Caged to Kill

by Tom Swyers

  When the Route 905 bus pulled into the New Karner station, Phillip boarded. The bus ran between Mohawk City and Albany. That morning, Phillip was headed eastward down Central Avenue for Albany. It was the same road that he and David had driven on the way to the hearing; it was the same route that would bring him to the office of Commissioner Edmund O’Neil. But that wasn’t his destination today. No, today was a dry run to the Bureau of Prisons office combined with a shopping expedition.

  Part of Phillip wanted to tell David what he was doing that day. He wanted to show David that he could function on the outside all on his own. But he wasn’t about to share this expedition with David. He wanted to keep David out of it. What David didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Phillip wanted to protect him, Annie, and Christy.

  Inside the CDTA bus, Phillip once again ran right up against the world outside the box. The bus was filled with commuters, students, kids, and the disabled, with a sprinkling of all ethnic backgrounds. It was like his rec pen and the United Nations on wheels. The delegates were both standing and sitting. They either stared straight ahead like zombies focused on some inner agenda or they sat absorbed in what they were reading. Sometimes it was a book, but more often their focus was on their cell phones. Half the people on the bus were attached by the hand, and maybe via earbud, to a glowing screen.

  Phillip didn’t understand their fascination with the cell phone. He'd spent the better part of his life trying to get out of a box and yet these people wanted to live in one.

  Phillip found a window seat on the sidewalk side. He pulled his pen and notebook from his left pants pocket and resealed the Velcro flap. He began to scribble the names of promising destinations and their addresses as the bus passed them. He was looking for a cell phone store, a clothing store, and a public library. It took him two complete round trips on the route between Mohawk City and Albany to collect the information he needed before deciding on his itinerary. He passed the main office of the Board of Prisons four times and recorded the travel time between the Red Apple Motel and the main office in his notebook.

  Mohawk City had a branch library right on the bus route. That was Phillip’s first stop. He figured he could research his next two stops there on the public-use computer. The desk clerk at the Red Apple told him they had free computer terminals at any public library.

  It was the first time in his life he’d been in a library other than a school library. That was his hiding spot when he skipped class in high school. He could go deep in the stacks and pretend he was searching for the perfect book on world history. While held in solitary, he never even saw the prison library. He only heard stories about it, when the porter dropped off books at his cell. But in the end he read all the books they had at least three times during his three-decade stint.

  This city library branch was a new, one-story brick building. Nice but small, about half the size of the Dollar Store next to it. When he opened the door to enter, a frosty blast of air conditioning hit him in the face. It still smelled of the formaldehyde off-gassing from the heavy duty indoor-outdoor carpet tiles on the floor. He recognized the Corcraft metal bookshelves and the butcher block lounge furniture that emerged from prison workshops all over the state. That sight made him relax, like spotting something from home.

  When Phillip passed the glass entrance vestibule, he spotted kids running around inside as if it were gym period at school. Moms were in the children’s section studying the bookshelves for something to keep the kids quiet for the afternoon.

  Off to his right there were six computer terminals, each boxed in by its own blue- fabric privacy screen, like the ones you might see on Election Day at a voting booth. Phillip surveyed the backs of the men and women who were mouse-clicking away inside their own cubicles, as the screens flashed colorful pages over their shoulders. Phillip had heard of click farms but he’d never seen one. He spotted an empty spot at the end of the row.

  He approached the reference desk, thankful that there wasn’t a line like at prison. It was staffed by an older, white, blue-haired lady, wrapped to the neck in a buttoned-up cardigan that featured daisies with sequined centers. She was taking books out of the return bin.

  Phillip shuffled up to her and pointed toward the terminals. “Excuse me, is that . . . cell open over there?”

  “Cell?”

  “The computer—”

  “Oh, the computer. Yes, it looks like it’s free. If you’d like to use it, you need to sign it out.” She lifted her eyeglasses that dangled from a chain around her neck and pushed them back on her nose. One red-painted nail pointed to an empty line on the form. “Just sign there and you can use it for a half-hour.”

