The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  The other twenty-three hours of silence every day were getting to him. Starks’s grandfather had told him silence could be a refuge, a resting state for the mind, a friend of sorts. Silence was just another enemy he faced in his enclosure within an enclosure. With every moment of silence, he descended into an orgy of emotional hurts, sadistic analytical reasoning, and memories of a past best forgotten.

  But he knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to forget.

  CHAPTER 24

  “PICK A CHAIR. And try to relax. I’m one of the good guys here.”

  Prison counselor, Matthew Demory, had thought the name Frederick Starks was familiar when he’d been instructed to start sessions with the inmate. He’d reviewed the inmate’s file, saw the photograph included, and realized this was the CEO of Tendum Enterprises. Starks, a mechanical engineer who’d graduated summa cum laude from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, had accomplished a great deal in his life.

  Even without the file photo, he would have recognized Starks as soon as he saw him. His face had plastered the front pages of newspapers for months, and there had been numerous video clips of him holding his hands in front of his face and his head down, as well as photographs that captured the man’s abject misery. The media had revealed damn near everything but the man’s underwear brand and size. Starks was not the average inmate. And to the best of his knowledge, Starks was the only “celebrity” currently housed at Sands.

  Demory told the guards escorting Starks to wait outside and to close the door. Initially, they watched through the double-glassed pane on the top half of the door, but he gave them a look that made them turn away.

  He swiveled back and forth in the brown leather chair positioned behind his desk. His paunch strained several buttons on his shirt that had a fresh coffee stain on it, as well as a wet spot where he’d made a half-hearted attempt to clean the spill. His hair, cut short, was the same color as the leather, except for touches of silver at his temples. Robin’s-egg-blue eyes watched with interest as Starks took in the decor.

  It was an office quite different from any other at Sands, something Demory was proud of. He understood and insisted that this one space was to be something of a sanctuary. If an inmate was in need of his help, by damn they’d have a more pleasant place to get it in. What he kept to himself when he’d had this discussion with the warden was that he needed the environment as well; a depressed counselor was no good to anyone. The warden had told him if that’s what he wanted, it had to come out of his pocket. Demory was happy to do it that way, and his accountant was happy to write off the improvements as a business expense.

  So he’d personally painted over the gray walls with a soothing blue-white paint, adding a few wavy lines in aqua to resemble calming surf, and placed a large rug with a pleasing pattern under his maple desk. Two maple chairs with secured cushions were angled in front of the desk. Maple filing cabinets and book shelves filled one wall.

  After Starks sat, Demory struggled to get him to speak. Some inmates were eager to talk, whether from loneliness, craving attention, or a sociopathic need for control. Some were as reticent to open up as this one was. For the first several minutes, the most he could get from Starks was more often one-word responses than full sentences. The information was in Starks’s file, but Demory had learned that with inmates hesitant to talk, it warmed them up if they believed they needed to confirm vital statistics and immediate family details—“For the record,” Demory said. Starks wasn’t as accommodating as most.

  The counselor wasn’t opposed to an unorthodox approach, if he thought it was needed. Too loud for the space between them, he said, “Frederick Starks. You go by Frederick, Fred, or Freddie?”

  “Starks.”

  “You don’t use your first name? Ever?”

  “No. My father abandoned us when I was young. Understandably, my mother resented him. Most mothers use the kid’s full name when they mean business. Not mine. Whenever I did anything that annoyed her or reminded her of him, she called me by his last name.”

  “Did you annoy her often?”

  Starks shrugged. “I was a typical boy. Young boys get into mischief. Usually not harmful, just irksome to their mothers.” A half-smile crossed his lips. “I got into mischief so often my mother started calling me that name all the time. More often than not, she’d smile when she did. I got used to it. So when people asked my name, that’s what I told them to call me.”

  Demory paused to note in the file that talking about family, or at least certain memories, seemed to ease Starks’s resistance.

  “You founded and managed a huge firm. Tendum Enterprises. Very impressive. That kind of success requires certain things: Time, money, intelligence, stamina. I’m interested in hearing how you became so successful.”

  Starks blew out a long breath. “A desire for success earned through hard work was instilled by my mother, grandfather, and uncles. And they were strict about a good education. I learned to earn my merits and rewards. An opportunity presented itself. I borrowed twenty thousand dollars from family and friends to start my company. Worked three jobs while managing my start-up firm. After three years, I was able to start satellite offices.”

  “That’s a lot of effort for one person.”

  “My wife and I both worked while my business was in the start-up phase.”

  “So she was supportive?”

  Starks shrugged and picked at his cuticles.

  Demory judged this response to mean the wife, whom he knew was on the way to being the ex-wife, was a trigger for Starks. It was too soon to get into anything deep just yet. When inmates held back as this one did, it was smarter to build into the heavier topics gradually, unless the inmate indicated otherwise. Those kinds of conversations required trust, something most inmates were in short supply of. Plus, he needed to get to know them better as well, observe them, so he could watch for inmates with behavior disorders who’d like nothing better than to dick around with him.

