The doors swung open. The six men, weighed down by guns and bulging sacks of money strolled out of the deathly silent bank, a thin trail of bloody footprints following behind. Frankie Jones was first out, leading his band of laughing, unbelievably rich men through the double doors and along the short patio to the stairs, where he had arranged the getaway driver to be, about an hour before. He stood at the edge, mentally counting the seven, eight, nine steps in front of him, bringing his gaze up to his partner's metallic grey van, which his partner leaned up against, hands on the side, fear spreading across his ghostly white face.

The SWAT had found them.

Frankie mentally cursed and turned to face the bank again, where the manager stood, a smug grin on his face.

“Wh. . .what happened, Frankie?” stuttered Joey, his muscle-bound right hand man.

“He pressed the alarm, Joey! He pressed the freakin' alarm!”

By now the officials had approached them, with as much stealth as an assassin, twisted their arms back and cuffed them. They were now reluctantly being led into the police truck, one by one.

---

The warden threw them violently into their holding cell. The disgusting green paint peeled from the walls, the barred windows let in only thin streams of sunlight.

It captured the mood of its occupants perfectly.

They sat in silence, twiddling their thumbs, stamping their feet with nervous impatience, gazing through the cold metal bars of the window into the exercise yard beyond.

It was after almost another hour of this deathly silence that the first man was called for his interrogation.

“Joey Fontane.”

“Right here.”

“Step this way, please.”

The warden, a tubby man, almost ready to pop out of his uniform, cuffed Joey's hands together and led him step by step past the other cells to the small cubic room, furnished only by a desk and chairs, where another officer was waiting. They sat Joey down on the hard, uncomfortable seat and then took their places opposite him.

“Hello, Joey,” began the warden who had removed his hat to reveal short black hair, plastered to his scalp and forehead with sweat.

“S. . .sir.” replied Joey, confused and frightened without anyone to protect him.

“Do you know why you're here, Joey?” asked the other man, thin, well built and fearsome in his demanding, confident voice.

Joey shook his head quickly, “dem. . .dem Feds gots us. . . Frank. . .Frankie says deys is dumb f-”

“That's very good, Joey,” the scary man smiled, frightening even in such a condescending voice, “but what do you think we want you to do?”

Joey shrugged innocently.

“Alright, scum! Don't play dumb!”

“I don't think he's playing.” laughed the warden.

“Good one, Ed.” the other man, his name badge reading “White” snorted.

“Yeah, freakin' hilarious, Ed,” Joey laughed bitterly, landing a punch in Ed's jaw.

“Alright, that's enough! Listen here, idiot, you're gonna be sent away for a long time for this, unless you give us answers, alright?” White shouted, slamming his hands hard onto the table in front of Joey, as Ed paced out of the room, his hand on his mouth to catch the blood. He looked embarrassed.

“Okay, okay!” wailed Joey, “I don't wanna go ta prison! I'll tell ya anythin' ya wanna know, man!”

“That's better. So tell me, who organised this heist?”

“It wurnt me!” cried Joey

“Don't worry, we ruled you out right away. We know you're too dumb to pull something like this.”

Joey opened his mouth to shout back, but thought better of it.

“Will I be off the hook if I tell you?” asked Joey.

“We can lessen your sentence to a couple years, maybe even community service and a fine. You didn't kill anyone, did you?”

“No, no.”

“Then who did?”

“It was Frankie, all Frankie! He arranged everything, he shot the two clerks, he paid us all, promised us a fortune for helping, he didn't say he'd be killing! I'm sorry, honest!” Joey was almost to tears.

“I think we got enough, Joey, thank you. Go back to the cell, tell Jimmy to get up here, and don't say a word about this to anyone, especially Frankie, got it?”

Joey nodded obediently and was led back to the cell.

One by one the other men were marched to the white, plain room, and one by one they gave the same testimony:

Jimmy: “Frankie did it!”

Jack: “It was all Frankie's idea!”

Toni: “I'm just a pawn! You want Frankie!”

Louie: “Man, I won't last a day in the slammer, I hope Frankie gets what's coming to him.”

---

Later in the evening, Ed and officer White were talking in Ed's office, the report of the heist in production.

“We got everything we need White? Enough to convict Frankie Jones?”

“Definitely, sir, because, you see, there's another problem.”

“Oh, God. What?”

“Joey's dead, sir. Frankie killed him.”

“Jesus Christ, didn't they confiscate his weapons?”

“By the looks of the body, I reckon he beat his head against the door. The bruising on his face is intense, you can barely recognise him now. His nose and jaw are broken, his face is twisted and ugly. He even looks like his eyes have been gouged out.”

“My God. . . I'm glad he's getting put away.”

“That's the problem, sir. Now all the others are afraid to testify in court.”

“Damn. . .”

“Terrible, aint it?”

“No, no, no. We can get around this. Promise them a place in the Witness Protection Program, where Frankie can't get them, if they testify.”

“Brilliant, sir.”

---

The day of the trial, Frankie sat coolly in his front row seat, worry not a word in his vocabulary. Several rows back, in pew-like seats, were four of his five accomplices, Joey missing of course due to the Boss's rage and blood lust.

The roof was high above them, the figure of Justice was depicted on numerous banners and statues throughout the court room. In front of him, Frankie saw doors opening, the doors to the judge's quarters.

The room fell from a quiet murmur to stony silence, exactly as the four witnesses had been since they entered.

The judge, a tall, big boned man, decked out in a black robe, white wig and malevolent grimace stepped out of the doorway, each footstep resonating in the silence, and took his seat at the table.

After what seemed like an eternity to Frankie, too soon for his men, the first witness was called. Toni “the Snake” Rothstein.

He approached the witness box, beads of cold sweat trickling down his face, and, as questioned, gave a blow by blow account of the heist, how Frankie forced him into it with death threats, how Frankie killed the people in the bank, and even how he killed his most trusted right hand man, Joey Fontane.

After this, Jimmy approached, then Louie, and finally Jack. All three men gave the exact same speech, as if from memory, and watched Frankie squirm, his face pale, his body twitching nervously. Jack, a very good friend of Joey, seemed to be enjoying this more than the rest, until Frankie shot him an icy glare.

Much later, despite valiant attempts by Frankie and his lawyer, the final verdict was read.

The defendant, Frank “The hammer” Jones “A name given to him based on the brutal way he punished his enemies) was sentenced to life without parole, and was led away by the police, cursing and swearing his revenge on his triumphant traitors.

Frankie, who in fact had no larger part than any other member of the group in the heist and was merely a pawn under a much larger kingpin, learned a valuable lesson.

Crime doesn't pay.