Batman no mans land, p.30
Batman: No Man's Land, page 30
Penguin nodded, and Garrett flipped the attaché on its side, supporting it with one hand while he snapped back the latches with his other. Then he opened the lid and turned it, showing the contents to Miss Graves. The jewels inside shone in the lamplight. She reached into the case, sliding the contents about, and the sound of the metal and stones was soft and eerie.
“Fine,” she said, and Garrett closed the case once more, then handed it to her. She looked at Penguin. “I’ll have these sold immediately and the funds transferred to your Swiss account.
“I have evaluated the contents very carefully,” Penguin said mildly. “Market value should fetch in excess of four point four million dollars. Any less transferred to that account, and I shall hold you responsible.”
“You won’t be shortchanged. Good night, Mr. Cobblepot.” She left the way she had entered and didn’t look back.
Penguin sighed. “Garrett, my lad, I think I’m in love.”
“She’s, um…”
“Hot.”
“Hot, right. Hot.”
There was a noise from above them and Garrett looked up, thinking that the last time he had heard a noise like that he’d gotten pretty badly beaten up by Batman. Then he thought that if he hadn’t thought that, maybe it wouldn’t be Batman coming to beat him up again, but by then it was too late and Batman had, in fact, landed right in front of them, and already had Penguin by the front of his fancy coat.
“Garrett!” Penguin said.
Oh, nuts, Garrett thought, but he knew who paid his bills, and so he took a swing, tried to make it a good one.
Batman didn’t even move, and for a second Garrett thought that he might get away with it. Then he got hit in the side with a kick, and when he pulled himself from the warehouse floor he saw that Batman hadn’t arrived alone.
“Don’t get up,” Nightwing told him, sounding surprisingly friendly. “It’s really not worth it.”
“Call him off, Oswald,” Batman said. “Or else you might get hurt.”
“That’s enough, Garrett,” Penguin said quickly.
Garrett nodded, massaging his sore ribs. Nightwing was leaning with his back against the crates, looking at him almost apologetically.
“Let’s talk, Oswald,” the Batman growled.
“Now, my masked friend, I really do not think we have anything that needs discussing.”
Batman lifted Penguin off the floor in one move, placing him at eye level on a nearby crate. With his free hand, Garrett saw the Batman grab the nearest tarp and yank it down. Revealed in the lamplight was a gigantic cement mixer, like the kind used at major construction sites.
Garrett stopped rubbing at his ribs for a moment, staring in stunned silence. He didn’t know what he’d thought Miss Graves was moving into the No Man’s Land, but he was certain he’d never considered she might be into cement mixers.
“Who is she?” Batman demanded.
“No idea,” Penguin said quickly.
Batman leaned in closer, and Garrett heard the solid thud of Penguin’s back hitting the crate hard. “I’ll ask once more, Oswald.”
“Batman, please… I think you’d agree that my business is my own? This really doesn’t concern—”
“The case Garrett gave her. I know what was inside it, Oswald. I know she’s your pipeline out.” He adjusted his grip on Penguin, lifting him off the crate and holding him a good three feet off the ground. “Now I want to know what she’s bringing in and why. I want to know who she is. And I’m losing my patience.”
“She’s never given her name as more than Miss Mercy Graves,” Penguin said in a rush, his legs working in the empty air, trying to find purchase. “For the last thirty days or so I’ve been assisting her in moving large quantities of various materials into these warehouses, as you can see. Construction supplies, mostly, easily one hundred tons so far, and more is on its way. She and her employer are planning on some large scale urban renewal, I believe, and—”
“Batman,” Nightwing interrupted. “Transmission from Oracle.”
“It can wait.”
“Two-Face is attacking TriCorner. The Blue Boys are losing.”
For a half-second longer, Batman kept his grip on Penguin before letting it go, dropping the man to the floor. Garrett looked quickly to see if Penguin was all right, then turned to try to find Nightwing and Batman again.
