Deadly Journey

by Declan Conner

I threw the T-shirt down on the bench. ‘No thanks. I’ll wait to buy one in the yard.’

  Surfer showed me his palms, raised in the air, and said, ‘Your call, man.’

  Walking along the corridor to the yard without leg restraints and cuffs offered little relief. My chest tightened as we approached a barred gate. As anxious as I was at what might lay ahead on the other side of the gate, I couldn’t get my mind off how things had gone so wrong. If only I’d left Sidekick’s rifle where it lay, my explanation for my clothes and fingerprints at Leila’s would at least seem credible testimony from a law enforcement officer. Especially when I was known to the FBI as a kidnap victim. The ballistics evidence was going to be a tough one to crack without a witness. In Otego’s mind, I was guilty. Kidnapped or not, innocent victims were dead. He had a need to pin the slaughter on someone – and that person was me. My thoughts flipped from one notion to the other until my mind scrambled.

  At the sound of the guard’s key scraping in the lock at the gate, we were brought to a halt. Room eighty-two, they had told us at reception. I had expected them to escort us to the cell. Instead, the gate opened and Surfer walked forward into the yard alone. My legs were like tree trunks, firmly rooted. I didn’t want to move, but a push from one of the guards sent me on my way.

  ‘Head up and walk tall, eyes forward,’ said Surfer.

  The gate clanked as it closed behind me. His instructions were lost on me as I glanced around the yard. All eyes looked in our direction and activity stopped, leaving silence. Enclosed by two-storey accommodation blocks, inmates leaned against the top-floor rails, peering down toward me. In the blink of an eye, everyone around the facility carried on with their activities. The decibels cranked up as the prisoners resuming talking.

  ‘Come on, man. Don’t dawdle.’

  Walking behind Surfer over to the stairway, the hairs on my neck stiffened and I wished for eyes in the back of my head. A group of four men stood at the stairway, blocking the entrance. They weren’t looking our way, just talking casually. One of the gang stood sideways and I could see a clenched fist tattooed on his arm, the sign of the Perez cartel. All four of them had black and white checked bandanas hanging from their hip pockets, confirming they were all from the same crew. I now knew where the idea for the colours came from, having experienced Perez’s love of chess.

  I glanced around and picked out more of Perez’s pawns, spaced out in the yard. Only these pawns were not acting casually, but edging toward us and occasionally looking our way. I veered to walk along the wall. If this was going to be a confrontation, at least the brickwork would save my back. My heartbeat quickened. The words of Stony Face that he would tell the other guards I had killed Perez ran through my mind. If they’d received word I was instrumental in his death, I really was a dead man walking.

  One of the men at the stairway turned to face Surfer and blocked his path. I stopped and leaned with my back to the wall in a loose passive stance. My temples throbbed and the back of my throat felt as though it had been left to dry out in the dessert. Maybe my senses heightened, or it was the smell of fear, but the stench of a testosterone-filled yard, full of sweaty bodies, hit my nose.

  ‘Out of the way, Ricardo,’ Surfer said. He stepped to his left and then to his right, with Ricardo copying his moves like a reflection in a mirror.

  My brain must have split what was happening into its two hemispheres as I listened intently to translate what they said, while keeping an eye on the yard.

  ‘You owe us money, wild eyes. You left without settling your debt.’

  ‘Hey, it’s not my fault they freed me so quickly.’

  The guy held out his hand. ‘Money.’

  ‘I’ll pay you later, Rico. I don’t have any money. Out of the way.’

  Surfer put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. I glanced across at the top-floor tier as rapid movement caught my attention. Six Caucasians were rushing around the gantry and I imagined they were the American crew.

  Rico pumped his chest out to Surfer. ‘Take your girly hand off me, gringo. That’s no way to respect a real man.’

