cash, something of value. He has an address of friends or relatives tucked away. Christ on a bun, mate, he has a wallet on him any road. This man didn’t.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Aw spit, Billy. You know it does.”
“It might have fallen out. It might have been in a backpack. His wife might have been holding it. There are a hundred explanations—”