The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  “Could he have chosen a better time and place to speak with Mr. Hessinger, or abandoned the idea altogether? Yes, but who among us hasn’t found our hearts deeply affected when we faced such loss then found ourselves making choices we wished we hadn’t? It’s human nature.”

  Parker rested his hands on the front of the jury box. “Mr. Starks was indeed pushed to his limit that night outside and inside the Hessinger house. And let’s not delude ourselves into thinking we ourselves have no such limits.” He smiled. “And this includes the prosecutor.” He backed up a few feet. “Mr. Starks had, until that antagonistic encounter on the part of Mr. Hessinger, demonstrated remarkable restraint. And then it became a matter of self-defense. Please keep in mind that Mr. Starks did not enter the house intentionally: events unfolded that put him inside the house, where he never meant to go, and subsequently put his life in peril.

  “The prosecution doesn’t want you to consider the fact of a knife being present. And I realize the officer said neither he nor his partner saw a knife. He also admitted they didn’t look for any weapons. Why? Because they believed the wounds, alone, didn’t give them a reason to. Mr. Hessinger had a butcher knife in his hand, and when Mr. Starks saw the knife—when he realized Mr. Hessinger’s intent to use it—he grabbed the bowl and struck in self-defense. The knife fell from Mr. Hessinger’s hand. What became of the knife remains unknown. At this time, at least. And, yes, Mr. Starks did then strike Mr. Hessinger a number of times. But by then the chemical adrenaline was surging through his system. Fear for one’s life will do that to a person. That’s a scientific fact of human biochemistry, not a fault in Mr. Starks’s character.”

  Parker retreated, until he was halfway between the defense table and the jurors.

  “One thing you are obligated to consider is reasonable doubt. The prosecutor bears the burden of proof that his version of events is accurate, and he must have proven this to the extent that there can be no doubt in your mind that Mr. Starks is guilty as charged. And, this must be considered for each charge separately. I trust you will take this into consideration and make a fair and informed decision.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to think about what it’s like to be betrayed by someone you cherish then taunted deliberately by the person your spouse betrayed you with—for the longest period of time. I ask you to consider what you would do, and how you might feel, if the person who had in fact already destroyed your family, pulled a weapon on you with intent to do bodily harm or even to end your life. Then I ask you to see reason, to grasp the fact this was a crime of passion and a matter of self-defense, and find Frederick Starks not guilty as charged, on all counts.”

  Parker returned to his chair.

  “Thank you for that,” Starks said. “I only hope the jurors really listened to you.”

  “You have to face facts. You’re guilty of entering the premises, and of assault and battery, which the police witnessed. It’s possible the jury will find you not guilty, but it’s probable they’ll find you guilty of something. Let’s just hope their deliberation takes a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “The longer they deliberate, the more in your favor they’re leaning.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “MR. FOREMAN, HAS the jury reached a verdict unanimously?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Please read that verdict before the court.”

  “On the charge of attempted murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

  Starks grabbed Parker’s arm.

  “That’s good,” Parker said, “but that’s just the first charge.”

  “On the charge of assault, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

  Starks’s grip tightened.

  “On the charge of burglary, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the charge of battery, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

  The judge struck the gavel to quiet those in the gallery. “Will the defendant please stand.”

  Starks, shaking his head in disbelief, had to be helped to his feet by Parker. Birnhaum, Bailey, and Todd joined them as they faced the judge.

  “Frederick Starks, in accordance with the laws of the State of Massachusetts, for the felony charge of burglary with assault, I hereby sentence you to the minimum penalty of ten years. For the charge of a battery resulting in serious injury, I hereby sentence you to the maximum penalty of five years. You are remanded to county prison while you await transfer to Sands Correctional Facility. Court adjourned.”

  Starks collapsed into his chair. “What does this mean?”

  Parker sat next to his client. “I told you they weren’t going to let you get away without some punishment.”

  “Oh my God.” Starks covered his face with his hands.

