by Gary Haynes
He relaxed when they were outside the main cell area.
He turned to the black officer. ‘My girl’s real pretty, isn’t she?’
‘I’d be surprised if she’s your girl.’
‘How’s that?’ Hockey said.
‘She’s FBI.’
Hockey just grinned.
‘You know you don’t have to talk to her without your lawyer, son,’ the black officer said. ‘They’re gonna ask you about that first. Don’t do what you don’t want to. There’s no pressure here.’
Hockey wondered why he was being so sympathetic, given the nature of his tattoos. But he guessed they were as common to him as rose tattoos on the outside, and that it didn’t bother him anymore. Maybe it was because he knew he was a pre-trial detainee and shouldn’t be here at all. He should be in the low-level satellite camp adjacent to the main facilities. Shouldn’t he?
He inched through the blue cinder-block hallways, dotted with soft plastic signs highlighting forbidden inmate behaviour, such as refraining from putting hands into pockets. An impossibility for him. He wondered why the FBI were looking to talk to him again so soon after his initial interview. He’d made it clear to them that he didn’t know a thing, and even if he had, he’d said he would open his veins and sink into a warm bath like an ancient Roman patrician rather than snitch. They’d looked at one another then, their faces betraying their bemusement. He knew too that everyone there had believed him.
The white officer began humming a tune that Hockey didn’t recognize.
He thought now about the choices he’d made that had brought him to this point in his life. He thought about how he’d contacted the white supremacists online ten years ago, and how they’d encouraged him to read Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Friedrich Nietzsche and Miyamoto Musashi, to create the right mindset for the fight. Of how they’d encouraged him to study human anatomy to learn where to strike, and give up ‘Molly’, the man-made drug MDMA, to get healthy for the fight. They’d even encouraged him to disown his mother because she was a ‘skank’. He’d swallowed it all. They’d become a family. They’d made a killer out of the shell he’d been.
They headed towards an office and he thought about his mother. Once she’d gotten ‘meth mouth’, the loss of all her teeth, there was no way he could have helped her anyway. There was no way anyone could have helped her.
And who can help me now? he wondered.
There was only one man he could think of. A man he only communicated with via intermediaries. César Vezzani. The man who was close to a shadow man. The old man, whom he knew nothing about and guessed no one did but Vezzani. He’d only heard an odd nickname for him, and rumours. And those rumours had been as dark as the eyes of a crow.
17
The same day.
Carla knew Hockey’s father had died prematurely through alcohol abuse, and that his mother was a sex worker. She’d read his previous pre-sentence reports in detail. She’d asked permission to speak to him without an attorney present, as the public defender wasn’t available for a couple of days, and she’d viewed the real-time video of him curling up his upper lip in a somewhat ridiculous display of histrionics before he’d said, ‘I have nothing to hide.’ She’d decided that that was enough to cover her, and she planned to play hardball.
The interview room was little bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. There were no windows, except for one in the door, which was criss-crossed with wire. Hockey and Carla sat on metal chairs at a metal table, all of which were bolted to the floor, and the harsh fluorescent tube lighting lent a bluish hue to their faces. The room smelled goatish and looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in days. Perched above them on the cream stucco wall were three CCTV cameras, covering every angle. The two BOP officers stood outside the door, chatting in half whispers. She’d introduced herself and had told Hockey the reason for her visit.
Licking her teeth now as if she was removing lipstick, Carla said, ‘Is your mother still living the American dream, Mr Hockey?’ She was goading him.
Hockey remained calm. He said, ‘The American dream is a hollow lie peddled by politicians and business people to deprive the electorate of a spiritual and racial truth.’ Then he cricked his neck as he jolted it from side to side before looking at her blankly.
It wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting, despite what Hank Dawson had said about him. But she had no intention of being drawn into a metaphysical or political argument.
Leaning towards him, she said, ‘I’m not interested in your philosophy. As I said, I care about the abomination on that DVD.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, as I said.’
