No Return

by Nolon King

  While Mal and Jasper might have saved Jessi, in many ways, Jessi had saved her.

  She had given Mal a reason to care again. A reason to fight the darkness instead of surrendering to it. A reason to stop taking the pills.

  Jessi reminded Mal that she could still do good in the world and put bad men like Dodd away.

  And that gave her purpose.

  But now Cameron, Barry, and whoever else was in their little circle of influence were trying to take that all away — to get her fired.

  She hated them for standing in her way. For preventing her from doing her fucking job.

  As Mal watched video of her punching then kicking some asshole, she wondered who had been following her and filming this. Had it been different people catching her drunken, drugged behavior on camera, or had Conlan, Barry, or Ford hired some asshole to follow her?

  And if someone was following her, what else did they see? Her abusing drugs? Her leaving a Narcotics Anonymous meeting? What other videos might drop? And might they prevent her from ever returning to the department?

  Mal didn’t care. Whatever else they might have, she wouldn’t let these people lurking in the shadows prevent her from doing good in this world. She’d lost too much time wallowing in self-pity after Ashley died.

  She couldn’t pause her war with the darkness.

  But then the coughing came to claim her. Maybe just a few minutes.

  Sunday, August 25

  Chapter 4 - Paul Dodd

  Paul lay in the cold on a little mat, reading a book from the library, passing time until dinner. A history book about pre-war Germany. He had no interest in Germany, but he’d already read most of the other history books. He’d also read the social science books, most of them dog-eared copies from the eighties and nineties. Even a few lame thrillers. Getting any romances was almost impossible. They were gold in jail.

  He was in the D Wing, or Delta Three, as the guards called it. High security, where they stashed the murderers and rapists. Paul was both. Being a county jail, there weren’t many murderers locked up awaiting trial. There were a dozen cells in this housing unit, but only two people occupied them now — Paul and an older Hispanic man named Hector. There had been three, but Danny got sent off to the state penitentiary last week.

  He’d been Paul’s favorite. Danny knew everything about the jail, the hierarchies, and how to work the system. Not that it did him much good, since Paul was so isolated. But Danny had given him excellent advice about surviving prison once he was likely found guilty and sent there.

  And Danny knew how to get shit done.

  He was the one who facilitated the whole delivery system to send videos to Mallory and Jessi’s mother. With him gone, Paul wondered if the delivery guy could be trusted not to ransack the storage unit where Paul stored the videos, maybe even contact the authorities or some media outlet that would pay for such a prize.

  Those videos were his trophies. All he had left of his time with the girls.

  And now they might all be gone.

  Why?

  Because he’d used them to bargain with Mallory for a visit.

  Not his proudest moment.

  He hated himself for being so weak, so lonely, that he just had to get her to visit.

  Paul had never been much of a people person, never imagined that he’d mind being alone. But the forced isolation of prison was predator to the prey of his senses.

  He was so desperate for any communication, he looked forward to spending time with Hector and his broken English. Hell, he even enjoyed talking to the few guards who didn’t treat him like a pariah.

  While Paul awaited trial, he sometimes wondered if he’d be better off pleading guilty just so he could get on with it. He had zero hope of winning his freedom. Maybe they’d find him crazy enough to throw him in a psychiatric facility.

  But if he failed, he’d wind up at a state prison. Which, according to Danny, wasn’t nearly as bad as the county jail. Because in prison you had more freedom. And you weren’t alone in a max security wing. If you behaved yourself, you could have physical visitations instead of the Plexiglas-and-phone bullshit.

  Not that anyone, other than his lawyer, would ever visit Paul.

  He was dead to his ex-wife and daughter. He got Mallory to visit, but that hadn’t gone well. Despite his promises of additional videos showing her Ashley’s dying days, the detective would not be returning. Maybe she would make it back to watch him die.

  So it was just him and Hector.

  On the rare occasions when they got rec time together in the day room, they didn’t talk much. Sometimes they’d watch TV. Other times, they’d play chess. Hector was decent enough, but not exactly a challenge to his intellect. Paul would sometimes handicap his game, make a few bad moves, sacrifice a powerful piece to make things more interesting. Sometimes Hector won, which gave him the juice to play more and Paul a little delight in seeing the man working to improve his game.

  But today Hector wasn’t at rec time. He was in the sick ward, so Paul sat alone watching TV. A Golden Girls episode, something he had never seen on the outside. But even Golden Girls was worth watching in jail.

  Then aired the commercial for that cruise line with the little girl in a skimpy bathing suit. Oil for his pistons later.

  Still, Paul would’ve preferred playing chess to being alone.

  As much as he hated the loneliness of six months in what more or less amounted to solitary confinement, Paul was glad not to be in gen pop. One guard, a big black dude named Lawrence, told him to stop griping about being bored and to thank his fucking stars he wasn’t in gen pop.

  A kiddy-diddler winds up there, he gets his wig split.

  A buzzing outside drew his attention.

  Paul put his book down, stood, then went to his window, hoping to see Hector. It was too late for rec time today, but maybe he could play chess tomorrow.

  But it wasn’t Hector.