  Parker took hold of Starks’s right arm and shook it. “Pay attention. From this moment on, you do everything right. You hear me? Especially at Sands. I’m pretty sure it’s because of the extent of Ozy’s injuries that the judge sentenced you to a maximum-security place rather than a minimum or medium one.”

  “Maximum? Jesus Christ.”

  “Listen. I repeat: You make damn sure you have a record of good behavior from now on. That’ll improve your chances to get your fifteen-year sentence reduced and early parole. In the meantime, we’ll get busy on an appeal.”

  “Fifteen years. Jesus. And if Ozy dies?”

  “You’re screwed.”

  CHAPTER 18

  AFTER A BRIEF glance at their faces, Starks was deliberate about not looking at the other five prisoners being transported on the bus to Sands. Only two of the men wore ambivalent expressions. The others looked as terrified as he felt. He took a seat on the left side of the bus and stared out the window, ignoring the slate sky that hovered over the snow-covered landscape, and picked absent-mindedly at his cuticles. Despite the fact the bus heater was either broken or kept off deliberately, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and he stayed damp for the nearly two hours the worn-out shocks jostled the passengers over the paved and blacktop roads that needed their own repairs.

  After what seemed an age of road-racket white noise, one of the other prisoners said, “It’s a damn fortress.”

  Starks swiveled his head right and saw Sands Correctional Facility for the first time. Acres of snowy ground unimpeded by trees or shrubs stretched between the road and the two-story concrete structure that squatted far back from the main road. Small patches of brown weeds poked through the bare expanse. Any prisoner trying to escape in that direction had no place to take cover.

  A twenty-foot wall painted white interspersed with streaks of rust surrounded the grounds and was topped with strands of razor and electrical wire that coiled up at least one yard. Around the exterior perimeter of the wall was more razor wire, coils of it five feet high and four feet wide. Ten watchtowers loomed in various locations.

  The bus turned onto the road that ran alongside the prison. A guard came out of a kiosk to speak with the driver before the heavy metal gate screeched open and the bus rambled through before lurching to a stop. The driver said nothing to them as he stepped out to meet the guard who joined him.

  After a frozen fifteen-minute wait, two guards boarded the bus to get the prisoners. Starks followed the others through a mechanized door then through the next similar door once the first one clanged shut. He was brought to several holding rooms where he gave identifying details more times than he thought necessary.

  It was in the last holding room he was brought to and where his shackles were finally removed that reality slipped yet another cog.

  “Strip.”

  “What?” Starks read the name tag sewn onto the guard’s shirt and added, “Mr. Jakes.”

  “That’s Officer Jakes or CO Jakes, mister. Now strip. Or I can get a few inmates in here to get those clothes off.”

  Conscious of the pounding in his chest, Starks used fingers that threatened to go numb from fear to remove the slip-on sneakers. He stumbled as he ste
pped out of the jumpsuit. At a motion from the guard, he slid his underwear down, covering his genitals with one hand then the other.

  Jakes pointed at the jumpsuit and shoes. “You wanna keep those?”

  “Get rid of them.” Starks grabbed his underwear, realizing he didn’t have another pair. Something he’d have to take care of as soon as he knew how. He started to put the underwear back on but the guard told him not to.

  The CO snapped on a pair of gloves. “Open your mouth.” This was followed by “Bend over and spread ’em.”

  When Starks felt the probing intrusion, he said, “Jesus.”

  “No treat for me, either.”

  Jakes finished his exam then handed Starks a bar of soap and told him to follow him into an adjoining room, where he pointed to several shower heads mounted on the wall. “You got sixty seconds to suds and rinse.”

  Starks brought the soap close to his nose, sniffed, and recoiled. “What is this?”

  “Disinfectant. Shower. Now.”

  Starks turned the water on and held his hand under it.

  “Listen, Goldie Locks, no time for you to wait till the temperature’s just right. Get your ass moving.”

