Dog Eat Dog

by Edward Bunker

  Troy lowered his head and smiled to himself. They still didn’t know who he was. They had to charge him with something in forty-eight hours or cut him loose.

  “I serve the defendant with the complaint,” the clerk said, handing the bailiff several pages of stapled legal papers, who handed them to Troy.

  “Let the record reflect that the defendant has been served,” said the judge, looking through bifocals at copies of the complaint. Then he looked at Troy. “What is your name?”

  “John Doe, I guess.”

  The judge, who was bald, turned red at the answer. “Do you have your own lawyer?” he asked.

  “Not at the moment, Your Honor. I haven’t been allowed to make a telephone call.”

  “Is that true, Mr. D’Arcy?” The judge looked at the assistant district attorney.

  “I have no idea, Your Honor. I understand it’s standard procure to allow everyone a phone call.”

  “Not me, Your Honor.”

  “Could that be because you wouldn’t give your name?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I haven’t had a chance.”

  The escorting deputy stood up. “Your Honor …”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m transporting Mr.… uh … Doe. If he hasn’t had a phone call, I’ll guarantee that he gets one as we leave here.”

  “You’re Deputy—”

  “Bartlett, sir. Senior Deputy Bartlett.”

  “Very good. I’ll leave it to you.” To Troy. “Are you going to have your own lawyer?”

  “Yes. I hope so.”

  “You have funds to hire one?”

  “Well, I did have some money in the car.”

  “Your Honor,” inserted the prosecutor. “I believe the defendant is talking about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars found in the trunk. We believe it’s proceeds from a crime—”

  “What crime?” Troy said.

  The judge raised a hand. “Restrain yourself, Mr.… uh … Doe.”

  “We’re investigating where it came from,” the prosecutor continued. “It’s booked as evidence.”

  “Well … we won’t deal with that issue at this proceeding. I’ll appoint the public defender until you retain your own lawyer. What about bail? What’s the position of the people?”

  “We think a million dollars is appropriate. The defendant hasn’t revealed his identity. The charges are extremely serious and there’s a great likelihood of flight to avoid prosecution.”

  “Mr.… Doe. What do you have to say?”

  “I think you’re overrating me.”

  “No, I don’t think so. A man who won’t give his name. I’m going to set bail at one million dollars. We need a date for a preliminary hearing.”

  The clerk carried the big book to the bench and put it in front of the judge and pointed a finger. “We’ll set preliminary hearing for Friday, January fifth, at ten A.M.”

  The arraignment was over. The judge ordered a ten-minute recess. The bailiff and deputies took Troy to the door and put on the leg irons, plus one handcuff attached to a wide leather strap around his waist; his other wrist was in a cast. The arraignment had taken four minutes after six hours of waiting.

  Back in the bullpen, he waited another five hours for transportation back to the hospital. It was dark outside. He looked through the mesh on the station wagon windows at the lighted store windows. In one of them a clerk was taking down a Christmas tree. The sight triggered a pang of inchoate longing. He had given up hope of Chuckie Rich sending him a pipe wrench via Chuckie’s cousin. His shift was over; he was long gone from the hospital. Even if he was still there and had the pipe wrench, there was no way to get it through the door. It was way too big to hide in his food tray. Could he bust the little observation window in the door and pass it through there? Not hardly.

  He stared longingly through the screened window at the free world, while in the background of consciousness he heard the deputies talking about mortgage rates and marriage.

  The sheriff’s van pulled to the emergency room entrance. One of the deputies went inside and returned with a black attendant pushing a wheelchair. They legironed him to the wheelchair, put a blanket over his lap, and pushed him down a hallway that gleamed from fluorescent light on pale enamel paint. In his room, they had him strip off the court clothes and put on hospital pajamas.

  Even while he watched the steel teeth clicking through the slot, he was aware of the lump poking up from under the mattress. He started to lift the edge of the mattress and reach beneath to pull out whatever it was, but his instinct made him decide to wait until the deputy and attendant left.

  As soon as the door closed, he reached underneath himself and pulled out a large plastic shopping bag. His heart skipped and raced as he felt how heavy it was. As he pulled it onto his lap, through the bag he felt the handle of the wrench. It banged against something else. He opened the bag and reached in; his fingers felt the hammer and cylinder of a revolver. Using his raised knees to shield any view through the observation window, he pulled out an older .38 Smith & Wesson with a long barrel, a pistol once called a “police special” before they went to .357 Magnums and fast firing 9mm automatics. The blueing was faded on the barrel and the handle was chipped, but it was oiled and loaded. He put pressure on the trigger; the hammer started to rise and the cylinder started to turn. It damn sure looked workable.

  Next the pipe wrench. It was hefty. Okie Bob had told him about snapping the same kind of bars in Soledad with a pipe wrench. Put the wrench on the bars and work them back and forth until the metal fatigued and the bar snapped. Troy would wait until things settled for the night, probably after the midnight count—then he would make his move, or see if it could be made.

