One to Go

by Mike Pace

  Virgil snatched the photo and smoothed it on his thick thighs, then slipped it under his pillow. He reached up and in his huge hand plucked all of Tom’s remaining snacks from the shelf. “Payment for you lookin’ at my woman.”

  “By all means. Help yourself.”

  A few minutes later, the doors swung closed automatically. The sound of a click hopefully signaled the door locking. Then the lights went out.

  He rested on top of the blanket, not only to avoid Virgil’s residual bodily fluids, but also to provide more flexibility if Lopes decided to stop by for a chat. Boy, a sip of Frank Custer’s Akron gin would taste pretty good right about now.

  With no weapon, Tom wasn’t sure what he could do if Lopes opened the door. One-on-one, Lopes would likely mop the floor with him. Still, he wouldn’t just be fighting to stay alive; he’d be fighting to save his daughter, and that, he supposed, was his weapon. Of course, if the lock worked, he’d be safe. He decided to violate Eva’s rule and engage his cell mate.

  “Hey, Virgil, you awake?” For a moment, Tom was reminded of sleeping in a bunk bed at Boy Scout camp in Pennsylvania when he was eleven or twelve. The counselors would turn out the lights, and the boys would giggle and talk about girl’s body parts, and once they even snuck out and—

  “Shut up, New.”

  Guess he wasn’t in Boy Scout camp. “Just wondering about the door lock. My attorney told me—”

  “Lopes comin’ for you.”

  “So the door—?”

  “All doors open ’cept the ones in the mental block.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Pray.”

  “Got it. Don’t suppose I could count on you to—?”

  “He beefin’ you, not me. I be absentee.”

  “When?”

  No answer.

  CHAPTER 42

  Even if he’d been tempted to sleep, Virgil’s loud snoring would’ve kept Tom awake. He tried counting seconds to keep track of the time, but after twenty minutes or so, he gave up. On several occasions, he climbed down and looked through the slit window on the cell door. Because of the angle, he couldn’t make out the whole clock in the dayroom below, but he could see the left half. Once the little hand disappeared, he’d check periodically, and judging by the big hand’s movement from the six to the twelve, he was able to approximate the time.

  He’d never had any self-defense training, and his parents had always taught him to avoid confrontation. Always better to talk yourself away from a fight, son. Not cowardice to walk from a fight. Try to put yourself in the other boy’s shoes. Battle with reason and understanding rather than violence. Always ask yourself, what can I do to help defuse the situation?

  Thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad. Wonder what advice they’d offer if they saw their son in a jail cell about to be attacked by a Latino gangbanger?

  Best Tom could tell it was around three a.m., when he heard a noise outside the door. Instantly alert, he hopped down from the bunk and puffed up the pillow under the blanket. His pathetic plan was based on the fact that the door opened inward. He figured his only hope was surprise. He’d hide behind the door. When it opened, Lopes would be focused on the lump in the bunk. Tom would have a split second to grab him in a choke hold from behind. ’Course, that didn’t account for Lopes’ posse, but one could only plan so much.

  He took his place, heard a soft click, and watched as the door moved toward him. In a moment he saw a figure move into his view. It was Lopes, and he moved toward the bunks. Suddenly, Virgil’s snores sputtered, then stopped. Tom could see his eyes open, take a moment to focus, then lock on to Lopes. Lopes held his finger to his lips. Virgil’s gaze flicked to the right. He saw Tom behind the door.

  Tom sprang and wrapped his right arm around Lopes’ throat. Lopes fired his elbow back into Tom’s ribs, sending pain shooting up his side. But Tom hung on, squeezing tighter. Virgil slipped out the door, not wanting to be a witness, whatever the outcome, and shut the door behind him.

  Where was Lopes’ posse? Maybe it was some kind of badge of honor to walk alone into the cell and take out an adversary. Some kind of mano a mano crap. Lopes again rammed his elbow into Tom’s ribs, and this time the searing pain caused him to loosen his grip for only a split second.

  Lopes instantly reached both hands behind his head and dug his thumbs into Tom’s eyes. Tom attempted to twist his head away. The move again loosened his grip, giving Lopes the space he needed to snap his head back, smashing it into Tom’s nose. He heard the sickening wet crunch signaling his nose had broken.

