The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  Starks wanted to believe, in part, that his opponent’s appearance meant he could let his guard down a bit, but that would be foolish. The men with Crazy D were obviously tough.

  Starks glanced around the yard. Four guards patrolled the northern end of the space to his right; five more were spread out on the southern end. COs Simmons and Roberts were in the latter group; CO Jakes was in the former. They were watching him. His hope was that they continued to pay attention the way they were supposed to. He got to his feet, moving a yard in front of the bleachers. His men followed suit.

  Crazy D waited until he was about two yards away then stopped. “Starks.”

  “Darren.”

  Starks’s crew snickered. Anger flared on Crazy D’s face then dissipated just as quickly.

  Starks noted the self-control demonstrated by his adversary. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to trigger the man, but he wanted to make it clear from the start that a name wouldn’t intimidate him.

  Crazy D proffered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Word’s out that you’re starting your own gang. That’s fine, Starks; smart, even. But let me give you a lesson in etiquette. If you have a problem with a leader’s people, you arrange a conversation.” He moved forward, until he was inches away. He tilted his head sharply toward his left shoulder. The pop in his neck was loud. Crazy D tilted his head down until his nose and Starks’s nearly touched. “What you don’t do, little man, is go around killing people who are protected by the man you need to speak with. Are we clear?”

  “What’s clear to me, Darren, is that you should get the fuck out of my face.”

  Crazy D arched his left eyebrow. “Obviously, courtesy is wasted on you.”

  “What’s obvious,” Starks said, “is that your guys couldn’t get Skullars to wax their prongs, so they killed him. Seems to me, you should be teaching etiquette to them. Or maybe you gave the order because you wanted Skullars and he didn’t want you.”

  Crazy D’s fist landed dead center of Starks’s chest.

  Starks propelled backwards into Pete, who righted him.

  Tank charged forward like an over-sized bowling ball, knocking Crazy D and the two men nearest him to the ground.

  Conversation’s over, Starks thought.

  Fists, knees, and feet flew. Expletives littered the air. Inmates rushed to swarm around the fight. Their shouts and cheers were interrupted by whistles blown as guards, intent on reaching the brawlers, used nightsticks on onlookers. Pepper spray was shot directly into faces; some of it carried on the steamy breeze, back onto several of the guards and other inmates who hadn’t moved away quickly enough.

  Amid the coughs and curses, CO Simmons shouted at the observers, “Back off, you sonsofbitches.”

  CO Roberts shook his head. “Cuff ’em.”

  One of the other guards asked, “Cuff who?”

  “Anyone with a bruised face or scraped knuckles, dimwit.” Roberts looked at Starks. “You and the ones who were sitting with you stay here. Everyone else, get the hell inside. Now!”

  Starks men clustered around him.

  Roberts said to the extra guards, “Get those guys inside. We three will take these.” He gestured toward Starks and his crew.

  Crazy D strained against his handcuffs. “This isn’t over, Starks. You’re fucking dead. You hear me? Dead!”

  “Take a number, Darren.” Starks watched the man struggle against his restraints as guards shoved and dragged him and his followers inside. He turned to Roberts and said in a lowered voice, “Let the others walk ahead of us so I can tell you what you, Jakes, and Simmons are going to report to the council.”

  CHAPTER 23

  INMATES FROM BOTH gangs were confined to their cells the remainder of the weekend, with the exception of mealtimes, which they were escorted to and from by guards, unless they chose to eat from whatever food stash they had in their cells. In the case of Starks’s small fledgling group, this meant all of them ate well, or at least had better eats than they would have been served in the chow hall. Starks’s timing for the visit to the commissary couldn’t have been better planned, which he was certain put him in good favor with his recruits. Something he had no control over was that all privileges had been suspended—phone calls, visits, showers, and time outside—until the council could deal with all of them on Monday.

  Ten thirty Monday morning, Starks, Jackson, and the other four crew members stood outside the council room for a somber half hour.

