The Dead Room (6 page)

“Thank you, Your Honor,” he said. “But I was hoping for a delay of a week or two in order to evaluate my client’s mental competence. I’ve just come from the crime scene. Given the circumstances, it would seem to be a relevant issue in the case.”

“Maybe so,” the judge said with a twinkle in his eye. “Only it’s not an issue tonight.”

Teddy cleared his throat. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

He glanced over at Powell as she agreed on the date and everyone wrote it down. It was obvious from the look on her face that she hadn’t expected him to say anything at all. Because of the weight of the crime and his lack of experience, she seemed surprised by his attempt to stall.

Powell got up from her chair, still eyeing Teddy as she gathered her papers. Then Judge Vandergast switched the TV off. Once the screen went blank, once the image of Holmes vanished into the night and they were safe, only then did the judge rise from the bench, claiming he and the court would require a brief, thirty-minute break.

SIX

The steel door swayed open. Teddy was escorted from the lobby into a small passageway by the assistant warden—a tall, surprisingly gentle-looking man by the name of J.S. Dean.

“Welcome to the Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility,” Dean said, slamming the heavy door shut with what Teddy considered an overly dramatic bang.

They waited a moment for the electronic lock to engage. Then a second door clicked open and they started down a wide corridor to the holding area. Prisoners roamed freely here, pushing carts and carrying boxes in both directions. Teddy guessed that privileges were granted for good behavior and that the inmates he saw were on work duty even at this hour.

Good behavior or not, Teddy kept his eyes on them.

He’d made the ten mile drive up I-95 to Prison Row without needing directions. Curran-Fromhold was one of four city prisons set side by side on State Road just off the interstate. The sight of the prisons with their high walls, bright lights, and watchtowers could be seen from two miles away. Before leaving the city, he’d returned to the Wawa minimarket for another large coffee to go. He’d even tried calling Jim Barnett’s cell phone once he cleared the parking garage. The attempt had been unsuccessful, which struck Teddy as odd. Either Barnett needed to change batteries on his cell phone, or he’d deliberately switched it off. Given the circumstances, neither possibility made sense or did much for Teddy’s frayed nerves.

The assistant warden pointed to the right and they started down a ramp into a second corridor. As they walked, J.S. Dean recounted the history of the prison and how the city chose its name.

“It happened twenty-nine years ago,” Dean said, looking him over.

Teddy was twenty-seven. That would make it 1973.

“Not here, but at Holmesburg Prison,” Dean said. “Holmesburg’s closed now, but you can see it from the parking lot.”

“Just on the other side of the interstate,” Teddy said.

Dean nodded. “Two inmates had a grievance over religious services and scheduled a meeting with Deputy Warden Fromhold in his office. But when they showed up, it turned out they didn’t really want to talk about religion at all. Instead, one of them grabbed Fromhold and held him down while the other stabbed him to death with a homemade knife. Unfortunately, Warden Curran just happened to be passing in the hall and heard the struggle. His lucky day, huh? When he walked in, they were ready for him and ended up stabbing him to death, too.”

Dean waved at an inmate pushing a cart past them and said hello. Teddy didn’t find reassurance in the story or its timing.

“That’s how the place got its name,” Dean went on. “Curran-Fromhold. It’s funny, but I haven’t told that story in a long time. Must be because of your client.”

“How so?”

“His last name’s Holmes,” Dean said. “Makes me think of Holmesburg Prison, I guess.”

Teddy nodded, feigning interest. Dean seemed like a good guy, but listening to him talk about two more murders was a strain. Teddy had seen and heard enough for one day. All he wanted was to get this over with and point the car home.

By the time they reached the check-in area he’d pulled himself together and had a look around. Two guards manned the booth next to the garage, and Teddy could hear the assistant warden being told that Holmes had arrived ten minutes earlier and was ready to go. Teddy turned to the holding tank and looked through the bulletproof glass. Three prisoners he didn’t recognize were huddled on the far bench, staring at something on the floor as if they were trying to keep their distance. When Teddy moved closer, he spotted Holmes lying on the concrete in chains with his eyes closed.