  The third elbow to his ribs was enough. He doubled over. Lopes fired both hands up hard against Tom’s elbows, allowing him to slip under Tom’s grip.

  Now freed, Lopes spun and swept his right leg against the back of Tom’s knees, knocking him off his feet. Before Tom could recover, Lopes was on top of him. He pulled a knife from his pocket, pressed the tip against Tom’s throat and offered a cold smile.

  “Please, I don’t want any trouble. I have a daughter. Her name’s Janie, and she’s only—”

  Lopes hissed. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Tom closed his eyes and concentrated hard. Chad, Brit, okay, you’re getting a new soul. Me. And a day early, how about that? And it counts because I’m dying by my own hand. If I hadn’t attacked Lopes, I wouldn’t be about to cash out. Do with me what you will, but please save Janie. I don’t want any harm to come to Emma 2 either, but Janie’s my daughter. A Booker for a Booker. Please—

  Suddenly, Lopes climbed off him. Tom could see the knife better now. Six-inch blade, handle wrapped in black electrician’s tape. Before Tom could speak, Lopes tossed the knife on the floor beside him.

  “From Chewy, asshole.”

  In an instant, Lopes was out the door.

  CHAPTER 43

  Tom quickly pocketed the knife and climbed back up into his bunk. A few minutes later, Virgil entered.

  “Surprised to see you alive, New.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  “Don’t bleed on my bunk.”

  Tom flipped over onto his side. He couldn’t breathe through his busted nose and even the slightest movement shot pain to his ribs. He balled up the corner of the dirty sheet and pressed it hard against his nose to stem the bleeding.

  He tried to rest on his back, but felt like he was bound up in an invisible straitjacket since any movement, left or right, was punished with a shot of pain across his ribs. His heavy breathing through his mouth, timed with Virgil’s heavy snoring, sounded like an R & B bass line.

  Despite the pain, as Tom rolled the knife back and forth in his hands he felt a glimmer of hope. He had a weapon and was surrounded by bad guys. How hard could it be to start a confrontation, escalate it, and take out a deserving felon by midnight? This was jail, right? The knife’s broad blade looked to be about four-and-a-half inches long, and resembled a stubby bowie knife. Other than the tip, the blade edge wasn’t particularly sharp, and there were specks of rust—blood?—near the hilt. But he had no doubt the weapon would do the trick.

  If he staged it right, he’d even have a decent chance of establishing his actions were taken in self-defense. He faced one key logistical problem: the prison jumpsuit had no pockets. Probably a security measure to guard against inmates carrying around things like loose change, lucky charms, and bowie knives. He remembered the probe of his “prison purse” during his strip search, but he wasn’t going to stick a four-inch bowie knife up his ass. Aside from the discomfort of have your rectum sliced through every time you sat down, the purse didn’t offer quick access.

  Which meant he’d have to follow the Lopes model: provoke a fight but not finish it, and hope the target would visit him later in his cell to take him out. Some of the men incarcerated in this block had been arrested on misdemeanor charges, or felonies far short of homicide. Some even for DWIs. He would have to do the best he could to cull out a killer. But if he ran out of time, he’d pick his victim based on a gut feeling to protect Janie.

>   He hid the knife under his mattress.

  By morning, his ribs felt slightly better, a hopeful sign they were bruised, not broken, and his left nostril had partially cleared. He’d shuffled slowly down to breakfast, which consisted of a small scoop of powdered eggs and a floppy piece of cold white toast. He kept to himself, and Lopes and his posse completely ignored him. He’d caught the little bald black man who’d been eyeing him at dinner again giving him the evil eye, but each time Tom turned his way, the man abruptly cast his gaze down to his food tray. Tom still couldn’t place him.

