Jungle Rules (66 page)

Jon Kirkwood sat up and smiled.

“Interesting point,” he said, and looked at Ebberhardt and Carter. “Had the troops really stolen the marijuana, or had Carter done it, Charlie would have had the criminal investigators digging in our lockers and desks. Obviously Heyster knew who took the dope and didn’t want the cops nosing into it. He had to raise hell, because Dicky Doo took inventory and found the stuff missing with no burn receipts. Ten to one, the shyster gambled that Dickinson would move on to other challenges once he saw his man Charlie firmly in the driver’s seat of their so-called internal investigation. I would also venture a wager that if Dicky Doo had suggested calling in CID, Heyster convinced him that they should handle the problem in house. Why put yourself on the skyline? That’s something Dickinson certainly doesn’t want.”

“Right,” O’Connor said, shifting his look to each of his three colleagues. “That’s why Heyster made such a show of having Stanley Tufts supervise a surprise wall-locker inspection with our enlisted people on a Sunday morning, hoping to catch some of the troops with dope and perhaps claim that the stuff was part of the missing contraband. You remember how pissed he got when nothing showed up? Not even a pin joint! I thought that Movie Star and Happy Pounds would have had dope if any of our troops did, but they were all clean as a whistle. No dope anywhere.”

“So you started tailing Heyster, because he had virtually eliminated the enlisted Marines from this office, and you know very well that Carter nor anyone else in our barracks took the dope,” Ebberhardt said, and looked at Kirkwood, who was nodding.

“Terry, that’s certainly reasonable suspicion, but I think it falls short of probable cause,” Kirkwood added and shrugged.

“That’s why I followed him myself, and didn’t call CID or anyone,” O’Connor said. “The reasonable-cause thing, but more significantly, he is a senior officer here, and a prosecuting attorney. That’s a giant leap of faith to accuse someone like Heyster. Thus my caution.”

“So, how did Movie Star and the troops get involved with your private investigation?” Kirkwood said, and frowned at his pal.

“I fucked up,” O’Connor said, shrugging and shaking his head. “When I saw Charlie take off, swinging his laundry bag, headed for the office jeep, I got an overwhelming feeling that I needed to follow him and see what he was doing. I needed wheels, and I couldn’t take the other office jeep: one, because Dicky Doo would raise hell, and two, because it sticks out like a sore thumb with the shiny paint and the red license plate that looks like a flag officer rolling down the road. So I ran to the enlisted barracks where I knew Movie Star and his asshole buddies would most likely be wasting time and staying out of sight. Two guys from the information office were there, and they had a jeep, and one had a camera, so we went after Charlie. The rest is history.”

“Where are the pictures now?” Kirkwood asked, resting his chin on his hands with his elbows propped on his desk.

“In the barracks, in my locker, on the top shelf,” O’Connor said, and let out a deep sigh. “You know, I feel a lot better.”

“So, Charlie the shyster is ripping off the evidence locker and selling it?” Ebberhardt said, wrinkling his lips and thinking.

“His primary customer got busted, though,” O’Connor said, shaking his head.

“What about those other assholes?” Kirkwood said, raising his eyebrows. “The ones that had you so pissed the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, the Hippie’s buddies that he got Charlie to let off the hook,” O’Connor said and smiled. “You know, one of them might be picking up where Sergeant Randal Carnegie left off.”

“Ten to one Charlie has cooled his jets,” Kirkwood said and frowned, shaking his head. “The man would have to be a complete idiot to keep selling dope from the evidence locker after all the bullshit that has gone on about it.”

“Well, according to Movie Star,” O’Connor said, raising his eyebrows, “Charlie has a taste for the stuff. Apparently Happy Pounds saw him loading his tobacco pouch with Buddha.”

“Mixing it with that dog-shit Cherry Blend?” Ebberhardt said, sticking out his tongue and mimicking a gag. “Yuck! That would fuck up good dope, wouldn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, Wayne,” O’Connor said, and looked sidelong at his colleague.

