Yes, he could escape them. But he can’t escape Karloff. Karloff will not tolerate that. Karloff will have him chased down and eliminated, like it was nothing. He thinks his chances are better in front of a judge, inside the system, because he won’t be betraying Karloff.

He decided days ago. The Ruger will stay hidden in the custodial closet, maybe forever. Like a favorite toy that at some point must be left on the shelf. When you finally give up, finally accept, the changed conditions of your life.

He has time to send one text, he figures. One short text. He doesn’t really know what will happen to him or his cell phone after that.

He hopes they take it away so he can’t do what Karloff wants.

He hopes they don’t take it away so he can do what Karloff wants.

Joey isn’t at all surprised by the police cruiser’s appearance. But one thing does surprise him. That he got no heads-up from Will or Karloff. No text. No communication at all.

Is it simply that they don’t want to risk a text being intercepted? Maybe the risk has increased with the surveillance being so persistent over the days and weeks that have passed as a new court date approached.

Or is it just further proof that they’re done with him? That they don’t care. That they have this last assignment for him, and he’s written off after that.

That there’s nothing more to say to him.

The one person he could reach out to is Zack. Joey pulls out the phone. But what’s the point? Time’s up. Whatever the kid has been trying to figure out for Joey, it hasn’t worked. He slips the phone back in his pocket.

You’re too fuckin late, Zack, Joey thinks bitterly. I’m on my way to court. I’m a dead man.

In the backseat of the cruiser on the way to Lower Manhattan, Joey imagines the lesser charges that the state must be proceeding with. He knows all about them from years of prison. Manslaughter. Criminal possession of a weapon. Felony assault. Battery. A conviction on any of these, he knows, will give a judge wide latitude with sentencing.

He’s a little confused when the police cruiser glides past the criminal court building where he had his first trial.

“What…what’s goin’ on?” he asks from the backseat.

“We’re headed over to the Supreme Court Civil Branch building,” says the cop in the passenger seat.

The Supreme Court Civil Branch is for civil cases. Lawsuits, fines, financial settlements, monetary damages.

“I don’t understand. What am I being charged with?”

“Your lawyer didn’t tell you? Wrongful death,” says the cop over his shoulder. “Must be one of the families coming after you.”