by Greg Barth
“I didn’t know who they were,” I said.
“And yet you managed to find them and kill them? Allegedly.”
I swallowed. He had a point. “One of the people that victimized me was a deputy.” I raised my eyebrows.
He continued, “It also doesn’t help that you were seen by over ten dinner patrons in a restaurant firing a shotgun at a throng of people fleeing for their lives.”
“That throng had been shooting at me.”
“All of them?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t bother to count.”
“They were fleeing, Selena. For. Their. Lives. You were shooting at them—firing your shotgun into the crowd. What about the waitress? Was she firing at you too? Do you know that she took a bullet in her leg? Do you want me to tell you what her testimony is going to sound like in court? You should go ahead and buy stock in Kleenex. I see a bright future for their product when she tells her side of it.”
“I wasn’t firing bullets. I was firing buckshot,” I said.
“Allegedly,” Christian said.
“Fuck,” I said. “Yes, fucking allegedly.” I took a deep breath. “I’m screwed, ain’t I?”
“Does that really come as a surprise to you?”
“I feel justified for my actions.”
“We need to face reality here. We can bargain for your life, but only your life. They are never, under any circumstances, ever going to let you out of prison. At best, the very best, you’ll be in maximum security prison for the rest of your life. Full lockdown. That’s what we’re dealing with here. You’re accused of the worst killing spree in American history involving a woman acting alone. You need to accept responsibility for your actions.”
“And to think,” I said, “I didn’t even graduate from high school. Who would have thought I’d rise to such heights?”
“That’s nothing to be proud of.” He sounded exasperated.
I figured it was time to let him off the hook. I burst out laughing.
He was taken aback. “I hardly see anything funny here, Selena.” The man was so serious it was comical.
“You have no sense of humor, do you? Don’t you know I’ve been fucking with you since you walked in the door? The glove don’t fit? Jeez, I could barely keep a straight face. You? F. Lee Bailey? Court TV? Holy shit. I really had you going.” I deepened my voice and mocked his: “You must take responsibility for your actions, Selena.” I laughed again.
“Sense of humor? No, I don’t. None. There’s nothing funny about this. Honey, I’m here to tell you that we might be able to spare you the death penalty due to the circumstances surrounding the crimes you’re accused of. But I will not be mocked.”
I got serious. “So why don’t you tell me what you have in mind.”
“To really seal the deal, we need to have a serious talk about anything you have to bargain with.”
“Like what?”
“Pete Malucci.”
“What about him?”
“The U.S. Attorney wants him too. Wants him behind bars more than he wants you dead. That’s a good thing. A good for you thing.”
“Too bad I can’t help him with that, huh?”
He dabbed the sweat from his forehead. I’ve found that they don’t keep the HVAC at comfortable levels in these institutions. They didn’t act on my complaints about it either. Of course I’ve never been a taxpayer.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “He wants Malucci in an obsessive, crazy way. Now that Faranacci is out of the picture, this is the time for Harding to go for the jugular.”
“Did you really just fucking say that?” I said.
“Uh... sorry. It was just meant as a, uh, figure of speech is all.”
“Do not fucking make fun of me. I might go for your jugular.” I snapped my teeth.
He backed away.
I smiled. “Fucking with you,” I said.
“I’m trying to help. This U.S. Attorney will do just about anything. We need to take advantage of that.”
I leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Listen to me carefully,” I said. “I don’t know anything about Pete Malucci. Understand?”
“He came to visit you shortly after you were arrested. Why?”
***
I thought back to the visit with Malucci.
He sat across from me, looking at me through the glass. He smiled at me. We talked through the phone.
“How you doing, kid?” Malucci asked.
My larynx had been crushed by Faranacci. I spoke in a raspy whisper. “I’m okay”.”
“Anything you need? Anything I can get you?”
“Cigarettes,” I croaked.
“Done, honey. It’s done.”
“Thanks. But they don’t let me smoke in here.”
“Barbaric,” he said.
“You’re taking a risk being here. Being associated with me, on the record like this.”
He brushed my concern aside with a wave of his hand. “Ah, it’s not such a risk. It’s important to me. Look, I just want you to know, you and me? We never quarreled. This whole thing, you and Faranacci? Far as I’m concerned, it’s over. The hatchet is buried. You understand?”
“It’s done,” I said.
“I’m glad we agree. There’s a new rule. We take care of our own. You understand? That’s my rule.”
“Is that a threat?” I said.
He shook his head. He softened his tone. “No. It’s a promise. I’m making a commitment to you. Money will be placed in your account. You go to the commissary and get you some shoes, some food, some stamps, whatever you need. Get lots of stamps. You can trade those. They got food in the commissary. Packets of tuna and stuff, you can warm up. Get you a warm coat. You’re going to need it. Your phone card will be funded.”
“Who the hell would I call?”
“I’m going to give you a number, and you need to memorize it. It’s not to me directly, but if you ever get in a bind, you call that number. Use the card or call collect. Either way, the phone will be answered. We take care of our own. Things are different now. You and me, girl? We did each other a favor, huh? Let’s not stop with the goodwill, okay?”
