Jack was starting to see through it—this Sheriff Ronick, though he acted lazy and tried to avoid trouble like Teflon, was surprisingly responsible when things got serious.
Two state troopers, one Black and one white, armed with shotguns, escorted four prisoners from the back of the transport bus into the temporary holding cells behind the station.
Ronick personally checked each cell and confirmed the identities of the prisoners with the troopers one by one.
In the first cell was a young Black woman wearing a hoodie. Just from her clothes, you could tell she was someone who'd spent years on the streets. She kept mumbling that she was innocent, that she'd never broken the law.
Technically, shoplifting under a certain amount—especially in states where "zero-dollar theft" is written into law—isn't always a crime. Jack, following along behind Ronick to get a feel for the situation, nodded in silent understanding.
In the neighboring cell was a young Black man about her age, who called himself Smiley. He specialized in fencing stolen goods and selling knockoff merchandise. Whether he'd been arrested with her was unclear.
Sharing the same cell with him was the only white guy in the group—though strictly speaking, he was more likely Latino. A junkie and robber, eyes bloodshot and clearly still high, he'd already gotten into a fight with Smiley within five minutes of being locked up.
Jack vaguely recognized his face. Not a famous actor, but someone who'd played plenty of small-time villains on screen.
Because the old precinct only had three cells, the female prisoner and the gang boss had to be housed separately, meaning the other two had to stay together.
Ronick rapped on the bars with his baton until the two finally calmed down.
The last cell held the gang boss himself—Marino Bishop. And once Jack saw the guy in person, all hopes of a peaceful night flew out the window.
He wasn't yet as bloated as the "king of the homeless" from the John Wick series, but the arrogant cool swagger and that stoic face made him look uncannily like Morpheus from The Matrix.
"No need for introductions. I'm sure everyone here knows all about his glorious resume," said Geoffrey, the Black state trooper, with open sarcasm.
Bishop calmly surveyed the group before his eyes landed on the folded newspaper under Ronick's arm. "Could I have that? Might help pass the time doing the crossword."
Ronick hesitated briefly, then snapped off a pencil stub and handed it over with the paper. "I heard you're the only gang boss in town who won't touch drugs. Why?"
"Because drugs destroy order. This city's already chaotic enough, wouldn't you say, Sheriff?" Bishop replied flatly.
"Let's hope you stay that level-headed until you leave," Ronick said, handing him the items with a shrug, then turned to the two troopers. "He's your responsibility now. One of you can rest up front, but someone stays in the back at all times."
——
"Trouble?" John asked quietly as Jack returned.
"Not yet. Hopefully it stays that way," Jack said, shaking his head.
It was already past 11, and he didn't want to bother his colleagues back in New York this late. Fortunately, Bishop was a well-known figure, and a quick search on Jack's phone turned up more than enough information.
Bishop's gang was rather unique. Though mostly made up of Black members, many came from former working-class families.
With Detroit's auto industry decline and automation upgrades, these lower-tier Black factory workers were among the first to be laid off.
Most had a basic education, but no more. With families to support and bills piling up, they fell below even the level of the average homeless man once their jobs were gone.
Bishop organized them into a gang that, while avoiding drugs, did pretty much everything else—red-light district control, illegal arms, extorting businesses for protection fees.
These "working-class gangsters" weren't weak. Perhaps due to their roots, the gang had a surprisingly tight structure and followed orders well.
As for Bishop's supposed anti-drug stance—it wasn't entirely true. He avoided "hard drugs," but his gang controlled the best marijuana distribution in Detroit. That was their real cash cow.
Jack went over everything he found, feeling a bit more at ease. Bishop's arrest seemed more circumstantial than intentional. The man usually operated under a legal, public identity.
Which meant he wouldn't be looking to burn it all down. He had too much to lose—no jailbreaks, no shootouts, not unless things got desperate. He'd likely go the route of plea deals first.
Still, something about the arrest bothered Jack. Why would a gang boss with a legal front commit a murder in a church? And kill a cop, no less? Something didn't add up.
As midnight neared, Jack fired up the grill again. He'd expected to stay overnight because of the storm, so during the earlier grocery run with Alice, he'd stocked up on fresh food.
What they'd eaten before was just the appetizer. Now the marinated chicken wings, drumsticks, and steaks came out. But with the tiny grill and new additions like Alexis and the two troopers, food was getting tight.
Because of the prisoners in the back, nobody was drinking alcohol anymore. It was all coffee and hot cocoa now. But the mood was still pretty good.
"Did you have big plans tonight?" Jack asked, handing Alexis a skewer of grilled wings while taking some potato slices from John to throw on the grill.
"Not really. I just didn't expect to get stuck here for New Year's... and eat so many high-calorie things I usually avoid. Don't get me wrong—your food's too good, that's the problem. I can't stop."
Seeing her pout, Jack eyed her well-maintained figure with a grin. "Don't worry. I guarantee you're not consuming more than thirty percent above your usual intake."
"Come on, it's starting!" Alice rushed over and grabbed both of them. The Super Bowl-style New Year countdown was playing on TV.
"10, 9, 8, 3, 2, 1—Happy New Year!" Everyone cheered together as old officer Jasper led them in singing Auld Lang Syne.
When the song ended, the white state trooper who'd joined the countdown picked up a tray Jack had handed him—stacked with steaming food.
"Take it to the back. Share it with anyone still awake."
"Thanks, man. You're alright," the trooper said, patting Jack on the shoulder, though neither knew the other's name.
Just as Jack was about to resume teasing Alexis about calorie counts, a sudden shout rang out from the holding cells—followed by a sharp gunshot.
The entire room fell into stunned silence.
______
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