Tell No Lies Read Free Page B

sound of a timpani beneath the murmurs.
    His adrenaline flared, a distinct pulse in the blood. Deep breath. Gather yourself.
    Here we go.

 
    Chapter 4
    “How the hell,” A-Dre said, giving Daniel a once-over, “could someone like you help me?”
    Anton Andre Powell answered only to “A-Dre” when he answered at all. He’d been sullen in last week’s intake session, but his high IQ and quick emotions had convinced Daniel to take a gamble on him for group. Now A-Dre slouched in his chair before the others, wearing a stained wife-beater, arms crossed, his dark skin lit with tattoos. Flames up his forearms, “LaRonda” written in an Old English font on the side of his neck, prison-ink spiderweb clutching his elbow. A circular burn scar the diameter of a softball marred his left biceps, the skin shiny and bottle-cap-crimped at the edges.
    “I’m not sure yet,” Daniel said. “Want to stay and find out?”
    “What choice I got?” A-Dre sneered.
    “There are always choices.”
    A-Dre sucked his teeth, glaring at the five other group members. The three men, like A-Dre, were large and bulky and loose on their chairs, fingers laced behind necks, spread arms, sprawling legs, taking up as much space as possible. Power postures. Daniel always sat everyone in a circle with no table between them so he could observe each member’s body language and take note of these peacock displays. X was stretched out like the men, while Lil hugged her stomach, crossed her legs, and hunched forward, an “I’m not here” pose.
    The spacious room felt almost industrial; even with the stacks of chairs and shoved-aside desks along the perimeter, there remained plenty of empty tile around their little circle. A set of large windows dominated the north wall, able to be cranked open barely a few inches. Very little fresh air to dilute the smell of damp concrete and floor wax.
    A-Dre eyed the old-fashioned chalkboard and its three powdery words: REASON AND REHABILITATION . “What you gonna teach me ’bout choices?”
    Daniel said, “Nothing you don’t want to learn.”
    A-Dre weighed this, his face fixed and scornful, older than his twenty-four years. He’d kept apart from the others as they’d shuffled in, ignoring them as they joked about past members who’d completed the group and moved on. The Good Old Days routine always reemerged when someone new cycled in, a way for established members to band together in the face of disruption.
    Daniel had sat A-Dre with his back to the door, the position a tough-guy shot caller would least want to take. Keep him off center, break up his usual approach, change his perspective. The guy had certainly earned his stripes in the system. A few years back, he’d been nabbed on possession with intent, and the arresting officer had found in his pockets an unregistered gun and hastily scribbled plans to break his older brother out of prison. He and big bro had been reunited after all.
    Daniel turned to the circle. “Why don’t you go around, introduce yourselves to A-Dre, tell him why you’re here, what you hope to get out of group, maybe offer some advice.”
    The predictable tape delay. Blinking. Someone coughed. Daniel let the silence govern.
    “I’ll go,” Big Mac finally said, slinging a boot up to rest on the broad shelf of his knee. In one hand he clanked a grip strengthener, bringing swollen knuckles into view. “I got a wife and two kids to take care of, and I’ve had trouble with the economy, holding down a job—though right now I got a good gig as a waste collector.”
    X mouthed, Garbage man, but Big Mac didn’t notice.
    “Good gig except when I’m smashing my damn fingers between the barrels.” He gestured at the bruised back of his hand. “Anyway, I been in for some short stints, year here, four years there, but still. Four years when you have kids…” He shook his head. “That stretch … well, I’d been outta work a long time and things were … thin. So I tried to