But they were already gone.
“We’ve just been upstaged,” Penguin explained.
* * * * *
The fighting woke her, and Detective Montoya fumbled out of her bed and into her clothes, racing onto the street in time with the rest of the bungalow, nearly jamming up on DeFilippis in the doorway while trying to get outside. Gunfire echoed dangerously nearby.
“That Kelso?” DeFilippis asked.
Montoya nodded. “Stay with Chris, I’ll find out what’s going on.”
She started running up the block, hoping that she wouldn’t trip and fall on her untied shoes, had made it to the next corner when she heard Bullock shouting her name. She skidded to a stop.
“Essen wants you!” Bullock shouted. “The Commish is gone and there was a note, something. She wants you at the house right now!”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Looks like Two-Face’s boys have popped a gasket, they’re attacking every checkpoint. We’re gonna have to fall back.” He spat the stick from his mouth. “Go! Essen is getting frantic.”
Montoya headed the other way, racing to the house. The gunfire was more sporadic, and she hoped that meant that Two-Face’s men were low on ammunition, or even out altogether. She doubted any of the cops had rounds left. When Pettit had abandoned them, he’d taken what remained of their bullets with him.
Essen was in the doorway, and she pulled Renee into the front hall, pressing a piece of paper into her hand. “Read it,” she said, then moved back to the window, checking the street. The paper was crumpled and dirty and hard to read in the darkness. She smoothed it against her palm quickly, trying to make out the words.
It read—
I’ve got Gordon.
If Montoya isn’t at the courthouse at dawn, he dies.
—Two-Face
“What the hell?” Montoya asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Essen said quickly. “And I don’t know what else we can do. I can’t and won’t order you to go, Renee. There’s no guarantee that this isn’t his game to get two hostages instead of one.”
“But if I don’t…”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You need me here.”
“One person isn’t going to make much of a difference at this point. Two-Face doesn’t have a lot of men left, but if they’re armed, were going to lose this fight anyway. You being here means one more person dies instead of maybe two more people living if you go.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“I said I wouldn’t order you, Renee.” Essen turned to face the detective. “So I’m going to ask. Please. If you can save Jim, do so. Whatever has got Two-Face so fixated on you, whatever it is that went down all those months ago and brought Cain to town, let this end it. Please, let this end it.”
Montoya felt the paper in her hand crumpling as she made a fist. The gunfire had stopped for the time being. There was no noise from outside, and above the line of broken rooftops, she could see the hints of color playing on the edge of the night sky.
“I’ll go,” she said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
THERE WAS NO ONE GUARDING THE TERRITORY as Renee Montoya made her way to the courthouse off Civic Plaza, and the first rays of sunlight were shining in the cold, damp morning as she climbed the steps. She could still smell the fire from over a month back, when the Hall of Records had burnt down. The doors to the courthouse were wide open, and the foyer was empty.
Montoya stood for a couple of seconds on the broken marble floor, looking around her, then shouted, “I’m here!”
Her voice echoed through the halls of justice with no answering response.
After another second’s pause, she started up the stairs, making for Judge Halsey’s chambers. The door was unlocked, and when she pushed it open the room was much as she had remembered it. She stepped inside, checking the corners, feeling the nervousness inside her blossoming into a much greater fear.
The door at the other end of the chambers opened, and Two-Face entered, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hand.
He stopped when he saw her, and Montoya watched as the two halves of his face warred with one another for expression. The scarred side looked as if it loathed her; the unmarked half looked overjoyed.
“Renee! You came, I’m so glad.”
“I had to,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong. “You didn’t leave me much choice.”
“I’m glad anyway.”
“Where is he, Harvey?”
“Jimmy? He’s fine, don’t worry about him, he’s not dead yet.”
“Yet.”
“Well, he hasn’t been convicted yet, so killing him before the verdict, that’s premature.”
“It’s … premature?”
“We’re going to have a trial, Renee.”
