Go-Between

by Lisa Brackmann

  She hadn’t seen a single window on the floor. Nothing but artificial light. The visitation room reeked, the scent of stale sweat and sewage carried on the chilled air. To her right were a series of windows, barely separated by narrow acoustic dividers. Visitors crowded around them, most leaning against the cement pillars that served as stools rather than sitting on them, some even perched on the narrow counters, carrying on conversations in shouts.

  “You just hand the deputy your slip.” Deondra explained, over the din. “Then you go find a window and wait. They’ll bring him in.”

  It was nearly Michelle’s turn. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for all your help.”

  Deondra made a little shrug, smiled her grimace of a smile. “It’s best we help each other. Believe me, you won’t get much help from anyone else.”

  Michelle found an empty window. At the window to her left was what looked like a family: a young Latina and two small children, the mother holding the smaller of the two up to the glass, so the kid’s father could see. At least, she assumed the young man on the other side was the father. To her right, a rare male visitor, white, middle-aged. She watched as the visitors changed positions, putting their mouths and then their ears up against the circular metal speaker. Even so, how could anyone hear the other? Every word seemed to be bellowed.

  She studied the speaker grate, the Plexiglas around it. Dried spit. A smear of lipstick.

  She opened Deondra’s wet wipe and cleaned the area as best she could. Then sat on the pillar and waited.

  The visitation room on the inmate side had two banks of windows, the one she faced, and one on the wall opposite. She could see the visitors on the other side of those windows, and she had a sudden flash, a vision, of an endless series of windows, of prisoners and visitors, lined up, yelling through the glass.

  She fought off a wave of dizziness, of nausea. Suck it up, she told herself. After almost two hours in various lines, the visit would be over soon enough—you were only allowed twenty minutes.

  Finally, a deputy brought him in.

  Like the other prisoners, he wore orange scrubs with Harris County stenciled in black, and rubber shower shoes.

  Unlike most of the other prisoners, he was handcuffed, hands behind his back. Why was that?

  He didn’t see her, at first; she watched his head swivel back and forth, trying to spot her. She stood up and waved.

  His eyes fixed on her. His face changed. She wasn’t sure what to make of the expression. Sad? Worried? Angry? Then he put on the familiar half-smile. The one he used to cover everything up.

  The deputy walked him over to the stool. He moved stiffly, like he was guarding an injury. He hadn’t shaved today. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids dark with fatigue.

  For a moment, Michelle didn’t know what to say. “Are you okay?” she managed.

  He frowned a little. He hadn’t heard her. She pressed her lips against the metal speaker grate and yelled, like everyone else. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. But his eyes and expression said something else. A fractional headshake. A warning. Don’t ask.

  He leaned in toward the grate, wincing as he did, arms pressed tight against his sides, his torso held too straight. Had he hurt his ribs? She remembered moving like that, when she had that injury. She put her ear up to the grate. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Michelle closed her eyes for a moment. As tempting as it was to say, “I told you so,” it didn’t seem like the time.

  And besides, that might sound incriminating.

  “We’ll deal with it,” she said.

  “You didn’t need to come. We’ll have another bail hearing in the next two weeks, and Derek’s sure I’ll be getting out this time.”

  Now it was Michelle’s turn to shake her head. She gestured for him to listen and spoke as clearly as she could into the speaker without shouting.

  “Gary’s in Arcata. He showed up Tuesday night.”

  She pulled away from the window so she could see his face. For a moment he looked stunned. Then he swallowed, and his face turned still with rage.

  “Motherfucker,” he mouthed.

  “Yeah.”

  She gestured for him to listen. Waited as he shifted position, grimacing as he did, and pressed his ear against the grate. “He’s got some kind of job for me.”

  “No.”

  Michelle didn’t need to put her ear to the speaker grate to hear that.

  “I think I need to take it.”

