by Brenda Novak
“What does his psych report say?”
“That he’s a malingerer.”
“A what?”
“Faking it,” Peyton clarified.
Stepping into the room, Shelley crossed her arms over her large breasts, which strained against a dress that was far too tight, and leaned against the wall. “What’s he in for?”
Briefly allowing herself to be distracted by the business she’d been dealing with before Warden Fischer’s little meeting eight miles away, Peyton took a sip of the coffee that’d nearly grown cold on her desk. “Molesting three boys.”
“Then he’s in the hat, isn’t he?”
In the hat meant he was marked to be beaten or killed by other inmates. Rapists, molesters and child murderers weren’t well liked, even in prison. “I’m not so sure that’s the only reason he’s saying he wants to exit the land of the living,” she said.
Bracelet jangling as she walked, Shelley approached the chairs on the other side of Peyton’s desk. “Come on, you know how many of these guys try to get themselves into the Psychiatric Services Unit. But with only one hundred and twenty-eight beds, you can’t send them all there. I’d put him back in gen pop.”
“Without a second thought?”
She adjusted her dress, which had started to ride up. “Why not?”
“What if he really goes through with it? What if he hangs himself in his cell? Would you want to be responsible for that?”
“No.” Straightening, she hitched up her giant handbag. “That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
Big bucks? Peyton made $120,000 year, but money didn’t help her sleep at night. She’d been so idealistic when she’d chosen this profession, so certain she’d be able to make a difference. But, more often than not, there wasn’t a good answer to the dilemmas she faced. She couldn’t put this guy, Victor Durego, in the SHU. The SHU was reserved for behavioral problems; keeping inmates in total isolation cost taxpayers an exorbitant amount of money. If Victor had no mental disorder, she couldn’t keep him in the PSU, either. It didn’t make sense to waste the valuable time of the mental health professionals who worked there or take up a slot that was legitimately needed by someone else. For a week or two, she could move him into the Transitional Housing Unit, where they put the gangbangers who decided to debrief, but returning Victor to general population would leave him vulnerable to what had made him claim he was suicidal in the first place—probably another inmate who’d threatened him.
“There’s always the other philosophy,” Shelley said.
Peyton pushed the coffee to one side so she wouldn’t be tempted by it. “What philosophy?”
“That a guy who molests children deserves whatever he gets.”
She knew Shelley wasn’t alone in her ambivalence toward Victor’s safety. But Peyton believed it was humanity that separated the caregivers from the inmates. If the caregivers appointed themselves judge, jury and executioner, they were no better than the people they imprisoned. “As far as I know, physical injury wasn’t part of his sentence. And we don’t have the right to embellish it.”
“I’m just saying…. You can’t see into the future. What he did landed him in prison. Now that he’s here, all you can do is make the call and hope for the best.”
Shelley was right on that count. Peyton had made many such “calls.” Some turned out as she’d hoped. Others didn’t. Which was why the responsibility weighed so heavily.
“I should get going,” her assistant said. “Good luck with it.”
“Thanks.” Peyton waved. Then the door closed, leaving her alone with Victor’s file, a stack of others on which she had to make some decision or other and the manila envelope on Simeon Bennett.
Removing Simeon’s bio, she read it again. Then she got on her computer and searched the internet for “Department 6, Los Angeles.”
A webpage came up. It provided only general information, as she’d expected, but there was a contact number.
If she pretended to know Simeon and asked for him by name, maybe she could figure out if he at least worked where he said he did….
A man answered on the second ring. “Department 6.”
Peyton curled the nails of her free hand into her palm. She was using her cell phone so her name would’ve appeared on caller ID, but that beat letting him know she was calling from a prison. “Is Simeon Bennett there?”
“Who?”
“Simeon Bennett. B-E-N-N-E-T-T. I met him at a club last weekend. I have an ex-boyfriend who…who’s scaring me.” She drew a deep breath in an effort to make the lie more convincing. “Simeon said he worked for a private security company that could protect me. He said I should call him at this number if my ex kept harassing me.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of a Simeon Bennett,” the man responded.
And yet he was supposed to have worked there for most of the past ten years?
“Would you like to speak to someone else? Protection is definitely a service we offer.”
“No. Thanks, anyway,” she said, and hung up.
Just as she’d thought. Bennett didn’t work for Department 6. So what had he been doing? And what about the rest of his résumé? Was any of it true? Had she even been given his real name?
She got up and crossed to the credenza, where she picked up the last photograph ever taken of her and her father. At four years old, she stood hugging his leg outside their middle-class home in Citrus Heights, a suburb of Sacramento. Shortly after a neighbor snapped that picture, he’d gone to prison for embezzling the money to pay for her mother’s cancer treatments. Because of him, Grace had survived an additional quarter of a century, but after serving five years, with only three weeks left on his sentence, he was stabbed—and died in minutes.
Her father was the reason she’d gone into corrections. Knowing him and the reality of his story convinced Peyton to look at convicts as individuals with unique backgrounds, situations and desires, just like other human beings. Sometimes mitigating circumstances led a man to do the unthinkable. It wasn’t fair to make snap judgments or lump them all together. Now that she was reaching positions with enough authority to make significant changes, she wouldn’t allow Fischer, or the department, to set her up for failure by sending her into some dangerous investigation without all the facts. She’d worked too hard to get where she was.