  “No one’s asked,” Jackson said, “but I will. What are we waiting for?”

  Roberts answered, “The council decided to deal with Crazy D and his guys first.”

  “So, they’re in there now?” Starks asked.

  Roberts replied, “They finished with the others earlier. It’s just Williams in there.”

  Five minutes later the door opened. Crazy D’s eyes and expression matched his name when he saw Starks. “Thirty days in the fucking SHU because of you. Keep in mind what I said, Starks. It’s more than a promise; it’s a guarantee.”

  One of the guards said, “Shut up. You’d think you lived on a fucking podium, the way you go on and on. Love to hear yourself talk. Well, I don’t.” He whacked Crazy D with his nightstick. “Move it.”

  Crazy D wrenched his head around as the guard dragged him forward. “I’m coming for you, Starks.”

  Correctional officers Simmons, Jakes, and Roberts did well at their turn in front of the council. Roberts reported, and the other two confirmed, that they’d observed Darren Williams and his bunch approach Starks and the guys with him, who had been minding their own business on the bleachers. That Williams had provoked the fight by striking Starks. That it was a matter of self-defense for Starks and the inmates with him. And that Williams had made a death threat to Starks, which Roberts pointed out, had just been repeated within earshot of the council.

  Tony Spencer pushed his glasses back into place and glared at Starks. “Five days in the SHU.”

  Starks stepped forward. “For what? You heard what happened. You heard him threaten me again when he left, if you bothered to listen.”

  “I heard. But one thing I’m sure of is you’re guilty of something.”

  “What about them?” Starks nodded toward Jackson and the others. “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time; although, had they not been there, I’d be dead instead of standing here.”

  Spencer stacked the folders in front of him. “For them, all privileges suspended for a week.”

  The men groaned and complained, but when Starks glanced their way, each man subtly indicated his appreciation. They got off easy, Starks thought, and know I’m the one to thank for it. That I, as the saying goes, am taking one for the team.

  Spencer removed his glasses, huffed air on the lenses and wiped them with his tie. “And, Starks, as your time in isolation is to be brief, your hour-a-day out is suspended.”

  “What about shower time?” Starks asked.

  Spencer checked his lenses then slid his glasses back on. “Get him out of my sight.”

  Simmons and Jakes escorted the men back to their cells. Roberts took Starks in the other direction.

  “Technically,” Roberts said, “I’m supposed to deliver you to the SHU in shackles.”

  “Do what you have to do.”

  Roberts led Starks to a guard room and apologized at low volume as cuffs and heavy chains, connected to the heavier chain wrapped around his waist, restricted his hands and feet. The CO kept his pace slow as Starks shuffled alongside him to the restricted unit.

  Once inside the unit, Starks glanced at the round clock on the wall behind the main security desk. The black hands on the white face showed the time as three twenty-one, same as his previous stay in the SHU. Twice a day the stuck clock showed the right time; though, an inmate in windowless isolation never knew when that was. Track of time was lost. When released, some things were the same, some were not. If the stay in isolation was extended, many inmates were never the same. Personal experience had tau
ght him this.

  They halted in front of a solid steel door with a five-inch square window a few feet above a slot for meal trays, and waited as a guard assigned to the unit unlocked the door. The guard stayed to watch as Roberts removed the restraints.

  “See you in five days, Starks.”

  Starks nodded once. “Officer Roberts.” The metal door clanged shut behind him.

  The surroundings were all too familiar to him—the six by eight concrete rectangle, a concrete slab for a bed with no mattress or pillow. The blanket provided was bunched on the floor. Like the last time, the thin, scratchy fabric had holes and unidentified but highly suspect stains. Using two fingers, he picked the covering up by a corner. Its rancid odor reached him from arm’s length, and he wondered if they ever cleaned the damn things. Starks resisted the urge to fold the blanket and instead threw it toward a corner near the door.

