Robbie listens carefully for his attacker's approach. As soon as the attacker was just outside the cubicle, Robbie surges forward and attempts to kick the door right off it's hinges and into his attacker's face.
Your pants are up. The door flies off the bottom hinge, and the frame splinters. The door connects with the youth. He is not fast. His weight is his only advantage. His defense is 1 (Dex) The young yardie pokes the knife forward, to try to stick you in the face.
1d10=5, 1d10=3 The boy is not combat savvy. He merely stuck the shiv in front of him in a straight line. The door is twisted and ruined. It made a lot of noise. The one by the door turns away, and runs. He is leaving junior to his own devices. The probate thug is looking scared as hell. Your defense is making him confused, as you are already instincively bobbing and weaving.
"F$!% you, m!#~~*~&&$&% cracker!" His voice is cracking with nerves. He keeps the knife extended toward you, and his eyes are on your chest... The door is giving you a little cover, as it is now ajar at a thirty degree angle outwards.
"You don't even know me, kid. I'm giving you the chance to run."
The youth jabs the skinny, needle-like shiv toward you twice. He seems furious at you for not just dying. He is more afraid of the other Jamaicans than of you.
1d10=8
His first jab catches you zigging, instead of zagging, and somehow punches into your arm. A defensive wound. The point blunts and bends on your bone, and tears a scrap of flesh up into a flap. There is no blood yet, but it will come out in a few moments. The pain is infuriating for a moment, but then numbed by adrenaline.
1d10=9, 1d10=2, 1d10=8
1d10=10
1d10=2
The second jab is well placed, but the terrified boy doesn't follow through. The difficulty of killing a man has dawned on him, and it is not like the movies.
There are voices outside. One of them is Gertsen's, shouting "Get outta the damn way, less you want us cracking heads."
He flicks a glance to the doorway, and still has the blade out in front of him. He is sweating, and his pupils are very wide. His nostrils flare again and again as he huffs breaths.
Robbie winces, then snarls before stepping forward and delivering a powerful punch to his assailant's face. He favors his uninjured side, presenting a profile to his attacker that displays his obvious proficiency in combat.
You have smacked the guy hard in the mouth. His lip has split, and his eyes are watering. He holds his shiv like a talisman. He is trying desperately to see a way forward from here, but the best he can come up with, is to step closer to you, and try to crowd you closer to the back wall of your cubicle. The ruined door is frustrating him, so he reaches out with his other hand, to pull the door off. He suddenly realises that he has given you a chance to grab him, and he cries out.
"Them made me do dis. I no want to hurt you. I no want to hurt I. Mistah! Let me go!"
He is young. Maybe nineteen. Looking at him now, you get the score. It flashes into you with the force of revelation. They don't want this kid. He is a suburban boy, probably arrested for dealing ganja in school, and suddenly tossed in here. Because he is Jamaican, the Yardies need to claim him, for face. If you kill him, you remove an embarrassment. If he kills you, then maybe they can use him. There is no way he can win. This is probably his first fight.
The door to the bathroom cannot lock. There is a scuffle outside, and a scream of pain. The Yardie outside the door has been taken down, and you have maybe ten seconds to react, before the guards storm the room.
Robbie grunts and shoves the youth down to the tile floor, shaking his head disapprovingly at the boy as he clutches at his own wound, noticing the blood beginning to well up.
"G~$%@%mit, kid. You f+**ed up good. Real good. I ain't gonna kill ya, but I bet the Yardies will. Maybe the wardens'll be nice and lock you up in solitary to keep ya safe. 'Course, this here's an attempted murder charge. Whatever you were in for probably wasn't gonna keep you here long. That just changed, kid."
Robbie gives the kid a condescending smirk, steps back inside the shelter of the cubicle and waits for the guards to arrive.
The guards come in, and put both of you in restraints. You are sent to the infirmary, and are stitched and fixed up. Gertsen grills you about the fight, then sticks you in solitary for the next week. Carl comes every day for the three days before your trial, and drills you on your story. He looks less coked up, and his skin has cleared a bit. His tan is deeper. He whips out a tape measure on your first meeting, and measures you for a suit. He tries to improve your grammar, then gives up. Your day bounces between solitary, and polishing your lies with the lawyer. Sometimes he only has an hour to spend, and sometimes you end up repeating your shpiel for three hours at a stretch. The water bottle stopped coming, and you drank the water. You got pretty sick the day before the trial, and are stuffed full of Immodium by Carl Laughton. On the day of your trial, you are searched, and led in chains to an empty bus. The guards seem tense. They look around constantly, as if to pre-empt a breakout. It seems Gertsen's claims that you are a made man have taken root with the screws as well as the cons. The drive is a luxury. Through the grilled windows, you can see golden yellow July sun baking the trees. After the grim monotony of solitary, the colours are intoxicating. At first, you think it will be a short drive, but the bus keeps going and going, until you cross the Hudson at nightfall. The screws on the bus gave you a g~*~*$n beautiful turkey sandwitch, and a pepsi, for lunch, and They get you to a holding pen for a Manhattan courthouse. You are given a cell to yourself in precinct 82. The food is institutional. Nobody has told you when your court appearance is going to be. After watching the mets play the dodgers on a small black and white through the bars, lights out comes. Tomorrow morning, you get to try your luck in court. Your arm is feeling much better, and the stitches are ready to come out.
Robbie wakes up smiling. It is the first day he's really felt good about since his incarceration. He washes his face with the amenities provided and even straightens up his goatee . As he gets dressed, he opens and closes his left hand, still feeling sore from his injury along his left bicep, but he is glad to have his full range of motion back without being reduced to tears.
A whistles to himself as he makes his preparations, mentally running all the information that he will need to present at the trial. He waits for the guards to come and take him to court.
A black policeman, who is obviously a bodybuilder, comes in to the cell in the morning. He puts down a plastic tray. When he takes off the cover On the tray, there is a take-away coffee, carton of orange juice, a sirloin steak, medium rare, with mashed potato and gravy, and a slice of cheese. The steak has a sharp steak knife and fork. The cutlery is labelled "Trattoria DaVinci" in flowing script. The guard stands between you and the bars, so that nobody can see what you are eating. Before you can say a word, Carl comes hurrying up, dabbing his face with a handkerchief, and carrying a suit, and a sleek crocodile skin briefcase.
He smiles at the sight of you looking puzzled at the steak.
"I thought you needed some real food. I have to go. I have three meetings lined up. I have excellent gut feel about your case. You know what to say. I won't be there. My connections are too well known, and it would hurt you if I were seen to represent you. Your case will be handled by a rising star at Skadden, Arps and Slate. His name is David Liebowitz, and he will meet you there. You get to go to court at eleven, so get yourself cleaned up. Toby here can give you a haircut, if you want it. He cuts hair for the squad. Any questions, you will have to make them fast, because I only have a few minutes."
He opens up the bag, and takes out a conservative, and somber, black suit. It is easily $200 of wool, with a fine linen shirt, and broad blue tie. A small plastic bag contains shoes, cuff-links and a leather belt. Carl takes a few deep breaths, and waits for your questions.
"Mister Laughton, sir. Is there anything else you need?" Asks the baritone heavyweight cop. Carl shakes his head, and hands the man a small wad of fifties, and smiles at him. The guard grins.