Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery (4 page)

“Okay, Brick it is. And I’m Kate.”

He ran his eyes up and down one more time. “Okay. Kate. You got a bad temper?

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to my hair. “Don’t redheads have tempers?”

I smiled. “I do, when I don’t get my way. But you’ve probably seen worse.”

Brick looked over to Victor, who attempted to make himself look bigger. And failed. “You need a real man to handle that temper of yours.”

“I manage, thank you.”

“You married, Kate?”

I looked over at Andres, who signaled that he was rolling tape. I didn’t want to mention that fact to Brick, since he seemed wary enough of the situation already. “What about you? Are you married?” I asked.

“No way. I never got trapped into that. I like my freedom.”

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. It took only a second for Brick to catch on.

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess I would have been better off with an old lady than with this shit.”

“So what put you here?”

“You know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me your version of events.”

“I ain’t got
no version. What happened, happened.”

“You killed two men, and a seven-year-old girl named Tara Quinn.”

His eyes got narrow. He leaned forward slightly. Behind him the guard tensed. “We don’t need to talk about any of that.”

“Actually we do, Brick. That’s why I’m here.”

I glanced toward the guard, who moved a few steps closer. In an interview it’s important to bond with the subject. I put aside all judgment, even with convicted murderers, and look for common ground. I want that person to trust me so he’ll give me the sound bites I need for the story. But it was clear it had been a long time since Brick had trusted anyone. If I was going to get a good interview from him, I realized it wasn’t his trust I needed. It was his respect. And I wasn’t going to win that if I backed down.

“You killed two men in a car and there was a child in the backseat,” I said. “She got shot in the head and died three days later.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s why I’m here.”

“For three murders.”

“For her murder. The other two…that was business. I was working that neighborhood; they were trying to cut into my business. They knew what would happen, so fuck ’em,” he said. “But the girl…she didn’t deserve what she got. I didn’t expect her to be there. Who the fuck brings a seven-year-old on a drug buy?”

“Do you think about her?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then he laughed. “Yeah, baby, I cry in my pillow every night.”

Dead end. I tried again. “You’re kind of a tough guy, aren’t you?”

“That turn you on?”

“Not really.”

“What you like, sensitive types? Guys who bring you roses and write you love poems?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t tell me you play for the home team.”

Brick was having fun and I was not in control of the interview. Getting his respect was a long shot, at least for the moment. I took a breath and was about to start looking for another way to bond when I dropped my pen. I leaned down to get it.

“Hey, Kate, while you’re
down there you can suck my dick.”

I grabbed the pen and sat up, staring him down. “Sorry, Brick, I don’t put anything in my mouth if I don’t know where it’s been.”

He laughed. I’d found my way in. “You’re a smart-ass,” he said.

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“We all got survival instincts. You’re a slim little lady. I guess you need a big mouth to survive in the bad world.”

“What’s your way to survive?”

“I pay attention to what people say and do. I notice things.” He stopped looking at my chest and finally looked me in the eyes. “You avoided my question. That interests me.”

“What was your question?”

“You married?”

Without meaning to, I looked down at my left hand. No ring. I’d forget sometimes that I didn’t wear a ring anymore and be surprised, as I was now, that there wasn’t one there.

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Divorced?”

“A widow. My husband died about seven months ago.” It sounded so simple when I said it to a stranger. But, of course, it wasn’t simple.

Brick shifted in his chair. “Sorry about that.”

I nodded. “Maybe we should start at the beginning. Why don’t you tell me about growing up?”

“I’m not going to do that ‘my mama didn’t love me’ shit.”

“Did she love you?”

He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “She was good. She looked after me and my little brother. It broke her heart when I got put in here. She wanted something better for me, and I let her down.”

“Does she visit you?”

“She’s dead. Heart attack three years ago. I didn’t get to go to her funeral.”

“Did she visit you?”

“Yeah. And my brother came for a while. But he don’t bother no more.”

“Where is he?”