“A trial.”
“Yeah. Jimmy’s the defendant. You’re gonna be the bailiff.” He tossed the bundle onto the couch. “Put those on and we can get started.”
She stared at him, then at the clothes.
“I’ll wait outside,” Two-Face said, and slipped back out, shutting the door behind him.
Montoya spread out the bundle, and confirmed that, in fact, she was looking at a bailiff’s uniform. She glanced back at the closed door, hesitating, the idea of undressing in the chambers suddenly far more frightening than anything else had been before it. But there really was no other option, and she recognized that. Even as she stood there, staring at the clothes in her hands, she knew that Blue Boys were fighting and dying in TriCorner. The only chance she could see was to play along with Two-Face, to try to get him to call off the offensive. Maybe she could save the Commissioner. Maybe she could save Essen and Bullock and DeFilippis and Weir and … so many people, and if this was the only way
She undressed quickly, feeling horribly exposed, then pulled on the uniform. It was clean, but a little big, and when she tucked in the shirt, the tails almost touched the tops of her knees. She fastened the belt, then the tie around her throat, then the shoes. As she was getting the hat settled on her head, there was a gentle rap at the door.
“Ready?” Two-Face asked.
“Ready,” she said, wondering what she looked like. There were no mirrors anywhere.
He opened the door for her and she exited, and then he began walking with her down the hallway.
“Looks good on you.”
“Thanks.”
“How have you been?”
“I’ve been better, Harvey.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m sure you have. Me, too, actually. Me, I’ve been a lot better. That maggot Bane really punched my ticket. Got nothing left. Of course, that’s when people get the most desperate, so it all works out in a way, I suppose.”
His tone was staying the same, level and conversational, but Montoya heard the current beneath it, the voice of Two-Face rather than Harvey Dent trying to reach the surface.
“Why am I here, Harvey?” she asked. “I don’t understand what it is you’re trying to do.”
“I told you already. We’re going to have a trial. I used to love the law.”
He stopped suddenly, and Montoya saw that they were now outside of one of the criminal courtrooms on the second floor. Two-Face reached to open the door, then stopped, frowning. His voice was much softer when he spoke again.
“You’re here because you’re a good cop. You’re here because I wanted to see you. This is about what Jimmy did, Renee. This is about what I did, Renee. Justice must be served. Revenge must be had.”
He put both hands to his head, briefly, as if fighting a sudden and savage migraine, then turned the knob and threw open the doors. It was one of the courtrooms that Montoya had testified in on numerous occasions, and she took it all in almost n instinct. The galleries and public seating were a mess, the benches broken and overturned, some crushed by pieces of the ceiling that had fallen during the quake. Beyond the gate, though, where the defense and prosecution tables stood, it was a different courtroom—clean, polished, and swept. Even the jury box looked to be in good order. At the back of the room, opposite where they had entered and behind where the judge would sit, a cracked relief of Justice hung on the wall, split almost perfectly down the middle.
No wonder he likes this room, Montoya thought.
Sunlight was falling through the missing eastern windows, and dust floated in the air.
At the defense table, Commissioner Gordon sat in cuffs, dressed in an orange convict suit. On the back of the jumpsuit was stenciled the Gotham City Department of Corrections logo, and then the letters GCDC-PRISONER. TallyMan stood beside him, his revolver leveled at Gordon’s head.
“Commissioner,” Montoya said, moving forward, past Two-Face. He didn’t try to stop her, and she knew that was because he had nothing to fear. She didn’t have a gun and she hadn’t bothered trying to bring a knife. There was no way she was going to fight her way out of this, and he knew that.
Gordon turned his head to her, and she saw the bruises on his face, the dried blood around his nose and mouth. His glasses were gone, and as a result of that, or the beating he had obviously received, his eyes seemed to have difficulty finding her.
“Renee?”
