John’s regret was utterly sincere now. “I will. But here’s the deal. I hurt their feelings? They hurt him. Bad.”
The warden slapped his coffee mug down on his desk. “I told you it was gonna scare him and be painful, Langley. This isn’t therapy, it’s prison. He wasn’t injured, punished, subjected to pain compliance, or yelled at.”
John hesitated. “You denied medication Marshal Wills presented with clear labeling and valid prescriptions. Aster was left in a restraint chair bleeding from wounds your men tore open, no first aid, no pain relief, and according to my agent, he kept passing out and wanted to die.”
“They didn’t know --”
“What? What didn’t they know?” snapped John. “The details of his injuries and traumatic attack that’re spread all over the internet in vivid color?”
“So you are filing a complaint.” Welch sounded pissed and betrayed.
“With you,” said John. “Nobody else. I think you’re a decent man, and you have a problem you need to fix. A man I’ve worked years trying to reform did something amazing yesterday. His anklet shut off, he was scared, and he ran straight to the FBI. He ended up in agony asking me why good people obey rules when the result is them having to torture him. I got no answer for that other than your rules need fixed.”
“Okay.” Welch sighed. “I watched the tapes. Everyone involved was miserable, because everyone involved was a decent person. This wasn’t abuse of power.”
Abuse of power. John looked away, at a calendar tacked up on the wall showing a red tractor in a field of straw. Ahead, perfect, unbroken stalks. In its path, crushed vegetation. That was the crux of the whole thing, wasn’t it?
Welch watched him for a minute. “You weren’t kidding, when you said he was your friend.”
“We’re field partners,” said John simply. “We’d die for each other.”
Welch whistled, and it was easy to read his thoughts. Langley’s gone soft. Getting snoockered by a professional liar. Aster’d leave you in a pool of your own blood if it suited him.
“Warden, I’m under no illusions about the people you house,” said John. “Hell, you’ll probably wind up with the guys who attacked Aster. But most guys have parents or siblings or spouses, and they don’t deserve to have the person they love treated this carelessly.”
Welch gave him a rather cold stare. “I’m in the business of safely and humanely managing violent criminals. We don’t do special treatment, because the flip side of that is deciding to rough up a guy ‘cause we don’t like the crime he committed. Inmates are equal in here, for better or worse. There are no individuals. Rules are rules. You don’t re-write the law and FBI policy for every suspect you arrest, do you?”
John glared back. “No. And I’m not fond of most of ‘em. But I do see every human being in my custody as an individual, and I make damn sure they don’t suffer in my care. If one of my suspects were ever screaming in terror and pain, you bet your ass I’d set things aside and reassure them.”
The warden gave him an odd little smile. “You’re a nice man, John Langley.”
“No, I’m not,” snapped John. “I put human welfare and decency above ‘nice.’”
“So do I, Langley. It bothers me he suffered because he was denied medication. I’ll look at procedure and find a way to prevent that. But I promise you, his welfare isn’t served by walking on eggshells until he meets the guy who’ll break his arm when he resists arrest.”
Everything froze in John’s mind but the flash of clarity.
That was sound, rational thinking from a man who knew how to manage people. It wasn’t much different from how he himself managed Nick: with caring, but a firm grasp of reality.
Managed him.
Nick had brain damage. Nick needed to learn, really learn as abstract constructs, how to control his own impulses.
Where prison had failed, where John had failed, was in “managing” him, controlling him. As though there was unmanaged, out-of-control, criminal Nick and carefully managed, well-behaved because he had to be Nick.
What would be the result of loved, understood, and supported Nick who wasn’t “managed” like a brain-damaged idiot? Maybe it was knowing he had actual brain damage that was the key to treating him like the brilliant, astonishingly skilled man he was and reforming him.
DAN FISHER
Special Agent Fisher stepped neatly out of the surveillance van, raised his tablet with its despicable contents - bloody evidence photos, the mounting cases against guards in Rikers and Assistant Chief Chad Starr, and the last straw, the arrest warrant for Nick Aster - and smashed it against the side of the van. Over and over again, until it cracked, then shattered, then came apart, and pieces started falling off.
Then he turned his attention to the left rear tire of the van, kicking it over and over even as it refused to crumble. One of his agents tugged on his sleeve. “Dan! Danny! You’re making a scene.”
He kicked the tire so hard the van shook. “Fuck you!” he yelled, not at the agent but at the entire concept of the human race. And Chad Starr in particular.
“Danny,” persisted the agent, sounding worried now. “You’re going to scare people. Let me drive you home. You’ve been up all night in the van.”
Drive you? Does he know I’ve been drinking?
