Chen let him think, prodding only after he’d washed down a last bite of pandesal with the dregs of his coffee. “There is something else, my friend?”
Dazid snapped out of his trance and turned to look directly at Chen. “As I told you, the martyrs will be no problem. They are intelligent enough, and they are, no doubt, willing to die. I must admit, though, that I have serious doubts about their ability to get close enough to an American warship to do any damage.”
Chen gave the man a soft smile, a smile that said he was absolutely sure of himself—and of his plan. “My group will be in close communication,” he said. “If your men do what my people say, exactly when they say it, I assure you that will not be an issue. The American Navy will come to them.”
20
I’m . . . I’m not even supposed to be here,” Eddie Feng stammered, his back against the cinder-block wall of Dallas County’s Lew Sterrett jail. Individual cells ran around the edge of the open dayroom and down the corridors that radiated out like the spokes of a wheel. Time for lights-out was fast approaching, but for now, the prisoners in this pod sat in small knots of congruent color and race around the open bay. Some watched a small television in a cage on the wall. Some played cards. Some, Feng imagined, plotted to kill him. There was a control room at the far end, staffed by two DSOs who faced in opposite directions, dividing their time between a set of far too many monitors and the dayroom of a different pod. Feng doubted they would see a triple homicide if it went down right in front of them. The place smelled like farts and Lysol, but it didn’t matter, he was so scared he could hardly breathe anyway. The African American detention services officer standing beside him was nice enough. She was about the same size as Feng, with hair buzzed as short as humanly possible but that could still be called hair, and an oval face that said she would have been attractive out of the formless green uniform. The tag on her chest identified her as Officer Lincoln. Feng thought she’d smiled at him once while he was standing on the red line at the book-in counter, but the more he talked to her now, the more he thought maybe she just had indigestion.
“I’m not kidding,” Feng yammered on. “I really should be in solitary. I’m helping out the FBI on some high-level stuff.”
The DSO rolled her eyes, then scanned the crowded dayroom full of inmates. She kept her voice low, just loud enough for him to hear. “Why don’t you speak up a little bit? I’m sure there are a lot of nice citizens in here who never met a real live rat before.”
Feng gulped, pulling his arms, turtle-like, inside the top of his orange jail scrubs in an effort to chase away the chill. For some reason, they kept this place like a damned refrigerator.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve just never been in jail before.” He shrugged, armless, and inched closer to Officer Lincoln like a frightened child looking to make friends with the teacher at recess.
Lincoln gave him a glare. Her voice boomed. “Back off, inmate!”
A husky DSO with a blond porn-star mustache glanced up. Lincoln shook her head and raised a hand to let him know she had the situation under control. He went back to watching the inmates as they lined up at the pay phones.
Feng took a step back, grimacing at her sudden outburst. She gave a slow nod. “You’re welcome,” she said.
“What?”
She continued to look out at the dayroom. “I just gave you some undeserved street cred in here, inmate. These animals think you popped off to me, and they’ll give you a little space for a minute. People in here smell fear. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“Got it,” Feng said. “Thank you. Would you mind making a call to the FBI for me? Tell them something’s messed up?”
Officer Lincoln turned now and gave him a disgusted stare. “Seriously, inmate. You really need to back off.”
? ? ?
Across the dayroom, DSO Tony Chang stepped out of the control room and made his way across the open floor. A couple other correctional officers rolled their eyes, but the inmates moved out of his way. He spent a lot of time in the gym and was proud that his girlfriend had taken up the sides of his size-seventeen uniform shirt so it formed a tight V from his lats down to his thirty-two-inch waist. The inmates needed to see they weren’t the only ones who could do pull-ups. Reaching the 2 East Corridor, Chang gave a quiet nod to an Asian inmate lined up at the bank of pay phones. The young man at the phones, who had a Sun Yee On triangle tattooed on his neck, was a recent initiate, and Chang knew he was eager to prove his devotion to the brotherhood.
Chang had been the one to handle Eddie Feng’s booking. A simple tick in the wrong computer box saw to it that he didn’t end up in solitary like the FBI requested. Chang tried to get the guy thrown in with the triad brothers who’d been arrested at Chicas, but they’d all been put on lockdown, so it was all up to him.
On cue, the tattooed man spun in line and punched the nearest inmate in the throat. This man, who happened to be a short but extremely muscular member of La Eme, staggered backward just long enough to catch his breath. The Mexican Mafia soldier recovered quickly and rushed the lighter Asian who had dared to disrespect him, driving him into the concrete wall. Four other triad members, unaware of any arrangement with Officer Chang, jumped to the defense of their embattled brother, piling on in a flurry of fists and elbows and teeth. Their presence drew more La Eme foot soldiers into the fight.
Ethnic and rival gang tensions boiled just below the surface of these men, incarcerated nose-to-nose with people who they’d just as soon see dead on the street. In prison, gang members might be segregated. County jails did what they could, but space was at more of a premium.
Alarms began to sound, echoing off the concrete-and-steel enclosure. Inmates not involved in the fight reluctantly stepped away from the free entertainment as the bored-sounding intercom announcement that accompanied the alarms ordered them to their cells.
Seconds later, heavy boots slapped the tile floor as detention officers poured into the dayroom from various points around the jail. Officer Chang stayed where he was, glancing up at the control room. The two officers inside stood up so they could see over their screens.
Inmates filed by, returning to their assigned cells. When Eddie Feng shuffled past, arms tucked inside the sleeves of his scrubs, Officer Chang fell in behind and followed him to his cell.
“Hold up,” Chang said, pulling Feng aside to give the other inmates time to move to their own cells and get out of earshot. “Aren’t you supposed to be in solitary?”
Feng’s mouth fell open. “Finally!” he said. “Somebody’s got their shit together. Thank you. Seriously, man, thank you.”
Klaxons still raged, not quite drowning out the free-for-all that had broken out in the dayroom.