“I’m right here, sir,” she said, coming through the gate and then crouching at his side. Beyond his shoulder she could see TallyMan giving her a look she’d have paid for a chance to shove back down his throat. “Are you all right? Do you know where you are?”
Gordon nodded vaguely. “Two-Face explained it. Said there was going to be a trial. My trial.”
“That’s right, Jimmy,” Two-Face said, moving to the prosecutor’s table. From his pocket he removed the coin, setting it on the wooden surface with a solid click. From beneath his arm he removed his automatic and set that on the table, too. He focused on Montoya. “Bailiff, please take your assigned position.”
Montoya rose and glared at him. “No,” she said, her anger giving the words fuel. “No, I won’t help you, Harvey. This is sick. This is evil, and there’s no point. You’ve already found him guilty, this is just a sham—”
“Bailiff!” he growled, and there was no mistaking which of his two voices was now in control. His right hand went to the butt of the pistol, fingers wrapping around it, still keeping it on the table. “Take your assigned position or I will hold you in contempt.”
“No! No, I don’t want to play your games!”
“This is not a game, Detective Montoya!” Two-Face was almost spitting, and she could see his fingers turning white from the strength of his grip around the gun. “This is a matter of justice!”
“You’ve already reached a verdict. This is a show-trial, nothing more.”
“This is an impartial proceeding! You don’t believe that?”
“No, I don’t.”
He grabbed the coin off the table, showing it to her, eyes flaming. He brought the gun up, pointing it at the floor. “I’ll prove it to you. TallyMan?”
“Yeah?”
“You kill anyone today?”
“Couple cops.”
“How many?”
“Three, I think. Well, maybe only two.”
“Fine.” Two-Face looked pointedly at Montoya, then back to TallyMan. “You’re charged with two counts of murder in the first degree. How do you plead?”
Two-Face pointed the automatic at TallyMan. “How do you plead, TallyMan?”
“Not … uh, not guilty. What are you doing, man? This isn’t—”
“Shut up!” He flipped the coin, catching it in the same hand and then showing his open palm to Montoya. “Which is it?”
She looked at the scarred face of the coin in his palm and felt her mouth go dry. She didn’t want to say anything, knew there was nothing to say.
TallyMan, apparently, did too, because he didn’t speak either. He tried to bring his gun up to shoot Two-Face, and then there was the report, horribly loud in the open courtroom. TallyMan’s head snapped back and he staggered, still on his feet, unsteady and already dead. Against the far wall, sticking to the faded mural of Gotham City circa 1730, Montoya saw the splash of blood.
TallyMan hit the ground and didn’t move again.
“Bad heads,” Two-Face said. “Guilty.”
Montoya looked down at TallyMan, then at where his gun had skidded beyond the gate, resting in the shadow under one of the benches. No way to reach it without getting herself and the Commissioner killed.
“Bailiff,” Two-Face said gently. “Please. Take your assigned position.”
Gordon whispered, “Do it, Renee.”
She shook her head once more, but moved all the same, crossing to the witness stand and standing between it and the jury box. Two-Face smiled. Gordon didn’t move..
“Good,” Two-Face said. “All rise. Court is now in session.”
Gordon, the only person actually seated, struggled to his feet.
“In the matter of the people versus James W. Gordon, the charges are breach of contract, negligent homicide—multiple counts—and dereliction of duty. A plea of not guilty having been entered by the defendant, I have set a trial date for now. The defendant will note, if found guilty the sentence will be death.
“Death to him, to his family, and to all those under his protection.
“As there is no jury sitting for this trial, no opening statement is required.
“The prosecution then calls its first witness, Gotham City Police Detective Third Class, Renee Montoya.”
He motioned with the gun for her to take the stand and, casting another glance at Gordon, she did. The Commissioner was glaring at Two-Face, jaw clenched shut.
“State your name for the record.”
“You know my name, Harvey,” she said.
“For the record, if you please.”
“Renee Montoya, GCPD Detective, Third Class.”