  Phillip lifted a little yellow pencil stub off the counter and signed his name and the time. “Could you show me how to use it? I’ve never used one before.”

  “Sure. What exactly do you want to do on it?” Phillip was surprised that she was so willing to help. He half expected a stern rebuke from her and a finger shake in his face for his ignorance. That’s what was served up in the box anytime he had a question. Dawkins, you should know how the system works after all these years. “I want to search for things.”

  “Okay, I can show you how to do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Phillip sat down at his station, the librarian whispered instructions over his shoulder. Her flowery perfume made a fragrant cloud that overwhelmed the carrel space. She showed him how to use the search field in the Google browser and explained how it differed from the URL address field. Next, she showed him how to use Google Maps to locate places. There was a printer hooked up to his computer, she added, if he needed to print anything out. Then she set Phillip loose. In a few minutes there was a short line of people waiting to use the computers. Phillip realized that he had just thirty minutes to catch up on thirty years.

  He Googled his name, for starters, and couldn’t believe all the information about him that popped up instantaneously. There were a lot of old newspaper articles on him, many about the events that he didn’t remember. There were some articles about his release from Kranston along with a few pictures of him that he’d never seen before. The amount of information on Phillip Dawkins and its easy accessibility startled him. Some of it was flat-out wrong. He felt exposed, naked before the world, and forever cast in the events of that one fateful night back in 1985.

  He knew for sure then that he had to make it on his own on the outside. Nobody was going to hire him or give him a chance after they Googled his name. He wondered if he could erase any of it. He tried hitting the delete button, but nothing disappeared.

  Phillip looked at the clock on the computer. He had to get to his other research pronto. No time to dwell on what he couldn’t change. He Googled Edmund O’Neil’s name and then Martin Kleinschmit. He learned everything he could about them and wrote it down in his spiral notebook. There was nothing on Boris Dietrich.

  Switching gears, he went to Google Maps and found a satellite image of the Bureau of Prisons office in Albany. Using the street view option, he zoomed in and saw workers coming and going from the building or lounging about outside on a smoke break. He studied their clothing as carefully as an anthropology field worker researching foreign tribes. This helped him make a list of what he needed: dress shoes and socks, suit, buttoned-down shirt, tie, belt, and briefcase. He made note of the color of the lanyard—midnight blue—that held the state ID. He went to Google Images to get a close-up view of a state ID and printed out a few color copies.

  Finally, he searched for a cell phone store that sold a cheap phone with only call and texting features. They called them “burners” on the internet. He learned Walmart sold them and he found a store on his bus route. He signed off the computer with a minute to spare, thanked the librarian, and left the building. Outside he took a deep breath of fresh air, blinked at the sunshine, and got on the next bus.

  A seat next to the window was available and Phillip took it. He opened his little cloth satchel, then started eat
ing his lunch, as he pondered where to buy the clothing and shoes. The suit he wore for his Bureau of Licensing hearing was too baggy. He was short on cash; clearly he couldn’t afford a new business ensemble from a retail store. SALs—the Salvation Army Thrift Store—would have to come to the rescue again. This time he promised himself to stay away from the ‘80s look.

  At each intersection the bus stopped, let a few people off, took on new passengers, and changed the make-up of the riding population. Down near Quail Street a fellow in his early twenties sat down beside him. As the bus started moving, the man kept glancing either at him or outside the window, Phillip couldn’t tell which. Then the guy tapped him on the shoulder and Phillip looked over. The man had dark olive skin, a scrawny build, twitchy hands with nails bitten to the quick, and thick black hair. More than anything else the guy looked half asleep, but he was sweating profusely. He wiped his brow with one shaky hand and flashed Phillip a small Ziploc bag packed full of little white pills with the other. In a froggy voice he asked, “You want some Oxys?”