His head movement hadn’t changed, neither had his breathing pattern. He hadn’t shuffled his feet, touched his mouth, or pointed to emphasize the point. She considered the idea that he could be telling the truth.
She said, ‘Then why steal it?’
‘Do you have DNA? Do you have anything at all to incriminate me?’
Carla was silent.
‘No, you haven’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here,’ he said, his eyes looking her up and down. ‘Otherwise why would I have agreed to speak with you without my attorney present?’
Carla said, ‘You’re facing a double murder one. At the very best, by the time you get out, you won’t be able tie your own shoelaces, let alone play footsie with your girl. She’ll be long gone in a couple of months anyhow, assuming she’s innocent. Now, why did you steal the DVD?’
‘Is that the best you can do? For real?’
She sat back, nodding. ‘OK. Here’s how I see it. I think you’re lying. I think you killed the Watsons and stole the DVD to order. But you don’t like hurting little blonde girls, do you, Mr Hockey? I mean, killing a grown Jew quickly is one thing, but the prolonged torture of little blonde Aryan girls is something else, right?’
She was taking a risk by lying, figuring that he hadn’t watched the DVD. But there was no other way of finding out if he didn’t in fact know what was on it. If he hadn’t watched it, he’d likely stolen it for someone else.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t hurt little girls. You know that, from my record.’
‘So why take it?’
He sucked his teeth.
Ignoring him, she said, ‘If you didn’t take it, why was it at your place?’
‘A lot of people come round my place. They leave all sorts of shit behind.’
‘So, someone you know must have stolen it. Is that what you’re saying now?’
He grinned.
‘Who might that be?’
‘Hillbilly Billy,’ he said. ‘But who is that?’
Carla leaned in again. ‘Try harder.’
He strained on the shackles and scratched his inclined head, mocking her as he exaggerated a puzzled look. ‘Let me think. Who’s been over recently? I remember. Oprah Winfrey and Barack Obama. We had tea and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and all.’
‘No, you stole it, which means you killed the Watsons, too.’
Hockey yawned. ‘You’re boring me. You fuck the way you talk?’ He grinned. ‘No, I reckon you’re a screamer.’
Maintaining her composure, Carla said, ‘You’re just white trailer trash, after all. Like your girl.’
Hockey stayed silent for perhaps four seconds. Then he roared with such ferocity that his face reddened and his jaw seemed to dislocate. She shrunk back, smarting.
What the hell…, she thought.
The black officer opened the door, told Hockey to hush his mouth and asked if she was OK. She held up a hand, indicating she was, and looked hard at Hockey’s face, seeing that it now looked as serene as a cast-iron Buddha head. The black officer left.
‘Now that little outburst just then was frustration, I’ll admit that much,’ Hockey said. ‘It is both vain and naïve to think that you can judge a person based on a few words spoken, as if the intricacy of their mind can be reduced to a rapid categorization, or worse, a type. Are you a conceited and sha
llow woman, Special Agent Romero? I’m giving you the opportunity to defend yourself before I judge you.’
In her mind’s eye she saw the face of the young Asian woman who had been the subject of the DVD, the look of innocence and serenity before the horror. She’d interviewed enough felony offenders to know when someone was telling the truth, and although it was obvious that Hockey was convinced she was inept, she had what she’d come for. He didn’t know what was on the DVD, unless he knew enough about human reactions to stifle the signs of lying. He’d not consciously prevented them either, she decided.
But now she considered that he hadn’t answered one question directly, other than that he didn’t know what was on the DVD, which meant that he didn’t want to lie in her presence. He was smart. His appearance had belied that intelligence and she’d fallen for it. But she figured he had stolen it, or at least was a go-between.
She wouldn’t waste any more time on him. He wouldn’t tell her more, even if she used medieval thumbscrews on his balls; an idea which, she had to admit, had passed through her mind a few seconds before. As for his guilt or innocence over the murders, that was Hank Dawson’s problem.
