Authors: Derek Blass
Mills smiled a yellow-toothed grin and pulled back his stringy brown hair with one hand. “It dun work thad way Shaver. Yous our bitch. We ain't yours.” Mills stood up and gestured to Pick. Pick slid down the cafeteria table and handed a package to Shaver.
“
Consider id protection.”
Two guards approached the table and Shaver quickly shoved the package into his pants. “Shaver, you're coming with us.”
“
What for? I'm just eating.” One of the guards looked at him suspiciously.
“
The Warden wants to see you.” Pick quietly moved away from the table, joining Mills and the rest as they walked out of the cafeteria. Shaver put his hands out and the guards handcuffed him.
“
All of this even though I'm a cop?”
“
Shhh. That's liable to get you fucked around here Shaver.”
“
They all know already. Only reason they haven't touched me is because they know I'll probably kill them first.”
“
Anyway,” the other guard started, “the Warden don't know you yet. He ain't about to take chances.” The guards stood on either side of Shaver and grabbed onto his arms. They led him through the cafeteria and into the main corridor. He shuffled his feet even though he didn't have to. The guards yanked at him from time to time.
The corridor seemed to stretch on forever. It was a dilapidated prison. The paint on the walls was faded and the plaster underneath was starting to fall apart in places. The bottom half of the walls were barely green. The upper portions of the walls were grimy, full of hand prints and stains.
“
Don't you guys ever clean this place?”
“
For what? Y'alls comfort? Nah. This ain't a resort Shaver. Too many resort prisons around the country. Where television is expected, three-course meals like y'all got.” They continued to drag Shaver through the corridors. “The Warden don't believe in all that shit. He always says that his primary concern is the taxpayers. They's the ones payin' for all this.”
“
What's his name?”
“
The Warden?” The guard chuckled. “Just Warden to you—and the rest of us. Ain't like we're pals with the man, know what I mean.” They arrived at a lonely set of double doors. One of the guards knocked.
“
Yes?” a voice responded from inside.
“
We got Shaver here, Warden.”
“
Bring him on in then.” One guard pushed the double doors open while the other led Shaver into the room. Light streamed in from three windows around the Warden's office. The window directly behind him was the largest, and the setting sun shone right into it. The Warden was an older man, perhaps early sixties. Sun and wind-glazed face. A pair of penetrating brown eyes set into his rectangular head. His gray hair was partially covered by a tilted back cowboy hat, on the verge of falling off but always under the Warden's control. He had a toothpick in his mouth which he rolled from side to side with his tongue. His hands were busy cutting a cigar. He spit the toothpick out to light the cigar.
“
That's all, gentlemen,” the Warden said out of the side of his mouth.
“
You sure, Warden?”
He looked up from his cigar. “A cuffed man. A fellow officer of the law. Not much to worry about here.” The guards hesitated, but they left when the Warden gave them one more cross look.
“
You like Sinatra?” the Warden asked Shaver.
“
Not a fan.”
The Warden went over to an old record player and picked out a record from a shelf loaded with them. He placed the record on the player and laid the stylus down onto the record with exquisite care. Familiar notes of
New York, New York
played in that wavy and old-time-comforting sound only record players could create. “When I go to your house, you can pick the music.”
The Warden's office was outdated. Wood panels, an old shag carpet. He had signs everywhere. Some from his own campaigns. Others were apparently signs meant for the benefit of inmates that had to meet him. The Warden adjusted his big glasses and walked to the window overlooking the yard.
“
You know, before I became the Warden, this was the third worst prison in the United States in terms of violence and drugs. In the sixteen years since I've been here, we've turned around to become the second best.”
“
Who's the best?” Shaver asked.
“
Eh, some prison out in Tallahassee. But the point is that with the right person and the right agenda, even the biggest problem can be turned around.” The Warden returned to his chair and leaned back. The cigar was pressed deep and into the side of his mouth. “The problem I'm talking about is all the goddamn immigrants coming 'cross our border. Now, I used to call them all Mexicans but apparently that ain't fucking accurate. I guess some come from Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and on and on. I couldn't give two shits less. To me, they're all brown and they ain't here the right way.”
Shaver shrugged his shoulders. “I think we've both seen this problem in action.”
“
You bet I have! This jail is sixty-five percent...brown.” The Warden twisted the cigar in his mouth and continued, “I've had to change my staff to employ people that speak their damn language. In my country, no less, I have to accommodate
them
! I sit here and read the paper. I see these parasites taking jobs, causing violence, bringing drugs into the country, using our health care and finally, ending up in my fucking jail. So not only are they infesting our country—I mean look at the southwest—but
we're paying for them to do it
! It blows my mind.”
“
Like I said, Warden, I'm on your side. But, what's your point here?”
“
Well, first, I had to drag you in here because of what you did to one of my guards.” The Warden pulled something out from his desk drawer and before Shaver could react, he had the prongs of a tazer in him again.
“
Goddammit, not again.”
“
You pull some shit like that in my prison again and I'll tazer you for an hour straight. If you don't die you'll be so fried that no one will ever get through to you again. See, the beauty of these tazers is that you can do whatever you like with 'em. If people ain't around, I could tazer you for two minutes and they wouldn't be able to tell if it was two minutes or two seconds.”
“
I've done it. Plenty of times.”
“
See what I mean? So you know. Fuck around, and I'll kill ya. But, I don't want that. What I want is for you to serve your time here until your trial is over, and then get your ass out.” The Warden tapped his cigar on an ash tray and then leaned over the desk. “We need more warriors like you out there. You're never going to single-handedly eradicate that problem we're talking about. But, if you strike fear into the hearts of these immigrants, if you let them know that they ain't-fuckin'-welcome, well then, that should take care of some of the problem.”