  I didn’t rate Surfer’s odds very high, but this wasn’t my fight. Half-expecting Surfer to back off and wait for the cavalry, Surfer sunk his fist into the guy’s gut and head-butted him. The guy dropped to his knees and a sneaker connecting with his jaw sent him crashing to the ground. Hoping for a circle to form, like in the school playground and for them to tussle out their disagreement together proved futile. Grabbing at Surfer, two of the other guys locked their arms around his and the third sunk a blow into his groin, and then dug his knee into Surfer’s chin as he doubled over. Like some wild cat in a struggle for life and death, Surfer managed to struggle out of the arm locks, stamping on one guy’s foot and elbowing the other in the face. The cavalry arrived, but instead of striking blows, they simply restrained the aggressors.

  Surfer rose to his full height and dusted off his jeans with his hands, as if it was all in a day’s work. In my peripheral vision, someone charged out of the throng at Surfer’s rear, half-running, half-shuffling like a javelin thrower and holding a blade aloft. I stuck out a leg and tripped him. One of those damn now I’m in it feelings that hung over me. The guy hit the dirt, then, rolling over and springing to his feet, he faced me. He was on me in no time, the blade poised high, ready for a downward strike. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted, taking his arm up his back. I turned his wrist at the joint. He let go of the blade. I pushed him away, stooped to pick up the knife, and tossed it out of reach.

  The blade hadn’t even landed when I realized all I had done was to pass the baton. One of the gang members picked up the knife and headed in my direction. A huge guy stepped out of the onlookers and thrust out his arm, catching my assailant on the throat, his halted momentum sending him spineless to the floor and writhing, holding his throat. The Hulk-like figure stepped forward and picked up the knife, slipped it into his belt and then raised his hands.

  ‘Stop, enough.’

  Surfer joined me. ‘Thanks for that, I owe you.’

  I nodded in acknowledgement, keeping an eye on the big guy. The American crew released their captors. Both sides separated a respectful distance, but still throwing each other dagger stares.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Big Guy asked.

  Around six-foot-six tall, with a shiny bald head, he had “MS-13” tattooed across his forehead, with enough clues from his other tattoos to indicate he was a top man in his gang. A scar ran vertically through a closed left eye, giving him an even more menacing appearance. Yet more evidence of battles was evident, with what looked like bullet entry scars peppering his chest. Clearly, this wasn’t a man to mess with. More of his crew stepped out behind him. He held his muscular arm aloft and waved at the crowd. They got the message and dispersed, leaving the warring factions facing each other.

  ‘He owes money for drugs and skipped without paying,’ Rico said and spat his blood on the dirt.

  ‘How much is the debt – in dollars?’ I called over to Rico.

  ‘Fifty.’

  I turned to Surfer. ‘Pay the man.’

  ‘No way, it shows weakness.’

  I couldn’t believe that a life could be so cheap and that Surfer would risk dying for a lousy fifty bucks. If Surfer thought I’d murdered someone, it was time for a bluff. ‘Either pay the man, or I’ll kill you myself.’

  ‘No way. He can wait.’

  ‘You asshole.’ I turned to Big Guy. ‘I’ll pay his debt.’

  Surfer grabbed my arm. ‘What the hell are you doing? You ain’t got any money, man.’

  ‘Yes I have. Lend me fifty dollars until the consul gets here, and you get one hundred back. You said you owe me.’

  ‘Shit, man, that’s clever.’

  He fished into his pocket, peeled off the bills and gave them to me. I walked over to Big Guy and handed him the money.

  ‘We’re good, right?’ I asked, still shaking from the adrenalin rush.

  B
ig Guy stuffed the bills in his jeans pocket, leaving me perplexed. ‘You’re a smart man. Yeah, we’re good.’ He looked over at Rico. ‘I’ll take it from your account, Rico. You have seven days for the rest of what you owe.’ Big Guy clenched his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. Rico skulked away with the rest of his injured pride, but with the score settled.

  Surfer tapped my shoulder. ‘Come on. Everyone’s honour is intact. Let’s get bedded in.’ Surfer set off walking to the stairway.

  ‘Incidentally, talking about honour,’ I said, ‘you owe me a hundred and ten dollars for saving your ass, so we’re all square.’

  He whirled around and frowned. With his arms at his sides and his fists clenched, Surfer’s arm muscles twitched.