That had been the extent of the visit with Malucci, but I was not about to tell my ass hat of an attorney that. Instead I told him, “Malucci heard about me on the news. He was just curious, that’s all.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to go on the record with? That’s all it was? This is your only bargaining chip. You shouldn’t squander it.”
“He’s just a nice old man as far as I know. I can’t help who comes to see me. If they’re on the list, and they come…” I shrugged. “Me? I’m just here.”
“That’s too bad,” he said. “This isn’t good for you. The guy got a big promotion, after all, and all thanks to you, Selena. Shouldn’t you get something out of the deal?”
The door to the room opened.
“We still have a few minutes,” Attorney Christian said over his shoulder. “We can’t be disturbed.”
“Your co-counsel is here,” said the CO that opened the door.
“Co-counsel?”
In stepped the most professional-looking woman I had ever seen. She was at best four-feet, six-inches tall. She had salt-and-pepper hair that lay against the tops of her shoulders. She wore a light shade of lipstick and was dressed in a navy blue pantsuit over a low-cut white blouse. I could make out a vertical scar that ran down the middle of her breastbone, like a folded line dividing the cleavage between her small breasts. She wore a pair of high heel pumps that made tapping sounds on the floor when she walked. She wheeled a roller briefcase with an extended handle behind her that had an oxygen tank affixed to it. A clear tube ran from the tank up to the front of her throat, then split off and went around the backs of her ears, and reconnected under her nose.
“Holy shit,” lawyer Christian said.
“Hello there, Mister Christian,” the lady said.
“What is this?” he said.
<
br /> “Miss Carson, please tell me that you have not signed anything this man has given you.”
“I have not,” I said.
“Please also tell me that you’ve kept your pretty mouth shut since you’ve been arrested,” she said.
“I have,” I said.
“Good. You are a very smart woman, and, by the way, orange is a very flattering color on you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Now please also tell Mister Christian here that you no longer require his services.”
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m your savior,” she said.
“Who’s paying your salary?” I said.
She winked at me. “Pro bono. We’re going to get you out of here someday. Keep that in mind.”
I looked at Sam Christian. “You’re fired, dude.”
He gathered his papers and put them back in his briefcase. “I hope you know that you’ve just put your fate in the hands of people that do not have your best interests at heart.”
“She seems eager to take on the challenge,” I said.
“But who does she really serve?” he said.
“And who do you serve?” I said.
“You want the fireplug to represent you? Fine.” He stood. “Ladies,” he said.
“Don’t let it hit you,” my new attorney said.
He gathered his things and left the room.
The professional woman sat down across the table from me. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand.
I shook her hand. “Selena Carson,” I said.
“Meagan Shoemaker,” she said.
“So what the fuck just happened?”
“You just secured your future, Selena. That’s what.”
“Okay.”
“Now we plan on how to get you out of here. For real. It won’t happen fast, but we can do it.”
“Hey, here’s a thought. Let’s say you bring some cyanide in here in that green tank you’ve got there. You open the valve and release it. The guards all breathe it in, then we just walk out the front door. There’s an idea, huh?”
She gave me a genuine, tooth-filled smile. “Yes, dear. That’s a thought. But let’s say they’re all out of cyanide at the cyanide store that day. Then we need a Plan B, don’t we? Let’s come up with that Plan B.”
I liked her.
“Okay, so what does Plan B look like to you?”
“We make a deal. But we make a better deal. This is federal and, while the death penalty is an option, I can get that off the table. No worries. We give everybody what they need from this. A conviction. That satisfies their thirst for justice. Trust me, they don’t want some of the gritty details coming out on this. I’ve dealt with victims before, and you’ve been victimized more than any I know of. It won’t spare you a conviction—the evidence is too damning. But what I’m counting on is sympathy after the fact. We get you somewhere comfortable—not maximum security. I’m talking Club Fed. Just like Martha Stewart.”
I had no idea who Martha Stewart was, but I assumed I had things in common with her.
“You get in there, you get clean, you stay clean, and you be a model inmate. You say yes, sir and no, sir. Then we get your story out. Your whole story. We start to sow doubt. We get some public reaction. You were railroaded. Shafted by the system. Get some celebrities to rally around the cause. Some of those grunge rockers too. They’ll say the sentence is too harsh. They do a documentary. There’s an outcry. You’re a hero. And then we appeal. It’s not easy to appeal a plea agreement, but I can do it. I can. The key is public sentiment. The public has to feel the sentence is too harsh. It will take longer, but this is how we can do it. You will have a life outside of prison one day.”
My face fell. This was crazy. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t allow myself to feel hope. “Just so you know, I really think the cyanide plan is the way to go.”
“You’re going to have to trust us.”
“Us?”
