“Three precious days is all I got left. Unless I get a stay, you know? There’s still a lot that can happen with appeals and stuff.” He tries to convince Jarrett through the hole in the wall that his world is good, that there’s reason to hope. “Plus, I got a full schedule of visits,” he adds like it’s cause for celebration. But when he returns from a visit with his sister, he cries.
Jarrett doesn’t know what to do, what to offer in the way of comfort. It makes him feel weak, helpless. If only the padre would come, he thinks.
Terry snorts, coughs. He apologizes for losing it. “I don’t want to drag you down,” he says.
“Forget it,” Jarrett says. “We’re on fucking death watch, man. I wasn’t expecting a laugh riot.”
“The thing is,” Terry says, “I been this route three times already and I don’t know know if I can stand up to it again. That ride to The Walls, it drains you. But, hey, maybe it’s different with you, being as how you’re asking for it.”
Jarrett’s got no response for that.
o0o
Late that afternoon, he gets his own visitor. Trent Hunter. Jarrett could have said no to a meeting with the reporter and within moments of sitting down in front of him, Jarrett wishes he had. Hunter’s a clown. There’s no television camera in sight, but he’s wearing make-up. Eyeliner and maybe blush. His cheeks are too pink for the color to be natural. But it’s the way he’s grinning and working his eyebrows at Jarrett that’s really comical. It’s like he’s trying to convey some kind of covert message. Every con in the joint knows him for a bragger and a liar. They know his reputation for slinging the slime, but they talk to him anyway for the same reason Jarrett has agreed to do an interview: it breaks the monotony.
They pick up the telephone receivers, work through the preliminaries. To Jarrett’s, “How’s life in the free world?” Hunter comes back with, “I heard you relocated. How’s life on death watch?”
“Damn near done,” Jarrett answers. “Stick a fork in me.”
“Maybe not,” Hunter says and when Jarrett asks what he means, the reporter says he’s heard a rumor.
“No kidding!” Jarrett exclaims like it’s news, like the world of prison isn’t rife with them.
Trent ignores the sarcasm. “I heard the internal affairs folks got permission from the warden to grill you one last time about where you hid the codex.”
“What is it with you people, those government assholes? How many ways can I say it? I don’t give a fuck about the thing.”
“The theory is you’re making them sweat until zero hour, then you’ll give them what they want, but only in exchange for a commuted sentence. Otherwise—” Hunter slices his finger across his neck. “It’s good strategy. It might even work if they want to know where the codex is badly enough. I thought you and I could talk about that and some other stuff.” He pulls a notepad out of his pocket, uncaps a pen with his teeth.
“Let’s say your theory’s correct, that I intend to trade my life for some damn writing that may be fake, do you really think I’d give up the information to you? How much do you think it’ll be worth after you blast it all over the news?”
“Suppose we talk off the record? You say the last place you saw it was in your car, right?”
“Yeah. Let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about the cops who searched my car. You remember what my father-in-law paid for the codex, don’t you? Wouldn’t you be tempted by that, if you were a cop? You think they wouldn’t know where and how to get top dollar?”
Hunter hooks his chin closer to the window. “Suppose Salazar’s wife got it?”
“Blanca? She wasn’t even in the States at the time.”
“Yeah, but she’s got people here. They could have known, had you tailed. Wouldn’t have taken them but two seconds to get into your car.”
Jarrett blows out a dismissive breath.
“You know she’s here now, don’t you? Blanca? Looking to attend your execution.”
“Yeah, I heard she said she’s looking forward to getting the first good night’s sleep she’s had in six years once I’m dead. It warms my heart.”
“But doesn’t it piss you off that she’s all over network TV blaming you for her husband’s death when it was Tilley that shot him?”
Jarrett says, “Like that’s news?” and even as he speaks, he sees an image of Blanca in his mind’s eye: the straight shot of her spine, the refined jut of her chin, the dark accusatory flash in her eyes. The details come from his remembrance of her when she took the stand to deliver her testimony against him. When she told the court that Rafe was a hero, the sacrificial lamb. Jarrett’s dupe. Maybe she even believed it.