  Spencer’s need for some level of revenge didn’t stop with just the five days in isolation. Sometime around noon the slot on the door opened and a tray with a brick of nutraloaf was pushed through. One flavorless pound of shredded cabbage, carrots, pinto beans, mystery meat, fake eggs, and bread mixed together and baked. Inedible. Worthy of being banned by law as cruel and unusual punishment. If this was all he was served during his time in the Hole, he was in trouble. Eventually, he’d have to eat some of it to keep his strength up. Leaving here weakened, when an attack was imminent, wasn’t an option. The question of where Crazy D’s cell was entered his mind, but he dismissed it. Even if they’d been placed next to each other, there was nothing he could do about it.

  By Starks’s calculations, he had around 119 hours left in solitary to think—about what Crazy D had planned, about his children and how long it had been since he’d seen them, especially Kaitlin, whom he hadn’t seen since the day before he’d come to Sands. He hoped Kayla was making sure their children were being properly cared for by their nanny. Even pregnant, Kayla still put herself and her need to party with her boyfriend first. Or was it boyfriends—plural?

  In an attempt to quell such thoughts and the emotions they dredged up, Starks did every exercise he could think to do, often needing to rest and gulp air until the pain from the not-so-very-old stab wounds, as well as new injuries, subsided.

  Margaret Hessinger’s lie had put him in here. He was certain she’d found the butcher knife Ozy meant to use on him. And he wondered if she ever regretted lying for the husband who’d cheated on her nearly as egregiously as Kayla had cheated on him.

  And he wondered about the Hessinger children. Had they recovered from the trauma of watching him beat and bloody their father until he was unconscious? Had their nightmares stopped?

  His hadn’t.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE NEXT FIVE days were anything but quiet. He’d learned through previous experience that some inmates in the Hole usually carried on day and night. This time was no different. Finally, the cell door was unlocked and shoved open to reveal CO Simmons on the other side, along with the guard who’d been there when Starks had come to the SHU.

  “Time’s up, Starks,” Simmons said. He told the other guard, “I’ll take it from here.”

  The guard frowned and said, “I’m not leaving until I see your backs walking away. He thrust the shackles at Simmons.

  “Those aren’t needed,” Simmons told him.

  “You got a problem with the rules, Officer?”

  Simmons hesitated then grinned. “Good thing you SHU guys are hard-asses. That’s what these numb-nuts need.”

  “It’s what they fucking deserve,” the guard replied.

  Once Simmons and Starks were far enough away, the shackles were removed.

  “First thing I need,” Starks said, “is a shower. Had to wash up with cold water that came out in a trickle.”

  “That’s the least of your worries, Starks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We ain’t getting paid like we’re supposed to. You told Roberts you’d take care of it. We been patient. We shouldn’t have to be patient.”

  Starks faced Simmons. “Rest assured all of you will be paid. I’m going to take care of it as quickly as I can.”

  “As I said, heard that before.”

  Starks felt his face grow hot and looked away to keep Simmons from seeing this. What the hell was he thinking? He’d flat-out forgotten about the matter.

  They continued toward Starks’s cell block. He didn’t want to believe Jeffrey was deliberately doing this to him, but it was a possibility he couldn’t afford to ignore. That left Parker. Parker could meet with Jim. The private investigator was supposed to have set everything up, and obviously had, because the guards had received some payments, just not recently. Maybe something had slipped up with the man Jim assigned to deliver the payoffs. If the guy was keeping the money for himself, no way Jim would know this, unless word got back to him.

  Starks and Simmons turned into the corridor that led to his cell. Simmons came to an abrupt halt. “There’s something else.”

  Starks controlled the deep sigh that wanted to escape. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Me and the others been talking. You’re too fucking reckless. You keep getting into shit you expect us to get you out of.”

  “How long have you worked here, Simmons?”

  “Seven years. Why?”