  “Huh?” Phillip couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.

  His seatmate continued, “OxyContin, dude. You know, hillbilly heroin?”

  “Heroin? Are you serious?” Phillip drew back, up against the window wall. He wanted to get as far away as he could from this kind of trouble.

  “For sure. It’s good stuff. Crush it, do a rail, and fly.” The man smiled at all the possibilities, revealing two rows of rotting teeth in red, swollen gums.

  “No thanks,” Phillip shook his head vehemently. You wouldn’t be sitting next to me if you knew what I did the last time I tripped—”

  “Nah, this stuff is boss.” The man nearly hummed, rocking his body slightly in the seat, happy with his product and his life.

  “No, not interested. I don’t want to go back to prison.” Phillip was emphatic in his denial.

  “You did time?” Those half-mast eyes widened in surprise. And the man drew back slightly.

  “Yeah, hard time. You don’t want to know.” Looking out the window, Phillip hoped the druggy would take the hint and just go away, far away.

  “Where were you at? Attica?” Lots of enthusiasm emanated from his new best friend. Phillip looked at him with disgust.

  “Kranston.”

  “Wow, I know some guys who were there. They said it was bad.” He leaned in, sharing sour breath and stale body odor up close, another issue Phillip never had to deal with in the box. The only COs who got even marginally close were the guys who delivered his meals and those who walked him out to the cage for rec. Some of them might have been a little ripe, but they rarely got nearer than a baton’s length away.

  Phillip gave a brief nod. “Yes, it was. Did you ever do a bid?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. Get clean. Stay out. If you go in, you could end up in the box and that’ll be all she wrote, pal. Don’t end up like me.”

  His seatmate fell back into sales mode. “You need to chill, man. I’ll give you some of these. Half price for you—”

  “Forget it,“ Phillip snapped. “My life might be in the crapper, but at least I can control my own death out here.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” the guy whined, not ready to give up on a sale.

  “Long story, and the next stop is mine. As far as you’re concerned, ask yourself if you want to die tripping. I don’t. I know that much.” He stared into the vacant eyes of someone whose conscience had taken a different bus out of town a long time ago.

  “Sure you won’t try some?”

  Time to get out of here. Phillip reached up and pulled the stop request cord above the window. A chime went off at the front of the bus and he felt the vehicle slow to a stop. “What are you? Some kind of narc or something?”

  “No!” The druggy put a lot of wounded pride into that single syllable.

  Phillip stood up. He still wondered if this guy was sent by the system to entrap him. He’s not white, so he’s no CO. He shuffled past the man to the aisle and held on to the overhead bar with one hand as he made his way to the door. When the bus stopped, he got off facing SALs.

  It looked like a branch office of the local landfill. After business hours, drive-by donors had junked a sofa, some mangled exercise equipment, and an assortment of crap at the curb with the expectation that SALs would magically sell it all. Phillip strode through the mess with the confidence of a post-apocalyptic warrior. Mad Max on a shopping expedition.

  SALs was housed in a one-story sheet-metal-framed building about the size of a small supermarket. Waves of heat shimmered over the roof. The lemon-yellow finish on the exterior walls had faded to chalk dust. The bright red Salvation Army sign hanging over the entrance shone was a beacon of hope. The water-stained “sale today” sign in the large window was right where Phillip had last seen it weeks before when they bought the gray suit—except that it was drooping now. The tape adhesive at one upper corner had given way.

  The twin glass entrance doors were stuck at the seam; Phillip had to jerk them open. When he entered, a rush of hot air greeted him. It was like he had cracked the door to a preheated oven. The store had no AC and no window shades, so it concentrated heat like a solar dream. The strong aroma of moth balls was circulating right at nose level. Two airplane propeller-sized fans roared on full-blast in the open doorways at the rear.