  Two guards were shoving a big bald white dude with a swastika on his giant neck toward the cell next to Paul’s. He was holding a new arrival’s plastic tub — a mat, blanket, pillow, cup with toothpaste, and plastic spoon.

  As they passed his door, the man glared at Paul through the window.

  And though he had never seen him before, there was the briefest glint of recognition in the man’s eyes before he was out of view and being led into his cell.

  Paul settled back on his bed and tried to read.

  After a while, the silence was shattered by his new neighbor, moving around, and eventually, seemingly, throwing his shit against the wall. Then he began shouting, “Fuck!” over and over.

  Paul wondered if the guards were going to silence him.

  He even got up to peer through his window, up at the control room on the second story looking down on the day room and the housing block. But nobody seemed to be making a move.

  Paul wanted to tell the man to shut up, but the guy was a giant who could easily “split his wig.” Didn’t want that, so he stayed quiet.

  Monday, August 26

  Chapter 5 - Paul Dodd

  Hector was back the next day.

  The doors opened, then he and Paul entered the day room, a circular space with a quadrant of tables and chairs bolted to the floor, a TV up high where they couldn’t reach it, and a water fountain.

  The new man’s door buzzed open, but he didn’t step out.

  Hector looked at the cell door, then at Paul. “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t been introduced.” Then, he whispered, “I think he’s a Nazi.”

  “Great. Just what we need in here, a fucking Nazi,” Hector said, way too loud.

  Paul glanced at the door, afraid the man would come barreling out and unleash on them.

  Hector was surely a badass in his youth, but Paul wasn’t sure how tough the old man was now. He’d been in the sick ward yesterday puking his guts out. And Paul wasn’t much of a fighter, at least not against someone so large.

  But mo
re than anything, he wanted to avoid situations that would affect his rec time. He’d lost it twice — once for something Danny had done and another time after the incident with Mallory’s visit, when he lost his shit.

  Losing rec time wasn’t a one-day punishment. The guards stole a week at a time.

  And a week without rec, stuck in your cell, except shower times, was about as close to hell as Paul hoped to ever get.

  Hector set the chess pieces onto squares etched into the metal table. “You ready to lose today, friend?”

  “Oh, did you suddenly learn how to play in the sick ward?”

  The old man’s laugh collapsed into a ragged cough.

  Three minutes in, Hector had lost three pawns and a knight. Paul was down one intentional pawn.

  The door opened behind them.

  Paul turned to see the Nazi step out. He was taller, wider, and more muscular than the giant he seemed to be in passing the day before.

  He glared at them with bloodshot blue eyes. To Paul he said, “Why you playing with that spic, brother?”

  His shaved head must’ve made him look like a fellow believer in genocide.

  Hector stood. “Whatchyou say, bitch?”

  The Nazi started toward Hector.

  Paul, without even thinking, stood between them. “Hey, hey, if you two throw punches, the guards are going to come in here and beat us all. Then we’ll lose rec for a week.”

  The two men glared at one another, neither wanting to retreat.

  “Come on,” Paul said, meeting the Nazi’s icy eyes, “we’re all in this shit together. Just three of us in this wing. No need to choose sides.”

  The Nazi snorted, turned from the fight, then sat at the table with the remote, looking for something to watch.

  But now Hector didn’t want to play. His pride was wounded, and he was itching for a fight.

  Paul sat back down. “Come on. Your move, Hector. You going to let me win this shit?”

  He turned to Paul, glanced at the Nazi, then back at Paul before he finally sat.

  They played for a while as the Nazi flipped between news channels, muttering about all the races he didn’t like “taking over the fucking TV.” After a few minutes, he said, “You that Paul Dodd guy?”

  Paul and Hector traded looks.

  In all their months together, Hector had never once asked Paul about what he was in for. Paul appreciated that. Danny had asked, but the guy had also never judged him.

  Paul couldn’t help but feel that the Nazi, of all fucking people, might take issue with his crimes.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t bother to look back.

  Never show fear, Danny had said. Fear is putting a target on your back. You did what you did. Own it. People will either respect you or fear you. But don’t be timid, or they will make you their bitch.

  Paul’s bishop took Hector’s queen.

  “Fuck,” Hector said.

  The Nazi came over to their table.

  Paul tried to show no fear, but hell if his heart wasn’t hammering, anyway.

  Hector, despite having had words with the Nazi, also didn’t appear particularly nervous. He probably played his cards closer to the vest.

  Paul glanced up at the control booth wondering how long it would take for the guards to intervene. Hell, they’d probably need to call in backup for Goliath. Paul would probably be shivved in the back by then.

  Danny once told him about a snitch he watched get taken down in the rec area outside. Five seconds, forty-five stab wounds. Dude was dead before the guards saw him hit the ground.

  The Nazi said, “He’s got you in four moves, esé.”

  Hector ignored the sarcasm, and made his next move, surrendering a pawn to protect his last bishop.

  Paul took the pawn and cleared the way for him to bring his queen down the board and close ranks. Another three moves, and Hector was done.

  “You play?” Paul asked the Nazi.

  “You could say that.”

  Paul wondered what that meant. Was he some sort of grand champion?

