Cory painfully limped into the corridor. He began to pace the forty-step length of the corridor. The guard leaned against the outside door, watching him. Cory saw that the cell’s stool was at the far end of the hall. He bent and lifted it by holding one leg. “This is mine.”
“Nothing’s yours.”
“It’s mine.”
“You’re a prisoner. You got no rights.”
“This stool came out of my cell.”
“The word has come down that you get no stool.”
“From Atkins, or James?” The guard didn’t answer and looked away. “Or is Sergeant Pierce doing the dirty work?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. If you’re smart, you won’t either. I’ll give the word to you, Cory boy. You give us trouble and you end up in the hole. Down there you get no exercise, no shower, nothing. I have the feeling that certain parties would be glad to take care of you that way. Read me?”
“I think so.”
“Then put the stool down.”
Cory realized that he held the stool at eye level. He could bring it down on the guard’s head, knock him out, and put on his uniform. The fit would be poor but adequate. He could signal the guard outside the door, keep his face turned sideways, and hope that the uniform itself was sufficient to get him through the locked door.
The guard in the booth outside the door controlled not only this door, but the next. Then there was a similar post farther down the hall.
“You got any ideas about that stool, Williams, forget it.”
Cory put the stool down on the floor. He saw that the guard had tensed; planted his feet squarely on the floor, and held his billy club across his waist, clenched firmly in both hands. “I just need something to sit on, that’s all.”
“Sit on your ass.”
Cory walked away. “Sure.”
“You were thinking of hitting me with the stool, weren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Won’t help you any. Even if you was to get outta here, you’d never get through the next corridor. Do us both a favor and forget that kind of crap. Now back in the cell.”
“I’m going.” Cory slowly walked into the cell and kept his back to the door. He heard the barred door clank shut behind him and then the retreating steps of the guard walking down the corridor.
He picked up one of the paperback novels Ginny had sent and lay down on the bunk to read. Concentration was impossible. He couldn’t help but think of Steven’s offer. The prospect of freedom, even in the limited sense of the hospital, was appealing. He was sealed in this jail and would remain under constant heavy guard and manacled when taken from his solitary wing. The outcome of the trial seemed a forgone conclusion. There seemed to be no way he could establish his innocence without corroboration from someone.
It was an endless circle. If Steven put up the bail and then Cory took off, he would have royally screwed his own brother.
There had to be another way. He tried to concentrate on what he knew about the jail.
“Wake up, Williams.”
Cory stirred on the bunk. The open book resting on his chest fell to the floor. He turned. The guard stood at the door, next to Detective Wilton James. “What is it?”
“The man wants to have words.”
“What do you want, James?”
“I wanted to see if your memory had improved.” The detective took a pipe from his jacket pocket and tamped tobacco into the bowl. The guard handed him a stool, and he sat down, lit his pipe with a flaring lighter, and observed Cory through rings of aromatic smoke.
“You were here the other night,” Cory said. “You were in the corridor while your boys did a number on me.”
“I have no boys.”
“Sergeant Pierce is one.”
“Pierce, ah, yes. Unfortunately, the good sergeant broke his instep while coaching some little-league ball. He is on sick leave.”
“Too bad.”
“However, none of them is irreplaceable. Do you have any changes to your story?”
“See my lawyer.”
“Oh, but I have. I suppose they’ve told you they’re considering a defense based on diminished capacity?”
Cory didn’t answer. His eyes met the impassive gaze of Wilton James. He wondered what this man’s place was in the web of circumstances that held him. “Why?” he finally asked.
“Why what?”
“Your further interest. Your jurisdiction in this case is over.”
“Call if loose ends, if you will. The department doesn’t care for muddied water.”
“My original version bothers you, then?”
“I wouldn’t use so strong a word as bothers. Let’s just say that we don’t care for even the slightest accusation, crazy and wild as it may be.”
“Which accounts for my nightly visits.”
“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m beginning to follow you.”
“We carry a certain weight with the federal prosecutor. Your defense attorney’s approach seemed valid to us. We are certainly willing to make an unofficial report to the prosecutor that we would hold no objections to a little plea bargaining.”
“And I get to sleep if I cooperate?”
“Your nightmares are beyond my province, Williams.” He slid from the stool. “I have always found that a clear conscience makes for uneventful sleep.”
Cory’s fingers curled over the bars. “Why? Just tell me why, James?”
Their eyes met again, and the detective imperceptibly shrugged. “You have my advice. I don’t think I need say more.”
James walked slowly down the hall to the door and signaled to be let out.
They didn’t come for him that night, but he was unable to sleep in the anticipation of their visit. Once or twice he dozed off, only to jerk awake in fear. He sat in the dark until streaks of dawn simmered through the high window at the end of the cell.
He forced himself to eat lukewarm dried eggs and munch cold toast. He felt a deep lethargy seep through his body. The lack of sleep, beatings, and poor food were beginning to take their toll. Let a few more days go by, and he would not be able to take any physical action on his own behalf.
