“Are you sure the numbers coincide?” asked Charles.
“I’ve checked my notes. Since Rafael said he saw Reginald at O’Hara’s, maybe we should check Engel’s invitations to see if anything shows up,” Samuel suggested.
“That’s not a bad idea. The problem is, I’m in trial. I’ve been going for the last two weeks, and I don’t have a minute to spare.” Charles held his brow with his middle finger and thumb and squeezed it in an attempt to stop the pounding of his headache.
“This is important, man. Did you know that O’Hara was headed to San Quentin?”
“He won’t be there long.”
“If we get new information about their connection, we can question him before he leaves for another state. Once he goes into the federal system, as you know he won’t be available without a big hassle,” said Samuel.
Charles took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was very tired. “Here’s the plan: you go down the hall and check the Engel’s stuff to see if there’s anything of interest that we missed. If you find a connection with O’Hara, we can go over and question him before he leaves.”
“When can I look at it?” asked Samuel.
“I’ll arrange for it right now,” said Charles, picking up the phone.
Soon a marshal appeared at the door. The attorney ordered him to take Samuel to the evidence room, where he could look at some files without taking anything.
“Just make a note of what you find and report back to me,” he said to Samuel, dismissing him.
The marshal took Samuel to the caged evidence locker, a large room with metal shelves from floor to ceiling labeled with numbers and names in conspicuous places so files could be easily found. The marshal went to a card file and looked up Rockwood, then went to the corresponding shelf, took three boxes out, and placed them on the metal table in the middle of the room.
Samuel rummaged through the evidence in the folder marked Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs until he found the scrap of paper that had been wrapped around Reginald’s money. There he saw the number 838. He compared it to the printing on the other invitations in the shoebox from Engel’s. He verified what he’d anticipated; the number 838 was engraved in exactly the same size and style as the hundreds of invitations he had seen several months before.
He continued through the box methodically, but saw no invitation with Mathew O’Hara’s name or address on it, and that puzzled him. He decided that the number 838 in the same style meant that one probably existed somewhere, but where?
There wasn’t anything else to accomplish there. He thanked the marshal and made his way to Camelot.
* * *
The following day he was at Engel’s before it opened and had to wait a quarter of an hour. The tidy Mr. Engel was the one who arrived to open the front door. Samuel approached him.
“Do you remember me, sir? I’m Samuel Hamilton.”
The man squinted into the sun and cupped his right hand over his eyes, trying to identify him. “Name doesn’t come to mind. How can I help you?”
“I was here a few months ago investigating your employee, Reginald Rockwood. Can I ask you a few questions?”
They were now in the reception area.
“Have you gentlemen figured out what actually happened to that unfortunate young man?”
“We’re in the process, sir,” said Samuel.
“I’m not sure I can be of any further help to you. The marshals took everything relating to Mr. Rockwood.
“I know that, but there’s a piece of the puzzle missing, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Well, make it snappy,” said Mr. Engel. “I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
“I’m looking for an invitation to a party at Mathew O’Hara’s penthouse at 838 Grant Avenue. Can you look in your archives and see if there is one?”
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give out that kind of information, but I know who you are and what you’re trying to do, so come with me.”
They left the Piranesi’s behind and went down a long hallway to a light oak door with an etched glass panel in the upper half. Engel opened it and allowed Samuel to enter first. One wall of the room was filled with wood filing cabinets the same color as the door. On the other side of the room, there was a table and three chairs.
Mr. Engel went to a filing cabinet and fingered through the documents. “Here it is.” He pulled one out that was encased in a plastic sleeve and put it on the table for Samuel to examine. It read:
838 Grant Avenue, 5th Floor, San Francisco
Mathew O’Hara cordially invites
You and a guest to a private cocktail party,
honoring Xsing Ching, world-renowned
Oriental Art Expert, who is visiting
the United States on a lecture tour.
Thursday June 10, 1960, 6:00–9:00 p.m.
R.S.V.P. SU-4-1878
“I’ll be dammed,” said Samuel. “So they knew each other even before this started.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Engel.
“Can I take this with me?” asked Samuel.
“I’m afraid not. That’s the only record I have of the transaction,” said Mr. Engel firmly.
“Okay, but don’t let anything happen to it,” said Samuel.
“Here in my establishment, nothing will happen to it.”
“I’d feel better if you took it out of the filing cabinet and locked it up,” said Samuel. “It may be important.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Engel. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked with an impatient but polite smile.
“No, you’ve given me more than I expected,” said Samuel.
16
Rafael and Mathew
MATHEW O’HARA was used to the luxuries of life, to being surrounded by a coterie of “yes” men and getting what he wanted—not exactly the amenities San Quentin offered. Now he was just prison blues and a number, in a cell by himself. It was on the same floor and cellblock as Rafael, but he was cut off from the others and semi-isolated. The guard on the catwalk above pressed the buzzer, and the one accompanying Mathew lifted the bar and opened the enclosure.
“You have a private room, like in a hotel,” the guard joked.
“Why?”