  ‘And, you have a problem with that? Remember, you said you owe me?’

  I sensed his mind ticking over, then he broke out into a grin and relaxed. ‘Nah – no problem. It’s all cool, man. You learn the rules fast.’

  We walked in line with the rest of the American crew until we reached our cell. My resilience dropped as we entered. There were no chairs to rest on, only three sets of bunks. With six to a cell, the beds were so close you could reach out and touch the bunk next to you. Pictures were stuck to the walls of family and loved ones. It reminded me that all the inmates would have a softer side and love in their hearts, somewhere deep down. Me? I just cursed at not having Mary and the kids’ photo. All I had were memories that were getting harder to conjure up as time went by, but my love for them remained steadfast.

  ‘How come the jailers didn’t step in back there?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s like I said. The inmates run the block and the guards run the prison. The guards step in after the event, but only to remove the dead and wounded from the yard.’ Surfer sat on a vacant bottom bunk. ‘You’re on top. Maybe you don’t learn so quickly after all.’

  I climbed up onto the top bunk, hoping to gather my thoughts, but then I’d forgotten about Surfer and his insatiable hunger for talking.

  ‘Listen, bud, you earned a tankful of yard cred back there. Just go easy on the gas, ’cause it’s easily used up. The last thing you want is to be running on empty in here.’

  I didn’t need reminding. If the prison-smoke signals in Texas were anything to go by, I knew it would only be a matter of time before they discovered who I was and what I was in jail for, no mistake.

  Surfer left the cell, returning a few minutes later. He threw a T-shirt at me.

  ‘Here, you owe me again. One of our guys has loaned it to you, so you owe him a favour as well as me. When you get some money from the consul, you can pay the guards to bring some treats for both of us.’

  The trading-favours-for-a-favour rule was becoming tedious.

  ‘Does this favours thing ever end?’

  ‘No, it’s like holding a cash card. It’s always best to stay in credit. You never know when you’ll need to cash in a good turn. Anyway, best work your way to the gate. Word’s come from the guard you have a visitor. Me and the guys will walk you down.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Chapter 47

  Bad News

  My gaze remained constant on the door of the interview room. I prayed for Mary to walk through the door. However, just who was here to visit me remained a mystery. The guards had shrugged their shoulders at my questions on the walk along the corridor. Ten minutes of chewing my lip and I’d still not worked out how to greet her, or how she would react to my appearance. The leg irons and cuffs left a hug out of the equation. Dishevelled, with two days of facial hair growth, I cupped my hand at my face and exhaled, reeling at the foul odour of my breath as I inhaled through my nose.

  At the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor, I quivered inside. The steps had sounded like a woman’s heels. Placing my hands palms down on the table, I took a deep breath and breathed slowly. The metal door creaked on its hinges as it opened.

  Lifting my hands off the table and placing them between my knees, I shook my head. A woman, maybe in her fifties strolled into the room and dropped her brown-leather briefcase onto the table. Pulling out a chair, she sat down opposite me. Short, curly hair with a blue rinse framed a squashed upturned nose; together with small bulging eyes, it gave her the appearance of a Pug dog. She unclasped her case and took out a file.

  ‘I’m Jayne Roberts. I’m your consular representative, Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘Do you have any news from my wife? Is the FBI getting me out of here?’

  She took a pair of glasses from her case, adjusted them on her nose, and thumbed through the file. The expression on her face as she looked in my direction gave me the idea she couldn’t have turned her nose up any more if she were dealing with a child molester.

  ‘No, I haven’t contacted your wife, but if you give me her email address and telephone number, I’ll speak with her.’ She had delivered her answer curtly, in an officious manner, which took me by surprise.

  ‘What about the FBI?’

  ‘The FBI confirmed your citizenship this morning. I can’t get involved in the legal issues. All I can do is to explain your rights as an American citizen incarcerated in Mexico and contact your relatives.’

  She handed me a typed list of names.