Hunter’s yapping about the talk show circuit. That Blanca’s all over it slandering the Capshaw family name. He gestures. “And here you are with your time almost up and you’re not fighting it. You’re asking for it. Don’t you care? Don’t you want me to tell your side, set the record straight? Where’s your pride, man?”
“You know what? I can’t decide what’s worse, your bullshit or hers.”
“Let’s talk about the codex again. What if it does contain some kind of formula for surviving a world holocaust?”
“Jesus, you don’t let up, do you. There’ve been hundreds of those woo-woo predictions.”
“Yeah, but just because none of them has been true so far doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.”
“I’ve got no time for this crap.” Jarrett’s ready to signal the guard.
Hunter rubs his brow. “You know, I’m sensing some hostility here.”
“Wow, ya think?”
“I guess you’re like a lot of folks, you figure I’m some kind of smear merchant looking to build my reputation off the trouble in your life, but that’s not the case.”
Hunter allows a space for Jarrett to respond. He doesn’t.
“Look, I’m in this business in part to give people the story they want and for whatever reason right now that’s you. Maybe it’s because you’re asking to die, which is something most folks fight like hell to avoid. Maybe you scare people; maybe you make them look at something in themselves they don’t want to see. One thing though, you make the system look stupid. It’s like you’re beating the state at their own game. They can’t hurt you, right? Some people admire you for it, others hate you, but almost every one of them is curious. As for the whereabouts of the codex? The mystery behind it? That’s like frosting on the cake.”
“So?”
“So, I talk to you. I report on this decision you made and whatever else you want to tell me. Maybe it opens a dialogue out there in the free world, shines a light on something. Who knows? And that’s fine, but the more burning issue with me is Blanca Salazar. You know if she kept to herself, if she wasn’t out there playing the victim every time I turn on the news, I might let this go. It’s how she flaunts it that gets me. She’s got all the sympathy going for her and that bug-eyed kid of hers and yet she’s in this thing up to her neck.”
“I don’t know why any of this matters, why you or anybody cares.”
“Listen, when I showed her the flight plan, the one Salazar filed for Amsterdam?” Hunter gestures wildly. “She told me I was crazy, that she and Salazar had no plans to ditch the feds and leave the country to save their own necks. I don’t like it when people lie to my face.”
“What goes around comes around.”
“Huh? Don’t tell me it doesn’t piss you off.”
“All right, yeah, she’s living like a fucking queen while my wife scrapes to find the next mortgage payment.” Finally provoked, Jarrett repeats what Grace has said a hundred, a thousand times.
Hunter’s elated. “I knew it. You’re mad as hell.”
“Maybe, but what’s it get me?”
“After you’re gone, you don’t want your family tarred with the same brush Blanca’s using on you, do you? You give me the skinny, I guarantee you, I’ll get the truth out there.”
Jarrett’s stare is blank.
&nb
sp; “Okay, so let’s forget the Salazars for a second. There’s a rumor that Grace has the codex, that you stashed it somewhere for her and she intends to sell it to that second buyer or whoever. Now me, I’d like that. It’d be poetic.”
“Christ, you’re all over the damn place.”
“So give me the real scoop,” Hunter presses.
Dropping the receiver into its cradle, Jarrett stands up. “Guard?” he shouts.
“What about this? You were adopted, right?” Hunter’s voice is audible despite the barrier.
Jarrett swings his gaze around.
“Did you ever meet your birth parents?”
“They’re dead,” Jarrett says and then hollers for the guard again.
“You sure about that? You’ve seen proof?”
“Don’t you ever get sick of picking through the same goddamn load of trash you picked through yesterday? Read the trial transcript, man, the defense expert’s testimony about how my being abandoned,” Jarrett tweaks air quotes, “led to my life of crime.”
“Yeah, I know all that. But what if it isn’t true?”