When the door clanked open for the early morning ritual of cleaning and exercise, Cory shuffled into the corridor and looked at the guard with bleary eyes.
“If you looked any better, you’d have a lily planted on your chest.”
“Thanks.” He shuffled up the corridor to the cleaning supply closet and turned on the hot water in the sink. He leaned against the wall and let the mop dangle in the water. A deep malaise was permeating not only his physical, but his mental, faculties.
The guard sat a dozen feet away, near the corridor door, thumbing through a magazine. He hadn’t changed, the small closet hadn’t changed … nothing had changed.
He kicked at the small door below the sink. The gesture of frustration did nothing but numb his toe and crack the paint-spattered door open. He knelt to close the door and looked under the sink.
The pipe for the drain made an elbow-joint turn, and exited into the wall to the right side of the small enclosure. Several spattered paint cans were piled on the other side. The back of the space, against the dividing wall, was covered with a small mesh grid.
He knelt and leaned farther into the small closet. His hands scrabbled and pried at one corner of the mesh grid. The rusty screws holding the mesh in place wouldn’t budge. He searched the room frantically for something that would fit into a screwhead.
The voice of the bored guard called down the corridor. “You getting your jollies in there, Williams?”
“Be right out. The mop’s filthy as hell.”
“Hurry it up.”
It was obvious from the guard’s unconcerned voice that the man was far down the corridor, immersed in his magazine. Cory knew he had only minutes until the man’s curiosity was piqued and he left his seat to walk to the supply closet. He continued his search. There didn’t seem to be
anything available that would fit into the screw.
The paint cans. He found a quart can in the back of the space and pried at its paint-sealed lid with his fingers until it finally came off. He inserted the edge of the lid into the screwhead.
It turned.
He worked with the screw until it was out of the wood frame far enough to be turned with his fingers.
It fell free, and he was able to pry the mesh away from the wall on that side.
He crawled as far back into the space under the sink as he could. He looked behind the mesh and saw that the opening led into a vent between the walls. There wasn’t time to explore further, and he pushed the mesh back against the wall and reinserted the screw. He turned it finger-tight and then closed the cabinet door. He shook the mop, slung it into the pail, and went back into the hall to begin the daily cleaning.
“They said you wanted to see me.” She sat on the other side of the glass divider and smiled at him.
“Thanks for coming, Ginny,” he said.
“Did you like the books I sent?”
“They’re fine. Just fine.”
The fingers on her right hand splayed across the glass between them. He knew what she wanted and he did it. He placed his fingers on the glass over her hand. He smiled at her. He was using her, but for the moment she was the only one he could trust.
“I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you too, Gin. I need you to do something for me.”
“Something more to read?”
“It’s a little more than that. Would you mind?”
“A file in a cake.” She laughed with a lilting, tinkling sound.
“In a way.”
She turned somber. “I’ll do what I can for you, Cory.”
“I need the floor plans of this building.” His voice dropped as his words crackled with a deeply felt intensity.
“How in the world would I get something like that?”
“They built this place three or four years ago. Even though it’s a state-owned facility, they would still file plans with the Deerford building department.
“That would be in the municipal building.”
“Right. Now, most of the records are public. Anyone has access to them.”
She laughed again, but her voice had a different quality as it communicated the same urgency he felt. “Aren’t they going to wonder a little when a cocktail waitress waltzes in and asks to see the floor plans for the local lockup?”
“You don’t tell them you want to see these plans. Get access to the files and say you’re from my old employer, the bank. Tell them you work for Dan Hawkins, a vice-president. Eventually, they’ll leave you alone or go on a coffee break, and you get the file and make some drawings. Put the drawings on the thinnest paper you can find, in the smallest scale you can draw.”
“How do I get them to you?”
“In a book, Ginny. Insert them into the binding of a hardcover book.”
CHAPTER 11
They came again that night. He had finally fallen asleep and didn’t awaken until the cell door was open and they were upon him.
He was helpless as one man held his legs, another his arms, while the third silently and efficiently beat him. It was over in five minutes, and they left him on the cool floor of the cell. His cheek pressed against the cold hardness of the concrete floor, and he tasted a thin trickle of blood as it seeped from the corner of his mouth
“Who’s beating you?”
Atkins, of the FBI, sat at a narrow table and doodled on a legal pad. The room was similar to, although smaller than, the usual one where he met his brother and the attorneys. This room contained a broad mirror along the wall facing Cory. It was a very obvious one-way mirror. He could easily imagine the dull glow of the ever-present pipe in the mouth of the man standing on the far side.
“Well, who is it?” Atkins repeated laconically. “Who are these strange apparitions that you claim visit you in the middle of the night, beat you unmercifully, and depart without leaving a sign?”
“You don’t believe me either?” They had arranged the interview with Atkins within thirty minutes of his request.