  The deputy and attendant returned with a tray of cold food. He had the pistol and wrench under his legs beneath the blankets. He was too excited to eat. As the hours passed with excruciating slowness, he realized what Chuckie’s cousin had done. The room door had either been left open because nobody was in the room, or had been opened temporarily for a cleanup, and not watched during that interlude because the room was empty. It had to have been like that. There was no other way. Who the fuck said a black man and a white man could never be friends? Chuckie Rich was a better friend than many of Troy’s white homeboys. Too bad the bag had no address or phone number.

  The lights went out at ten. For another hour he could hear voices from a TV in a nearby ward; then that went off, too. He heard footsteps in the hallway. A flashlight beam came through the observation window. He feigned sleep and made sure his body was easy to see. He didn’t need them coming in to check him out.

  After the next count, it was time to start work. The first order of business was to get out of bed. The pipe wrench made short work of the hollow vertical rod at the foot of the bed. It was made out of pot metal and snapped with a couple of twists. The leg iron came free. True, it was attached to his ankle and the chain dangled, but he could move free.

  He got out of bed and went to the door, looking both ways down the hallway. Nothing moved. The deputy on duty obviously preferred sitting in the nurse’s station where he could watch movies all night.

  Troy went to the window and removed the screen. He had to break a couple of small panes of glass to get a bite on the flat bar. As he fastened the wrench and pushed, his spirits sank. It seemed unyielding. He pulled hard; then pushed with all his might. It moved a tiny fraction of a millimeter. That was enough. If it moved at all, he could eventually snap it off. He pulled as hard as he could; then pushed again.

  Rattling keys, footsteps. He dove into bed, clutching the pistol. If anybody opened the door, he wouldn’t go out the window, he would walk out the front. He didn’t want it that way. He would have no head start whatsoever. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. From behind his eyelids, he saw the glare of light. It disappeared and the footsteps receded. Another routine bed check. My God, how did the guy miss the screen off the window?

  Once more, Troy slipped to the
floor and looked up and down the hallway. Empty. Back to work.

  The bar gave a little more—and yet once more. Suddenly, it snapped. The sound was loud. It seemed like a small pistol.

  Oh shit! Jesus Christ! Somebody had to hear that. He replaced the screen and hurried to the door. If someone came his way, he would jump into bed and hold his breath.

  Nobody responded. He began to get excited. He was going to get away. True, a barefoot fool in loose pajamas, dangling a chain and wearing a cast, was still a longshot—but what had already happened was almost miraculous, that one of the few black men who was his friend would have a cousin who worked in a hospital and had enough guts to smuggle him a pipe wrench and a pistol. Thank God Chuckie Rich wasn’t a white-hater like so many brothers in California prisons.

  Now was the time to make his move. He tore a bedsheet into strips to wrap around the length of chain and so tie it to his leg. He had socks and cloth slippers. At least he wouldn’t be barefoot, although it would damn sure hurt when he dropped into the alley.

  With his arm in a cast, it was impossible to hold the pistol in one hand while climbing out. He used more bedsheet strips to put through the trigger guard, tied the ends, and made a pistol necklace to dangle around his neck underneath his pajama top.

  Using the pipe wrench, he bent the bars out enough so he could climb through. It was a tight squeeze, but he went headfirst, wriggled his torso out, then pulled the rest of himself free. The jagged end of the broken bars gouged a ribbon of flesh from his chest. He didn’t give a shit about that. His feet were on a tiny ledge just big enough for a toehold. It was eight or nine feet to the alley below, too high to risk jumping without shoes.

  He worked himself down the window until he could grab the tiny ledge with his fingers. He let himself dangle. He planned to hold himself and drop, but his momentum was too strong. As his body extended, the weight pulled his fingers loose and down he went. He fell back onto his ass with his legs up in the air, but nothing was broken. He reflexively threw back his arms to catch himself. The pain from the broken wrist was a bolt of lightning and sent instant sweat from his whole body. Great geysers of pain leaped into his brain.

  He had to move fast, and keep moving to get out of the small town. When the sun came up, every citizen in town, and every cop for a hundred miles, would be looking for him. Anyone who saw a man running in hospital pajamas would sound the alarm. He had to go fast and far before the morn.

  He moved to the end of the alley. Which way was what? It was a scene of surrealism, the empty stores, the deserted streets with the traffic lights going through their cycles for nobody. On the street there was nowhere to hide if headlights approached—but he had no choice and had to chance it.

  He sucked in a deep breath and sprinted on an angle across the boulevard toward the next intersection. Darkness beckoned down the cross street. He went a block and was on the edge of a seedy residential neighborhood. It had trees and bushes and shadows to hide him. When headlights approached, he pressed against a tree, and eased around it as the car went past. Another car appeared, and he dove facedown next to a ficus shrub, which elicited a frantic barking from a backyard dog. The passing car went by, and Troy moved on the other way. Lights came on behind him and he heard the dog’s owner yelling for it to “shaddup.”

  He knew very little of the town, but the street sign said he was heading west. The interstate lay a mile—or two, or three—in that direction. It ran north and south, to San Francisco and L.A., three hundred plus miles away. It made no difference to Troy which way he went—he had to get away from here—although San Francisco was much closer.