“
I'm doing my part,” the Warden went on. “Since this wave of shit started to come over the border I've been as anti-immigration as an elected official can be. I've reallocated nearly fifty percent of my budget to tackle issues related to the immigrants. I work with the feds to make sure every possible illegal bastard, and bitch, and kid and grandparent and whatever the else they throw at us is reported and deported.” The Warden stopped for a moment. “You know, I really like that,” he said while taking out a pad and pen of paper. “Report 'em and Deport 'em.”
“
I'm for the cause, Warden,” Shaver said. “There's not much I can do while I'm stuck in here though.”
“
I understand that. And as much pull as I've got, all the pull in the world ain't gonna get you out scot-free. You're gonna to have to submit yourself to the mercy of twelve members of our community. Just hope none of 'em are those pansy liberals that support the immigrants! Or immigrant rights, or human rights, or any of that other shit they throw in our faces.”
“
Like I said, I get all this. Why'd you bring me here though?”
“
Lots of reasons. To put a face to the name. To give you a warning about what you did to my guard.” The Warden put his hand on his crotch and adjusted his pants. “There's one more thing.”
“
Oh yeah? What's that, because this has been a waste of my time so far.”
The Warden leaned over his desk and grabbed Shaver by the shirt, “You be careful, Shaver! One fucking
slip
in here and I'll feed ya to the brown or black scum. I know you've got those brain-dead, drug-dealing Nazis on your side now, but that don't mean shit if it's up to me.” He shoved Shaver back into the chair and adjusted his own collar. “You want to hear what I've got, or not?”
“
Sure,” Shaver said as he raised his handcuffed hands to his head and scratched.
“
The grapevine tells me that your case has one big snag.”
“
The video.”
“
Yeah, the video. If they show that video during your trial, you're as good as in here with me for-fuckin'-ever.”
“
Ain't that hell,” Shaver said while baring his teeth.
“
I can keep it out.”
Shaver grunted. “How the hell you going to keep a piece of evidence like that out of the trial? Give it a rest.”
“
The judge, he and I went to law school together. He's a connoisseur of certain...objects. I used my connections in enforcement to get him off a long time ago. Been under my thumb since then.”
“
Why would you use up a favor like that on me?”
The Warden pushed back toward his credenza and spun around in his chair. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a bottle of liquor. “Whiskey?”
Shaver shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.” The Warden poured some into two tumblers and handed one to Shaver. The setting sun burned the clouds outside of the office. Shaver held the glass up to his mouth and took a sip of the liquor. It set his stomach on fire. A rich, comforting tear.
“
I hate the gangs in this place Shaver. They keep sendin' them to me though. I'll never be able to get rid of them. They call shots from in here to the outside, just as harmful as if they were out. I want you to get rid of them.”
“
Get rid of the prison gangs? I've got five weeks until my trial date. You want me to get rid of the prison gangs in five weeks?”
“
Probably before that, if you want that evidence excluded.”
“
Man, you've
got
to be joking. How do you expect me to do something like that?”
“
Shaver, you've been in a gang unit before. You know how these animals work.”
“
And you've been watching over these animals for years. What makes me any better?”
“
You've got access to the inner belly, Shaver. That's somewhere I'll never be able to go. You plant a bomb there, take them all out.”
“
It's suicide.”
“
So is staying in this place. Your luck will run out, Shaver. Most of the inmates don't even know your history yet. Soon as they do, you and the pedophiles will be like a fresh slab of meat to a pack of wolves.” The Warden took down his whole glass of whiskey in a gulp. “You got a choice. You can try to make it out of here, or you can guarantee your fate.”
Shaver shot the rest of his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the Warden's desk. There were two paths in front of him, both fraught with danger. The first, staying in the prison, had a one percent chance of survival. The other, trying to start an all-out gang war in less than five weeks, maybe three percent. There wasn't really anything to ponder. A person would take any risk to get out of hell on earth. “Pretty easy fuckin' choice,” he said with a whiskey-warm smile.
F O R T Y
__________________________________________________
M
artinez rolled around in bed. Carmen had been gone for a week visiting Raul. The bloated faces of the dead racked his brain. Jerome, Isabella, Max, Alicia and Williams. The list went on and on. The first three bothered him the most because they were unsolved. No one doubted Shaver killed Max. He was the only one with a motive to do it. However, the scene of the crime turned up nothing. The Jerome and Isabella murders carried the stench of Shaver with them, but the connections were too tenuous. With Tyler gone now, who knows if they'd ever be able to make sense of it all.
He grabbed an old T-shirt and jumped into some athletic shorts. He went to his front door and stepped outside. The cold concrete patio felt good on the pads of his feet. The street was quiet except for a pair of people taking their morning walk. He reached down to grab the day's paper and the morning breeze ran over his face. His cell phone rang before he could open the newspaper.
“
This is Martinez,” he answered.
“
Martinez, it's Cruz. Mason is going to meet me downtown in about an hour at the Crazy Sid's coffee shop. Can you make it?”
“
It's Sunday.”
“
He wants the story of what happened to Tyler directly from us. We've also got to talk about the trial. There's a motions hearing in about a week that you need to testify at.”
“
About what? The video?”
“
Primarily the video. Sphinx moved to exclude it. Nothing surprising, but we've got to fight it with all we've got.”