Chapter 8 Jordan
EIGHT
JORDAN
—@madera_watchdawg
The prisoner’s name was LaDonna Williams, which she spelled for him, stressing the capital D, as she got dressed in the A-frame’s bedroom.
She managed to preserve her modesty by facing away from him and using the towel to cover her torso while putting her orange jumpsuit back on.
As Jordan cuffed her, he saw her look longingly at the civilian clothes she’d picked out, still stacked neatly on the bed.
“I wasn’t paying attention, you know, because I wasn’t driving,” she told him after he had walked her up the dirt driveway and settled her in the caged rear seat of his vehicle. “It all happened so fast.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just this pickup truck coming right at us—in our lane!”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“I think it was a girl. She must have had a death wish or something. This is going to add to my time, isn’t it?”
Jordan looked to his left and then pulled onto the highway. “You didn’t think to stay at the crash site?”
“The gas tanks were probably about to explode or something. I was afraid for my life.”
“You can save that story for the prosecutor. It’s not my call whether they charge you or not.”
“Can you put in a word for me, though?” she pleaded.
“I will testify that you did not resist recapture and that you surrendered peaceably.”
His answer seemed to satisfy LaDonna, who leaned back in her seat. “That’s right. I’m about the most peaceable bitch you will ever hope to meet.”
Traffic was now backed up almost half a mile before the wreck, so Jordan turned on his flashers and drove in the empty left-hand lane, scaring several gawkers back into their cars with whoops from his siren.
When he reached the wreck site, it was swarming with first responders. He parked and got out.
“Sit tight,” he told LaDonna.
She batted her eyelashes. “I’ll be good, officer.”
Jordan counted one fire rescue truck, two ambulances, a half-dozen sheriff’s vehicles identical to his, and a county wrecker.
Everyone was busy, and distant sirens signaled even more help was incoming.
Nodding at the new kid on traffic duty, Jordan headed for Beto, who was straddling the center line with his arms folded.
Beto may have looked still as a statue, but Jordan knew he was watching everything and running the show.
Bree’s truck had been opened like a tin can, and the cab was bloody but empty. When Jordan reached Beto, he tilted his head toward it.
“Did the pickup driver make it?”
“They’re taking her to Valley Children’s. The EMTs got her breathing, but they didn’t look too hopeful.”
Jordan’s chest felt heavy. He looked down. The blood streaking his fingers was Bree’s. “She’s a friend of Sydney’s.”
His chief deputy groaned. “Goddamn it. I’m sorry.”
“It was probably her fault. LaDonna says she was in the wrong lane.”
“LaDonna?”
“The prisoner. I picked her up about a mile north.”
“I have no idea how anyone was able to walk away from this, let alone run.” The afternoon sun glinted off Beto’s mirrored aviators, but Jordan could picture his brown eyes roving over the scene.
“Prison van was northbound, the pickup was southbound with the semi close behind. Judging from the tire marks, debris, and position of the vehicles, I’d say the pickup drifted across the center line on the curve, and the van driver was just trying to get the hell out of the way.
Skids are short so nobody hit the brakes until the last second. They were going full speed.”
Listening to the sounds of voices, radios, engines, and approaching sirens, Jordan looked up and saw a red-tailed hawk circling slowly above. There were going to be a lot of broken hearts by nightfall. He would have to call Bree’s family, and his own, before news started spreading on social media.
“Bet she was texting,” said Beto. “Whoever invented the smartphone sure has a lot to answer for. Know what your prisoner’s in for?”
“No idea. All I care about is getting her where she belongs.”
Down the road, the elderly couple was still waiting obediently for someone to speak with them.
Their legs had gotten tired, though. The man was sitting in the open doorway of the trailer, and his wife was sitting across from him in a camp chair.
Both of them were drinking coffee they had poured from a thermos.
“You interview the witnesses?” Jordan asked.
“Was just about to.”
“I’ll do it.”
As Jordan walked away, he wondered, not for the first time, why Beto had never run for sheriff.
The man had been his father’s chief deputy, too, and likely could have done the job as well as all three Burkes combined.
In the old days, a Latino name might have disqualified him from elected office in rural California, but not now.
Beto could probably beat both Jordan and Troy Silverman handily.
Maybe he was smarter than Jordan by not taking the job. Maybe he just liked the job he already had. Or maybe he figured he was too close to retirement to put up with the headaches that came with leading the department.
Whatever the reason, Jordan was damn glad to have his help.
When he reached the teardrop trailer, he extended his hand first to the woman and then to the man. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your names earlier. Sheriff Jordan Burke.”
“August Fetz. This is my wife, Lolly.”
“Can you please follow me? I’d like you to confirm that the woman I captured is the person you saw running away.”
“Is she dangerous?” asked August.
“Of course we’ll do it,” said Lolly, already out of her chair.
When they reached Jordan’s vehicle, they peered at LaDonna in the back seat, her brown face framed by shoulder-length, straightened, raven-black hair.
“Well, she’s wearing orange,” said August, as if that sealed it.
Lolly scoffed. “That’s not her. The one we saw was definitely blond.”
Jordan’s gut lurched. He hadn’t even considered a second prisoner. Who could easily be two miles away by now if she was traveling on foot. Or disappearing down the road in a car.
He wrenched open the back door.
“You never said someone else survived,” he accused LaDonna.
“You never asked.”
“I thought you wanted to be peaceable and cooperative.”
She seemed to think about it. Maybe she had been buying time for a friend. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be a snitch.
“Fine,” she said, with a toss of her head. “But I have no idea what happened to that fancy Beverly Hills Instagram bitch who killed her husband.”
Jordan stared at her with a sinking feeling. “Do you know her name?”
“Cara Cotton Candy or something. I don’t know. We started calling her Goldie on the ride, but that was kind of an in-joke.”
Jordan wasn’t interested in her nickname. But he thought he knew who LaDonna had escaped with. “Tell me exactly what you saw before you called 911.”
“I didn’t call 911! I was worried about those gas tanks exploding, like I told you. I just wanted the hell out of there.”
Jordan wished he had escorted the Fetzes back to their car before questioning LaDonna. Though they had backed away, they’d obviously overheard the exchange and were now talking to each other. Whatever they knew would probably be on Facebook as soon as they stopped for lunch in the next town.
He closed the door and hurried back to Beto, who was watching two deputies tramp around in the brush off the shoulder of the road by the back half of the prison van. Smoke was rising, but Jordan couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“LaDonna says she didn’t call 911,” he said. “Did we recover all the phones from the victims?”
“No idea, but I’ll find out.”
“Contact CDCR and get the names of everyone who was in that van. And issue an APB for the second escaped prisoner, Cara something. She’s famous.”
As Beto tilted his head and began speaking into the handset clipped onto his shoulder, Jordan heard shouts. His deputies stumbled back as flames erupted from the dry brush.
“And alert Cal Fire. We need water tenders and fire engines now!”