“We just need to get Charlie busted with his pipe tobacco then,” Kirkwood said, smiling and looking at his fellow defense lawyers. Then he looked at Michael Carter, who sat quietly but beaming a snaggy yellow smile.

“Stick man,” Kirkwood scowled, “what we have said here cannot leave this room. No talking to anyone outside our small circle about this, is that clear?”

“Who could I talk to about it?” Carter said, shaking his head so hard that his blond palm-tree mop wagged like pampas grass in the wind.

“God knows,” Kirkwood said, now thinking about the lawyer’s next-to-nonexistent list of friends, all of whom sat in the room with him at that moment. “Just keep it in mind, should you have the opportunity to chat outside our circle and need something hot to discuss.”

“I’m not a gossip,” Carter said, standing up and still clutching his briefcase. Then he smiled his jack-o’-lantern teeth at the group. “So are we going to bust Charlie?”

 
A RED PAINTED line cut down the center of the concrete porch and step of the brig administration building, and ran the length of the concrete sidewalk that ran across the prison yard to the cell block. All inmates stayed on the left side of that red line. If a confinee, whether pretrial or convict, crossed the red line anywhere in the brig, he could be shot.

Chief Warrant Officer Frank Holden stood the duty as warden that day, when Samuel Martin complained that Iron Balls Mike Turner and Bad John Kenny Brookman had called him one black motherfucker. Now he strolled down the right side of that red line to the middle of the recreation yard and then stepped across it and stood on top of one of the picnic tables by the basketball court.

Earlier that afternoon, after he had sent Sam Martin and Clarence Jones back to the library, and forwarded a message to the wing legal office that Kirkwood’s and O’Connor’s clients wanted to see them as soon as they could find time, the gunner radioed the duty watch commander, Gunnery Sergeant Ted MacMillan, across the yard in the cellblock control station. At first he wanted Turner and Brookman relieved, but after a short conversation with the gunny, who had already talked to the pair of guards after they had come to him, concerned about any misunderstanding, he convinced the warden that the two men on duty at the sally port had not directed an insult at the black prisoner but simply commented on the dark area behind the head next to the minimum-security hooches.

However, for several weeks now, Chief Warrant Officer Holden and First Lieutenant Schuller had discussed the dire possibilities that the increasingly overcrowded conditions and stifling August temperatures could present in the Freedom Hill brig. They both agreed that one small spark could set off a riot that might result in injury and death to both inmates and guards. Something like a misplaced comment, taken as a racial insult, “That’s one black motherfucker,” could ignite disaster.

Believing that it is better to eat crow than wrap bodies, Gunner Holden called Gunny MacMillan and had him send Turner and Brookman out to meet him in the yard, and stand at his side while he addressed the prisoners.

“Why apologize to these knuckleheads when Turner and Brookman did nothing wrong?” MacMillan had pled, trying to persuade the chief warrant officer that expressing regrets for the misunderstanding would only elevate the incident in the inmates’ minds. “No matter what you tell them, they will believe the worst. They don’t call Turner and Brookman Iron Balls and Bad John for no reason. Gunner, I think you ought to just let it go.”

Holden disagreed, and mounted the picnic tabletop while Turner and Brookman stood on the bench seats below him, holding their arms crossed and clenching their jaws. They could see the satisfaction spread in the cynical smiles on the prisoners’ faces.

“I deeply regret the injured feelings of Privates Martin and Jones after they heard Sergeant Holden and Lance Corporal Brookman say, ‘That’s one black motherfucker,’ ” Holden began, speaking with his arms crossed over the front of his chest. “Such a comment uttered by any member of the brig staff, whether intentional or, as in this case, accidental, nonetheless can cause unjust pain. For that, these two guards are sorry. While Sergeant Turner and Lance Corporal Brookman were discussing a dark area of the fence line, the misunderstood meaning of their thoughtless phrase still caused damage. I want all of you to know that the brig staff regards each of you as human beings who require a level of respect and decent treatment.”