  “You can’t.” His voice was faint, tinny. This wasn’t something he was willing to shout to be heard. She pressed her ear against the speaker and let him have his turn.

  “You know what his endgame is,” he said. “No matter what he promises.”

  “I don’t think there’s a better choice.”

  “There is. Call Sam.”

  One of Danny’s old contacts, who’d helped set them up in Arcata with their shiny new identities. Michelle wasn’t sure she trusted Sam either. He’d be in an even better position than Derek to have sold them out. But she nodded anyway.

  “I will. But look …” She forced a smile. “We’re going to need the extra money to pay for Derek, and this other attorney here. And the job sounds like it could be fun.”

  That, of course, was a lie, one she told on purpose, in case anyone was listening. Danny knew it, too.

  “What about Evergreen?” he asked suddenly. “I mean, you put so much work into the place.”

  The rush of affection she felt for him just then, the intensity of it, took her by surprise. Suddenly it was clear to her how she felt about him, like a switch had been flipped.

  Great timing, she thought. Just great.

  “I can hire someone. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Em …” He drew in a deep breath, and flinched. “Why don’t you … just … get away for a while? You know? Go someplace nice. Until this gets settled.”

  Run, he meant. Hide.

  “No. I want to help.”

  “But this—”

  “It’s the best option.”

  “It’s not.” He laughed shortly. “Believe me, I can think of a bunch of better ones.”

  Like you doing time? she wanted to ask. Because if she knew one thing for certain, it was that Gary had set Danny up, and people that Gary set up were pretty thoroughly screwed.

  “I’ll handle it,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s temporary.”

  After she left the jail, all she wanted to do was go back to her hotel and take a shower. A long one. The jail’s stink clung to her clothes, to her skin, her hair. Her own stink clung to her as well, the panic sweat from when she’d given the deputy Emily’s license.

  And have a drink. God, did she want a drink.

  But she didn’t have time to do either of those things. She’d made an appointment with Marisol Acosta, the Houston attorney Derek had partnered with, and the offices weren’t far from the jail. Especially since she hadn’t rented a car, just taken a taxi here, it made sense to go see Marisol first.

  It was almost 6 p.m. They didn’t start visits in the jail until afternoons, 4 p.m. weekdays on the days they allowed visitors, and 3:30 on weekends.

  Crazy, she thought.

  She stood outside the jail, in its massive shadow: a brick and concrete building that looked like a warehouse, nine stories high, squatting by the bayou. She couldn’t stop thinking about how many prisoners were held in that windowless place, piled on top of each other.

  What had happened to Danny? Why was he in cuffs?

  Who had hurt him?

  Get to the lawyer, to Marisol Acosta. Maybe there was something she could do. Some way she could help to keep him safe.

  I should call a cab, Michelle thought. But the idea of waiting for one here, of spending any more time in the shadow of the jail, made her shudder.

  Hotter than hell outside, but at least it was real air. She thought she caught the scent of river water, a hint of decaying moss.

  Taking ano
ther deep breath, she tapped Marisol Acosta’s contact information on Emily’s iPhone, and mapped it. Under a mile. I could walk there, she thought.

  She’d be a sweaty mess by the time she arrived, but what the hell? Maybe the sweat would cleanse her, just a little bit.

  x x x

  The law offices of Carlton, Farris and Pollard weren’t far from the theater district, Marisol Acosta had told her. The attorney had agreed to meet her there, even though it was Sunday. There were no prison visits on Monday, and Michelle had told her that she wasn’t sure how long she could stay in Houston.

  “It’s not a problem,” Marisol had said. She sounded young. “I have a loft downtown just a few minutes away. So long as you don’t mind that I won’t be in my office clothes.”

  Did attorneys charge time and a half for weekends?

  She started walking.