Brick shrugged. “We’re not in touch. He don’t want to know me. I think he would of liked it better if I’d gotten the needle.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Doesn’t
matter, me being dead or alive. If you ain’t got somebody in the world that cares about you, then you already dead.”

He stared right into my eyes on that one, with a certainty in his voice that made me feel more exposed than when he had been looking at my breasts.

A
ll documentaries are about voyeurism. Whether the subject is treasure hunters, aspiring models, or convicted killers, the role of a producer is to give viewers an intimate look at the real world of the subject’s life. But the real world is dull. So a producer’s job is to juice it up by “casting” each subject the way you would for a movie—a hero, a villain, the plucky underdog….Some shows tape for weeks, waiting for one normally placid person to have a meltdown. And that’s what you see on the show—not the twenty-two days of acceptable behavior, but the twenty-two seconds of yelling. It may not be accurate, but it’s entertaining. Most shows don’t have the time or the budget to wait, so the “characters” are created by asking whatever questions will get the answers the producer needs.

As I interviewed Brick I tried to figure out his role. He talked about his adventures as a child thug, recounting crimes with the same nostalgia I might have for family vacations. If I played it right, asked the right questions, he could be my unrepentant sociopath, or with other questions, my nice kid gone wrong. I realized as I was studying him, though, that he was studying me.

“I did some small stuff when I was a kid. I ran some dope, just holding it for older kids. You know, no cop gonna worry about a ten-year-old. Then I did a little stuff with guns. Holdin’ on to them. Then I started with drugs,” Brick told me.

“Taking them?”

“I never did that. Not really. Mostly I just sold it.”

“You were in a gang.”

“Everybody I knew was in a gang.”

“What was your first arrest?”

He thought for a moment. “It was a piece I had that had been used on somebody. I thought it was cool to have something that had, you know, put air into a guy’s head.”

“
How old were you?”

“I was fourteen, maybe fifteen.”

“When was the first time you used a gun?”

“On somebody?”

I nodded.

“I guess after I got out of juvie. Maybe sixteen.”

“What did you do?”

He smiled and seemed a little embarrassed. “Some punk kid called me skinny. I always had a little trouble keeping on weight. I eat, but I guess fat just don’t like me. Anyway, he calls me skinny, so I capped him.”

“You shot him?”

“Yeah. It’s an Irish thing. You know that?”

“Capping someone?”

“Yeah. The Irish bad guys—what you call ’em, the IRA—they used to shoot people in the kneecap. Everybody does that, but they really made it an art form. I read that somewhere.” He wagged his finger as if he were scolding me. “You should know that, Kate Conway. Ain’t you an Irish girl?”

“My family came over a few generations ago, and from a different part of Ireland,” I said. “You like to read?”

“Knowledge is power.”

“Francis Bacon.”

He smiled widely. “Yeah. You know that dude? He was cool. He was all into sensory experience leading to knowledge. You know that?”

“A little. Has sensory experience led you to knowledge?”

“First time I entered a woman, I learned everything I needed to know. Every time after I’ve just been chasing that high.”

I laughed.

“You think it’s bullshit,” he said, “but the truth is we all just animals. I don’t mean just the fools in here. I mean you, them”—he pointed toward Andres and Victor—“all of us. We dress nice and we learn shit, what fork to use, whatever. But we all just animals. And we at our best and our worst when we drop all the rules and live like what we are.”

“Isn’t
dropping all the rules what put you here?”

“No, man. Living by the rules is what put me here. I was trying to do what was expected of me. But I was wrong. Sex, hunger, fear, love. Those are our instincts. Everything we do, good or bad, comes from that. I learned that you want to survive, you got to forget the rules and go with your gut.” He punched his stomach hard enough that I heard a light thud, though he didn’t seem to react. “You ever go with your gut, Kate?”

I ignored the question. “Doesn’t that philosophy get you in trouble in a place like this?”

He gave me a half smile. “This place is a fuckin’ lab experiment of animal behavior.”

“So sex, hunger, love, fear…what do you do to satisfy those instincts?”