“You’ve got to give me more to go on. You know, Williams, that’s your whole problem. You never seem to have any corroboration for the wildest accusations.”
Cory leaned forward, forgetful for the moment of the handcuffs and leg irons the guards had neglected to remove. “You don’t believe a goddamn thing I’ve ever said to you.”
“You expect me to answer that?”
“I’ll tell you again. They come at night. They come at anywhere from eleven P.M. to three A.M. They don’t come every night; that’s what makes it so damn nerve-wracking.”
Atkins scribbled on his pad. “When they told me you wanted to see me, I thought it was about the case.”
“This is about the case. It’s all tied together.”
“Uh huh. You got anything else to say?”
“I guess not.”
Atkins’s shoulders hunched forward as he swiveled the legal pad in a half circle. His index finger silently tapped the words he had written. His eyes met Cory’s and then turned downward as if motioning toward the pad.
Cory read the words the agent had hastily scrawled. “Believe you. See what can do.”
The beatings stopped. He knew that after two nights of uninterrupted sleep. He wasn’t sure how Atkins did it. Perhaps it was only a word of innuendo to Wilton James. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the beatings stopped and he could begin to recuperate.
He used the time to gather strength and to try to get his frazzled nerves back into some semblance of order. Each morning, during the so-called exercise-work period, he worked on the wire mesh under the grill in the supply room. After the third day, he was able to pry the grill completely away from the wall and peer into the shaft. It was a possible way out … if not from the prison, at least from this wing. The short shaftway led into an unconnected heating vent which gave access to a space between the walls. It had to lead somewhere.
He kept careful note of the schedule. They had taken his watch with his other personal possessions, but by judicious questions to the guard on duty, he was able to piece together the daily schedule:
7:00 A.M.—Breakfast. Thirty minutes to eat, shave (with a locked safety razor which he had to return), and clean his cell.
7:30 A.M.—Clean-up time in the corridor. This was his access time to the small supply closet where he slowly rinsed the mop each morning and stole a precious three minutes to explore further the passageway between the walls.
8:00 to 9:00 A.M.—Exercise time. He jogged up and down the hall.
From nine until they turned the lights off at ten that night, the day stretched barrenly ahead. He could nap now. With the cessation of the beatings, they didn’t seem to care how much time he spent on his bunk. He read through the long hours.
He kept in good physical shape as well as he could. Jogging in the corridor during the exercise time was followed by half an hour of violent calisthenics. He had to keep his muscles in tone, and the exercise helped to exhaust him and pass the time.
The book was delivered at lunchtime on the fourth day. The guard tossed it through the bars. Cory carefully picked it up and looked at the guard. “So?”
“A girl brought it by this morning.”
“Thanks.”
Cory slowly opened the volume. It was a hardcover copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. He held the book in his hand a few moments. Had she picked the title purposely, or was it selected for the ease of slitting through the rear binding … or both?
He waited until the guard’s footsteps retreated to the far end of the corridor before he examined the binding. There was nothing visible. He held the covers apart and shook the book. Still nothing. She had done her job well. He began to work at the binding.
He removed several pieces of thin onion skin paper from the interior of the book binding. He turned-his bac
k to the cell door and arranged them in proper sequence on the bunk.
On the corner of the lower-right-hand sheet was a tiny inscription: “I love you.”
The drawings were excellent. She had reduced the scale and must have purchased a set of drawing pens. The minute detail would have been impossible otherwise.
He located the tier he occupied on the third floor of the northeast corner of the building. The duct he had discovered underneath the sink led up to an unfinished fourth floor. The planners had anticipated the addition of more cells on the top floor. The empty space awaited dividing walls for the installation of additional cells. If he were able to make it up the duct, if the space were wide enough once he was inside the walls, he might be able to lever himself up to that vacant floor.
Then what?
He traced his finger along the outline of the building’s layout. The fourth floor was empty space except for the outside walls, a few support walls, and a service module. The flooring would be unfinished, which might allow him further access down to the third floor in another location.
A plan began to evolve. It would be risky. Timing would be all-important, and there were many intangibles, but for the moment it seemed his only alternative.
He carefully shredded the flimsy paper and flushed it down the toilet.
“Court day, Williams!” The cell door clanked open, and the guard reached inside to hang a garment bag from an upper bar. “You hear me, buddy boy? You got court at ten.”
“What about cleaning up?”
“Later. What the hell you worried about? You got lots of time.” The guard broke into raucous laughter as he walked away. “All the time in the world.”
Cory began to dress carefully. The attempt to escape would have to be made today. The clothing he was now putting on was an important increment. Any escape, no matter how successful, with him wearing a denim shirt with “Deerford County Jail” stenciled on the back was hardly an auspicious beginning.
He was waiting for them when they entered the cell with leg irons, waist belt, and handcuffs. He stood stiffly in the center of the small space as they bent to snap manacles tightly over his wrists. He began to walk, clanking, down the aisle, flanked by a guard on either side.
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