  As unpleasant as Houston had seemed by freeway, on foot she was seeing some charm to downtown. Not a lot of people, but it was Sunday. Still plenty of late summer light. There were older buildings, nicely restored, a light-rail line that ran down one of the main streets. Then, the theaters. The Houston Grand Opera. They’d done a lot of interesting work, she recalled. Not that opera had ever been her thing, but she’d tried to stay current on cultural stuff, when she’d lived in Los Angeles.

  She almost laughed, thinking about it. The concerts she’d go to. The gallery openings, the museums and plays.

  Goodbye to all that. Hello, Harris County Jail.

  God, it was hot.

  Most of her memories of Mexico were accompanied by heat. The day she’d met Danny on the beach. That night with him in her hotel room. Later, when things had gone from bad to so much worse.

  It was supposed to have been a vacation with her husband. A celebration of a business deal he’d been trying to put together. Tom had been lying about the deal, as it turned out. Or engaging in wishful thinking, more charitably. She supposed she could afford a little charity now. Knowing him, she didn’t think he’d intended to commit criminal acts. He was going to repay those investors, he really was. The fix was just one contract, one funding source, one deal away.

  It always was.

  Tom’s death had been a shock. He’d crashed his car into a concrete bridge abutment, at a high speed. It might have been a heart attack. Why else would he have lost control that way? That was what she’d thought, until the shocks had continued after his death.

  She’d gone ahead and taken the vacation. It was the one thing Tom had actually paid for before he died. He’d left her with nothing, well, unless you counted massive debt and a few lawsuits. She’d go to Puerto Vallarta, spend a few days on the beach, away from her troubles, and figure out what she was going to do next.

  What would she have done, she wondered now, if she hadn’t met Danny, hadn’t gotten sucked into Gary’s craziness, had just gone back to Los Angeles and faced the mess she’d left behind? Would she be working in an office somewhere? Still living in her sister’s spare bedroom?

  She wouldn’t be running her own restaurant, most likely.

  Wouldn’t be living with the man who’d helped make that happen.

  Of course, she wouldn’t have nearly died, had to change her identity and be stuck in another one of Gary’s insane schemes either.

  But none of that was Danny’s fault, if you looked beyond what it was he used to do for a living anyway. He hadn’t asked to get involved with her, either.

  That had been Gary’s idea. Having her spy on Danny, whom Gary no longer trusted.

  It had taken her a while to put the pieces together, what the relationship between Danny and Gary really was. It hadn’t helped that telling lies came as easily to Gary as breathing. He loved a good lie, just like he loved fucking with other people’s lives. And Danny had kept his own truths to himself.

  She’d gotten into trouble in Mexico, and Gary had offered to get her out of it. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out he’d set her up in the first place.

  What had taken her longer was determining the type of man Danny was.

  She thought, suddenly, of her last night in Vallarta, when Danny had knocked on her door. She hadn’t expected it, not after everything that had happened between them.

  She remembered lying in bed with him, battered and bruised, sweating in the unrelenting heat of the tropical night. “I’ll come back for you,” he’d said. “I promise.”

  He’d kept his promise.

  “I’ll get you out,” she said aloud.

  She just had no idea how.

  Chapter Five

  “You walked from Harris County Jail, in this weather?” Marisol Acosta handed her a bottle of water. “You can get heatstroke if you aren’t careful.”

  “It was only a mile,” Michelle said.

  Marisol laughed. “This time of year, in Houston? It’s better to do miles in an air conditioned gym.”

  She looked like she put in some time at a gym. A dark-skinned Hispanic woman in her early thirties, round but muscular, with a cute, disarming smile that Michelle suspected she deployed strategically. She wore long jersey shorts and a Texas Longhorns T-shirt. Michelle had noticed a trophy plaque on the wall, third place in a national archery tournament, right next to her University of Texas School of Law diploma.

  “You do archery?” Michelle asked.

  Marisol grinned. “I love it. Nothing better than hitting the bull’s-eye.”

  “The defense on a crime like this generally centers around search and seizure issues,” Marisol explained. “We’ll challenge the legality of the search, first thing. See what evidence we can have excluded.”

