up. When did he get out?”
“He served two years and got early parole nearly a year ago. Word is that he went right back to the streets.”
“Big shocker. Where else were you expecting him to go?” Cassian asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know,” Train said, a simmering anger in his tone. “Don’t they teach these people anything in lockup? Don’t they give them some sort of job training or something?”
Cassian frowned. “You serious?” He wagged his head. “What do you think, a few lessons in woodshop and an ex-con can walk out to live the American dream? We don’t have enough computers in the schools in the District, but you think the government is going to spend any money educating a bunch of degenerates and killers? And remember, this is Jerome we’re talking about. You really think he’d be interested in studying to be a mechanic or a refrigerator repairman?”
“You never know.”
“Yeah, you do. You remember what he did to that kid who crossed him? Ugly shit, partner.”
“He was never convicted of that. We only proved up the B&E.”
“Right. Never convicted. Musta’ been innocent, then, huh?”
Train was pulling his car through traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, around the endless detour at the 1600 block that had been in place since the attacks of September 11, 2001. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “But I knew Jerome before he was a killer. I grew up around his family—good people for the most part. He just got sucked into the life when his father left. Started dealing some drugs on the corner and breaking into houses; it was downhill from there and he got meaner and meaner. Family was helpless.”
Cassian looked out of the window at all the suits hurrying on their way to work. They all looked the same in their dark blue pinstriped uniforms with their power ties and their expensive leather briefcases. Washington was a city where image was everything, and the minions that turned the great gears of democracy protected their administrative turf from any perceived attack, guarding their images carefully. They cast a polished veneer on the city during the daytime, projecting cleanliness and efficiency. But at night, when they had all headed off to their suburban homes in Virginia and Maryland, the real city came to life, its heart beating out a less even, more human rhythm. “A year and a half in lockup’s a long time,” Cassian pointed out. “You think he was mean before, I bet he was a pussycat compared to where he’s at now.”
“I know,” Train replied. “I just keep thinkin’ that maybe there’s hope. He was a good kid once.”
Jack scratched his chin. “I don’t think you change from the kind of mean he became, bro. Once it’s in you it eats everything good left.”
Train was focused on the road, and wouldn’t look over at Cassian. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
z
The trip from Dupont Circle to the southern reaches of the District was a journey filled with contradictions, much like the city itself. Expensive apartment buildings nestled close to de caying brick houses, and excavators and chain-link fences promising shiny new glass-and-steel office towers seemed to creep perilously close to lonely freestanding structures, the great trenches dug to accommodate future parking lots undermining the integrity and stability of their neighbors both figuratively and literally. At one traffic light, a young man in an expensive silk suit and polished thick-soled shoes crossed in front of Train’s car, followed closely by an old man in rumpled, threadbare clothes. Beggars and thieves of all walks of life , Train thought. The old man pulled out a greasy squeegee from under his stained jacket and advanced on Train’s car. Cassian pulled out his badge and tapped it on the windshield in warning, drawing an angry, if resigned, frown from the man, who simply moved on to attack the next car. Once out toward the southern part of the city,
“He served two years and got early parole nearly a year ago. Word is that he went right back to the streets.”
“Big shocker. Where else were you expecting him to go?” Cassian asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know,” Train said, a simmering anger in his tone. “Don’t they teach these people anything in lockup? Don’t they give them some sort of job training or something?”
Cassian frowned. “You serious?” He wagged his head. “What do you think, a few lessons in woodshop and an ex-con can walk out to live the American dream? We don’t have enough computers in the schools in the District, but you think the government is going to spend any money educating a bunch of degenerates and killers? And remember, this is Jerome we’re talking about. You really think he’d be interested in studying to be a mechanic or a refrigerator repairman?”
“You never know.”
“Yeah, you do. You remember what he did to that kid who crossed him? Ugly shit, partner.”
“He was never convicted of that. We only proved up the B&E.”
“Right. Never convicted. Musta’ been innocent, then, huh?”
Train was pulling his car through traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, around the endless detour at the 1600 block that had been in place since the attacks of September 11, 2001. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “But I knew Jerome before he was a killer. I grew up around his family—good people for the most part. He just got sucked into the life when his father left. Started dealing some drugs on the corner and breaking into houses; it was downhill from there and he got meaner and meaner. Family was helpless.”
Cassian looked out of the window at all the suits hurrying on their way to work. They all looked the same in their dark blue pinstriped uniforms with their power ties and their expensive leather briefcases. Washington was a city where image was everything, and the minions that turned the great gears of democracy protected their administrative turf from any perceived attack, guarding their images carefully. They cast a polished veneer on the city during the daytime, projecting cleanliness and efficiency. But at night, when they had all headed off to their suburban homes in Virginia and Maryland, the real city came to life, its heart beating out a less even, more human rhythm. “A year and a half in lockup’s a long time,” Cassian pointed out. “You think he was mean before, I bet he was a pussycat compared to where he’s at now.”
“I know,” Train replied. “I just keep thinkin’ that maybe there’s hope. He was a good kid once.”
Jack scratched his chin. “I don’t think you change from the kind of mean he became, bro. Once it’s in you it eats everything good left.”
Train was focused on the road, and wouldn’t look over at Cassian. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
z
The trip from Dupont Circle to the southern reaches of the District was a journey filled with contradictions, much like the city itself. Expensive apartment buildings nestled close to de caying brick houses, and excavators and chain-link fences promising shiny new glass-and-steel office towers seemed to creep perilously close to lonely freestanding structures, the great trenches dug to accommodate future parking lots undermining the integrity and stability of their neighbors both figuratively and literally. At one traffic light, a young man in an expensive silk suit and polished thick-soled shoes crossed in front of Train’s car, followed closely by an old man in rumpled, threadbare clothes. Beggars and thieves of all walks of life , Train thought. The old man pulled out a greasy squeegee from under his stained jacket and advanced on Train’s car. Cassian pulled out his badge and tapped it on the windshield in warning, drawing an angry, if resigned, frown from the man, who simply moved on to attack the next car. Once out toward the southern part of the city,
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