  The session continued and ended on the same note it had started: general questions, nothing too personal, about Starks’s family and life before prison, all of which Starks gave the briefest answers he could get away with.

  Demory put his pen down and said, “Our introduction to one another is up. Twenty minutes. Not so bad, was it?”

  Starks rolled his neck right then left then stood. “Felt a lot longer to me.”

  “The next session will be the full fifty minutes.”

  “Oh joy.”

  Demory watched Starks’s stoop-shouldered stride to the door. These tough-to-reach inmates took time, but they were usually worth it. Even after years of being in practice, including at Sands, the depth of what people carried inside them and what motivated them to do some of the things they did could still surprise him.

  Starks left the session confused, wondering if it was a joke. He’d expected questions about why he’d attacked Boen Jones, and why he’d tried to kill himself, among all the other probing questions he’d anticipated and dreaded.

  The steel door of his cell clanged shut behind him. He stayed standing where he was and let his eyes scan the confined space. He chuckled, but not in amusement.

  What a system.

  His thoughts had led him to try to kill himself, and what did the system do? They put him in even more solitary confinement twenty-three hours a day, where his thoughts could eat at him from the inside one tearing bite at a time. He was relieved that, so far, they didn’t know about his small treasure—the six-inch metal ruler lifted from the infirmary doctor’s desk. The failed suicide attempt hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d pretended his foot itched and hidden the ruler in one of his shoes. Every night when overhead lights were dimmed at eleven, he lay on his side, facing the wall. The metal strip would be removed from the slit he’d made in the underside of the mattress cover, right at the seam, where it wouldn’t be obvious. Pretend snores covered the sound as he whittled metal against concrete, until he got drowsy. Then he’d slide the ruler back in
to its hiding place. A slow process, for sure, but soon he’d have a proper shank. If the guard on the other side of the camera noticed the subtle arm movements made in the dimmed light… well, let him think whatever he wanted to about that. When the shank was sharp enough, he’d use it.

  Also sharp was the loneliness. It led him to ask himself questions like why had he fallen in love with and married Kayla. He’d loved and trusted her, and she repaid him by proving she was nothing more than a harlot. He’d been through everything with her. Had sacrificed so much for her. And this place—this life—was the end result of all he’d done. For her.

  Thinking about her led to thoughts of Ozy and all that her involvement with him had resulted in, how many lives had been irrevocably altered.

  He choked on the pain.

  CHAPTER 25

  WHY HAD HE gone to Ozy’s home that night?

  Why hadn’t he handled the infidelity differently?

  Ozy was still comatose, which left the man’s wife without a husband. Their children were without a father, as were his own children. And as much as he knew it shouldn’t matter in comparison, his actions had destroyed the reputation he’d put so much of himself into establishing. The good results of all his efforts had been more than diminished—they were now forgotten, having been replaced with his notoriety.

  Mild-mannered was in the past as well. Now he was volatile, his behaviors irresponsible. His methodical thought process, so keen and beneficial when he’d built his business and the goodwill in the community he had enjoyed, was something he trusted less after experiencing how his emotions could take over.

  The words of a TV pastor, heard while channel-surfing, came to him like a slap: “For every choice there is a consequence. Choices are life-changing; consequences are long-lasting. You can make a choice, you cannot choose the consequence. But you must be prepared to live with it.”

  Kayla’s betrayal—on so many unimagined levels—had wrecked him and their family. Every day as he’d waited for and gone through his trial, and for far longer than he could believe possible that a story could or should hold interest, the print and visual media played with the headlines and stories about him. They amused themselves in order to squeeze words onto a page or give newscasters a reason to make witticisms at his expense: Tendum Tycoon’s Tirade. CEO’s TKO. Philandering Philanthropist Penned. People were paid to think up these ridiculous sound bites. Other people paid to read them and the stories that followed.

  With the exception of Jeffrey, his so-called friends had quickly distanced themselves from him. Sure, his mother, aunt, and cousin had gone to the trial, but neither they nor any other members of his family visited him in jail prior to and during the trial. They had, however, visited him before he left for this place. He’d pleaded for someone to make sure he saw his children before he began his long stint at Sands. Did he ever again want to hear from any of them was a question he had no definite answer for. For now, at least, he’d told the prison, in writing, to refuse all visitors he’d put on his list, unless otherwise notified.

  Then there were his children. He ached for them. Not being able to see them, wondering how they were getting along without him, haunted him.

  Blake, twelve, was old enough to understand what had happened, and to feel the shame of it. He’d always been affectionate with his parents, so found it especially difficult when they separated, and agonizing when his father was incarcerated. Tears welled in Starks’s eyes as he recalled how Blake kept his arms pinned to his sides when his father hugged him goodbye before he was transferred from the county jail.