“’Cause you’re important merchandise. If some of these guys found out who you were, we couldn’t guarantee your safety. This here way we have some control over who can get to you,” said the muscular guard.
Mathew flinched. “Do you think there are people here who want to hurt me?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Different world than the one you’re used to.”
“But you don’t know of any specific threat, do you?” Mathew insisted.
“Can’t say I do.” He went through the do’s and don’ts list, then slammed the cell door, clanged down the iron bar, and Mathew was left alone with his thoughts.
The smell of food wafted through the block, making Mathew’s nostrils quiver and his stomach growl. He realized he was hungry and wondered when it would be time to eat and what they would serve. He had a delicate stomach and watched his weight. He could hear the sounds of prisoners talking, singing, and yelling, mixed with the clang of cell doors, all made louder by the cavernous size of the building.
What a fucking mess, he thought. They told him he would only be at San Quentin for a week or so, but he hadn’t realized what a shit hole it was until he got there. He never imagined that he would be thrust into such a cramped space with only a fold-down bunk, a metal table and chair, a toilet with no seat, and a piece of steel for a mirror.
Twenty-three hours a day in that dump “for his own safety.” He knew he’d get to go outside each afternoon at five o’clock for an hour, but he didn’t have any way to tell what time it was. He unhooked the chains that held the bunk to the wall, pulled it down, and sat on the bare mattress staring at the sheet and the single gray blanket that lay on the table. He noticed the irony of the stripes on the bedding running perp
endicular to the bars on his cell. He tried to gauge the time from the position of the shadows on the floor, but couldn’t figure it out.
* * *
Time passed slowly for Mathew O’Hara until he finally heard the bar lifting. The door opened and two guards showed up at his cell. “Come with us, it’s time for exercise,” one of them ordered.
Handcuffed and with one on either side of him, Mathew was escorted along eternal corridors, through several barred and locked doors, and then shoved into a courtyard of about two hundred square feet. On two sides, the one facing the bay to the south, and the one facing the Richmond Bridge to the east, there were chain-link fences with curls of barbed wire along the top. To the west was a gray cinderblock wall about ten feet high. From where he stood, Mathew couldn’t see on the other side, but he figured it had to be the exercise yard for the rest of the prisoners of the cellblock. He could hear a chorus of voices coming from there. A guard tower loomed to the south on the other side of the chain-link fence. Two men holding rifles were inside its small glass enclosure. His handcuffs were taken off.
Mathew counted five other men in the yard with him, and he assumed they were separated for maximum-security reasons. They walked in circles or exercised without talking, under the guards’ gaze. No one acknowledged his presence. He breathed deeply. He had not been out in the fresh air for over two months, and he missed it. It felt good. He thought about his boat, his lazy morning sails in the bay, and his beach house at Stinson. The afternoon was breezy, and he could see whitecaps on the bay through the fence and barbed wire. He watched freighters move northward under the bridge on their way to ports as far away as Stockton and Sacramento, and small fishing boats coming south, on their way back from the Delta, loaded with sturgeon and bass for San Francisco’s fish markets.
The sun was still a reasonable distance from the top of Mount Tamalpais, and the air was crisp and invigorating. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the small yard, clockwise, first by the chain-link fences so he could enjoy the sun and the breeze. The part next to the ten-foot wall was in the shade, so when he traversed it, he moved more rapidly. He repeated the circle four times, accelerating his pace. Finally he could stretch his legs. He started jogging, lifting his knees, and filling his lungs. He didn’t know if talking was allowed, so when he passed the other prisoners he didn’t look at them.
On the fifth turn, just as he was approaching the wall, there was a sudden loud explosion that shook the ground under his feet. Mathew didn’t have time to think about what happened; the force of the blast lifted him and knocked him back several feet away. He flew along with the chunks of the wall, which seemed to disintegrate as if in slow motion. He landed, and the rubble fell all around, burying him. A cloud of dust covered the yard. He didn’t hear screams, he didn’t feel any pain, and he didn’t try to move. There wasn’t enough air for him to breathe. He closed his eyes and plunged into darkness.
When the dust started clearing, he was engulfed in an eerie silence like at the bottom of the sea. He lay there semiconscious and numb. I must be dead, he thought, with a sort of fascination. But he realized that he could open his eyes and felt his mouth full of grit, the pulverized cinderblock.
He didn’t hear the sirens, the shots, or the screams because the explosion had left him numb and temporarily deaf. He opened his mouth and tried to call out but it seemed that no sound came from his lips. I’m dead, he repeated, but then a shooting pain on the left side of his body brought back some lucidity. He remembered it like in a dream: the prison, the yard, the gray wall. With a gigantic effort, he managed to move his head and lift his shoulders out of the rubble but couldn’t move the rest of the body. At that point he saw his lower left leg. It was twisted in an impossible angle, with two bones protruding and blood gushing from the gaping wound. I am going to bleed to death, he thought with indifference. He fainted again.
