Free Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues by Chris LeGrow Page A

Spears said. “If we don’t help the ones who stick their necks out, we’ve set the precedent that we don’t care. Nobody will ever talk to us. If we protect these girls and put Clubba away for as long as possible, we might get a foot in the door up there. We need this, Bill.”
    “He’ll be out in less than two years—and that’s all charges together.”
    “I don’t care. We need this, man.”
    Kyle scanned Te’quan Yates Koak’s name on the docket. “Sounds like a regular godfather.”
    “That about sums him up,” Spears said. “We’ve tried everything in our power to get Clubba—for the last five years. He’s had his hands in all kinds of crimes all over the city. No problem working with different gang areas either; he gets along with every one of them. I don’t know how he does it.”
    “Nobody does,” Kyle said. “You lucked out this time. If it wasn’t for that young girl with the cell phone, we wouldn’t have him now.”
    “Reward that courage, Bill,” Detective Spears said. “Please.”
    Kyle closed his eyes in defeat. It went against his better judgment to waste time on lesser felonies, but it was a felony. And he—and the people of Omaha—owed the two women who risked physical harm to bring them the evidence. Excellent evidence.
    “All right,” Kyle said with a short nod. “Let’s go for it.”
    “That video shows Clubba clearly battering the victim, threatening her and choking her, in broad daylight. Yet he’s way too overconfident that no one will turn him in,” Spears said.
    “Then Clubba’s life is about to do a one-eighty, isn’t it?” Kyle asked.
    “His mother and every Sudanese in the city has been calling my office daily.”
    Kyle tossed the file onto the growing pile atop his battered government-issue desk. “Everyone seems to think he’s pretty important to them.”
    “Yeah, he’s a regular Sudanese community organizer,” Spears said.
    “I may get one to five,” Kyle said, “and that’s if I really push.”
    “Then push,” Spears said. “We’ll take what we can get.”
    Kyle frowned. “He’ll only serve a little over a year.”
    “Then that’s a year he’s not terrorizing our streets. Maybe we can make some headway with the folks left behind. At least Koak will be in state pen. Not too much trouble he can get into there.”
    “You hope,” the county attorney muttered.

    “Like the prosecutor said, other than this deal, a jury trial is your only other option, but it’s your choice,” Joseph Ledbetter said.
    Clubba glared at his high-powered and highly paid attorney. “I should have smashed that phone,” Clubba said.
    “There’s no getting around the video, that’s for sure,” Ledbetter said and pulled out his case file. “We can roll the dice, put the prosecution to its proof, and argue to a jury, but most trials end up in convictions. With your Candid Camera antics, the judge could give you consecutive sentences.”
    Two sentences served one after another didn’t appeal to Clubba. He had bigger plans that required his presence in his city.
    At the hearing, Clubba’s attorney saw that the prosecution had the officers and even Shanese show up. The evidence was there to send his client to prison for a very long time. “Take the deal,” his attorney said.
    “One to five means you’ll be out in little more than a year.”
    “I can do that standing on one leg,” Clubba said. The motion to plead was made at the hearing, and Clubba received the agreed-upon sentence.
    Ledbetter nodded to the deputy sheriff who came over to shackle Clubba.

    Shanese had lucked out; a plea bargain meant she wouldn’t have to face him in court and testify to his face. However, if she thought this was over, she was dumber than Clubba thought.
    After his hearing, a small crowd gathered in the marble-floored halls outside his assigned courtroom. Clubba’s gang members, soldiers as he liked to call them, met his gaze as he shuffled out. He jerked his head