  “Want to play the winner next match?” Paul asked.

  “Nah, I’ll just watch for now.”

  He took a seat between them at the circular table. His elbows on the table took up enough space to provoke Hector. But he ignored the infringement, focused on the game, probably realizing he was indeed running out of viable moves. Paul’s pieces were lined up perfectly and Hector’s only moves were staving off the inevitable loss.

  Paul loved these moments, watching his opponents’ options narrow and the realization darken their eyes. But he found it hard to enjoy today’s game, studied as he was by their new pod mate.

  Paul won in four moves, as predicted. “Good game,” he said as Hector sighed.

  The Nazi snorted. “Yeah, good game, for a dirty spic.”

  Hector lost his veneer of control and took a swing.

  The Nazi was fast, more so than any human Paul had ever seen. He reached up and grabbed Hector by his neck, lifted him up, then slammed him down to the ground. And then the giant pummeled him.

  Paul was frozen in indecision, looking up to see if the guards had seen anything, if they were moving in. If not, the fucker might kill Hector.

  Paul had to act, but what the hell could he do against this behemoth?

  Another bit of early Danny advice, When you’re in with a crew, you ride with that group when shit goes down. Loyalty meant everything behind bars. Betray your crew, get fucked.

  Hector’s face was a bloody mess. His nose broken. And the Nazi wasn’t letting up.

  Paul reached out and grabbed his fist. “Stop!”

  He spun around, his eyes boring in on Paul’s, a vicious smile claiming his face.

  Time froze as Paul stared at the giant and his certain death.

  But then the doors buzzed open behind them.

  Guards rushed in.

  He froze, raising his hands as if he’d been caught in similar predicaments a hundred times before.

  The guards wrestled him down then cuffed him.

  The Nazi stared up at Paul, smiling.

  Tuesday, August 27

  Chapter 6 - Paul Dodd

  The next day Paul had the wing to himself.

  Hector was in the medical ward and the Nazi, whose name Paul still didn’t know, was in solitary.

  Rec time was another day of TV alone. But he couldn’t focus with his eyes always drifting back to the scene of their battle. Guards had bleached the blood from the floor and table, but a part of Paul still sensed it there, invisible but to him.

  A reminder of just how vicious this place could be. How life could end in a second.

  He wondered if the Nazi would be returned to his cell. And if so, had Paul made an enemy in trying to protect Hector?

  Choose your enemies wisely. Because nobody forgets anything in here.

  He felt sick to his stomach. Why the hell did Hector have to take a swing? Why couldn’t he just let shit go?

  He never understood the overinflated sense of pride that street thugs and prisoners seemed to have. Guys like that took offense at the slightest perceived insult. For a bunch of toughs, they were the biggest bitches he’d ever seen. Not that he’d ever say that to any of them.

  Paul knew he where he was in the food chain. And how to swim clear of the sharks.

  Chapter 7 - Paul Dodd

  After dinner, Paul was led to the showers in a connected concrete room with chain link running the long wall for stalls.

  Typically, he and Hector would shower in their own cage at the same time while a guard kept watch, just in case one of them got to thinking about killing or fucking.

  Danny had told Paul that this was one of the benefits of the showers in the Delta Wing over other areas of the jail and state prisons, where you were more likely to be showering with other dudes and anything could happen.

  Vic, one of the surly guards that was never, ever, talkative, stood near the door, waiting for Paul to finish. He didn’t much care f
or showering in front of others, always feeling as though they were staring at the scars on his back, permanent gifts from his mother. After a while, he had learned to block them all out. He did his business, dried off, got dressed, and returned to his cell.

  He finished rinsing the shampoo from his hair, turned the water off, then turned to open the cage.

  But something was wrong.

  The guard wasn’t in his spot near the door.

  Instead, the Nazi was standing there, smiling.

  Don’t show fear.

  Paul nodded, grabbed his towel off the sink, and wrapped it around his waist.

  “Hey, you get out early?”

  “Tell me, Paul, did you enjoy fucking those little girls?”

  Shit.

  He froze in front of the sinks, trying not to look like the cornered animal he was. Wanting to grab his orange jumpsuit and put it on, as if it could serve as armor for what was to come.

  Where the fuck is the guard?

  “What’s it like, that ten-year-old pussy? I bet it’s nice and tight, eh?”

  Paul wasn’t sure if the man was a fan of his work or disgusted by it. Nor did he know what answer might spare him.

  The Nazi stalked toward him, stood just six feet from Paul, blocking his escape.

  “I asked you a question. Were they tight?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Bullshit. How do you forget a thing like that? I wouldn’t! Sweet little hairless slits. Well, I don’t know. Do ten year olds have hair? What with girls maturing so fast these days, who knows? Well, you do, eh? So, tell me, Paul, do they have hair?”

  Okay, maybe he is a fan.

  “I dunno.”

  “But you do remember, don’t you?”

  “Um …”

  Before Paul could stammer out his next words, the Nazi rushed him, his hand extended.

  Then it was around Paul’s throat, shoving him hard into the chain link fence.

  Paul tried to scream, but the Nazi said, “Shhh … You don’t scream, I won’t kill you. Deal?”