  He turned down an alley that ran between houses. Instantly a tabernacle choir of dogs began to howl and bark and jump at gates and fences. He hurried forward. The dogs seemed to pass him along, from behind one house to the next. The roadbed was rough dirt and rocks. The cloth slippers provided no protection when he stepped on rocks. Each time he winced and limped a few steps. His feet were starting to wear through the cloth; gone were the barefoot days of youth when he spent most of summer without shoes. He estimated that he’d walked about three miles. Pretty soon, his feet would be raw and bloody. Maybe he should find a hole and go underground. No. The hunt would be too intense. They might even use dogs. The town was too small. He had to get many more miles away.

  At the end of the block the houses stopped. Beyond that was a park. He was unable to determine its size, but it was more than a square because he was unable to see through to the other side. He went in. Thank God, the wet grass soothed his feet. Through the trees, he could see a sliver moon low on the horizon. The last traces of morphine wore off; pain throbbed through him from several sources, but he kept going.

  First came the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound—and thirty yards beyond, he came around a hedge and saw the raised interstate. All that was visible above the ivy-covered fence were the tops of huge diesel rigs rolling through the night. Desperation made his next decision: he would hijack a car. He was a man alone in the most primal sense imaginable.

  Moving along the edge of the park, veering around bushes, he watched the raised highway across the narrow parallel street. At the end of the park, the cross street led to an entrance ramp onto the highway. There was an underpass beneath the highway. There would be a ramp there, too, but that one would be heading north toward San Francisco. It was closer, but L.A. was where he had help. A sign said U.S. 101 South with an arrow. Next to the intersection of the ramp and the road beside the park was a stop sign. Good.

  Not so good was the forty yards of open space between the greenery and the stop sign. The big light on the freeway turned the lawn into the Dodger Stadium outfield. First, he would have to charge across the open space and hope nobody spotted him—and then hope that their doors were unlocked.

  As he moved into a hiding position, he remembered nature films with the lion crouched in the grass, tail twitching.

  Headlights. A stake bed truck with Mexican farm workers paused; then proceeded up the ramp. Damn, they went to work early. Not even a rooster was up yet and they were en route to the fields already.

  Another car appeared. It passed in silhouette and had one occupant. It slowed and stopped.

  Troy leaped forward, the pistol banging against his body under the sweatshirt, which was now soaked with sweat. He needed his good hand to open the car door.

  He was still thirty yards away when the bright brake light went off and the car started to move. He closed for another few seconds; then it quickly opened the distance. He stopped. He was panting. For some reason he remembered that the prey escape the charging lion most of the time.

  Had the driver seen him? No, his acceleration had been slow and even.

  He walked back, sucking cool air into his lungs. He sat down on the wet grass behind the bushes. After a minute’s rest, he refastened the leg iron chain, several times wrapping the strip of bed sheet around his leg and pulling it as tight as he could. He was hot and sweaty and the chill predawn air gave him goose bumps. He took the pistol from around his neck. It slowed him. He would carry it in his hand until he reached the car; then he would tuck it under his arm during the second he needed to reach for the car door. He practiced the motion a couple of times. Please, God, let it be unlocked.

  Another car, an old Cadillac Seville with the humpback. It went by. Two figures.

  Troy started the moment it passed, running behind it, hoping that neither looked over their right shoulder.

  The Cadillac’s brake lights went on. It was stopping ahead of him. He ran to catch up.

  The car stopped as he arrived. He lunged, tucked the pistol in his armpit, and reached for the back door. The handle went down, the door opened. Troy dove into the back.

  At that moment the car started moving. The driver hit the brakes. Troy crashed into the back of the front seat. Pain shot from his wired jaw to his brain. The pistol fell on the floorboard under him.

  The woman screamed. The driver turned his head,
the movement pulled his foot from the brake. The car rolled into an embankment of iceplant and stopped. He was a black man with a thin mustache and the scent of aftershave.

  The woman kept screaming as Troy rolled and twisted and pushed himself up; he could feel the pistol under his knee.

  The car filled with brilliant light. The blast of an air horn. A giant truck rolled by, the disturbed air buffeting the car.

  Troy’s fingers closed around the pistol. “Shaddup!” he yelled.

  She twisted around and pressed her back to the door frame.

  “Tell her,” Troy said to the man, raising the pistol.

  “Shhhhh,” the man said, reaching out to give his wife’s arm a hard shake. “Quiet down.”

  “Back up … move this car,” Troy said.

  “Okay … okay … just don’t hurt us.”

  “I’m not gonna hurt you … as long as you do what I say. Now back the motherfucker up and let’s roll.”

  “Up on the freeway.”

  “Yeah. Where the fuck did you think—”

  “You said back up.”

  “Let’s go. C’mon.”

  The Cadillac backed off the iceplant; it was still across the lines off the ramp itself.

  More headlights, two cars, one honking to warn them as it blew by.

  The Cadillac soon gathered momentum up the ramp and moved onto the freeway. He was rolling. He had a chance. It was hard to believe that he had gotten this far. It was enough to light the candle of hope.

  “Take our money and the car,” the woman said. “Let us go.”

  “Naw … I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Her husband answered for her: “Because we’d call the police right away.”

  “No, we wouldn’t—”