  ‘All these are public defenders who speak English. I took the liberty of emailing them all in view of the short time before your case will go in front of a judge. The Mexican authorities are complaining about the cost of phone calls, so I’ve narrowed it down to who is available locally. No choice, I’m afraid. It’s the last one on the list. Seeing as how there is only one, we exchanged emails and she’ll be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, but can’t my department or the FBI send someone from the United States?’

  ‘You’re perfectly entitled to hire your own attorney. Anyhow, first things first. Here, sign for the loan. It’s on your own surety. Complete your bank details for the authority and we can transfer the money to our account.’

  She dipped into her case, handed me a form.

  ‘Two- hundred bucks? Is that all you could come up with?’

  ‘For now, yes. Of course it’s in Mexican denominations. I’d advise you to keep it hidden.’

  Signing the form with a flourish, I almost ripped the paper. She handed me the money across the table and with some difficulty, I slipped it into my side pocket.

  ‘So what are these rights?’

  She pushed her back into the chair and seemed to relax with a smile.

  ‘Well, you already know that you have a right to an English-speaking public defender. If a prosecutor interviews you, you have a right to a translator, which they have to provide if requested. All we can do as your consul is to make representation to the authorities if you are mistreated and that’s it, I’m afraid. We can’t interfere in their legal system. Good luck.’

  She took off her glasses, placed them in her briefcase, snapped it shut, and rose from her chair. ‘Here’s my card.’

  ‘Wait, there has to be more. For God’s sake, I’m a DEA agent, wrongly accused of murder and trafficking. Can’t you get me transferred to a single cell? If word gets out in here about who I am, I’m as good as dead.’

  ‘Try to stay calm, Mr Rawlings. I’ve already spoken with the warden and they’re looking into that possibility at the request of the FBI. He assures me that the prison respects confidentiality and none of the inmates will know of your background.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Can’t the FBI or DEA do anything to get me out of here?’

  ‘The only thing I’ve heard of the authorities ever doing is to arrange for your sentence to be carried out in the United States if you’re proven guilty. Really, you need to speak to your lawyer about such matters. The FBI representative I spoke with says it’s on file for them to visit you shortly, so perhaps they’ll be able to help. Now, unless you have any complaints regarding your treatment, I have to take my leave. I’ll stay on top of the situation regarding a single-cell acco
mmodation.’

  She turned on her heel and knocked on the door. Mouth open, I stared, watching the door open and then close. I wasn’t sure what I had expected from the consul, but the interview hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped. In my naivety, I guess I’d half-expected the American authorities would have pre-arranged bail for me, so that I could have walked out of the prison gates with Ms. Roberts. The least I hoped for was for them to hold me in a plush hotel under house arrest, where Mary and the kids would be waiting until the authorities could sort out the mess and get the charges dropped.

  Drumming my fingers on the desk, I waited for my lawyer. A spider in the corner of the ceiling busied itself spinning a web. After putting the last secretion of silk in place to complete the intricate design, the spider scurried off to hide and await its unsuspecting prey. I couldn’t help but think I was heading for my own entanglement with the web of evidence against me and with Otego waiting in the background to devour me. All I could hope was that my lawyer would rescue me from my plight.

  The door opened and in walked a young woman. Anorexic thin, the heavy case she carried looked as though one more piece of paper added to the contents would snap her arm. Walking lopsided to the desk, she dropped her briefcase to the floor and held out her sinewy fingers. I shook her hand lightly for fear of causing her damage. She sat and looked me in the eyes. Another twenty pounds and she would have looked attractive. With her long black hair shrouding her gaunt features, the young woman had amazing dark brown eyes and pouting lips.

  ‘Miss Lopez. You can call me Angelica. I’m your lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  She bent over and took a file from her case. ‘I have the details of the charges and a summary of the evidence against you. Do you intend to plead guilty?’

  I wasn’t sure if that’s where a lawyer should start. ‘No, I’m innocent.’

  She let out a sigh as if she’d heard it all before and looked at her wristwatch. ‘The evidence is pretty damning. Why don’t you summarize the events and we’ll see if we can counter the evidence. But please be brief. I have a heavy caseload.’