  After breakfast, the inmates returned to the dayroom. Earlier, Tom had noticed a bulletin board mounted along one wall. A sign above the board read: Daily Visitor Schedule. He took a seat in a yellow plastic chair close to the board. Oddly, the hard plastic actually provided some relief to his rib pain. He’d considered asking Briscoe to take him to the infirmary, but feared he might get stuck there. What he really needed was a drink. He’d heard the compulsion to drink in the morning was a sign of alcoholism. But then, wouldn’t everyone who enjoyed a Bloody Mary with their Sunday brunch be considered an alcoholic? Satisfied with his logic, Tom allowed himself the pleasure of imagining an ice-cold Stella in his hand.

  Eva had promised to visit, but hadn’t told him when. He absently watched the TV in front of the room until Briscoe entered and headed toward the bulletin board, where he posted the visitor list with two clear plastic pushpins. Immediately, half the inmates rose as if in church and moved to the board. Tom used his strategic position to slot himself third in a ragged line of prisoners interested in seeing who might be coming to visit on Saturday.

  “Back of the line, New.”

  Tom recognized the deep voice as that of his bunk bud. “Virgil, I was here first and I’ll be quick.”

  Virgil pushed him hard and Tom tripped over the yellow plastic chair, falling on his ass. He yelped out as the sharp edge of the chair hit flush across his broken nose. Pain shot up from his lower back to his ribs, but no one paid him any attention. Tom looked up to Briscoe for help.

  Briscoe shrugged. “News at the end of the line.”

  Tom gingerly crawled to his feet and made his way to the back of the line. By the time he reached the board, the print-out had been torn in two places and was dangling by a single pushpin. The names were listed alphabetically, and Tom was surprised to see two visitors listed next to “Booker”—Zig, and his cousin, Estin. Thought he couldn’t see visitors until Tuesday. Maybe the weekends were an exception. But no Eva, and no Father Matthew. He turned to Briscoe.

  “My lawyer and priest were supposed to be on this list.”

  “Attorneys and clergy can visit anytime. When they arrive, someone will come get you.”

  He heard a shout from one of the inmates. “Hey, New, you got a stripe!”

  Tom turned to the TV. GMA had switched to the local ABC affiliate at the bottom of the hour for weather, traffic, and local news headlines. A red banner decorated the top left corner of the screen like a birthday present: Washington Intern Murder! The crawl at the bottom of the picture read: Washington lawyer accused of killing his jealous lover. There wasn’t much room in the middle for an actual video transmission, but a picture of Jess appeared on the left.

  With its stylized image and soft lighting, the photo showed a bright, smiling girl that any parent would love to have as a daughter or daughter-in-law. The picture looked like a college yearbook photo, and made her appear not only beautiful, but innocent. Actually, she was innocent, and seeing her picture tugged at Tom’s heart. So young, so much promise. Her life snuffed out because… because why?

  Next to Jess’ photo was a picture of a scowling man with hooded eyes, a purple bruise under his left eye and—holy shit! They must’ve used his mug shot, taken almost immediately after being transported, battered and bruised, from the hospital. To anyone watching, the face staring out from the screen could easily be a killer.

  The picture changed to two women and a man standing in front of a bank of microphones. Tom recognized the woman speaking as Senator Guthrie.

  “…and on behalf of their friends and neighbor Oklahomans, I want to say to Jill and Ed Hawkins, who just arrived from Norman to collect their loving daughter, Jessica, and take her back home, we grieve with you, and you have been and will be in our hearts and prayers.”

  Jess’ mom looked just like her daughter; her father was big, rawboned with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. Both, adhering to a Western stoicism, controlled their emotions. But anyone watching could tell from their sunken eyes and haunting expressions that each was dying inside.

  The senator continued, “Jess was not only a constituent, she also worked in my office as an intern. When you spend time in Washington, it’s easy to become cynical. But then, someone like Jess Hawkins enters your life. Fresh, energetic, optimistic, not a duplicitous bone in her body. And you realize she, and others like her, are the antidote to Washington fever. She reminds us what’s important. Washington isn’t America. Jess Hawkins is America.”

  Onlookers standing behind the press applauded enthusiastically, and Tom saw faint smiles on her parents’ faces.

  A familiar reporter from the CBS affiliate—Tom couldn’t remember her name—asked, “Do you believe Tom Booker is the killer?”

