The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  CHAPTER 51

  ONE OF THE guards radioed the infirmary, ordering Dr. Troy to the SHU. Starks would have protested had he been able to speak. As it was, his breaths came hard and fast as he fought muscle contractions.

  The steel door of the cell thudded against the wall when it was flung open. The guards put Starks face-down on the mattress-less concrete slab.

  Dr. Troy was a minute behind them. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Whoa. It took two Tasers for this guy?” He barked a laugh. “Look who it is. Well, Starks, isn’t this fortuitous: I’m still here. And,” he leaned over and whispered to Starks, “I’m going to enjoy this.” He grasped the two barbed probes in Starks’s back.

  A guard said, “What about anesthetic?”

  “He’s a tough guy,” Troy replied. “It would insult him if I deadened the pain. I wouldn’t want to do that.” Troy twisted the barbed electrodes and yanked them out then did the same for the probes in the back of Starks’s left thigh. Blood pooled around the holes in the shirt and pants leg. Troy opened his medical bag and handed the guard nearest him a small stack of gauze squares and a roll of tape.

  The guard took them and said, “You’re supposed to treat him.”

  “I just did. I treated him with the contempt he deserves.” Troy snapped his bag shut and left whistling.

  The guard sent one of the others for the first-aid kit. He cleaned and bandaged Starks’s wounds then said, “You must’ve done something pretty shitty to that guy for him to act like that.” He checked his watch. “Been about ten minutes now. If you’re not feeling the effects wearing off yet, you will soon.”

  Alone and locked in, Starks stayed face-down, the pain in his back and leg diminished by the sensation that overshadowed it: He couldn’t get Jeffrey’s reaction out of his mind. The agony in Jeffrey’s eyes had been genuine. He was sure of it. Despite what he’d said and done to his friend, Jeffrey had pleaded for the guards not to harm him. Starks’s chest constricted, not as an effect of being Tasered, but in contrition. He wanted to believe what Jeffrey had told him. As soon as he could, he’d have the matter investigated. It would drive him crazy not to.

  His muscles began to relax. Starks sat up carefully, keeping his leg and back away from the coarse surface beneath and behind him. He rested in that position for a moment, giving his body time to recover fully.

  A seldom practiced feeling overwhelmed him: Remorse. Remorse for going after his friend without further verifying the information, for doubting their friendship and Jeffrey’s loyalty. Remorse at the thought of what Gabe would say when he heard what had happened, if he’d even still talk to him, and it was certain the old guy would hear about it. Why would Gabe even consider spending another ounce of energy on someone so hot-tempered, on someone who didn’t heed advice given to him by a person he insisted on bothering for—what? What was it that he really wanted from Gabe? He’d already disregarded everything the man had told him.

  Maybe he was hoping for something similar to happen with Gabe as it had with him and Trevor. He’d felt compelled to take the young inmate under his protection, to guide him. Some guide, he thought. Trevor’s hope was for good behavior to get him paroled. And here he was, big protector, in the SHU yet again, because he wasn’t able to control his temper. He’d already screwed up his own chances of early parole a number of times. If he didn’t wise up, he’d give Sands officials a reason to keep him for life, if someone didn’t quash that option by killing him.

  A knock on the door startled him. The hip-high cuff opened there was a knock on the door. The hip-high cuff opened. No tray was pushed through; instead, a familiar voice said, “It’s Roberts. Come to the door so I can talk.”

  Starks made his way to the door. His back and leg throbbed painfully with each movement. “What is it?”

  “Christ, Starks, it just doesn’t stop with you, does it? You expect us to do our job then put booby traps down for us to fall into. We appreciate the money, but damn.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand that I had to bribe some guys out of my own pocket so I could file a report saying your visitor attacked you and you had to defend yourself. The council may investigate, or they may chalk it up to typical behavior from you. If they check with this Davis guy, he may not corroborate the story. Same for the others in the visitors’ room who saw what went down. You better pray Spencer doesn’t check, for your sake and mine. They find out I lied for you, I’m fired and fined. Then they’ll investigate every guard in this place.”