Then he had Turner and Brookman each step on the tabletop with him and express their personally felt regrets about the incident. After apologizing to the prison population, the two guards stepped off the table and returned to the sally port to finish their shifts, and the deputy warden strode along the right side of the red line, back up the sidewalk to the administration building.

While the minimum-security prisoners trickled back to their hooches, Corporal Nathan L. Todd and two other guards marched the high-risk prisoners back to their cells.

“Ol’ Gunner Holden, he sure like to kiss our ass,” James Harris said to Brian Pitts, who marched ahead of him. “You believe any that shit?”

“It doesn’t matter what we believe,” Pitts said as he walked in the line of men whom Nathan Todd herded back to the cell block. “What do the inmates in the yard think? Do they buy Holden’s bullshit apology? I hope not.”

“I already pass word that old Iron Balls and Bad John be lyin’ to the boss, trying to backpedal out the mess they in right now,” Harris said, smiling as they entered the sally port, where Brookman and Turner stood on each side of the main entrance. “Ain’t nobody gonna believe their cop-out story that they was talkin’ about that place in the fence behind the head. People in the yard, they too pissed off now. With Holden coming out and kissing ass, that just make it better.”

“That’s kind of how I see it, too,” Pitts said, smiling at Turner and Brookman as he passed them in the entrance. Then he glanced over his shoulder, showing his smile to Mau Mau Harris. “I am really looking forward to the movies tomorrow night.”

Chapter 19

BY SUNSET ON August 16, most of Freedom Hill’s crew of prison guards had gathered in the rear of the recreation yard, near the back doors to the administration building that they called the blockhouse, which also served as the main entrance to the brig from the outside world. At this vantage they could oversee the entire inmate population that now gathered to watch the regular Friday evening movie, except for James Elmore, who chose to remain in his cell, where he took all of his meals these days. His free time in the exercise yard came only when the guards had Pitts and Harris locked down, per Lieutenant Schuller’s instructions.

Earlier that afternoon, the warden and his deputy, Chief Warrant Officer Holden, had drawn high card to see who stood the Friday night duty and who could go have fun at the Da Nang Officers’ Club, where First Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt threw a wetting-down party in celebration of his promotion to captain that day. The gunner had drawn the trey of clubs while the lieutenant pulled out the nine of diamonds. Even winning, Schuller still offered to stand the watch and let Holden go to the party, to which the chief warrant officer put up his hands like a good sport, refusing the offer, and urged the lieutenant to go have fun with his friends. He reassured Mike Schuller that all would go well tonight in his absence.

Normally, the warden would watch the regular weekly film seated in
a lawn chair on the blockhouse back porch, with other members of his staff, directly behind the minimum-risk prisoners, who made up the vast majority of the men who resided inside the brig. These less-dangerous confinees lived in two lines of tin-roofed, screen-walled, wooden hooches that surrounded the recreation yard and main cell block, a two-story concrete building that housed the high-risk inmates, the library, and the chow hall. The rows of hooches sat between the cell block and the prison’s twelve-foot-tall security fence. Spaced among every few hooches, engineers had erected sea-hut-style shower and toilet facilities for the low-risk inmates. Water came from a small, silver-painted tower built next to the blockhouse, which controlled its flow into the brig, as well as the main circuit for the prison’s electrical power.

Tonight, Chief Warrant Officer Holden, still concerned about the potential of the “one black motherfucker” remark setting off trouble, decided to spend the evening in the cell block’s control center with Gunnery Sergeant MacMillan. To him it seemed a more entertaining choice than suffering through
Eight on the Lam
, a year-old comedy about a bank teller played by Bob Hope with seven children and a crazy housekeeper, Phyllis Diller, who finds a sackful of loot, gets accused by his employer of embezzlement, and goes on the lam with the money, his kids, and their nanny while a nitwit police detective played by Jonathan Winters pursues them. Since he had liked last week’s movie choice,
2001: A Space Odyssey,
and the prisoners seemed dulled to boredom by the Kubrick blockbuster, he felt confident that tonight’s weak comedy more appropriately addressed the intellects of most inmates.