He laughed, a strong, deep laugh. “I see where you goin’ with that. But I don’t go that way. Men, I mean. Nothing against it. A dude has to survive any way he can. But it’s not my way.”

“What about hunger? Love? Fear? Are you into any of that?”

“I’m into all of it. I’m an animal, just like you.”

Brick’s intensity was starting to scare me, so good television or not, I looked for a change of subject. “You must like to read if you’ve found Francis Bacon,” I said.

“Shit yeah. I read everything.”

“Like?”

“Sun Tsu’s
Art of War
.
Ulysses
. Dr. Seuss. I read everything I can get my hands on.”

“So if I brought you some books…”

“You bribing me to get a good interview?”

“Will it work?”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m defenseless to the charms of a beautiful woman.” He leaned forward. As he did, the guard moved slightly closer, but Brick waved him back. “Can I give you a list?” Brick asked. “I’m really trying to get my hands on a few things we ain’t got in the prison library.”

I smiled. I could feel myself relaxing, the tightness in my chest
lifting. Whenever I sat in the darkness, with the slight hum of the camera in my ear and an interview subject who needed me to like him, I felt better. I felt in control.

“Tell me what you want,” I said, “and I’ll get it for you.”

Brick leaned back. “Man, it’s been a long time since someone said that to me.”

Y
ou get anything useful from that asshole?” Andres slammed the door on the van after the last of the equipment was inside.

“I thought he was great,” I said. “All that stuff about his early days in the gang and how we have to live by our instincts…I think that will help explain who he is.”

“I thought he was supposed to talk about life in prison.” Victor was standing back, out of Andres’s way, since Andres’s mood hadn’t improved while we were shooting.

“He will,” I said. “We have a few more shoot days with him.”

“And he can always call you for a late-night chat,” Victor said.

“I have to give them a number, just in case. You know that.”

“Don’t answer the phone if you’re alone,” Andres said. “You want someone with you in case he says anything.”

“Andres, I’m a big girl. Besides, it’s a throwaway.”

Most producers use temporary pay-as-you-go cell phones for shoots that involve gang members, mobsters, and inmates—pretty much anyone you wouldn’t want to show up on your doorstep unannounced. It’s comforting to know once the shoot has ended, you can toss the phone and lose touch completely.

“When do we see this guy again?” Andres asked.

“Next week,” I said. “And hopefully the other guy will recover from whatever his problem was.”

After the interview with Brick, Joanie had come in to tell us that Tim Campbell, the other inmate I was supposed to interview, was ill. If we wanted him, it would have to be another day.

Andres lit his cigarette and threw the match on the ground. “Don’t you think it glamorizes these guys, turning them into a documentary? Some stupid kid is going to think this loser is hard-core.”

“He hasn’t gotten laid in twenty years,” Victor said. “What kid is going to want to step into those shoes?”

“The
way he was leering at Kate I thought he was about to break his dry spell.” Andres looked at me. “Didn’t that creep you out?”

I laughed. “I had you two and a guard in the room. What was he going to do?”

“Nothing there,” Victor said. “But I can pretty much guarantee he’ll take the image of you back to his cell for later tonight.”

“And on that charming note, I think I’ll say good night,” I said. “We meet back here in eight days.”

“My band is playing tomorrow night,” Victor said. “We’ve got a new sound we’re trying out. We’re thinking maybe we’ll take it on the road this summer if we can get the scratch together.”

“I don’t think I can make it.” I’d been to see three of Victor’s bands, all variations on heavy metal with punk or rap mixed in. Another evening of loud, indecipherable banging was out of the question, even for a friend.

“So until we get together for work next week,” Victor asked, “how are you going to fill your time?”

“I’ll figure out something.”

“You’re spending too much time alone.”

“What is it with everyone?” I asked, but I didn’t really want an answer. “I’m fine.”

Andres dropped his cigarette on the ground next to the discarded match. “He’s right, you know. It’s not healthy.”

“When you stop smoking, Andres, I’ll start socializing.”