  Phillip stationed himself in the men’s suit section and yanked the hangers toward him along the rusty bar, one at a time. With each screech of a poorly aligned hanger, he eagle-eyed the merchandise. After a few minutes, he located a navy blue suit coat with matching slacks that looked his size. He went into hunter-gatherer mode as he made his way through the store. First he picked a blue tie to match, then a white dress shirt, followed by a slightly stretched belt, new socks still bound by a cellophane label, a dented Samsonite briefcase, and a pair of brown penny loafers new in the box.

  Lugging his finds to the back of the store, he tried it all on in a plywood dressing room. Under a flickering blue-white fluorescent light, Phillip looked at himself in the cracked mirror. The sleeves on the jacket were a bit short but passable. The waist on the matching slacks fit okay, if he used the belt, but the inseam was too long. He felt he could fix that. Annie had taught him to sew and even bought him a sewing kit. Everything else fit well enough.

  It all came to $19.32, leaving Christy’s duct-tape wallet just a little lighter. At the raised checkout near the store entry, the clerk put everything in a large plastic garbage bag for him and handed over a receipt.

  It was a relief for Phillip to get back on the air-conditioned bus and rest his feet as it headed back down Central to the plaza that held Walmart. He felt a sense of elation. Getting good at this!

  Inside the Walmart entrance—smelling popcorn and hearing the canned announcements blaring overhead—he piled all of his SALs purchases and belongings into a blue shopping cart with a bent wheel and headed into the store. An older, heavyset woman, dressed in a Walmart vest that matched his cart, said “hello” to him as she leaned on a cane just inside the door.

  Phillip’s instant reaction was to think of his knife. He knew of several cons who were jumped at Kranston for their stuff and he’d never possessed so much stuff in his life. A second later, he realized that he’d overreacted—she couldn’t and didn’t plan to jump him. He’d never seen a Walmart greeter before, never even been in a Walmart, at least as far as he could remember.

  “Hello,” Phillip bellowed back in his prison voice.

  “Can I help you?” she smiled.

  “Do I look like I need help?” Phillip retorted. In an instant, he wished he hadn’t said what he did, the way he did. She’s not a con. Behavior on the outside had a lot of new rules.

  The woman didn’t flinch. Rude comments from store patrons were infrequent but all in a day’s work. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted to know if you needed help in finding anything.”

  “That’s okay. I’m so
rry I snapped at you.” Phillip tried to look appropriately contrite as he surveyed the supercenter that stretched on forever in every direction. “I guess I do need a hint. Where are the cellphones?”

  “Straight back, in the rear of the store, electronics section. But you’ll have to leave your bag here.”

  “What?” He drew up in a defensive posture, hands reaching for the bags of precious stuff.

  “You’ll have to check your bags at customer service,” she repeated patiently. “It’s the rule.”

  Phillip looked confused. Those were the magic words—he couldn’t argue. But how was he going to complete his mission and protect his stuff at the same time?

  “Don’t worry,” the woman added cheerfully. “You’ll get it all back when you leave the store.”

  Phillip didn’t want to give up custody of his belongings. But he saw a woman doing the same thing at customer service so he decided to play along. He convinced himself it was okay to check his bags. He figured it was like being frisked before going into the pen for rec time, though Walmart was the biggest pen he’d ever seen.

  So Phillip checked his belongings with the dreadlocked lady in the blue smock behind a long L-shaped counter. With an empty cart, he made his way to the rear of the store, looking over his shoulder every thirty steps to make sure nobody was following him. The coast was clear, even though this pen was teeming with people, all of them bent on buying more stuff than Phillip had ever seen in one place.

  At the electronics counter the sheer number of cell phones overwhelmed him. There were Smartphones and IPhones and flip phones in every color. He didn’t know how to find what he wanted. He needed to ask someone for help but was afraid to. He’d never asked for help at Kranston. Even if you needed help in the worst way, you had to carry on and pretend you didn’t. Asking for help always ended badly.