Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1) Read online

  “What they pop you for?” asked the heavyset Puerto Rican on the seat next to him.

  Too scared to speak, he sat there frozen, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “I ain’t gonna bite choo. You don’t wanna talk, it’s cool.”

  He glanced over, preparing to concoct an elaborate story about his arrest, then quickly decided it was best to stick to the sad simple truth. “Failed the breathalyzer,” he said, trying his best to put an edge on it.

  “First time?”

  “Yeah, I mean yes. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “I ain’t your lawyer, man. Long as you didn’t hit no one you’ll be home tomorrow after you see da judge.”

  “They told me I’d be home tonight.”

  “Most days you might, but jail’s gonna be real busy. No way you’re out tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is it going to be so busy?”

  “Moon’s almost full.”

  “So?”

  “Fuller the moon, fuller the jail.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Nah, straight up. Human beings man, we’re some primal motherfuckers.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it, papa. Even if you don’t, you’ll see for yourself once we get inside. Name’s Fletcher,” said Fletcher Vargas. Short and chubby with high combed back hair from his old school DA, and a close beard flecked with gray, he was a lifelong hustler who often sold drugs to support his heroin habit. His motto was “dress to impress” and today he was rockin’ what he called casual cool. Fletcher was arrested wearing white and green high top Adidas, bright green satin shorts, and a green Boston Celtics Tiny Archibald throw-back jersey.

  “I’m Tucker,” said Tucker Harrison. He was tall and slim, blond and clean shaven, with a West Hampton tan. A Morgan Stanley Investment Banker and lifelong yachting enthusiast, Tucker often drove home drunk after client meetings. Along with handcuffs he wore a dark grey Zegna suit, a white pin-striped shirt custom made for him in Hong Kong, and black Ferragamo loafers.

  “Am I going to be okay?” he asked, just as they arrived at Central Booking.

  “Tucker, don’t let anyone tell you different, jail sucks, man. Even for one night, it ain’t where you wanna be. You’re gonna be locked down with some stone cold killers, but there’s citizens in here too, and the guards don’t want no tax payer like you dyin’ on their shift. Too much paper work. So yeah, we walkin’ into a jungle, but it’s a jungle that’s got rules. Don’t worry, I’ll school you. You listen and do like I say, you ain’t gonna have no problems,” Fletcher said to the Wall Street executive just as the gates of the Manhattan Detention Center closed behind the police van.

  MDC, better known as Central Booking, is located in the downtown New York court district. It’s one of those old non-descript buildings with lots of angled corners that almost disguises the fact that you’re looking at a prison. If you ever get arrested in Manhattan you’ll spend some time there.

  Tucker and Fletcher had been last in, so they were the first prisoners out of the van. They stepped down onto the cracked, rain soaked pavement in the center of a wide courtyard surrounded by high fences topped with razor wire and glaring flood lights. Their NYPD drivers handed them over to the Department of Corrections. A heavyset DOC officer with brown smoke stained-teeth and a low gut that hung way down over his belt clamped his thick fingers tightly around Tucker’s left elbow. He farted loudly, then guided Tucker and Fletcher to a white hash mark four inches below the surface of a wide puddle. Told not to move, they stood up to their ankles in the dirty foot bath. Fletch cursed at the fat guard for getting his kicks wet, while Tucker kept quiet about his plans to throw his seven hundred dollars loafers in the trash when he got home.

  Staring down at his ruined shoes, Tucker’s eyes fixed on a bright reflection in the water before he slowly tilted his head towards the heavens. His whole body shuddered when he looked up at the night sky. The moon sat high above peeking through the scattered clouds, its hazy glow bathed everything in an eerie, ominous light. Since they were both shackled, Fletcher nudged him with his shoulder.

  “Hey Nantucket! You best keep your head out the clouds and focus on what you walkin’ into here, man.”

  Along with six other prisoners they were ushered to the main building by several DOC guards.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, I’m sober now.”

