by Sean Black
Byron nodded. ‘Looks like a pretty nice place to live.’
Thea smiled. ‘Oh, it is. Three golf courses. Free to play. They’ve built a large solar facility that means power is all but free. Of course, the men here did all the heavy labor. You probably haven’t even seen the new recreational center. Outdoor and indoor swimming pools. Basketball courts. Gymnasium. Running track. Football field. Soccer pitch. Tennis courts. Again, all free to use for residents.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Byron. ‘All built by the inmates.’
‘A lot of it, yes.’ Thea said. ‘You can really keep the costs down if you don’t have to pay for anything apart from materials.’
Byron didn’t quite follow. The inmates could do manual labor, the heavy lifting, but there was a lot more to building what Thea had talked about than that. ‘What about architects? Engineers? Someone to oversee the work?’ he asked.
‘Lot of professional retired people down here. They pitch in. When they can’t find the skills they need, they hire in people from Houston or San Antonio.’
Something was nagging at Byron as Thea spoke. He didn’t doubt the righteousness of her indignation. It was clear that in Kelsen County due process wasn’t being followed properly and the fundamentals of the Constitution were being ignored, but making prisoners work, rather than sit watching TV all day, lift weights so they were better prepared for future crime, or jack off in their cells? Personally he didn’t think that prison should be an easy ride. ‘How come this bugs you so much?’ he asked.
‘It’s not so much that it annoys me. It’s more that no one else seems to care. They pay low tax. They get everything laid out on a plate for them. They couldn’t care less that the sheriff is scooping up illegals, the courts are putting them in here, and they’re being used as slave labor.’
It was Byron’s turn to smile. Welcome to the real world, he thought, but didn’t say. What Thea had described was a sizable minority of the population. Even kids in bad US neighborhoods, who were considered deprived, bounced around on brand new sneakers, and used cell phones that could operate a satellite. They never gave a thought to the conditions or pay for people on the other side of the world who made it all possible. Whatever your view of human nature, of whether people were good or bad, there was no denying that when life was sweet people were tempted not to dig too deep to find out why. They just might find the answer was that their good fortune was built upon someone else’s bad luck.
‘You think I’m a naive do-gooder?’ Thea said.
‘Doesn’t matter what I think. But I do wonder why no one else has gotten upset about all this before now. I mean, they must have pulled over the wrong guy at some point. Traffic offense. Something. It can’t just be drifters and illegals that they stop.’
‘Correct,’ Thea said. ‘That’s their fail-safe system.’
‘Fail-safe?’ Byron asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Well,’ said Thea, ‘say you had been able to pay the fine. Or say you’d refused to pay but phoned some big city attorney, or a family member who was connected in some way. In other words, say you’d had some muscle behind you.’
‘Exactly. They can’t be shaking down those people,’ Byron said.
‘No, they can’t. They get any kind of pushback or a hint that someone might want to take it further and they back straight off. All your troubles magically disappear. Usually by that time the person is glad to get the hell out of here and not look back.’
‘And if they get really mad?’ Byron asked, guessing that he already knew the answer.
‘City cuts them a check. With a non-disclosure agreement attached at the end so they don’t go talking to any reporters,’ said Thea. ‘They’re few and far between, though. The cops can usually sniff out anyone who’s likely to be a problem before they get as far as arresting them. Most of the time they just give them a hundred-dollar ticket for whatever it was they pulled them over for and that’s it.’
‘The locals don’t get tetchy about any of this? I mean, free golf is great, but not if you’re getting tickets all the time,’ said Byron.
‘Cops all know who the locals are. They don’t get pulled over. Even something like a DUI is dealt with quietly. You ask any of the locals about the sheriff? They love the guy.’
‘Because he only locks up real criminals?’ Byron said.
‘Got it in one.’
32
Thea gathered up her papers, including six pages in Byron’s handwriting. They stood, a little awkwardly. Thea put out her hand again. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Davis.’
Byron shook it. ‘You’re welcome. I think.’
Neither of them wanted to let go. It was only when their clasping hands moved into the awkward zone that Byron finally let hers drop.
‘Be careful,’ Thea said. ‘They won’t like the fact you’ve talked to me.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.’
‘All the same.’ she said, reaching into her briefcase and handing him a business card.
He watched her walk to the door, open it and go out into the corridor. It closed behind her. He heard her say something to a guard in the corridor. A few seconds later the door opened again.
‘Back out on the yard, Davis,’ said the guard.
The guard walked with him down the corridor. Thea was already out of sight.
‘She’s some piece of ass,’ the guard said.
Byron didn’t respond.
The guard smirked as he gave Byron another sideways glance. ‘Don’t get lips like hers from sucking oranges. Know what I mean?’
Byron kept walking. Putting one foot in front of the other. Suppressing the urge to pick up the guard by the throat and smash him into the wall. The guard laughed. He was enjoying what he obviously read as Byron’s discomfort. ‘Bet she loves it rough,’ he continued. ‘She’s got that look about her. All prim and proper on the outside. But I can tell.’