Fisher stepped back and tried to get the pulse pounding in his forehead under control. He hadn’t been, not until news of the warrant and Aster’s return to prison came in. Hadn’t touched a drop. He didn’t drink for recreation, wasn’t even sure he was an addict. He just knew it was the only way to make the pain in his gut go away.
You know what? I’m sending Aster the damn Pakistan photos. Don’t know what the hell he’s gonna do with them, but all they’re doing is haunting me in the night anyway.
Fisher faced the other agent and tried to speak in a mild, controlled voice. “Call AUSA Werner and see if she can file for an injunction against that warrant. We gotta find a way to get Aster out of prison, ASAP. You still listening to Starr screaming about how he wants to dig Aster out of Sing Sing and eviscerate him?”
“Yeah,” said the agent, glancing back towards the van. “It’s like he’s got absolutely no concept that someone might be wiretapping him.”
“He’s a dinosaur,” said Fisher. “He probably thinks the line makes a beeping sound if someone’s listening and cell phones are magical devices nobody could possibly tap. A dinosaur way overdue for extinction, him and half his fucking generation.”
The other agent looked around, worried, wondering if any gray-haired civilians had overheard. Okay, so maybe beating and kicking the ever-loving shit out of government property and wishing for the death of half a generation weren’t the most PR friendly activities.
“Sir, let me drive you home. Please.”
Fisher let out a long sigh. “Fine.”
Sitting beside the baby-faced little idealist driving him home assiduously refraining from comment, he had a comforting idea. “Can I borrow your phone?”
“You smash yours?” asked the agent. Fisher supposed he should try to find out the guy’s name.
“Threw it in the Hudson.”
“Not sure I trust you around my precious smartphone, sir ....”
“I’ll return it in one piece,” grumbled Fisher, catching himself starting to smile. “I won’t destroy your precious.”
The agent handed it over, and Fisher dialed agent Langley. “You in contact with Aster?” he asked.
Langley was in the warden’s office, and would see Aster soon. “Tell him I’m still chewing on Starr, but every one of the bastards that took a swing at ‘im or his fellow inmates in Rikers is getting indicted tomorrow. I’ll be supervising the arrests personally.”
Langley, no idiot, zeroed in on what he’d left out. “Starr investigation. Fast or slow?”
“Slow,” admitted Fisher. “Big, circumstantial mess without a lot of proof. Lots of surveillance, finding people to cooperate against him ....I’d be surp
rised if we build a solid case in under a year. But the guy’s a moron, and I’m gonna bury ‘im under a solid ton of his own shit by the time its over.”
John tried not to choke. “Nick Aster’s not spending the next year of his life in prison for being beat half to death.”
“No,” said Fisher firmly. “He’s not. AUSA Werner is furious, she’s a pitbull, and we have the NYPD running scared. She’s gonna go in front of a judge, and we’re gonna get the warrant thrown out and an injunction against them so much as touching Aster.”
“How long?” asked John.
“Week or two.”
“Make it less than one. Please.”
“Aster having a hard time coping?”
“No,” said John. “I am.”
Fisher’s grip on the phone softened. “You’re a good man, Langley. Thanks for that.”
John was silent for a few moments, hesitating. “Aster’s shown me something this week. If you look for cruelty and indifference, you’ll find it. If you look for kindness and caring, you’ll find that. Maybe even in the same person.”
Fisher leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Funny how the NYPD had turned from his mortal enemy to his best buddy once those photos hit the news and LeBlanc went down. Management was practically lining up sacrifices to the Federal investigators like little pinatas and handing him the stick. Even the union was hinting they wouldn’t stand in the way of a good firing here and there.
But he wanted Starr. He hadn’t told anyone in the department that he was after their golden boy, because he wanted the guy happily ignorant of the investigation and prattling on about his exploits over un-secure phone lines.
Fisher really, really wanted Chad Starr in cuffs, trying not to pee his pants as he was led off, praying the Feds played nicer than he ever had.
JOHN
He was still in warden Welch’s office when he hung up the phone with Fisher, and found him making a passionate plea to be able to stay with Nick. “I don’t care if you need to book me in, or what you have to do. Please -- making the decision to send him back here is -- killing me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Abuse of Power
JOHN
Welch studied John for a long time, then pushed a pen and pad across the table. “Write down your clothing sizes. You’re going undercover as a corrections officer.”
John’s shoulders slumped in relief. Maybe he wasn't so irritated with the warden after all. A petty or malicious person would have felt considerable glee at seeing an FBI agent taken down a notch by becoming an inmate. Letting him pose as a CO meant that despite everything, Welch wasn't harboring a grudge against either John or Nick.
“Aster is in danger from the NYPD, and I’m concerned about someone having arranged a revenge hit on him. He’s a serious escape risk. I’m assigning him a guard to make sure he gets the protection and care he needs without compromising security.” Welch pointed at John.
John smiled. “Thank you."