  Nathan was ten. A quiet type. He rarely expressed his feelings, but the pain he felt when Starks hugged him at the end of that visit showed through his eyes, on his face, in how rigid he held his slight body. The boy had always internalized his feelings. Starks still felt stabbing guilt at not being able to console him.

  His daughter, Kaitlin, was now seven—he’d missed her birthday since being here, and wondered if she’d asked for him. She hadn’t understood more than that Daddy wouldn’t be able to play with her for a long time. Soon she’d grasp the truth, and add shame as a feeling she walked around with.

  What tore at him was the possibility that other children, and some adults, might be cruel to them all. Because of him.

  He blamed Kayla but was still rational enough to own some of his share of that blame. It was his lack of self-control that led to this confinement and the, though still unofficial, end of his marriage. Should he have buried his pride and saved the marriage? Had there been anything left to save? None of this would have ever happened if he’d chosen that safer path. But he’d always prided himself on taking calculated risks and fighting for what was his, especially his self-respect.

  One thing was certain: He now knew Kayla’s true character. Knew she didn’t have the ability—or chose not to exercise it—to use proper judgment about relationships. She could easily decide to continue to go from man to man—use them then lose them (to borrow Ozy’s phrase), as she had done with him and the others. What if the silly bitch did man-hop, causing multiple men to interact with his children, possibly hurt them, with him unable to protect them. Or—the thought wrenched him—another man raised his children. Would they call that man Daddy as well? Or instead?

  Coming from a broken home, Starks had promised himself that his children would never have that experience. A shattered promise, indeed.

  He wasn’t going to be able to teach his children about life, work ethics, or the importance of contributing to their community. And, God help him, what had his own actions taught them? He’d always been so careful to let them see only the best of his nature. A parent’s right to deceive for a just purpose, or so he’d believed.

  One momentary lapse in judgment had brought an end to being loved or at least admired by many, even those he’d helped financially. He’d created a mini-empire of engineering firms through hard work, dedication, and perseverance. Instead of a fine watch and shoes, he now wore shackles. Marriage, family, success, amenities that made life pleasurable—all of it gone.

  He’d once read that the universe abhors a void. Create a space and the universe fills it, the author had stated.

  Not this time, he told himself.

  Nothing about his life now allowed him to believe the void in him would be filled with anything other than more emptiness.

  A question came to him in his grandfather’s voice: What are you going to do about your situation?

  I’ll think of something.

  He was certain of this: What he was contemplating would have grieved his grandfather.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE SURVEILLANCE CAMERA in his isolation cell was positioned in the corner of the high ceiling and to the right of the door. Starks calculated where in the cell the camera, angled as it was, most likely could not see him. One narrow space in the corner opposite where the camera was mounted seemed the ideal spot. He stood there to see if his absence from view drew anyone’s attention. With no clock or watch, he timed it by counting the seconds. Five minutes.

  The door flap was flung open by a guard.

  “You. Stand in the middle of the room.”

  Starks did as told.

  “What the hell are you up to in there?”

  “Meditation.”

  “Meditate on the bed, the bench, or with your head in the fucking toilet, for all I care, but stay out of the damn corner.”

  The time was now. He lay on the mattress, tossing and turning, pretending a poor attempt to nap, and removed the shank, keeping it hidden in his hand. For several more minutes, he continued to play the role of a troubled sleeper, all the while going deeper into the feelings that he was a disgrace to his family and friends, and that life was no longer worth living.

  He went to the blind spot in the room.

  Quick efficiency would do the trick. He positioned the shank against his jugular. One quick slice, and in a brief amount of time—he hoped—all his pain and humiliation would be
over.

  Sweat began to run in rivulets down his face. Moisture pooled in his armpits, his groin, behind his knees. This hesitation is wasting valuable minutes. His heart hammered, willed him to live. Then he sensed an inner voice asking him to trust. A sob wracked its way up from deep in his core.

  He flung himself onto the mattress, careful about putting the shank into its hiding place without being seen.

  After several minutes, the adrenaline rush was over. His head, arms, and legs felt leaden. His brain craved rest. He lay on the bed with his eyes open, unable to fight whatever thoughts demanded his attention, until a spider crawled across the ceiling and entered its small web in the corner. How had the spider gotten inside and when? And when had the industrious creature built its web?

  It wasn’t a typical web of geometric appeal. This web was coarsely constructed, its purpose of capture-and-keep and hide the truth within obvious by its opaque aspect.

  The glimmer of an idea sparked: Create your own web. How to do that in here, though, eluded him.

  He’d trust that something would come to him.

  CHAPTER 27

  TWO WRONGS DON’T make a right.

  How often his grandfather had repeated that old adage while Starks was growing up. Perhaps that was the seed of the twisted tree his and Kayla’s marriage had become, he thought. They’d each ignored the meaning of that phrase intended to make reasonable people pause before they acted. They’d both failed miserably.

  Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he recalled hearing someone say, though he couldn’t remember who, “Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they will.”