  “Okay, Roberts. You’ve said your piece. Any idea how long I’ll be in here?”

  “Spencer’s talking it over with the others. He wants sixty days. The others are saying it was a misdemeanor infraction. Even they can see he’d like to stick it to you if you so much as burp in the chow hall. Starks, man, you need to get your head on straight.”

  “I appreciate what you’re saying and why, but the last thing I need right now is a lecture. I would like to know if Crazy D is in this same corridor.”

  “One over.”

  “That’s something, at least. I’m going to give you a phone number for a guy. Name’s Jim. Soon as you can, meaning immediately, call him. Here’s what I want you to say.” Starks gave Roberts the number and details. “Tell him where I am, for now. Tell him the first thing I want him to do is tell Jeffrey I’m sorry and ask him to agree to say he provoked me, if anyone asks. And I want him to get a number for Philip Wright. One more thing. Get a cell phone to me.”

  “You get caught with a cell phone and Spencer will make sure you spend the rest of this year right where you are.”

  “That’s not a request, Roberts. Ask Jackson to give you mine.”

  “Shit, Starks.”

  “Just do it.”

  “You trust Jackson?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s pretty tight with Hector Sanchez.”

  “How tight?”

  “Can’t-slip-a-hair-between-them tight.”

  “I’ll look into it, soon as I’m out of here. I appreciate your help.”

  “I’ll get on this. Someone’s coming. Gotta go.”

  Roberts closed the cuff. The only slightly muted cacophony of shouts and wails of other isolated inmates engulfed Starks the way darkness bears down on a frightened child at night. He was surrounded by others, yet once again in the place he dreaded most: alone with his thoughts.

  CHAPTER 52

  THE NIGHT WAS one of missed sleep, partly from a mind Starks couldn’t quiet and partly from being unable to find a comfortable position. He’d shifted around and cursed through the long hours in the dimly lit cell, especially at the option of either putting his weight on his wounds or having his face pressed to the grimy blanket. He chose pain over pungency. Worn out, his eyelids lowered.

  Just as sleep was finally coming, the cuff squeaked open and Roberts called his name in a loud whisper. Two gloved hands waggled a clean set of scrubs through the opening. Starks ignored stiffness and pain to hurry to the door.

  “Cell phone’s between the shirt and pants. I talked to that Jim guy. He got Wright’s number and I keyed it in for you.”

  “Good job, Roberts. What time is it?”

  “Almost five. For God’s sake, don’t get caught with that thing.”

  “Thanks. Now get out of here.”

  Guilt about how likely it was that he’d screwed up with his friend ate at him. There was a possibility Jeffrey had told the truth. There was a possibility that Jeffrey had conspired with Phil about what to say if Starks called. There was a possibility that Jeffrey didn’t believe he would call Wright. Only one thing was certain: mistrust was exhausting.

  He debated about when to place the call. Waking someone before sun-up on a Sunday morning was probably best. It would be difficult to fabricate a story and stay consistent with one or more lies if a person was half asleep, as well as caught off guard.

  After three rings a sluggish voice said, “Who the hell is thi
s?”

  “A blast from the past, Phil. Frederick Starks.”

  “Starks? Shit. I mean, I thought you were in prison.”

  “They let me out for good behavior.”

  “That’s great. But why are you calling me?”

  “I’m sure you know from media coverage what I learned about Kayla’s many indiscretions all those years.” Wright didn’t answer. Starks heard him breathing a little faster, could practically hear him try to clear the fog from his mind. “Look, Phil, if anyone understands, I do. Kayla used people for her own purposes. Still does. I’d really appreciate it if you’d confirm that she used you too. That’s all.”

  “I need to change rooms.”

  After a half-minute of silence, Starks, keeping his tone calm said, “You know how dirty she played me.”

  “Yeah, but my involvement with her was years ago. No reason to bring it up now.”

  “Thanks for admitting it. But I heard you told someone it was Jeffrey, not you. What was that about?”

