False Witness by Scott Cook

and sentencing. Remand had been a relative cake walk for Rufus Hodge for the last eight months; his reputation preceded him, and the few times he’d been challenged by the jumped-up wannabe thugs awaiting trial, he had ended things before they started with a couple of blows from his sledgehammer fists. One time he had simply stared down a pair of long-haired Blackfoot dudes who accosted him in the mess hall, until they finally remembered an important prior engagement and shuffled meekly on their way.
    But the Badlands was different. Hodge wouldn’t be facing lightweight punks who beat their wives, or bottom-feeding gangbangers trying to make a name for themselves by throwing down on the local celebrity. In here, he’d be up against real threats from dangerous people, career criminals who had all sorts of issues with the Wild Roses gobbling up the meth trade across the Prairies. At least half a dozen gangs – a couple of rival outlaw bikers, but mostly Asian and Eastern European immigrants – had multiple members inside Badlands. Many were lifers with nothing to lose and everything to gain by hurting Hodge. A broken arm inside, for example, would translate to a thick bundle of small bills discreetly delivered to a girlfriend or baby mama on the outside. Killing Hodge would turn someone into the undisputed ruler of the Badlands Institute, and generate major cash for associates on the outside. Even if the perpetrator were caught, what difference would it make? He already had a lifetime reservation at the cinderblock hotel.
    Hodge knew all this, of course, and it concerned him about as much as his trial had, which was hardly at all. During the two years he had known Rufus Hodge, Crowe had come to realize that he wasn’t like other men. Like other humans , for that matter. Hodge had a tendency to focus on the here and now, like an animal. Past and future didn’t exist for him, except in abstract states that bore only enough thought necessary to carry out a short-term plan. But Hodge had a very good reason to keep blood off his hands during his time in the Badlands. It wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t have a choice if he ever wanted to see the world on the other side of prison bars again.
    The worst was yet to come, of course. Rufus Hodge wasn’t the biggest dude Crowe had ever delivered bad news to – that had been a Romanian giant nicknamed Orlog, who was famous for single-handedly overturning small Russian automobiles – but he was the baddest. Crowe was the only person still alive who had witnessed Hodge in action during the Winnipeg ambush. He had no desire to see a repeat of that night. In fact, he’d prefer not to think about it at all, thank you very much.
    Crowe knew the cops were going to make him wait for the boss in the hopes that he would sweat, that he’d drum his fingers and tap his feet like a man waiting for the sword of Damacles to drop and slice him through like the dirty, lying scumbag that he was. Instead, he lounged in the green molded plastic chair, legs crossed at the ankles of his fifteen-hundred-dollar boots, chewing on a wooden match. He looked for all the world like James Dean waiting on a bus.
    The cop-cum-guard cleared his throat in the corner of the room. Crowe favored him with a lazy smile. “You should look after that cough, officer,” he drawled. “Summer colds can be a real bitch.” The cop-guard scowled, cheeks glowing as he tried to determine whether his cover was blown, or if Crowe thought prison guards were called “officer.” In fact, they were.
    Stop being a smartass , Crowe scolded himself. This is serious shit.
    As if to underscore that point, a buzzer blared, the universal claxon that indicates a prisoner is entering a visitation room. Two brawny guards in dark uniforms led Rufus Hodge by the shoulders to the pod opposite Crowe. Through the Plexiglass, he could see fresh bruises blossoming around Hodge’s jaw and hairline. They were a couple of shades lighter than his