  Starks’s skin puckered under water that stayed frigid. Only since he’d been a boy had he showered so fast. And that was at a public pool where the rule required it before people could enter the water.

  A prison doctor gave him a quick examination, asked him if he had any particular medical issues. He said he didn’t.

  Jakes handed him a set of yellow scrubs and a pair of lace-less shoes. Starks dressed in a hurry, grateful to end his exposure.

  “Follow me.” Jake’s walkie-talkie crackled. He listened a moment to the garbled chatter then turned the dial until the static stopped.

  They entered yet another room. The CO said, “Hold out your arms.”

  Into Starks’s outstretched arms were bundled a blanket, a coat, two more sets of yellow scrubs, a plastic plate and cup, toothpaste, toothbrush, and a bar of soap.

  “What about deodorant?” Starks asked.

  “Get your own in the commissary. Or stink. Personally, I don’t care, but some of the inmates think stink is an aphrodisiac.” He laughed at Starks’s terrified expression. “Anything else you want you gotta buy.”

  Another guard approached them. Jakes said, “Officer Roberts here will escort you to your new home away from home.” He turned to Roberts. “New fish is all yours.”

  Roberts held up a plastic-coated ID with Starks photo and prison number on it. “Always have this with you. If a CO or any authorized personnel asks to see your ID, even in the shower, and you don’t have it, you’ll be punished. It goes missing, you find the nearest correctional officer ASAP and get a new one.”

  He slid the ID into Starks’s shirt pocket and said, “Follow me. A word of advice: Keep your eyes to yourself. Looking into anyone’s cell can get you into shit you don’t want to get into.”

  Starks kept his eyes aimed forward as Roberts led him through a series of sliding steel doors and corridors. He fought the urge to look around but was aware of certain things: Everything was gray—floors, walls, ceilings, and more doors with bars than he could count. Odors permeated the air: Sweat, human waste, soup, personal products, disinfectant, and some odors he had no inclination to identify. The stony silence of a number of inmates he passed was as loud as the shrieks of a few men Starks felt sure belonged in a mental facility.

  Roberts finally said, “Cell Block C,” then continued walking until he stopped at an open barred door two cells from the end of the corridor.

  Starks stopped at the threshold to take in his surroundings. Bunk beds were mounted to the wall. The bottom bed was covered with a rumpled blanket, food wrappers, crumbs, but no person. A plastic chair was pulled out from a small desk next to the head of the lower bunk. The desktop was crammed with items that had spilled onto the floor. An overflowing plastic ashtray rested precariously at the edge of the desk. On the other side of the narrow enclosure was another desk and chair. He placed his items on top of the unused desk and studied what would be his bed with its thin, vinyl-coated excuse for a mattress.

  “Where’s my roommate?”

  “Cellmate. This isn’t college.” Roberts checked his watch. “He’ll be here in eight minutes. For the count.”

  “What’s the count?”

  “Unless you’re someplace else you’re authorized to be, you have your ass in this cell at eight, eleven, three, six, and ten every day. You’re not here… maybe you don’t want to find out.”

  Roberts turned and started out of the cell.

  “What’s my cellmate’s name?”

  “Ask him. I can’t do every fucking thing.”

  CHAPTER 19

  STARKS BELIEVED WITHOUT a doubt that he was not born to be an underling. Low man on the totem pole did not suit him at all. Yet, here he was, lower than he’d ever been. And this was only the first day of the next fifteen years. The only advantage he had in this godforsaken place was money. Parker had greased a few palms to get Starks’s prison number as soon as it was assigned. Jeffrey had then promptly deposited four hundred dollars into his prison account and set up automatic deposits of the same amount every two weeks, with the agreement that if more money was needed, it would be there.

  He edged his way slowly around the fenced-in prison yard, pausing to grasp the mesh of the chain-link fence and look past it at the twenty-foot wall that was ten yards from where he stood. A crow landed on the wall. It stared at Starks, tilting its head in crisp movements, seemed to study him with one eye then the other. The black bird sharpened its beak on the concrete, cawed once then flew away.