  Wright chuckled. “Guess I was still holding a grudge.” He yawned. “Sonofabitch put me out of commission for a couple days for banging Kayla and bragging about it. I’d tried to convince him to do her; told him he wouldn’t be sorry for tapping that. That’s when he beat the crap out of me. You know what she was like, Starks, or you do now. Always in heat.”

  “You’re saying she approached you?”

  “Whispered in my ear what she wanted to do to me and what she wanted me to do to her, all the while rubbing against me. What else could I do?” Wright laughed. “She told me how to sneak into the basement of your house. I told her she was fucking crazy; that it was too risky. Told her I knew better places. She said it was there or nowhere. I know you know what I’m talking about. You were married to her and still never let a beautiful piece get away.”

  “You’re right, I do know. I know she meant nothing to you. I know you were a dumb fuck who thought he could do what he wanted with another man’s woman. Could lie about a guy’s best friend, thinking you wouldn’t get caught, wouldn’t suffer any consequences. What you need to know is that I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

  “C’mon, Starks. We were kids.”

  “You weren’t a kid when you lied about Jeffrey.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I believe in payback, Phil. Or maybe you’d like to act on your desire to relocate far away.”

  “I don’t have a desire to… C’mon, Starks.” His laugh was empty of everything but tension. “You’re yanking my chain, right?” When Starks didn’t answer, he said, “You do anything to me, you sick fuck, and you’ll find your ass back in prison for good. So, don’t you dare threaten me. In fact, I’m going to report you as soon as I hang up. Anyone needs to relocate, and fast, it’s you.”

  “You report anything to anyone, and you’ll regret it. Believe me, I’ll know, and my people will act faster than you can take your next breath.”

  “Fucking psycho.” Wright disengaged the call.

  Starks had no intention of doing anything to Wright. He’d intended to scare the piss out of him and had. It was a stupid and childish thing to do, and the satisfaction he’d anticipated didn’t happen as expected. Still, he’d have felt less of a man if he’d done nothing.

  The next call was going to be hard but it had to be done. His hands trembled and perspiration coated his forehead. He punched in the number then began to pace the four steps the cell dimensions allowed. When he heard “Hello,” he swallowed hard and forced the words out.

  “Jeffrey, it’s me, calling to ask if you can ever forgive me. I have no excuse other than that this place and everything that’s gone on the last few years has affected me. I feel like a train hurdling along the tracks and the bridge up ahead is out. I’ve been betrayed and lied to so many times that I never stopped to realize you’d never do that to me. God, Jeffrey, the things I said to you. I attacked you. If you never want to have anything more to do with me, I’ll understand. But I hope it doesn’t go that way.”

  A few seconds of silence passed then Jeffrey said, “Can I talk now?”

  “Say whatever you need or want to.” Starks slowed his pacing and waited for the warranted verbal onslaught.

  “As to whether or not we remain friends, it depends.”

  Starks stopped moving. He took in a ragged breath. “Name it.”

  “Are you going to grow your hair back?”

  Starks laughed then choked back a sob. “You’re saying if I grow my hair back, we can be friends again?”

  “What’s this ‘again’ business? Always. Bald, short hair, long hair, bad toupee—you’re my bro.”

  “I don’t deserve you.”

  “None of us are perfect, but you didn’t deserve any of this.”

  They avoided talking about anything serious until the lights were raised to full wattage.

  Soon, guards would open the window flaps to check on inmates. Then breakfast trays would be delivered. At some point he’d be taken for a supervised shower, which meant he’d have to be deft at keeping the phone in his underwear when he stripped. Another thought came to mind. He grabbed the shirt from the set Roberts had brought. A sigh of relief came when he saw it was one of his own; the hem was already prepped for him to hide the small knitting needle. He changed into the clean scrub set and transferred the needle and rubber thumbs into their respective hiding places.

  He picked up the used bar of soap in the puddle of scummy water on the rim of the lavatory and made a mark on the wall, wondering if he’d have enough soap to mark the number of days Spencer kept him in the Hole.