“Yes, Selena. Us. You have friends. Your friends have enemies. Those enemies are the Federal Prosecutors. Unfortunately, you’re in the hands of the enemy right now. We’re going to change that. It’s important that you listen to me. Not them. Now, I may not be able to get you the same set up that Martha Stewart got, but I think I can get you some place comfortable. Some place better than this shit heap.” She smiled.
So that’s how I went to federal prison with a very long sentence.
But on the bright side, I got the bullet removed from my chest.
F IVE
Roman
ROMAN KNOWLES WAS getting a blowjob from Jillian, his live-in companion, when he heard the explosion. A moment later the ground trembled under them.
One of his boys had just blown his head off. Had he timed it better, he could have orgasmed between the sound of the explosion and the shaking ground.
He closed his eyes tight and tightened his thigh muscles, both actions that he knew would only delay his orgasm. You can’t force a stubborn nut by tightening up, he thought, but that didn’t stop him from trying. You have to relax for it. But that went against his nature. Roman’s nature was to take it by violent force.
“Stop. Just stop,” he said.
“What’s the matter, baby?”
“I gotta go out there and see what that shit is.”
“Now? Don’t you want to cum first?”
“No, I can do that later. Wasn’t working anyway.” Hard to get good head anymore, Roman thought. Most women were mediocre at best, and Jillian wasn’t as good as most women.
“I was doing it the way you liked.” Jillian was dressed only in a pair of pink panties. Her straight, ginger hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She lay on her side with her face next to Roman’s shrinking cock. She covered the faint nipples on her small, soft breasts with her forearm.
“Putting your heart and soul into it, was you? I got shit on my mind, girl.”
“If he blew himself up, it’ll keep. You don’t got to go running out right now. Hell, it’s cold out.” She rubbed his softening penis with her hand.
Roman pushed her hand away. He slid out from under her and stood. He stuffed himself back in his pants and zipped up. He threw a shirt on and donned his cap. On his way out of the house, he grabbed a single-shot twelve gauge that he kept propped by the back door.
His house was a double wide modular that had been hauled up the mountain in separate pieces pulled by trucks. A crane had to be brought up the mountain to help maneuver the pieces up the steep switchbacks. Over the years the house had deteriorated. The shingles on the roof were loose, the vinyl siding was peeling away on one of the corners where the wind whipped at it, and the underpinning was cracked and falling apart. Roman was not one to keep things maintained. Jillian nagged him to have the house replaced with something newer, but Roman didn’t want to put that kind of effort into a home just yet.
Roman had brown hair that he wore long in the back. He had a thick beard that covered his chin and a full mustache. Lean and tall, Roman crossed the two hundred yards between his house and the barn quickly with his long stride.
The morning air was cold. The weeds along the path were covered with white frost. Probably the last frost of the year before spring came in full bloom. Roman’s breath came out in white puffs of steam.
A Rottweiler was tied up next to the barn. It barked, strained at its chain as Roman approached.
Roman paused at the barn door long enough to pull a round can of snuff out of his pants pocket. He opened it and took a sizeable pinch of Copenhagen from the can. He pressed it down between his front lip and gums, pushed it to the side with his tongue, closed the can of tobacco and slipped it back into his jeans pocket.
He spat on the ground. He unlatched the barn door and slid it open, picked up the shotgun and stepped inside. The interior of the barn was a large, open space, dark inside around the edges, but there was a circle of light shining down in the center of the room’s interior.
&n
bsp; A naked man’s body lay on the ground within the circle of light. The man’s head had been completely separated from his body from the explosion. His head lay on its side, the blackened face looking back at Roman. The man’s hands had also been blown apart. Roman could see that the fingers were missing. There was surprisingly little blood. The heart had stopped once the head had separated, and the explosion had cauterized the wound, Roman guessed.
The remnant of the explosive collar that had been attached to the man’s neck lay nearby, still attached to the steel cable. The other end of the cable was high up on the pole and affixed to a pulley system. The collar had kept the man chained to the pole.
“What a fucking mess,” Roman said.
Suicide was the number one driver of profit loss in the human trafficking business.
Roman walked over to a cage in the back of the barn. Another man was inside the cage. He too was naked and wore a similar collar.
Roman looked down at the man. “Might have to get your help cleaning this shit up. I’ll have to move you up in the order of things. Hope you know how to fight.”
The man stared at Roman through the bars. “Open this door, and you’ll find out”.”
S IX
Selena
I WAS FORTUNATE enough to be in the rooms, not a prison cell. My prison room was almost as small as the bedroom I grew up in. I was raised in a tiny mobile home. It was just my mother, father, and me. Then my mother died when I was nine. After that, it was my dad and me until I ran away at the age of fourteen.
The mobile home sat in a wooded holler in Eastern Kentucky. It was remote, private and quiet. My bedroom was small, not much larger than a closet, but it was a haven for me while growing up. When you’re raised by alcoholics, you have to find your own safe place. My tiny corner of Kentucky, only a little larger than a closet, had been that.
My prison room was almost that small and nowhere near as private.
I had a cellmate named Carla. Even though I was housed in the rooms and not in the general population dorms, I was placed with a cellmate.