He took a step back as two more guards entered from the hall, one armed with a taser. On the assistant warden’s nod, the two men opened the holding tank door and called out Holmes’s name. Holmes opened his eyes, getting to his feet without assistance. Then he was led out of the tank and guided across the hall to the property desk. His handcuffs and leg irons were removed. As he rubbed his wrists, he turned and looked Teddy directly in the eye.

It was a long, dead stare. Teddy tried not to flinch, but thought maybe he did. Holmes was bigger in person, and far more powerful. If Darlene Lewis had put up a struggle, it couldn’t have lasted very long.

One of the guards gave Holmes a nudge. Holmes finally looked away and began emptying his pockets. The assistant warden joined Teddy by the holding tank door.

“At this point he’s only been searched for weapons,” Dean said in a lower voice. “His cash is counted and goes into an electronic account. If he’s carrying contraband, it’s taken away and forgotten. But after this it’s illegal. After he signs off on the inventory, possession of contraband is a crime. That includes cigarettes.”

For one fleeting moment Teddy wondered what the penalty might be for possession of cigarettes. But in the end, he wasn’t really listening. He was staring at Holmes’s massive hands. He hadn’t noticed before. Holmes had been wounded, his hands wrapped in gauze and tape.

The man behind the property desk printed out the inventory, and Holmes signed at the bottom without reviewing the list. Then one of the guards pointed to a pay phone mounted on the wall.

“You’re allowed one call,” the guard said. “Collect.”

Holmes grunted, approaching the phone and dialing a number. He gave the operator his name. As he waited for the call to go through, he turned away, shielding the phone from the guards and staring at the concrete wall in search of some degree of privacy. After several moments, he began whimpering into the handset. Teddy could barely make out what he was saying, but it sounded like Holmes was pleading with someone other than the operator to accept the call.

“But I need to talk to her,” Holmes said in a louder voice. “I really need to talk to her.”

Holmes sighed and then hung up. They wouldn’t accept the call. No one wanted to talk to him, his plea falling on deaf ears. When he finally turned around, he looked ten years older, like the hopelessness of what was ahead for him had begun to sink in.

He lowered his eyes. Then the guards led him down the hall and placed him into an empty holding cell. There were no bars on the door, just glass. Teddy waited with the assistant warden as Holmes showered and was issued an orange jumpsuit. When the prison doctor arrived, he was given a physical, questioned about his general health, and samples of his blood were taken. Once the doctor had completed his required tasks, he removed the tape wrapped around Holmes’s hands and examined the wounds. Teddy approached the holding cell for a closer look. Holmes had been cut by the knife. Somehow his palms had been slashed in the struggle with the eighteen-year-old girl.

The doctor dressed the wounds, saying the cuts were deep but didn’t require stitches. Still, Holmes never looked at him. Since that aborted phone call, Holmes’s eyes never rose from the floor.

Teddy stepped back, following the assistant warden out of the holding area. He was on autopilot, observing the process and keeping everything as far away as he could.

“We’ll screen his blood,” Dean was saying. “For the next five days, Holmes will be in quarantine. After that, we’ll determine the risks and he’ll be transferred to another pod for permanent housing. He’s on suicide watch tonight. We’ll see how things go.”

They stopped at a door. Dean glanced at the camera mounted on the wall and nodded. After a moment, the lock clicked and the door opened revealing a hallway flanked by conference rooms. There were fourteen of them, seven per side—each with a sign beside the door designating them as OFFICIAL VISITING ROOMS.

Dean pointed to room eleven. “You can wait in here,” he said. “After you meet with Holmes, I’ll show you the way back to the lobby. It’s not far.”