Jarrett wipes the air in front of him as if he can clear Hunter from his vision.
“So tell me about the correspondence you’re getting from the woman who signs her letters L. Do you know who she is?”
“How do you know about—?” Jarrett breaks off. It’s a dumb question. It’s Hunter’s job to snoot out details he has no business knowing.
“I’m asking because I may have found out some information—”
“Listen, asshole,” Jarrett bends his face to within an inch of the Plexiglas. “I don’t give a fuck about your information or your help or your guarantees, okay? I don’t care if the record’s ever set straight. I just want to be left alone. I want to die in peace, with dignity, so my kids have that at least. So get the fuck out of my face. Get away from me and don’t come back.”
“Yeah, okay, Jesus. But listen, before I go, there’s just one other thing.”
Jarrett straightens, gaze wary.
“Has anybody told you that your son is missing?”
“What? Which son?”
“Thomas. Evidently he and a buddy got drunk last night, stole a car and wrecked it. The other kid’s in a coma, but Thomas disappeared from the emergency room.”
“What are you—? Was he hurt?”
“He needed stitches for a head wound, but when they went to treat him, he was gone; he’s been missing since early this morning.”
“And you’re just now telling me?” Jarrett yanks up the receiver again.
“The cops have an APB out on him, but maybe you don’t want them to find him.”
“Why?”
“Because if the buddy dies, your kid’ll be facing a manslaughter charge.”
“Thomas was driving?”
“So they say.”
Jarrett’s legs buckle. He pulls out the chair, drops into it. He’s grateful when Hunter offers to see what more he can find out. The guard makes the same offer once Jarrett’s locked back in his cell.
He sits on his bunk, puts his head in his hands. Terry Ray calls his name; Jarrett ignores him. He tries his transistor radio, gets nothing. He paces beside his bunk, three steps up and back. He thinks in addition to the cops, Grace will be looking for Thomas too. Grace will be with Cort, Jarrett thinks, and even as he thinks this, thinks of Cort with her, steadying her, holding her, the sound is breaking from his chest.
Something between a groan and a cry, guttural, helpless. It is a living hell, the worst kind of hell. Dying won’t be worse. Burning in eternal fire won’t be. He won’t forgive himself if something has happened to Thomas. But then he won’t forgive himself anyway.
o0o
Hours pass; an entire night and part of a morning go by before he hears the CO outside his door.
“Capshaw?”
With an effort, Jarrett sits up.
“They found your kid.” The man crosses to the bunk; he drops his hand onto Jarrett’s shoulder. The gesture is so unprecedented, so extreme in this place where physical contact is virtually unknown, there can only be one meaning.
Jarrett’s breath stops; he closes his eyes.
Chapter 20
Saturday, October 9, 1999 - 8 days remain
“Carolyn told me that man's wife is your patient.” Esther looks pointedly at the Houston Chronicle that’s folded on the kitchen table. A grainy photograph, what looks to Sophia like a mug shot of Jarrett Capshaw, along with a piece of a headline: ...federal agents seeking.... is visible.
“We’ve been following the story about him.” Frances sounds peeved.
Which can only mean the sisters are in a fuss again. Sophia pulls open the refrigerator door, plunks down the carton of eggs, a quart of soy milk, slams the door.
“Whatever is ailing you this morning?” Esther asks coming out of the pantry.
“Nothing,” Sophia says. Because the cooler current of her common sense warns she’s too angry to respond rationally. How dare you? That is the question that is spinning in her mind. How dare you complain about me behind my back to my daughter? Create fresh difficulty between us? Sophia had had such hopes. Now she and Carolyn are back to barely speaking. What little civility Carolyn evidenced this morning was a show for Larry’s sake.
Esther gestures at the newspaper. “I was surprised when Carolyn said you were involved with this nutcase. I didn’t think you liked it much when those reporters were sticking their noses in your business before.”
“It hasn’t been a problem,” Sophia says shortly. “What do you want for dinner? I bought a pork roast. Shall we start that before I go?”