  “Good.”

  “What're you here for?” Tucker asked, trying to mask his nervousness as they passed through the main doors.

  “Had an outstanding warrant. Won’t see the streets for at least a year, man.” He didn’t add that he was going to have to kick his dope habit cold turkey. Even though the evening was warm and sticky, thinking about his long nights ahead filled with convulsions and vomiting made Fletcher shiver in a cold sweat.

  They were searched again, then slowly moved through processing before being taken up to the holding cells. As soon as the steel doors clanged open on their assigned floor the noise hit them like a sledge hammer. The sound of nearly five hundred men talking, laughing, and shouting in a confined space blended into a constant roar that made Tucker’s legs shake uncontrollably. Then the smell hit him like a punch in the face. Sweat, shit, piss, puke, and the chemical sanitizers used by the Department of Corrections all hung heavily in the air like a thick rancid fog that made his stomach turn.

  The holding cells in central lockup are oversized cages, each of them made to hold about twenty guys, but they manage to squeeze in over sixty on the weekends. Designed for function rather than comfort, every cell has floor to ceiling bars on three sides, a bolted down metal bench running along the back wall, and one stainless steel open toilet that sits in the corner. The bright overhead lights stay on twenty-four hours a day.

  As they were escorted down the long hallway towards their cell Fletcher passed on some final words of advice: “Keep your mouth shut and stay sharp. If you gotta take a shit you’d best hold it. With this many dudes in here you don’t wanna be squatting down with your pants around your ankles.”

  “Thanks.”

  They both automatically moved to an open space along the back wall next to the bench as the barred door slammed shut behind them. They were locked in with forty-eight other men who had been arrested for a wide range of crimes. Most were in jail for misdemeanors like smoking weed, disorderly conduct or drunk driving. Others were in for assault, armed robbery and murder, so lifetime offenders and those new to the system were all thrown in together. A couple of guys were sleeping on the concrete floor using MDC’s inedible bologna sandwiches as pillows, while some were talking in small groups, sharing stories of how they ended up in jail on a warm Thursday night in June. A few stood or sat alone, dwelling on the long years they faced in prison, or first timers like Tucker that were too scared to talk or make eye contact.

  One man sat quietly at the end of the bench, deep in thought, but clearly unafraid. Every man in the cell had done a double take on him. First a quick glance, followed by a longer look over. Then they didn’t look again. Even Tucker, who was trying his best to become invisible, snuck a peak at the soldier in full military dress uniform.

  Above the sergeant’s stripes on his left shoulder his dark green tunic bore an arrow head shaped patch with a sword and three diagonal lightning bolts running through it. Above the patch his arm read, AIRBORNE. Above that, RANGER, and above that, SPECIAL FORCES. A light blue Combat Infantry Badge was pinned over his left breast, and below the CIB were rows and rows of ribbons and medals. Purple Heart with cluster, two Bronze Stars with V’s for Valor, the Silver Star, and the Distinguished Service Cross were all on display.

  Initially it was the uniform that drew all the attention, but it was his face that made everyone momentarily stare. A deep jagged scar ran down his forehead like an angry river, gouging through his right eyebrow, and zig-zagging its way into his cheek. The ancient wo
und was impressive, but the eyes of Sergeant John Michael Bishop were what pulled you in. Amber, luminescent, and cat shaped, they were both fascinating and disturbing.

  John Bishop ignored the nervous glances from his cellmates and tuned out their chatter. Although he appeared calm and relaxed he was working really hard to control his emotions. Inside he was raging, furious at himself and at his cousin for ending up in jail on his first day back home.

  Bishop had been in the military for the past fourteen years, twelve of them as a Green Beret. He fought, killed, bled, and buried friends all over the world, and it was only two weeks ago that he went on his final mission as a member of Team Razor, a roaming Special Forces unit based on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. Now he was done. He put in his papers and walked away free and clear.