  Tom shuddered. His name had never been mentioned on TV before, and the thought his debut would consist of the question, Do you believe Tom Booker is the killer? was surreal. He was glad his parents weren’t alive to see it.

  “We will let the justice system work its will,” said Guthrie. “But I can assure you that my office will be bird-dogging this case until justice is done. We believe in capital punishment in Oklahoma, and the monster who perpetrated this unimaginable tragedy should pay the ultimate price. Thank you.”

  The eyes of the inmates lingered on him for a moment. A flicker of respect? Yeah, the white dude capped the bitch. Got hisself a stripe.

  He had to kill one of them by midnight.

  CHAPTER 44

  Tom remained in the dayroom until 8:00 when inmates could have access to the bank of four phones mounted along the wall next to the bulletin board. Another crowd arrived for the phone line, but this time, no one appeared to object to Tom’s place at the front of the line.

  Maybe his red stripe had given him a little street cred. He inserted his phone card, then quickly punched in Eva’s numbers. She answered on the first ring.

  “See you made it through the night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Nothing major. When are you coming by?”

  “After lunch. Going over this morning with the PDS investigator to check out the ballistics and fingerprint raw data.”

  “There’s something else I’d like you to do.” There were not even minimal partitions between the phones and he lowered his voice. “Can you find out something about my fellow campers here?”

  “Who?”

  “All of them. Or as many as you can. Limit it to my cell block.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of these guys are pretty scary, and I just want to know if there are any particular nasties I need to worry about.”

  “Did something happen?” He could hear the fear in her voice.

  “I’m fine. Zig and my cousin, Estin, are coming to visit this morning, so that’ll break up the time. Did you have a chance to contact Father Matthew?”

  “Said he would come. Didn’t say when. But I’m curious. Why him? You’re not Catholic.”

  “I met him at Georgetown. We bonded.”

  A gravelly voice behind him. “Time’s up, New.”

  Tom looked over his shoulder and one of Lopes’ posse glared at him. Guess the red stripe didn’t impress him.

  “One more thing,” said Eva. “You may be contacted or visited by the media. At the risk of stating the obvious, keep your mouth shut and refuse to speak or meet with them. Unfortunately, your case has gained a bit of notoriety.”

  “I kn
ow. Got a red stripe. See you in a few hours.” He was tempted to end with some sort of personal sign-off acknowledging his feelings for her, but couldn’t think of anything fast enough. He hung up the phone.

  Tom remained in the video conferencing room after Estin left, since Zig was scheduled immediately after him. Weird, talking to his cousin on a TV screen. Like big-boy Skype. Estin had tried his best to be uplifting and volunteered to testify as a character witness if called upon. Tom felt so guilty all he could do was nod. Actually, that Estin was himself a law enforcement officer wouldn’t hurt if they ever got to a forum where character testimony was needed. Tom gave him Eva’s number, and Estin promised to call and appear in person Monday at the bail hearing if she felt it would help.

  When Zig arrived, the first thing he did was mug for the camera.

  “I think maybe speed dating started out this way.”

  Zig’s well-meaning attempt at cheerful expression came across as contrived. Tom couldn’t blame him. Really, what was there to be cheerful about? Not wanting to offend, Tom offered a weak smile.

  Zig’s expression turned serious. “Want you to know, everyone at the firm, including Bat, is behind you 100 percent.”

  Tom was a bit skeptical. He doubted all the attorneys at SHM would view his red stripe with the same respect as his new camp pals.

  “No one believes you could ever do such a thing,” said Zig.

  “Thanks, means a lot,” said Tom. Actually, it did. “Eva thinks their motive theory is weak. At some point, she’ll want you and Marcie to testify that the exchange between me and Jess at Bat’s party was no big deal.”

  “No problem. Fact is, you were cool; Jess was the one who’d gone a little tilt. Besides, not like you were jealous. You had the hots for Eva.”

  “They say Jess couldn’t let go when I dumped her for Eva. She got angry when she saw us together at the party. Later she calls me to go over to her place to, I don’t know, apologize or something. We get into an argument, it escalates, and I shoot her. They find my prints in her house, and then there’s the gun.”