So how would she learn exactly what they had planned? Although she’d seen the prisoner number on Bennett’s arm, she’d been so shocked by what it signified that she hadn’t thought to memorize it. She could recall only the first four digits. Otherwise, she might’ve been able to use that to obtain further information.
Maybe she wouldn’t need it. Wallace hadn’t done much to cover his tracks. He was so used to being in charge, so arrogant and sure no one at the prison would bother to check on anything he said, he hadn’t even invented a fictional company for Bennett’s previous employer. Or chosen an organization that wasn’t as easy to locate.
Setting her father’s picture back in its place, she grabbed her purse and flung her jacket over her shoulder. She’d figure out who Bennett really was, or she wouldn’t let him into the prison on Tuesday. Maybe her determination would end her career, but she’d go down swinging.
In the notes Wallace had given him on Operation Black Widow, Crescent City had been called “California’s Siberia” by one defense attorney. Now that he’d seen it for himself, Virgil had to agree. Nearly four hundred miles from both San Francisco and Sacramento, and eight hundred miles from Los Angeles, it was only accessible via narrow, winding roads clogged with RVs, or a small airstrip with very few flights. Dense forests of giant, old-growth redwoods hemmed it in on one side—silent, massive and pungent. An angry, churning Pacific Ocean stretched to eternity on the other.
But it wasn’t just the physical isolation that made this part of the California coast different from the hot sun and toes-in-the-sand party beaches down south. It was the climate. Foggy and chilly, with trees shaped by th
e wind, this tiny dot on the map seemed every bit as lonely as a barren field of ice. The only major difference was the lush beauty.
There shouldn’t be a prison here, he decided. Especially a supermax as notorious for harsh discipline, even abuse, as Pelican Bay. It was too much of a contradiction.
Chief Deputy Warden Peyton Adams was also too much of a contradiction. He pictured her blond hair pulled into a knot at her nape, the wide brown eyes that’d stared out at him with such quick perception, the satiny skin that made her look too young to hold the authority she did, the lines of her suit, which was practical yet stylish. Had he met her anywhere else, he would’ve guessed she worked behind the makeup counter at Neiman Marcus or sold upscale women’s clothing.
Hiding ruthless power behind such a pretty face seemed the ultimate lie.
But he’d been told that lie before, hadn’t he? By his own mother….
“So what do you think?” Wallace piped up as he drove them from Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, a sight Simeon had wanted to see, to a restaurant for dinner.
Virgil didn’t care for Wallace. Smug, cocky and shallow, he wasn’t particularly likable. There were moments when, without provocation, Simeon had to fight the impulse to break his jaw, and that upset him as much as everything else going on in his life. He hadn’t always struggled with authority. The resentment that simmered just below his skin was a product of the years he’d spent in prison dealing with corrections officers who’d been created from the same mold, and was no doubt influenced by The Crew, the gang he’d had to clique up with to survive. “About what?”
“The meeting.”
He adjusted the hat and glasses Wallace had provided for their trip to the state park, in case they were spotted by an off-duty corrections officer who might later recognize him. “It went more or less as I expected.” Except for the beautiful chief deputy warden who’d been so unfriendly to their plan. Like the stunning vistas that appeared without warning, she’d come as a complete surprise. He couldn’t imagine someone like her working at a prison.
“So you can handle it?”
“Do I have any choice?”
Wallace shifted beneath his stare. “No, I guess you don’t.”
The old-fashioned business signs they passed, like the one in front of the local gift shop, made Virgil feel as if they’d detoured onto the set of Happy Days. But that sign and others similar to it were merely one facet of this place, holdouts from an earlier era. Overall, Crescent City had become a mixed bag. Heads bent against the constant drizzle, rednecks mingled with artisans. Old, weather-beaten buildings soldiered on amid the typical fast-food joints seen everywhere else in the country. And, at the harbor in the small bay—the only calm in a restless sea—fishing boats bobbed next to shiny new recreational craft.
He took in every detail as if he hadn’t seen anything like it in years. Because, other than on the long drive from Sacramento this morning, he hadn’t. He’d read all the books, leaflets, newsletters and pamphlets he could lay his hands on when he was inside, but experiencing a place like this made a real and very different impact. He especially enjoyed the salt-laden air and the smell of the loamy earth and towering trees.
While Wallace parked at Raliberto’s Tacos on M Street, Virgil wished he could’ve visited Crescent City back when it was teeming with lumberjacks and salmon fishermen. It would have felt innocent then. But, according to Wallace, who’d picked him up at the airport in Sacramento, it was only because of Pelican Bay that Crescent City had survived. In the early ’80s, the salmon fishing had died and thirteen of the seventeen sawmills went out of operation. The prison, which opened in ’89, supplied much-needed jobs. Now nearly half the town’s population resided behind bars and most of the other half worked in a capacity related to that.
“You as hungry as I am?” Wallace continued to strive for camaraderie.