But where do I go from here? she wondered.
*
Gabriel had emptied the contents of his pockets onto the grey tray that Harry, the desk officer, had pushed over to him. He’d been told he’d have to wait, as Hockey was being interviewed by an FBI agent. He’d visited the complex quite often, due to his private practice, which included working on federal criminal appeals for his well-heeled clients.
‘Hockey’s mister popular today,’ Harry said.
Harry was morbidly obese, his tawny-coloured hair shaved up at the sides and parted on his crown. He wore thin-framed glasses with circular lenses. There was something anachronistic about him, Gabriel always thought, as if he’d strolled out of a 1930s comedy movie.
‘Seems so,’ Gabriel said.
There was a payphone on the whitewashed wall, a watercooler and a vending machine against it. The walls were otherwise half-covered with various laminated notices that barked important prison visitor protocol at the viewer. Gabriel sat on one of four cheap chairs at a low-slung table, the top scattered with dog-eared magazines and a few yellowing and acceptable paperbacks.
He spent a few minutes reading an article about Yun Du-seo, a Korean painter of the Joseon period. There was a photograph of a White Horse Under a Willow. He considered the painting flawless, despite its faded state.
He heard footsteps and looked up. A full-figured woman had walked in, her hair so black it looked to be tinged with violet, like the tail feathers of a magpie. Her individual facial features appeared too generous, flawed even, but taken together those imperfections made for an uncommon beauty. She put her hand on something on the front desk that Harry had stood up to place there. Gabriel couldn’t help staring at her.
She looked over at him. ‘Do I know you?’
‘FBI,’ Harry said to Gabriel, nodding at Carla.
‘Is the FBI agent interested in anyone in particular?’ Gabriel said.
‘I’d say that was confidential.’
‘No offence, but since I’m here to see Jonathan Hockey and had to wait until you finished with him, I’d say that was conclusive, wouldn’t you? Is it normal for the FBI to interview a detainee without an attorney present?’
She shook her head a fraction, betraying her disdain. ‘He waived his right.’
‘Have a good day,’ Gabriel said.
He saw her look at him with a sense of pity and resentment.
‘Oh, I will,’ she replied.
She turned on her heels and took a few steps before turning back around. ‘I recognize you. The Yale professor looking for a cheap sliver of fame. Why didn’t you interrupt my interview with Hockey?’
Gabriel guessed she’d seen his interview on CNN, too. He nodded towards Harry. ‘Harry got all official on me.’
‘Not a good answer,’ she said, and left.
Gabriel wasn’t used to feeling wrong-footed. It didn’t augur well. But it was a symptom of his subterfuge, he imagined.
He took a few minutes before he said he was ready to be escorted to the interview room.
18
‘Who the hell are you?’ Hockey asked.
Gabriel eyed his new client. He had an almost shaven head and a mouth that verged on sloppy. His eyes were of robin’s egg blue and unusually hooded, given his age, and an inch-long indentation was visible on his forehead. The result of a racist brawl with two East Coast Bloods when he’d been just sixteen, Gabriel had read.
He turned and called to the officers. The white guard stepped in.
‘Is this necessary?’ Gabriel said, pointing at the shackles.
The officer shrugged disinterestedly.
‘Whatever,’ Gabriel said, raising his hands.
‘I asked you a question,’ Hockey said, after the guard had shut the door.
Gabriel sat down opposite him and said, ‘You don’t watch TV?’
‘Idiots watch TV.’
‘Didn’t the public defender tell you?’
Hockey made a face that said, I wouldn’t have asked you if he did, idiot.
‘My name is Gabriel Hall. I’m a lawyer. I’m helping the public defender with your case.’
‘Helping how?’
‘I’m doing this pro bono. For free.’
Hockey’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know what pro bono means. Why you doing this for free?’
‘I’ll be honest. I’m a criminal attorney. I get publicity.’
Hockey looked ambivalent. But he said, ‘Where’s your office?’