Byron stopped and half turned towards him. The guard’s hand fell to his canister of pepper spray. ‘Like you’d have a shot,’ Byron said. ‘A man like you wouldn’t to know what to do with a woman like her. All you can do is talk shit about her, then go home and jerk off.’
The guard’s face flared red. ‘Watch your mouth, inmate. That’s insubordination.’
Byron pushed through the end door and out into the sunshine. The guard stood where he was, glaring at him. Byron went to join Red, who was watching a small crowd of Mexican prisoners around Romero. The old man seemed to be giving some kind of an impromptu speech. He spoke fast, jabbing his finger in the air to emphasize a point. Byron listened. Romero was giving his followers some old time religion. Hot and heavy. Big on Jesus, and the meek inheriting the earth. Byron could see in Romero’s eyes the spark of the younger man he’d been. It wasn’t quite extinguished yet. He still had some fight in him.
Something else drew Byron’s attention. He glanced skywards. Up in the watchtower, a guard was standing with Warden Castro. Both of them were studying Romero.
33
‘How can I help you, Warden?’ Byron said, sitting down.
‘You can start by telling me what Thea Martinez wanted,’ said Castro.
‘There’s such a thing as attorney-client privile—’
Castro cut him off. ‘I know what it is. I don’t need you to tell me. I could take a guess. She wanted you to tell her how terrible everything is here. How badly y’all are treated. How I’m some kind of a monster.’
Byron stared across the desk at him. He figured he’d let Castro vent. He doubted very much that Castro would punish him and lose a unit shot caller. Franco was a busted flush. There was no way he would be able to resume his previous position, even with Byron transferred out to another unit or in solitary. Castro needed Byron to keep a lid on things.
‘She can run her mouth all she wants,’ said Castro. He already seemed to be tiring of the subject of Thea Martinez, civil-rights crusader. ‘Nobody listens anyway.’
If only Castro h
ad known that Byron had the same opinion of the attorney’s efficacy. He didn’t think she’d make a difference. And neither did she. Byron would have added a caveat. So far. If she did managed to snag some interest from the DOJ there was plenty for them to get their teeth into down here. A federal prosecutor who wanted to make a name for themselves could, from the little Byron had seen, do a lot worse than Kelsen County.
‘You know who Miguel Romero is?’ Castro said.
‘Sure. Old Mexican guy. Just got out of solitary,’ said Byron, deliberately playing it two shades dumber than giving an honest answer. When dealing with authority a little bit of dumb could take you a long way. As long as you didn’t overplay it.
Castro hunched over the desk. ‘He’s a labor organizer. He came across the border and got himself arrested in Kelsen deliberately. Can you believe that?’
‘Nothing about what people choose to do surprises me much, Warden,’ Byron said.
‘Anyway, he’s back starting trouble.’ Castro took a deep breath. ‘I heard from one of my men that you got him taken off work detail. Persuaded the guards with the work party to let him take it easy in the shade. Have himself a little siesta.’
Byron wasn’t about to cop to that either. The question would only arise as to how he had persuaded a guard. He guessed that the warden already knew. He also guessed that there was lots more bribery of guards than either of them was aware of.
‘I want you to talk to Romero for me, Davis. See if you can’t point out how you doing him a solid is going to end up with everyone being punished. I would say you should tell him he’s going to be punished. But we tried that already. He’s begging me to make him some kind of a martyr. Ain’t gonna happen. But if he thinks other people are going to be affected, he might think things over,’ said Castro.
‘Punished how?’ Byron asked.
‘I’ll think of something. I can get pretty creative.’
Byron didn’t doubt it. None of the people running the county could be faulted for a lack of imagination. ‘If he won’t play ball?’
‘Do whatever you have to do. You persuaded Franco into retirement. How tough can it be to convince an old man?’
From what he’d seen so far, Byron had a feeling that Romero was a much tougher character than schoolyard-bully Franco. Romero had something else too. He had belief in a cause. No matter whether it was just or not. From years spent traveling the world, Byron had grown to understand that a man with a cause he held deeply was a powerful entity. Brute force rarely worked. If the warden was going to get through to Romero, negotiation would be the better approach.
In any case, none of this was Byron’s concern. Sunday would be over soon enough. Monday would bring an opportunity to get out of here. The last thing Byron needed was to become distracted by a local power struggle. Not that he could let Castro know that.
‘I’ll find a way,’ Byron said. ‘Somehow.’
Castro smiled. ‘Knew I could count on a man like you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Warden. You can.’
34
‘The warden wanted me to speak with you,’ Byron said, sitting side by side with Romero as the truck filled with men.
‘He can’t speak with me himself?’
Byron didn’t respond.
‘He must be a very busy man,’ Romero said.
The driver guard started the engine. Another rode shotgun beside him.
‘For a man who wants to speak with me you don’t say very much,’ Romero said.
‘He asked me to speak with you. I never said I wanted to,’ said Byron.
Romero was staring at Byron now, his gaze even and unrelenting. ‘What are you doing here?’