“Sister’s off her feed,” Frances declares.
Esther addresses Sophia. “Why didn’t Carolyn come with you?”
“I told you, she isn’t feeling well.”
“Sit down, Sophia.” Esther instructs. “What’s wrong with her? Frances, will you bring the coffee?”
You, you’re what’s wrong with her. Morning sickness is what’s wrong with her. Sophia bites the inside of her mouth.
Esther says, “I hope she’s not coming down with that stomach thing that’s going around.”
“Make her some chamomile tea, Sophia. It will fix her right up.”
“Oh, Frances, that herb business is just pure foolishness.”
“It is not. You are always so neg—”
“Is he guilty?” Esther taps the newspaper. “Has his wife said?”
“Mother, you know I can't dis—”
Frances interrupts. “He says in there that he doesn’t know where that—what’s it called?”
“Codex?” Sophia supplies.
Frances’s frown relaxes. “He doesn’t know where it is. They’re saying he may be questioned about it again by men from the government.”
Esther says, “Well, if you ask me, with all this volunteer hoopla, the State is making it too easy for him. I don't imagine he made it easy for those men he murdered. His own father-in-law, for Pete’s sake. I’m sure he didn’t give him a choice.”
Frances slaps the table. “But Louis Tilley threatened him. The story says he was trying to get the gun away and it went off.”
“That’s his version.”
“It was an accident, Sister. If only you would read—”
Esther talks over her. “Frances, if we left it up to you, you'd be up at that prison unlocking all the cells, letting out the scum of the earth. We'd have free love in the streets, nudity and filth everywhere.”
Frances groans.
“I bought sweet potatoes, too,” Sophia says, “and the snow peas you both like.”
“I don’t have to read the article to know the man’s story,” Esther is saying.
Frances looks at Sophia. “I always forget how Sister knows everything, don’t you?”
“It’s not a matter of what I know,” Esther huffs. “It’s a matter of fact. Men who go to prison weren’t given proper parental guidance. Children need discipline
, a firm hand. Boys, especially, need a father. Statistics prove it.” She sips her coffee looking at Sophia over the cup’s rim. “Young men turn to violence if there’s not a father in the home. Look at the gangs.”
Sophia returns her mother’s stare. Esther doesn’t look away. She wants Sophia to see the parallel she is attempting to draw; she wants to make an issue of it. And even as Sophia thinks, Fine, thinks, We’ll have this out now once and for all, she feels a hollow clang of disbelief, of panic. After so many years, that they would speak of it.
“Sister, whatever are you getting at?”
“She’s saying I ought to be grateful that my son is dead, that he was saved from a life of crime.” Sophia doesn’t move her eyes from her mother’s face.
Esther turns to Frances. “She blames me. She always has.”
“Is that why you felt moved to tell Carolyn I hold a grudge against you, that my taking your car keys is a way of getting revenge?”
“I don’t want the trouble on my conscience anymore, Sophia. I’m an old woman, I could go at any time. What I did was in your best interest and in the best interest of that poor child and I want you to admit it. Before I die.”
“Why hasn’t Carolyn turned to a life of crime as the result of my mothering skills? Or the lack of them?”
“She was raised in a stable environment by two parents, which proves my point. And I didn’t say you lack parenting skills, although what sixteen-year-old girl could even fathom the responsibilities.”
“I don’t blame you, Mother, all right? It’s quite clear that you believe what you did was right.”
“And it’s just as clear to me that you don’t agree. You think if I’d taken you both in that day he wouldn’t have died. You saddle me with that. You would have me go to my grave carrying the burden of what is your guilt on my back. I didn’t cost that child his life, Sophia, you did.”
“That’s enough!” She stands so abruptly, her chair teeters. “I don’t know why you’re bringing this up now when all you have ever wanted is for me to forget it. Forget him. Well, you got your wish. Now I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to talk about him.”
The Volunteer Page 17