  “Then you should understand what it takes to survive in this hellhole. If you don’t, try to imagine it.” Starks fixed his gaze firmly on the guard. “You go home every day. I have to live twenty-four/seven with murderers and rapists. I’ve come close—too close—to being killed already. Someone’s after me again. So don’t you dare lecture me about what I have to do to survive. I pay you guys a hefty fee to keep me protected. It hasn’t worked out for me, has it? Has it?”

  The CO stayed quiet.

  “That’s something you and your buddies should discuss.”

  Simmons’ cheeks colored. “We’ll do better, Starks. I swear. But try to see our side. It’s just… it’s just that if what’s been happening continues, sooner or later, people are gonna ask questions, including the wrong people. You know? We’ll all land in the shit if that happens. We don’t want things to get worse than they are.”

  “I hear you. But I have to do what I need to. I can’t guarantee that matters won’t get worse; they may do just that. I’ll do what I can to keep things simpler for all of you, but you do what you’re all goddamned paid to do. Anything else you want to say?”

  “Nah.”

  “I’ll walk the rest of the way myself. Just stay and watch my back.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Something had to be done, and fast, before everything fell apart before it even took hold. It was so much easier outside these walls, to be the man at the top and in control of everything and everyone. Sharing that position in here wasn’t a pill that would ever go down without difficulty. No, that wasn’t a concept, much less an outcome, easy to swallow at all. It didn’t suit him.

  Maybe he should have accepted the proverbial olive branch Crazy D had extended to him. Maybe like in Mafia movies, they could have talked and resolved the issue between them. This isn’t the movies, he reminded himself. He had no idea whether or not Crazy D was someone whose word was any good. No honor among thieves, he heard Jackson whisper in his mind. He wasn’t about to trust anyone with his life.

  Maybe it would have been better had Parker never told him about Jeffrey screwing Kayla. Or had at least waited until he was out of prison to tell him. It would have been so much simpler to remain ignorant until he was far away from here. Now, knowing there was a glitch with guards’ payments, he couldn’t rely on his best friend to handle fixing this for him.

  Jeffrey had come here to see him, and he’d not only refused the visit, but sent a clear and nasty message back. What if Jeffrey had bad news to tell him? Maybe something had happened to one of his children. No, his mother would have gotten word to him. Or Parker. Someone. No one had left an urgent message for him
to call. No one had shown up here.

  Then it struck him: he had all these people in his life, and yet he felt completely alone.

  He could hear Demory ask, “Whose fault is that?” And he’d readily provide a list to the counselor. And Demory would go after him for that as well; would ask him when he was going to take responsibility for his choices. He’d have to ask Demory if there was anything in this dark existence that wasn’t his fucking responsibility; that all he’d seemed to have, for as long as he could remember, was a shit-pile of nothing but responsibilities. He was doing the best he could. Didn’t anybody in his life get that?

  Of course not. They were all comfortable in their lives, comfort he was directly responsible for.

  Especially Jeffrey’s luxurious life.

  What had Jeffrey thought when he’d refused to see him? No way to know if the guard repeated his message verbatim, unless he asked. If the guard had done that, was Jeffrey shocked, confused? Or did he know exactly why his friend had turned on him?

  Was Jeffrey, at his core, as frightened about the future as he was?

  CHAPTER 25

  HIS PROTECTION PROVIDED by guards was in jeopardy. This reality clanged in Starks’s mind like a bell, one tolling ominous inevitabilities. He sat on the bottom bunk, his head lowered, eyes fixed on the concrete floor, yet seeing only the potential violent scenes his imagination insisted he consider.

  Jackson sauntered in. “Hey, man, you’re back!” His smile faded. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got more problems at the moment than I have solutions.”

  Jackson pulled the chair out from under his desk and plopped into it. “Here’s something that should make you feel better: The guys can’t stop going on about what you did for them. They’re saying you showed them what a real leader should be about.”

  Starks nodded and blew out a breath. “That’s good, but it was close. They wouldn’t have been as happy with me if they’d had time in the SHU as well, and were fed nothing but nutraloaf.”