One to Go (24 page)

“Hopefully, they won't try anything during the day, and at night I'll be safe behind a locked door.”

“Sorry to tell you this, but many of those cell doors don't lock.”

“It's a jail, how can they not lock?”

“Prisoners with a lot of time on their hands disabled them. Jail improvements are not high on the politicians' priority list. So sleep with one eye open.”

“Promise.” A thought occurred to him. “Actually, there is one thing. Could you call Father Matthew Sheran at Georgetown? Tell him I need to see him. It's very important.” She cocked her head. “For my soul,” he added. “Very important for my soul.”

“Will do.” Before she got up, he could feel her hand under the table, out of sight from Briscoe if he happened to be looking in the window. She found his hand and squeezed it. She held his gaze and offered a reassuring smile. For the first time her voice shed its professional tone, and she spoke to him as one lover to another.

“Don't worry. We'll get through this.”

He'd gotten through dinner without incident, electing to sit by himself. The food was edible—two dried-up fish sticks, a few damp french fries, and a spoonful of greasy collard greens—but probably consisted of no more than a few hundred calories. He'd done his best not to engage in eye contact with any of the other inmates, and most ignored him.

Tom did catch one bald, middle-aged black man hulking over his tray of food at a corner table in the far side of the prison mess staring at him. The man seemed vaguely familiar, but Tom couldn't immediately place him, although he easily could've been one of the thousands of people washing through Superior Court on a daily basis.

Tom quickly averted his eyes. Didn't need any more trouble.

Briscoe and four other guards had positioned themselves near Lopes and his boys eating at a table against the wall. For a split second, he'd been sure the face of the Latino sitting on Lopes' right morphed into a grinning Chad, but the image disappeared, and Tom chalked up the sighting to stress-induced delusion. Lopes himself completely ignored Tom and carried on as if nothing had happened. Maybe he'd forgotten the earlier incident.
Maybe pigs flew, and the 'Skins would win ten straight Super Bowls
.

Earlier, he'd checked the lock on his cell door, but couldn't tell for certain whether it worked. He'd also found his way to the block commissary located off the dayroom, and bought soap, shampoo, five packs of peanut butter crackers, five bags of potato chips, and a phone card.

He rested in his bunk while the other prisoners hung out in the dayroom, watching TV or playing board games. After consuming half his snacks, he stored the rest on a shelf built into the wall across from the bunks.

They'd confiscated his watch during intake and the only clock available hung over the TV. He'd been resting for a couple hours, so he assumed it was close to nine p.m. Exhausted, he couldn't allow himself to sleep.

“You one crazy sonofabitch.”

Tom looked up to see a heavyset black man enter the cell. Appeared to be in his fifties, balding, gray hair, goatee, rimless glasses.

“You shouldn't be here, man. Lay out Lopes in front of his crew? You belong in SW2, with all the other mentals.”

“I'm Tom Booker.”

“Who gives a shit? Now what the fuck you doin' in my bunk?”

“Uh, sorry. Saw the top bunk had been used, so figured the lower one—”

“I use the top one to jack off. Who wants to sleep in his own jizz? Bottom one's mine.” The man's glare could weld steel. “Unless you got a problem.”

Oh, he had a problem. He had a you'll-never-believe-it kind of problem.

“No problem.”

Tom climbed up onto the top bunk. Immediately, the smell of sweat and other bodily fluids was overpowering. He did his best to breathe through his mouth, and reflected that maybe the odor was a blessing—it might help keep him awake in case Lopes attempted a visit.

When Tom shifted the thin foam pillow in an attempt to get comfortable, he saw a photo of a smiling, heavyset black woman curled up naked on a bed. A fold mark creased through the center of the picture. He turned the photo over and saw an inscription written in what was once red ink, but now had faded to a pale pink:
Virgil, Mama's waiting for you!
Below a hand-drawn heart, the writer had inscribed,
Honey Bear
.

Tom leaned over the bunk. “Virgil, you want this photo, or you want I should keep it up here?”

Virgil exploded out of his bunk and, in a split second, grasped Tom's jumpsuit at the neck in an iron grip and yanked Tom's face so close Tom could've kissed him.

“You look at my woman?”

“No, no. Picture was turned over. Saw your name. Didn't look, man, honest. Man's woman is his own property.” That didn't come out exactly right; on the other hand, he guessed the concept of women as chattel was probably not completely foreign in his current environment.

Virgil snatched the photo and smoothed it on his thick thighs, then slipped it under his pillow. He reached up and in his huge hand plucked all of Tom's remaining snacks from the shelf. “Payment for you lookin' at my woman.”

“By all means. Help yourself.”

A few minutes later, the doors swung closed automatically. The sound of a
click
hopefully signaled the door locking. Then the lights went out.

He rested on top of the blanket, not only to avoid Virgil's residual bodily fluids, but also to provide more flexibility if Lopes decided to stop by for a chat. Boy, a sip of Frank Custer's Akron gin would taste pretty good right about now.

With no weapon, Tom wasn't sure what he could do if Lopes opened the door. One-on-one, Lopes would likely mop the floor with him. Still, he wouldn't just be fighting to stay alive; he'd be fighting to save his daughter, and that, he supposed, was his weapon. Of course, if the lock worked, he'd be safe. He decided to violate Eva's rule and engage his cell mate.

“Hey, Virgil, you awake?” For a moment, Tom was reminded of sleeping in a bunk bed at Boy Scout camp in Pennsylvania when he was eleven or twelve. The counselors would turn out the lights, and the boys would giggle and talk about girl's body parts, and once they even snuck out and—

“Shut up, New.”

Guess he wasn't in Boy Scout camp. “Just wondering about the door lock. My attorney told me—”

“Lopes comin' for you.”

“So the door—?”