JOHN
John’s heart tightened as he was led into the infirmary wing. They were in a long white hallway with blank, gray metal doors. He’d hoped with all his heart that Nick was done being locked in places with concrete floors. This had all the hallmarks of a solitary confinement unit.
“Is he confined to a cell?” asked John, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the low background chatter of TVs and radios in the cells.
His escort glanced at the chart. “Seventy-two-hour psych eval. He fought coming through intake, and when an inmate’s as scared as he is right now, there’s no telling what they’ll do. After that he’ll have rec room privileges.”
“You’re punishing him for being scared?”
“It’s not technically a punishment, and nobody blames him. We understand.”
John let his breath out slowly so that his escort wouldn’t hear. “Can I escort him out anywhere?”
“Sure,” said the guard cheerfully. “Aster’s a good guy, as far as inmates go. You’ll wanna use a wheelchair, and don’t restrain him. I’ll show you to a courtyard, and there’s TV in the rec room. Showers at the very end of the hall.”
There was a white board on the outside of each cell, with the inmate’s name, condition, medications, and allergies, just like in a hospital. Only these had room for other notes too, and were locked behind clear plastic so they couldn’t be altered by inmates.
History of violence, behavioral/mental issues, whether they were addicts, gang affiliations ....John tried not to stare at them in morbid curiosity as he went by. They were short and to the point.
Then they got to Nick’s. Behavioral issues, none. Drug abuse, none. Gang affiliations, none.
ESCAPE RISK! written in red marker. Softened by black text: NOT violent. Compliant, social.
Mental issues: acute trauma - violent abuse by COs in another facility. Fear may cause non-compliance. Restrain only if necessary. There was a series of letters and numbers John didn’t understand.
NO CONTACT W/ NYPD FOR INMATE SAFETY REASONS.
John let out his breath. It was accurate and responsible. He pointed at the code under mental issues and raised his eyebrows in question.
“Sociopath,” said his escort.
John grimaced, but held his tongue. No more lighting into people for at least a week. Unless of course they really pissed him off.
The door was solid metal, with a thick, scratched-up poly-carbonate sliding window that could be unlocked and pushed to the side. Nick’s was open, so he could communicate freely with people outside the cell. There was no privacy, and aside from the hospital bed, it was as bleak as any other steel-toileted concrete box.
John hadn’t known an ache in the heart was a real thing until Nick had been attacked. It was aching now, a hurting, hollow feeling in his chest. I locked you in a cell, Nick. I’m sorry.
Nick was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, and he was smiling. There was someone in the cell, using a wheelchair as a more comfortable alternative to the stainless steel stool bolted down to the floor.
John recognized him from the video and wanted to deck him. It was the intake officer who’d been in charge, who grabbed Nick and shoved him to the floor and pinned him.
But he had a nice face, and both men were relaxed. This was also the guy who’d apologized to Nick for grabbing the cuffs, saying he hadn’t meant to hurt him. The officer stood, and gave Nick an affectionate look.
“You take care, Aster, and hang in there.”
“Thanks,” said Nick. “Thank you.” His manner was of genuine relief and gratitude. His eyes followed the man out, then shifted to John. “How inmates hate these guys so much, I’ll never kno --”
“John?” Nick’s jaw actually dropped, then he sat up and started laughing. Giggling, really. Or snickering. “Oh, my God. It’s Prison Guard Langley.”
John wrinkled his forehead in a frown. “Is that like Prison Guard Barbie?”
“You’re like an adorable little action figure.”
“They gave me a shiny badge and everything,” said John, closing the door behind him.
Nick couldn’t stop snickering. Chortling. “Stop snortling,” complained John. “You’re undermining my swagger of authority.”
Nick cocked his head to the side. “We have to get someone to take a picture of this. Us, together.”
“Only if it involves you, clinging pathetically to the bars,” said John with a grin.
Nick pointed at the door. “No bars. I can’t believe you did this.” He seemed calm, and certainly not frightened, but lonely and fragile and incredibly welcoming.
“Maybe an inmate might hate that guy because he denied your meds, hurt and terrified you instead of talking you through it, and left you strapped down in misery?” suggested John.
Nick gripped the edge of the bed with both hands and bit his lip. “He came in early so we could talk about what happened. It was Rikers that put me in this condition, not that guy.”
John remembered
grabbing Nick’s wrist in the rain.
A scream.
Not realizing having his hands on the dash was hurting Nick.
Yelling.
Finding him shivering in miserable, dogged obedience of an order not to move.
It’d been an ugly night, with John’s role in it anything but compassionate. He’d underestimated his friend’s pain and fear and vulnerability, and ended up overstepping horribly. Perhaps the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black. Perhaps he should be grateful that Nick was willing and able to forgive those who knew not what they did.
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 28