Odd question, Gabriel thought. ‘Manhattan. I teach at Yale part-time.’
Hockey sniffed.
Gabriel proceeded to tell him that his role was to do research, some intelligent legwork, to help find witnesses and gather information. He got air time, and he was one of the best trial attorneys in the state, all modesty aside.
‘Did you see that FBI agent?’
‘I saw her,’ Gabriel said.
‘That ass could squash walnuts, am I right?’
Gabriel nodded, his mouth bunched.
‘Yeah, you like her,’ Hockey said. ‘You work out?’
‘Some,’ Gabriel said.
‘But not with heavy weights, huh?’
‘I jog. I do a little hiking these days,’ Gabriel said, stating a half truth.
His forearms resembled braided cable, the result of his ongoing mountaineering training that in the past had seen him on the summit of Annapurna I Main. But he’d learned through experience that the less a client knew about his personal life, the better. That rule was particularly important with the likes of Hockey.
Hockey grinned. ‘So, you going to get me off?’
‘I won’t sugar-coat it, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Looks like Mrs Watson was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Hockey said.
Gabriel clenched his jaw. ‘What about the DVD that was found where you live?’
‘That bitch told me about it. I don’t watch such things. I despise people who do. They’re sick, though. They have mental health issues. Don’t they?’
Ignoring him, Gabriel continued. ‘Do you have an alibi for the night of the murders?’
‘I do. I was drinking with buddies in a loft in Queens.’
Hockey told him the details and Gabriel made a mental note to ask the public defender to file notice of an alibi defence, just in case he hadn’t done so already.
He talked to Hockey for a further five minutes. He’d protested his innocence a little too often, as far as Gabriel was concerned. But he was intelligent, and not once had he deviated from his story.
‘Do you believe me?’
‘I do,’ Gabriel said, nodding.
‘Why?’
‘None of the valuables that were taken from the Watsons’ apartment were found in yours.’
‘Good,’ Hockey said, nodding.
‘I ha
ve to ask you this. How did the DVD end up there?’
Hockey leaned in as close as his restraints allowed. ‘Look, I hold things for people. Things I don’t need to discuss. But no drugs and no filth. It was just a DVD, to me.’
‘Weren’t you curious?’
‘Curious? I’ve been curious my whole life. But not about the contents of a DVD.’
‘Who left the DVD at your place?’
Hockey’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re here to represent me, not the prosecution. Besides, you know a snitch’s life isn’t worth sweat in a place like this.’
Right, Gabriel thought. ‘I don’t believe you knew what was on the DVD.’
Hockey scratched his belly.
‘They call you a neo-Nazi, Johnny. Are they right?’
‘What do you think?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Besides, it could be important, especially if things don’t go to plan.’
Hockey lowered his head. ‘Meaning?’
‘Mitigation based on the adverse influences on your life.’
‘You mean, the neo-Nazis are just hurting for a bunch of reasons, most to do with their own inability to deal with the inadequacy of their upbringing?’ he said.
Finding the comment somewhat shrewd, Gabriel gestured with his chin towards the fading blue ink that was visible beneath the three-quarter-length sleeves of Hockey’s jumpsuit. ‘So, what about the SS tattoo and the Totenkopf?’ he said, referring to the death’s head.
‘Some youngsters get a key to a Porsche and vacations in the Bahamas. Others get tattoos.’
Good answer, Gabriel thought. ‘Maybe you should’ve chosen something less inflammatory.’
‘Maybe you’re just another Ivy League dick.’
Gabriel felt a modicum of aggression creep over him, which he did his best to mask with a grin.
Hockey smirked back. ‘Now that was plain hypocritical of me, given what I just said to that FBI agent.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Hockey rolled his shoulders. ‘Don’t give it another thought.’
But Gabriel did. He felt as if he was being played.
Hockey craned his neck forward. ‘You’ll never know what drives me.’ He cricked his neck. ‘So, what now?’