  “That’s the best defense?”

  “The DEA busted Jeff with a plane full of pot.” She sounded exasperated. “Other than his claims that he didn’t know what the cargo was, illegal search and seizure’s what we’ve got to go on.”

  Michelle rested her forehead on her fingertips for a moment. “And, and this defense … does it work?”

  “It certainly can work.”

  Marisol perched on the club chair across from the black leather couch where Michelle sat, sipping from a juice-box sized container of coconut water.

  “The other possibility is a plea bargain. Or some other kind of arrangement.” She took a final slurp from her straw, and looked up at Michelle.

  Some other kind of arrangement. Michelle shuddered a little. She remembered what happened when Gary had offered her an “arrangement,” to get her out of trouble in Mexico.

  Trouble he’d created.

  “What kind of arrangement?”

  “The prosecution may consider a reduced sentence for providing information. Or no sentence at all, if your information is valuable enough.”

  There was no mistaking her significant look, this time.

  Did Marisol know what Danny had done in the past? About some of the things he knew?

  If she did, and she wanted to use it to make a deal with the prosecution … or to expose the things Danny knew to the public … or blackmail somebody powerful enough to get him out …

  Or, maybe Marisol was just trying to gauge what he might be willing to reveal. How dangerous he might be.

  Michelle felt herself spiraling. It was the opposite of a rush, more like the ground was being slowly sucked out from under her feet.

  You can’t trust Marisol, Michelle thought.

  “Okay,” she said. “So what you want is for Jeff to inform on someone. Maybe agree to some kind of undercover deal?”

  Marisol put down her box of coconut water.

  “I think that’s premature. I’m just trying to give you a sense of what the options might be.”

  Michelle managed a smile. “Thanks. It’s … it’s good to have an idea.”

  She hesitated. Then thought, if she’s on our side or not, either way, it won’t hurt to bring this up.

  “I’m worried about what’s going on with Jeff right now, actually.”

  Marisol didn’t exactly move. It was more
like she became taut. Pulled back the string on the bow. “What do you mean?”

  If she’s on our side, maybe she can help. If she’s not … I’m going to let her know that I know. That I’m paying attention.

  “Was there something that happened when he got arrested? I mean, did he get hurt?”

  “Not that I heard about. And he looked fine when I talked to him.”

  Michelle thought about how to put it. “Something happened,” she said. “He was having a hard time moving, and he didn’t want to talk about it. And he was cuffed. Hardly anyone else was cuffed. And I know him. He’s not … he’s not violent. Something happened.”

  Marisol sighed. “Harris County Jail does not have such a good reputation.”

  “I want to make sure that someone’s checking on him when I’m not here. I’ll pay you. Or the firm. However you do this kind of thing.”

  “We’ll make sure he gets regular visits,” Marisol said, eyeing her across the coffee table. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Back at the hotel, Michelle took a long, hot shower. When she was done, she put on a hotel robe and lay down on the bed. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. Eat something? Go to the gym? Go to the bar, and have a few glasses of wine? Just take an Ambien and go to bed?

  It’s only 8 p.m., she thought. Too early to sleep. Wasn’t it?

  Emily’s iPhone rang. The Get Smart theme. The ringtone she’d assigned to Gary.

  It’s what Danny would have picked, she thought.

  “So, you have some time to think about things?” Gary asked.

  “I have. Maybe we should meet.”

  “Good! Have you eaten?”

  Of course, Gary knew where she was. Of course, he was in Houston.

  “There’s a nice Mexican place that specializes in shrimp not too far from you,” he said. “Real Gulf shrimp. None of that farmed Asian shit. I’ll have a table ready when you get there.”

  “Fine.”

  He could have had her followed from Arcata. With his connections, he probably could’ve tracked her on her Emily phone, not even needing to physically hack it—he could just get the GPS information from the provider.