  He didn’t leave the Army because of his questions about the war, which were many. He didn’t leave because he was tired of all the killing, which he was. He didn’t leave because of the painful memories of so many comrades lost, which would haunt him forever.

  He left to get his life back. He left to finally reconnect with his family after being away for so many years. Most important of all, he left to win back the woman he loved.

  Sergeant Bishop had been in almost constant combat throughout his military career after he joined the army at eighteen, first as an Airborne Ranger and then as a Special Forces weapons sergeant. Wounded twenty-three times, he was one of the most decorated living American soldiers, but his medals meant nothing to him and he never wore them. Except for today. Today he had reluctantly made an exception because he knew how much they meant to his uncle. His uncle was the man that raised him and the man he truly loved like a father. His uncle, Gonzalo Valdez, was also the head of the one of the largest organized crime families in New York. Maybe the largest in the country. Gonzalo was throwing him a huge welcome home party tonight, but John never made it. Instead he was in jail waiting for bail or processing.

  Other than Fletcher, the only person he knew in the holding cell was his cousin Felix Valdez. First cousins, but there was little family resemblance. While John was fair skinned and clean shaven with brown curly hair, Felix was dark with a thin goatee and a short afro. They were both exactly six feet tall, but John was a tough, hard, and lean one-ninety while Felix was two hundred-ten pounds of pure muscle and power. While John had always been self-conscious of his scar and grinned cautiously, Felix kept a bright white infectious smile plastered on his face.

  If you stood the two of them next to each other you would never think they were related. At least not until they looked at you. Then you knew. Their eyes were the same. Yellow, cat-like, and unblinking. Of course, Felix the Cat had been his childhood nickname. Now it was just Cat.

  John sat there brooding and wouldn’t even look at Felix. He was so mad at his cousin he wanted to kick his ass, but chuckled at the thought. Felix was a legendary street fighter and a black belt who worked out three hours a day, six days a week against the best that Tiger Schulman’s Karate School had to offer. With all of John’s training in hand to hand combat a fight with Felix would be touch and go at best.

  “You be extra careful now,” Fletcher whispered to Tucker. “That’s a real gangster right there,” he said nodding towards Felix. “He even looks at you wrong you won’t make it out the building. Guys will do you just hoping to get in good with him.”

  “Shut up Fletch.”

  Tucker’s head snapped back, banging into the wall. Fletcher stiffened, then carefully turned and moved forward to look closely at the soldier sitting nearby. Then his eyes went wide.

  “Johnny!? Damn papa, didn’t see you there. Looking good bro. Welcome home.”

  “Why’re you talking that shit about Felix?”

  “Hey John, no disrespect to your cousin, I’m just trying to school this rookie here. But papa, what you doing in jail?”

  “Last warning, Fletch. Shut your mouth.”

  Fletcher could see the mood that Bishop was in and moved back to his post against the wall.

  “I guess you should have followed your own advice about keeping quiet,” Tucker whispered.

  Fletcher turned to face Tucker, his playful eyes now hard and flat.

  “He can talk to me like that. You can’t,” he said to his former student and then hit Tucker with a crisp open hand slap across the face.

  Felix heard the exchange and looked over. Bishop shook his head no, but Felix stared silently at Fletcher and Tucker for several tense moments.

  Both John and Felix had looked up to Fletcher when they were kids and neither one had really forgiven him for turning into a dope fiend. He’d been a legend in the neighborhood and one of the greatest ball players they had ever seen before the drugs consumed him.

  “You havin’ a fight with your girlfriend, Fletch?” Felix asked.

  They both stood rock still with their backs against the wall, heads down, and sweat pouring off them. Tucker had tears of humiliation rolling down his checks from the slap.

  “Uh, no Felix, just a misunderstanding,” Fletcher said.

  “Don’t bring any drama up in here. You two kiss and make up,” he said, which brought nervous laughter from around the room. “Nice throw back. Tiny was the man back in his day, even if he was a Celtic. Those green shorts are a little over the top, but I respect the level of commitment to your costume.”