“All doors open 'cept the ones in the mental block.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Pray.”

“Got it. Don't suppose I could count on you to—?”

“He beefin'
you
, not me. I be absentee.”

“When?”

No answer.

Even if he'd been tempted to sleep, Virgil's loud snoring would've kept Tom awake. He tried counting seconds to keep track of the time, but after twenty minutes or so, he gave up. On several occasions, he climbed down and looked through the slit window on the cell door. Because of the angle, he couldn't make out the whole clock in the dayroom below, but he could see the left half. Once the little hand disappeared, he'd check periodically, and judging by the big hand's movement from the six to the twelve, he was able to approximate the time.

He'd never had any self-defense training, and his parents had always taught him to avoid confrontation.
Always better to talk yourself away from a fight, son. Not cowardice to walk from a fight. Try to put yourself in the other boy's shoes. Battle with reason and understanding rather than violence. Always ask yourself, what can I do to help defuse the situation?

Thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad
. Wonder what advice they'd offer if they saw their son in a jail cell about to be attacked by a Latino gangbanger?

Best Tom could tell it was around three a.m., when he heard a noise outside the door. Instantly alert, he hopped down from the bunk and puffed up the pillow under the blanket. His pathetic plan was based on the fact that the door opened inward. He figured his only hope was surprise. He'd hide behind the door. When it opened, Lopes would be focused on the lump in the bunk. Tom would have a split second to grab him in a choke hold from behind.
'Course, that didn't account for Lopes' posse, but one could only plan so much.

He took his place, heard a soft click, and watched as the door moved toward him. In a moment he saw a figure move into his view. It was Lopes, and he moved toward the bunks. Suddenly, Virgil's snores sputtered, then stopped. Tom could see his eyes open, take a moment to focus, then lock on to Lopes. Lopes held his finger to his lips. Virgil's gaze flicked to the right. He saw Tom behind the door.

Tom sprang and wrapped his right arm around Lopes' throat. Lopes fired his elbow back into Tom's ribs, sending pain shooting up his side. But Tom hung on, squeezing tighter. Virgil slipped out the door, not wanting to be a witness, whatever the outcome, and shut the door behind him.

Where was Lopes' posse? Maybe it was some kind of badge of honor to walk alone into the cell and take out an adversary. Some kind of
mano a mano
crap. Lopes again rammed his elbow into Tom's ribs, and this time the searing pain caused him to loosen his grip for only a split second.

Lopes instantly reached both hands behind his head and dug his thumbs into Tom's eyes. Tom attempted to twist his head away. The move again loosened his grip, giving Lopes the space he needed to snap his head back, smashing it into Tom's nose. He heard the sickening wet crunch signaling his nose had broken.

The third elbow to his ribs was enough. He doubled over. Lopes fired both hands up hard against Tom's elbows, allowing him to slip under Tom's grip.

Now freed, Lopes spun and swept his right leg against the back of Tom's knees, knocking him off his feet. Before Tom could recover, Lopes was on top of him. He pulled a knife from his pocket, pressed the tip against Tom's throat and offered a cold smile.

“Please, I don't want any trouble. I have a daughter. Her name's Janie, and she's only—”

Lopes hissed. “Shut the fuck up.”

Tom closed his eyes and concentrated hard.
Chad, Brit, okay, you're getting a new soul. Me. And a day early, how about that? And it counts because I'm dying by my own hand. If I hadn't attacked Lopes, I wouldn't be about to cash out. Do with me what you will, but please save Janie. I don't want any harm to come to Emma 2 either, but Janie's my daughter. A Booker for a Booker. Please
—

Suddenly, Lopes climbed off him. Tom could see the knife better now. Six-inch blade, handle wrapped in black electrician's tape. Before Tom could speak, Lopes tossed the knife on the floor beside him.

“From Chewy, asshole.”

In an instant, Lopes was out the door.

Tom quickly pocketed the knife and climbed back up into his bunk. A few minutes later, Virgil entered.

“Surprised to see you alive, New.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“Don't bleed on my bunk.”

Tom flipped over onto his side. He couldn't breathe through his busted nose and even the slightest movement shot pain to his ribs. He balled up the corner of the dirty sheet and pressed it hard against his nose to stem the bleeding.

He tried to rest on his back, but felt like he was bound up in an invisible straitjacket since any movement, left or right, was punished with a shot of pain across his ribs. His heavy breathing through his mouth, timed with Virgil's heavy snoring, sounded like an R & B bass line.

Despite the pain, as Tom rolled the knife back and forth in his hands he felt a glimmer of hope. He had a weapon and was surrounded by bad guys. How hard could it be to start a confrontation, escalate it, and take out a deserving felon by midnight? This was jail, right? The knife's broad blade looked to be about four-and-a-half inches long, and resembled a stubby bowie knife. Other than the tip, the blade edge wasn't particularly sharp, and there were specks of rust—blood?—near the hilt. But he had no doubt the weapon would do the trick.

If he staged it right, he'd even have a decent chance of establishing his actions were taken in self-defense. He faced one key logistical
problem: the prison jumpsuit had no pockets. Probably a security measure to guard against inmates carrying around things like loose change, lucky charms, and bowie knives. He remembered the probe of his “prison purse” during his strip search, but he wasn't going to stick a four-inch bowie knife up his ass. Aside from the discomfort of have your rectum sliced through every time you sat down, the purse didn't offer quick access.

Which meant he'd have to follow the Lopes model: provoke a fight but not finish it, and hope the target would visit him later in his cell to take him out. Some of the men incarcerated in this block had been arrested on misdemeanor charges, or felonies far short of homicide. Some even for DWIs. He would have to do the best he could to cull out a killer. But if he ran out of time, he'd pick his victim based on a gut feeling to protect Janie.

He hid the knife under his mattress.