* * *
Hell had broken loose in the prison. Later, they would find out that a missile of some kind had been fired from somewhere on the West Tower, but during those first moments no one knew what had happened, or what to do. Several guards ran around in total confusion, screaming orders that no one followed, while those in the tower south of the chain-link fence, who were not involved in the explosion, came out on their platform and started shooting in the air, thinking that would somehow restore order; it only contributed to the chaos. They looked toward the tower to the west, supposing that whatever hit the wall had come from there, but that was the extent of their reaction. If a guard from another tower had fired something, they thought, there had to be a good reason for it.
Rafael, who had been getting his daily exercise on the other side of the wall, was one of the first to react. He bolted over the pile of cinderblocks and entered the other yard. He saw five prisoners and a couple of guards who were just beginning to get back on their feet after being knocked down by the explosion, and he realized that they weren’t injured. Then he noticed the man crushed under the rubble and the pool of blood gushing from him. Frantic, he started throwing material to one side to disengage him.
When Rafael was able to free the wounded man, he recognized, to his amazement, his former boss, Mathew O’Hara. One look was enough for him to realize that the man needed immediate first aid. He saw that the blood was spurting from his leg in rhythm with what he estimated was the man’s heartbeat. The artery looked like it had been severed. He tried to stop the bleeding with his fingers but it was immediately obvious that a tourniquet was needed. Without hesitation he tore his own shirt and shredded a sleeve while he tried to reduce the bleeding by pressing the wound with his foot. He wrapped the fabric around Mathew’s thigh and twisted it. The flow of blood diminished but didn’t stop. Over his shoulder he saw his cellmate who, like himself, had come from the other yard.
“Pancho, ayúdame! This cat’s on the way out.”
“What do you want me to do, carnal?”
“Get a piece of wood! I have to tighten the tourniquet! Hurry up, vato!”
Pancho whistled and two other Mexicans showed up at the rubble.
“Corten un pedazo de leña, about six inches long!” Pancho ordered, measuring with his hands.
One of the men looked around, saw he was protected from the tower’s view, and pulled a shiv out of his pants pocket. They got to one of the picnic tables. While the other one covered him from the view he sliced off a baton-sized piece of wood from the table and hid the knife back in his pants. He threw the wood to Pancho, who caught it in mid-flight and ran with it to Rafael. He then helped Rafael, who inserted it in the strip of shirt and twisted it until the bleeding stopped. Rafael realized that Mathew was in shock and started to shake and slap him.
“Wake up, Mr. O’Hara! Make an effort! Come on! Pancho, get some help!” he yelled, and Pancho ran off.
Finally the wounded man opened his lids. His eyes looked vacant and glazed in his dust-covered face. He yelled in pain.
“Help is coming,” said Rafael, but even if Mathew could hear he wouldn’t have understood the words. He was too dazed.
Only a few minutes had gone by but already there were armed guards in both yards shouting order at the inmates to stand back. One approached Rafael and pointed his gun at his head.
“Didn’t you hear me, fucker? Hands up!”
“I can’t let go of the tourniquet, sir. This man needs immediate help,” he tried to explain.
“Goddammit, did you hear me?” the guard yelled, kicking him in the back and forcing him on top of Mathew.
“Leave him be,” a voice came over a loudspeaker from the south tower. “He’s the only help we got right now for the prisoner that’s down.”
The guard backed off, still pointing his gun. Rafael, now back on his knees, saw a blank and frightened look in the man’s eyes that he recognized from his experience in the streets of his rough neighborhood. It meant that anything could tip the delicate balance in which they found themselves and make him start shooting. The other prisoners f
rom Rafael’s side of the yard recognized it, too, and they started moving in mass toward the cellblock gate to get back inside before any of the guards lost control.
At that moment, out of the crowd, came a shiv, thrown by an expert hand that no one saw, flying toward Mathew and Rafael. Maybe Rafael saw the metal shining in mid-air or maybe he acted by pure instinct. Without thinking, in a fraction of a second, he moved forward and the knife hit him in the neck. He fell back on top of Mathew.
The action was so swift, clean and silent, that several seconds went by before somebody in the yard reacted. The guard next to Rafael saw him fall, but he hesitated, confused. Then he bent over him and saw the knife in his neck. He poked Rafael with his knee and only then realized that he was dead. He cursed and automatically pressed the trigger of his gun. The bullets penetrated the ground, lifting shards of asphalt and cinderblock.
Panic broke out in the prison yard. The inmates ran to get into the building: pushing, falling, crawling. The guards kicked them and hit them with the butts of their guns, while the loudspeakers blasted away telling them to freeze and raise their hands. Nobody was about to wait around for that. All the alarms went off and a line of men in combat gear poured out of the building and occupied the yard, hitting left and right with their batons. Several of them rushed to Rafael and Mathew.
“What happened?” asked a sergeant.
“No fuckin’ idea,” replied the pale guard at the scene.
Soon the medical team arrived. By then Mathew O’Hara was unconscious. He had no idea that his Mexican janitor had saved his life twice in a span of fifteen minutes.
The Chinese Jars Page 19