“Hungry enough.” Virgil yanked on the heavy jacket intended to hide his build and got out. “You staying all weekend?”
“I haven’t decided.” The car chirped as he locked it and came around the front. “Is that necessary?”
“If you think it’s your presence that’s keeping me here, you’re delusional.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wallace jingled his change. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But my job’s on the line and—”
Virgil broke in with an incredulous laugh. “You’re worried about your job? I have a lot more at risk than that, so stop whining. It’s this simple—you take care of Laurel, I’ll do my part.”
“A U.S. marshal will arrive at her door on Monday.”
“Does she know that?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I want to tell her.”
“You can’t contact her. And we’re not going to advise her, either.” He held up a hand before Virgil could protest. “We don’t want her to do or say anything that might tip off your friends, do we?”
Friends… The Crew had once been his friends. Now they were his greatest enemy. Good thing there weren’t any Crew members at Pelican Bay. Of course, if there were, he wouldn’t be doing this. As with most gangs, they were connected to a specific region—mostly L.A., with an offshoot in Arizona. “What if Monday’s not soon enough?”
With a sigh, Wallace shook his head. “Fine. I’ll leave first thing in the morning, get her moved and be back on Tuesday to effect your ‘transfer.’”
Three whole days of freedom. It wasn’t a lot. Especially when he had to lie low and make sure he wasn’t noticed. But it was something. Simeon couldn’t wait.
Ducking into the restaurant to keep his suit from getting wet, Wallace turned to see why he hadn’t followed. But there was no one in their immediate vicinity, so as far as Virgil was concerned, Wallace could wait all day. He’d go in when he was good and ready. For now, all he wanted was to stand in the rain.
Removing the bogus glasses, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and let the drops fall on his face.
Whenever staff who worked for the department came to Crescent City, they stayed at a garden-style motel of twenty-four rooms called the Redwood Inn. Peyton knew this because she’d gone out to dinner with Wallace and various others three times in the past and had driven them back to the motel twice when they’d had too much to drink. She’d even had a room there herself when she’d been sent to interview for her current position. She assumed that was where she’d find Bennett. Habits were tough to break.
“Hey, look who it is!” Michelle Thomas, who managed the inn, smiled brightly when Peyton walked into the lobby. Peyton had first met Michelle, who was three years younger, six months ago when she’d stayed here. They’d been friends ever since. Together with two other women, divorcées like Michelle, they got together every week, usually for dinner. Once in a while, on special occasions, they drove to Sacramento or San Francisco to go dancing.
“What are you doing here?” Michelle wanted to know. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Looking for Rick Wallace from the Department of Corrections. Has he checked in?”
No doubt Michelle was well aware that she had a couple of guests from the CDCR. The rooms were on a master account. “Yeah, earlier this afternoon. He rented two rooms, fifteen and sixteen. I saw him go into sixteen, if you want to knock. But I don’t think he’s there. He and whoever he’s with—some guy who waited in the car—left shortly after they got here, and—” she walked over to study the parking lot through the front door “—I don’t see his car.”
“They might’ve gone out to eat.”
“That’d be my guess, too. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll call him later. I just…I need to use the restroom. Then I’ll be on my way.” She headed down the hall that went past the closet where the maids returned their towel carts and hung their smocks. Peyton had visited Michelle here often enough to know the motel routine. But she’d never dreamed that knowledge would come in handy. “We still on for dinner
tomorrow night?” she called back.
“Far as I know,” Michelle replied. “Have you talked to Jodie or Kim?”
“Not yet. Why don’t you give them a call?”
There wasn’t another soul in the lobby, so Peyton knew Michelle wouldn’t hesitate to make a personal call, even though she was on duty. She had the run of the place; she’d been working here for a decade and would probably still be here in another decade. Her ex-husband, a corrections officer at the prison, lived a block to the north. As much as Michelle craved the big city, with its greater possibilities for love and employment, she didn’t want to take her kids from their father.
Peyton stood inside the bathroom until she could hear Michelle on the phone. Then she cracked open the door and waited until her friend moved out of sight before slipping into the maid’s closet, where she helped herself to one of the master keys clipped to a smock. As she dropped it in her purse, she peered out to make sure Michelle wasn’t watching for her and reentered the lobby as soon as her friend turned in the other direction.
“Everybody coming for dinner tomorrow?” she asked.
Deeply engrossed in conversation, Michelle looked up and motioned for her to be quiet. “That’s okay. If you can’t make it, you can join us next week.”
“Who is it?” Peyton mouthed.
“Jodie,” Michelle mouthed back.
Knowing Wallace and Bennett could return any minute, Peyton hurried to the door. “I’m dying to get out of these heels. Call me later and let me know what’s going on,” she said, and hustled out.
After driving around the block, Peyton parked, turned off her phone and locked it and her purse, everything except the card key, in her trunk. Then she went back to the motel.
As she ducked into a small alcove where she couldn’t be seen from the parking lot or the lobby, she had to ask herself if she was really going through with this. So far, she hadn’t done anything too daring. Michelle trusted her, so taking the key had been easy. Putting it back would be just as easy. But the risk escalated from here….
What if she got caught?