  “Well, okay, uh, thanks Felix,” Fletcher said uncomfortably.

  His yellow, unblinking eyes bore into them for another moment until both men exhaled slowly when he finally turned back to his conversation.

  Felix was a wild and dangerous dude, but he loved to laugh and tell stories. He had fun wherever he went, jail or prison were no exception, and he was surrounded by four young guys that were hanging on his every word.

  “Yo, you guys down with midgets?” Felix asked the group of youngsters.

  “Say what?”

  “Big titty midgets, man. You think about ‘em?”

  Felix looked over at John and winked at him, and John smiled back momentarily. He’d heard Felix’s “little people” story before, and it was hilarious, but he drifted back to his own thoughts, rewinding the tape, trying to figure out how to explain this mess to his uncle. He’d started his day as far from jail as one could imagine, thousands of miles away, excited to see his family and begin a new life…

  Chapter 3

  Coming Home

  Before leaving his Combat Outpost (COP) in Afghanistan to start his long journey to a jail cell in NYC he said goodbye to his “family.” The Special Forces Operators on his A Team, Team Razor, were more like brothers than friends. The goodbyes had been hard, the packing was easy. After fourteen years of front-line combat duty the few items he cared about, including his parent’s wedding picture, all fit neatly into two duffle bags. The bags were light. It was the dead that weighed him down. The friends and family he’d held in his arms as they died and the many men he killed all traveled with him. Wherever he went, they were always there, lurking, moving about in the shadows. He knew his dead would follow him home.

  The first leg of John’s trip was a military flight from Khost that took him to Hamburg, Germany. In Hamburg he read an e-mail from Felix giving him a heads up about the big welcome home celebration so he showered, shaved, and put on his dress uniform, probably for the last time. John knew he wouldn’t have time to change once he got home and he knew how disappointed his uncle would be if he showed up at the party in civilian clothes.

  A military police jeep drove him to the private airfield where a luxury Gulfstream G200 was powered up and waiting. John was the only passenger and after settling into a soft leather recliner he was sound asleep before they reached cruising altitude and seven hours later Felix met him on the tarmac at JFK in a brand new Range Rover. After a long embrace they loaded up the bags, hopped in, and headed to the city. They didn’t say much until they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The locals call it LES (pronounced L.E.
S.), or simply The Lower.

  “Man, it’s good to be home, but everything looks different,” John said.

  “My dude, you been gone so long you’re gonna need a tour guide. You’re right though, the neighborhood’s changed. Now it’s million dollar condos, yuppies, and wine bars.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nah, I’m serious. Rich people done bum rushed the hood, man.”

  “That’s crazy. I remember when cabs wouldn’t come down here,” John said.

  “Police neither.”

  “True.”

  John was stunned as they drove by all the new luxury buildings and high-end restaurants. There were still lots of rough edges, but it was fast becoming a very upscale part of the city. LES had always been an immigrant neighborhood where Italians, Ukrainians, European Jews, and many others came through the gates of Ellis Island and settled into the thousands of five story brownstones throughout the area. Then, in the 1950s and 60s a huge influx of Puerto Ricans and African Americans moved in along with John and Felix’s family who came from Panama. Black, Latino, Italian, Ukrainian and Polish populations all lived side by side, making LES a true melting pot that was one of the poorest and toughest neighborhoods in all of New York City.

  Throughout his years at war he would dream of how things once were. Sleeping in jungles, deserts, or high in the mountains he would float back to the burnt-out ghetto of his youth. Even though everything looked different now it was still home, and the sights, the sounds, and scents of the neighborhood were like an electric current running through him as all the memories of his childhood came roaring back.

  “You remember the congas?” John asked. They grew up hearing calloused hands banging on drums night and day, giving LES a rhythmic sound and pulse as if the neighborhood were a living thing.