  Nearby, inmates played a rowdy game of football, while others used exercise equipment or otherwise occupied themselves. He’d learned from Parker that there were several hundred more inmates incarcerated with him than the place was actually designed to accommodate, which was already a large enough number. He wondered what the ramifications of that compression of bodies, mentalities, and egos would be, especially in the hot months. Fortunately, if one could consider anything about prison life fortunate, at least in Massachusetts, there were fewer hot months here than in the southern states. This did not ease apprehension about sharing his confinement.

  Fifteen years was a long time. Especially in a maximum security prison. Unless he got out early for good behavior. This, he decided, was what he’d strive for, unless what he dreaded happened and his sentence became life.

  “What happens to me if Ozy dies?” he’d asked Parker.

  “You don’t have to worry about the death penalty. Massachusetts no longer executes felons and hasn’t since 1947. Some enthusiasts have tried overturning that decision. It’s been up for a vote a number of times over the years, always defeated. Really, don’t worry about it.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I know it’s a small comfort. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to small comforts. They’ll keep you sane.”

  I’m in hell.

  And I don’t deserve to be here.

  He desperately wanted to return to his former life. Wanted everyone to say that what he’d done that landed him in this godforsaken place had been justified, excused. That he’d done what any man in his situation would have done, and had a right to do—if he had any self-respect at all.

  He thought about writing a letter to Jeffrey or calling him on the phone, realizing he had no idea how either process worked here—derided himself for not getting more of this kind of information from Parker before coming here.

  Jeffrey would understand if he told him “I’m scared out of my mind, man. I’m always looking behind me, watching my back. Inmates stare at me. The fear of being raped or stabbed is more than a fear, it’s a real possibility. If anyone other than a guard approaches me to talk, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t trust anyone in here. And no one tells you anything, unless you ask. Even then, you almost wish you hadn’t. You have to watch and learn w
hat to do, not even knowing what the penalty might be for getting it wrong. Know what they call new arrivals, like me? New fish. That’s how I feel. Like a fish out of water, flapping desperately on dry land, gasping for breath. It’s a different world, Jeffrey. I’m seriously thinking of finding a way to kill myself.” He knew his last sentence would seem dramatic, and he broke into a sweat when he realized some part of him meant it.

  He let go of the fence and continued to walk, taking note as unobtrusively as possible of inmates in the yard. None of them looked friendly.

  His cellmate had shown up for the count at eleven that morning. The man was short and wiry, as was his salt-and-pepper hair. He also spoke almost no English, though he seemed to understand it well enough, which Starks found out when he asked, “What happens if you’re not in your cell for the count?”

  “Big shit,” though the man pronounced it beeg sheet.”

  Then the cellmate had babbled in his native language, which Starks didn’t recognize.

  “Why the hell do they put people together who can’t talk to each other?”

  His cellmate bobbed his head several times and smiled, revealing the seven tobacco-stained teeth remaining in his mouth.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Starks added, as he climbed onto his bunk, where he lay staring out of the slit called a window.

  His stomach grumbled in protest. How did anyone survive on the crap they served? As soon as he was brave enough to ask, he’d find out. The lunch meal, his first in prison, had not only been inedible but the entire process was confusing as hell. He’d had to watch others, and be careful how he did that so he didn’t piss them off. It hadn’t taken long to realize why trays were pushed anonymously through a slot: Who’d want to be blamed for the poor excuse for food. There had also been the matter of figuring out where to sit, which he quickly learned wasn’t wherever you wanted to: Inmates had their usual tables and others were expected to treat this as a fact, if not practically a law. There was the discovery that he had to knock on the table before he sat and when he got up. He wasn’t sure why, but every inmate did this, so he imitated them. And he’d learned he had ten minutes to eat in the chow hall, as one guard who poked him with his nightstick informed him. The dinner meal was no different.