Byron looked away. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’
Romero gave a little shrug. ‘My sister’s son died here. I came to find out what happened.’
The stark honesty of his answer took Byron by surprise. ‘He died in the prison?’
Romero nodded. The amusement was gone, replaced by something more somber. And beneath the sadness Byron could detect a flinty determination.
‘He was a labor organizer like me. He had heard about what was happening here. He came to investigate. To see what was really going on and to see if he could help our people.’
Byron had a hunch where this was going. ‘They found out who he was?’
‘Yes,’ said Romero.
‘What happened to him?’ Byron asked.
‘I don’t know. They said he was released but no one’s seen or heard from him since. I thought that if I came here I might be able to discover what happened.’
‘You getting anywhere?’
Romero sighed. ‘I think they are telling the truth about letting him go. But after that . . . it’s like he disappeared into thin air.’
Byron reached out to steady him as the truck hit a bump in the road.
Romero looked at him. ‘That’s my story. And you? Why are you here?’
Byron’s hand fell away from the old man’s arm. ‘Arrested for vagrancy. Didn’t have the money to pay the fine, so . . .’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Here I am.’
‘Here we both are,’ said Romero, rattling the cuffs securing his wrists. ‘And now Castro wants you to tell me to stop causing him trouble.’
‘Something like that,’ said Byron.
‘There’s usually an “or” at the end of that sort of message,’ Romero said.
‘Yeah,’ said Byron. ‘There usually is. But you don’t strike me as someone who’d respond well to being threatened.’
‘This is why I don’t understand why you’re here. You’re smart enough to know I can’t be threatened, but not smart enough to find a friend who can bail you out or an attorney who can get you out.’
The truck rolled to a temporary stop. They were passing one of the town’s lush golf courses. A couple of overweight white guys stood on a putting green and watched the prison convoy roll slowly past. One said something to his playing partner and they laughed.
‘Castro asked me to talk to you and that’s what I’ve done. I’m not going to threaten or harm you. But if I don’t they’ll find someone who will,’ said Byron.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Romero.
‘You don’t care?’ Byron asked.
‘You do what I do in Mexico and you get used to death threats. The way I look at it, I can only die once.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ said Romero, ‘a man who worries about the end of his life, about when it will come, how it will come, he dies many times. But a man who lives his life as the sun rises every morning without thinking whether he’ll see it set? He can have only one death.’
* * *
The truck didn’t make its usual turn. It kept moving down the road until it reached a series of single-story grey warehouses surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with spools of razor wire. The vehicle at the head of the convoy stopped at an unmanned gatehouse. One of the guards walked over to a keypad and punched in the access code. Metal gates swung open. The convoy moved through and inside the warehouse complex.
Byron watched the gates close. Two of the Mexican inmates were busy nudging each other like a couple of school kids, no doubt excited at the prospect of working inside, free from the glare of the scorching sun. Next to him, Romero remained quiet.
‘You know what this place is?’ Byron asked the old man.
‘Never seen it before.’
Romero leaned over and asked the prisoners opposite, in Spanish, if they had been there before. None of them had.
The convoy drew to a halt next to the largest of the four warehouses. Byron guessed that they would all find out soon enough what lay ahead. One of the guards prodded two inmates towards a pair of roller-mounted dock doors. The inmates hauled them back to reveal a dark, cavernous space, filled from floor to ceiling with heavy wooden shipping pallets stacked thirty high in rows of twenty. The rows went all the way back into the very rear of the warehouse.
> The inmates gathered in a semi-circle on a raised platform just inside the doors. It was hotter inside the warehouse than it had been outside. The air was stale and heavy with humidity. The guards peeled four inmates away from the main group. They reappeared a few minutes later with each man holding one end of two extendable metal ladders.
Mills strode to the front of the group. ‘Romero, can you translate for the amigos?’
Byron watched Romero carefully, waiting for a reaction. Romero’s answer came in the form of a diffident nod and a simple ‘Yes.’ This was a man who didn’t dodge a battle, but who was also careful about which ones he chose to fight.
‘Okay, assholes, here’s the deal. We need this warehouse cleared out. So you are going to work in two teams. Each team has a ladder. You climb to the top, pass the pallets down, then take them outside to the waste ground.’
As Mills spoke, his colleagues moved among the men, unlocking handcuffs and removing leg irons. Byron was almost the last to be freed. The guard who took off his cuffs was on edge, his mind yellow with fear until he had put some space between himself and Byron. Byron made a note of his caution.
Mills paused to allow Romero’s Spanish translation to catch up. From Byron’s very limited Spanish, he noted that Romero had edited out the asshole comment. The inmates probably hadn’t required a translation of that.
‘Arrange the pallets into a bonfire. When that’s done we’re going to burn them. Any questions?’ the guard said.
Before Romero could finish translating the instructions, the guard marched back towards the pickup’s air-conditioned cab. His colleagues moved outside and watched the men set to work in the steaming heat.
35
Byron looked at the rows of wooden pallets stacked floor to ceiling. He looked at the ladders. He looked at Romero.