Teddy watched the assistant warden vanish down the hallway. After a moment, he entered room eleven. It was about the size of a cell, with windows and doors cut into the cinder block walls on both sides of the room. A small table stood in the center of the space, along with three plastic chairs. Teddy had thought that if someone wanted to speak with an inmate, they’d be separated by thick plate glass and limited by the constraints of a telephone. The idea of sitting at a table like this, face-to-face with Holmes, never entered his mind.

As he considered meeting the man, he sat down and turned to the second door. On the other side of the glass was a large meeting room where inmates could visit with their families. The way the couches and chairs filled out the room reminded him of a hotel lobby minus the frills. Curiously, fifty oil paintings hung on the far wall as if the space doubled as an art gallery. The condition of the room matched what he’d seen throughout the prison. Teddy had read the sign by the entrance as he entered the lobby. He knew the building had been opened seven years ago, yet everything about the place still appeared waxed and polished and brand-new. The only graffiti he’d seen was on the inside wall of the holding tank.

He heard the door close. When he turned, he saw Oscar Holmes walk into the room and sit at the table less than a foot away. His eyes raced over the man’s body—no handcuffs or leg irons, just the orange jumpsuit. Teddy looked through the glass for the guards who escorted him here and saw them down the hall, talking to another man seated at a desk with their backs turned. Then Darlene Lewis’s dead body flashed into his head. He looked at the new bandages on Holmes’s hands, but all he could see were the man’s fingerprints on the girl’s skin jumping out at him under the black lights. His lips and the cuts left behind from his teeth. He thought Holmes might be fixed on the same image because the man lifted his elbows to the table, covering his eyes with his oversized hands.

“Who’d you try to call?” Teddy heard himself saying in a calm voice. The question had come out of nowhere.

Holmes remained silent.

“The collect call you made an hour ago,” Teddy said. “They wouldn’t accept the charges. Who was it?”

A moment passed, Holmes still burying his face in his hands. “My sister,” he said finally. “She wouldn’t talk to me.”

Holmes peeked through his fingers. His eyes were the color of a faded pair of jeans and looked just as ragged. Teddy pushed his chair back slightly and made a point of crossing his legs, trying to get some distance without Holmes noticing or becoming upset.

“No one will talk to me,” Holmes said, closing his fingers and hiding in the dark again. “Everyone’s afraid. Even you.”

“What happened to your hands?”

“They got cut. You saw ’em. What kind of question is that? You trying to figure out if I really did it or not?”

Teddy grimaced. “How’d they get cut?”

“I don’t remember,” he said, jumping to his feet. “They’re gonna kill me for this, aren’t they? They’re gonna stick the needle in and watch me go to sleep. All those people watching me sleep. They want to get rid of me. They always have.”

Teddy wasn’t sure how to react. Holmes was working himself into a frenzy, pacing back and forth in the small room and slamming his fists into the cinder block walls as he made the turns. Teddy checked his watch. Ten-thirty. It’d been a long day on shit duty, and he decided he’d finally had enough.

“Fuck you, Holmes.”

The man stopped pacing like he’d been slapped in the face. Teddy lowered his leg, ready to spring for the door if he had to.

“That’s right,” Teddy said, staring at him. “I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you feel sorry for yourself. The girl’s dead. Her body’s all fucked up. Her parents are probably at the morgue looking at it right now. Merry Christmas, Holmes. If you want to sit down and talk, I’ll listen. But if you’re gonna rant and rave and get all worked up, then I’m out of here.”

Holmes was staring back at him with those ragged eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Teddy Mack.”

“You work for Barnett, not the police?”

Teddy nodded.

Holmes took it in, then seemed to relax some and sat down. Teddy thought about what he’d just done and couldn’t believe it. Scared shitless, he cleared his throat and moved on.

“Tell me what you remember,” he said.

“I want a trial. Even dogs get their day in court. Doesn’t matter what they’ve done. If you’re a person, you get a trial and go to court.”