  CHAPTER 53

  ACCORDING TO THE soap marks, it was Tuesday, day four, and still no word about how long he’d be in isolation. Breakfast had been unsalted liquid fake eggs and unsalted watery oatmeal, neither of which he could stomach. It almost made a nutraloaf brick seem appealing. Almost.

  The cuff opened and the aroma of roasted turkey wafted through to Starks. A voice called out that it was lunchtime. His stomach growled in response as he walked to the door to verify he wasn’t dreaming. On the tray held by gloved hands was a plate heaped with servings of real turkey and mashed potatoes, both in pools of gravy.

  It took about two seconds to recall what happened the last time someone in isolation received an unexpected treat, one he’d arranged. “What the hell is this?” he asked. His stomach sounded its desire loud and clear. “Who are you?”

  “You have friends with pull in here, Starks. You know what they say about a gift-horse. I’m not going to stand here all frigging day. You want this or not?”

  “Tell whoever I said thanks.”

  Starks used both hands to grab the tray on the sides; the last thing he wanted to do was drop it. Something silver streaked through the opening. Starks jerked back, but not fast enough to prevent the sharp blade from making a diagonal slash across his right wrist. Blood spurted across the tray, his clean scrubs, and every nearby surface. He thrust the tray through the opening, hopeful the crash that reverberated in the corridor drew attention. A single set of footsteps raced to the left. His original bloodied shirt was on the floor a few feet from him; he used it to press hard over the three-inch slice in his skin. The wound wasn’t deep, but it needed medical attention; his attacker had hit a vein. Over and over, Starks shouted for help. He felt faint so moved a few feet away and slid down the wall to the floor. And waited. Other inmates took up the call and shouted as well.

  It seemed too long a time until Starks heard a curse come from the other side of the door; heard the person kick the tray aside so he could look through the small window. Starks held up the blood-soaked garment. He heard the guard radio for assistance. The lock disengaged. Three guards entered the cell; the last one in carried shackles.

  “What the hell’s going on, Starks?” the first guard said.

  “I was lured to the door with the promise of a decent lunch and was attacked.”

  “Lunch isn’t for another two hours.�
��

  “No way for me to know that, is there? All I knew was that I was hungry. We’re wasting time and blood talking about it.” He moved the shirt to show them his wrist.

  “We gotta get him to the infirmary. Can’t cuff him. Okay, Starks, you keep pressure on the wound. We’re gonna hold onto you. One wrong move, and the doc’s gonna be pulling more barbs out of you. You got that?”

  “Fine. Can we go?”

  Two guards held onto his arms. The third one stayed within Taser distance behind him as they sprinted, half-dragging him at times, to the infirmary.

  Something new was at the entrance to the medical space: A metal detector. It blared when the guards rushed him through. He pretended to faint, which wasn’t far from how he felt from shock at being attacked and panic about being caught with illegal items.

  The guards hoisted him onto an exam table. One of them shut off the alarm and said, “How do they expect us to walk through there with all our gear and not set the damn thing off?”

  One of the other guards answered, “It’s annoying, but we don’t want inmates walking out with weapons. So, get used to it.”

  This was an unanticipated dilemma. But at least one thing was going his way: Dr. Troy wasn’t there. Instead, a different doctor—Marc Stewart, according to his ID badge—was on duty.

  Once informed of who his patient was, Stewart instructed the nurse practitioner, also new, to clean the wound while he glanced at Starks’s file. He frowned as he read for a few minutes then took over when it was time to add stitches.

  “You’re lucky, Starks,” Stewart said. “Your attacker just missed an artery.”

  “I moved back when I saw something shiny come at me.”

  “That reflex kept the wound shallow. Nicked a vein, but that’s shallow as well. Just messy. The other cut near it that’s healed—does it have a matching one on the other wrist?”

  Starks flipped his left arm over to expose the wrist and the several-months-old scar on it.

  “What did you use to make the cuts?”