Charger started toward his bunk.
"You're up top," said Theo.
Charger stopped and slowly turned his head, giving Theo plenty of attitude. "Say what, dude?"
Theo gave it right back to him, his most intimidating look. "You're upstairs. That's my bunk."
Charger grumbled and started toward the lower bunk. Quick as lightning, Theo cut him off and grabbed him by the wrist. "Get away from my bunk," Theo hissed, "or I'm gonna end up back on death row."
Charger froze. Maybe it was Theo's tone of voice. Maybe it was the menacing look in his eyes. Or it could have been the way Theo's huge hand fit so easily around Charger's wrist, a strong grip that conveyed his ability to snap a man's bones like brittle twigs. Whatever it was, Theo could feel his strategy working. Nothing short of a shank could have made him back down, because he knew this was the defining moment between him and his cell mate.
The stare-down lasted less than a minute. Then Charger flinched. Theo knew he would. That was the thing about these punks. Sure, Charger was "man enough" to slug a prostitute while her face was buried between his legs. Isaac had even had the balls to sneak through a sleeping woman's bedroom window. But mano a mano, they always backed down from the likes of Theo Knight.
Charger stepped away. Theo took the clean pillow from the top bunk and tossed the used one onto the floor. Charger paused for just a second, as if debating whether to stand up for himself and bitch about it. He didn't. He picked up the pillow and quietly climbed into the top bunk.
Theo slid into the lower bunk and allowed himself a deep, relaxing breath. Mission accomplished. But he still had a long way to go.
He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the underside of Charger's bunk. It was dark in the cell, but his eyes had adjusted, and just enough light from the corridor enabled him to see the traces of prison artwork on the metal underside of the top bunk. Some of it was in black marker, some in pencil. There was a calendar, of course. Someone with more talent than taste had sketched a NASCAR race car zooming toward a giant open vagina. There were also gang symbols. Theo recognized some of them. Panthers. Mongroles.
Grove Lords.
Under different circumstances, he might have found irony in the fact that he was in TGK, in Isaac Reems's old cell, in the bunk below Isaac's former cell mate. But there was no irony here. No coincidence.
Everything was going according to plan.
Theo lay in silence, eyes wide open. Sleep was a long way off, and he knew better than to close his eyes any longer than necessary. That was just the way it was in prison.
And prison was where he'd be – at least for a while.
THAT NIGHT, Jack caught up with Uncle Cy at Sparky's Tavern. The old man was running his nephew's bar during his incarceration, and the place was jumping. Fortunately, Theo's arrest didn't seem to hurt business. Another great thing about Miami: a criminal record was rarely a roadblock to success.
"What are you drinking?" said Cy, shouting over the crowd noise and music.
"Nothin', thanks," said Jack.
"Scotch 'n what?"
It was way too loud. Jack spoke up. "Can we talk in private a minute?"
Cy placed a couple of beers on the barmaid's tray, then with a jerk of his head signaled Jack to follow him into the back room.
Jack had promised Andie Henning that no one – absolutely no one – would know about their arrangement. Jack had also promised Theo that, if his uncle seemed to be taking it too hard, he would make an exception. One look at the old man's face and Jack could see it was destroying him. The worry lines seemed carved in wax. Uncle Cy, however, sounded less than impressed as Jack laid out the details.
"You're saying Theo knew the cops were coming for him?"
"That's why he was trying so hard to get you out of the house," said Jack.
"He should have gone down to the station and turned himself in. Why the big show of having him hauled off in handcuffs?"
"It had to be convincing. We didn't want this to have any markings of an arranged deal."
"Wait a minute," he said, shaking his head. "You asked the FBI for protection from whoever's trying to kill Theo, and the best deal you can cut with Agent Henning is to put my nephew in jail?"
"It was actually our idea," said Jack. "Theo can handle himself in prison. He's probably safer in there than out on the street."
"How about Tahiti? I hear it's nice and safe there, too. And they only use lotion to keep the sun off."
"Running is not the answer."
"And prison is?"
"Not exactly. But it's where we think Theo can find the answer."
"Answer to what?"
Jack leaned against Theo's desk, half seated, half standing. "We all suspect there's a chain here. Whoever killed Theo's mother killed Isaac, and then he also tried to kill Theo."
"That's the theory."
"Here's the hole in it," Jack said. "If the guy who killed Theo's mother was so sure that Isaac would reveal his identity even if he bowed to Isaac's extortion demands, why didn't he just have Isaac killed on the inside? Why would he help him escape and then kill him on the outside?"
Uncle Cy considered it, but the best he could do was acknowledge that it was a good question.
Jack said, "Here's the best answer Theo and I could come up with. Any good extortion plan has a safety valve – someone who blows the lid off the secret if the extortionist ends up dead."
"But that's exactly what happened," said Cy. "Reems got shot and killed. Why isn't the safety valve going public?"
"If Reems ends up dead in prison with no help on the escape, the safety valve knows it was a hit. But if the killer helps him escape and then several days later there's a shooting behind the old Homeboy's – well, that's not so clear. Could have been a robbery or just Isaac's bad luck. Theo could have shot him. Cops could have wasted him and made it look like somebody else did it. There are countless possibilities. Once Isaac is outside, no way can the safety valve say for sure that he was killed by the guy Isaac was extorting."
"But then who's the safety valve?"
Jack smiled a little, pleased that Cy seemed to think this made sense. "A safety valve has to be someone the extortionist trusts. If Isaac had someone like that on the outside, he would have run to him for help when his car and cash weren't waiting for him at the convenience store on the night he escaped. He wouldn't have called on Theo."
"So…he must be inside."
"Inside TGK," said Jack.
It was as if the proverbial lightbulb had blinked on. Inside TGK was exactly where Theo needed to go.
"How long is he in for?"
"As long as it takes," said Jack.
"Or until it ain't safe in there no more."
"Yeah," said Jack, his expression turning serious. "Whichever comes first."
Chapter 23
Six-thirty A.M. Theo was a half hour away from his first prison breakfast in years, and the harsh lights brightened the entire cell block.
He hadn't slept well; he was wide awake for the 2:00 a.m. head count. The count before that had been between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m., prior to his arrival. Quite a long gap, which he assumed Isaac Reems had noted in the timing of his escape. Theo wasn't sure when his mind stopped racing, and he finally dozed off, but the 4:00 a.m. count had definitely roused him. The mattress was thin, the pillow was lumpy, and the coarse blanket smell ed of a detergent strong enough to kill every germ known to medical science. Theo never really fell back to sleep.
Prison life was going to be an even bigger readjustment than he'd figured.
He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and planted his feet on the bare concrete floor. "Dude, whattaya think you're doin'?" he said.
Charger froze. He was standing at the small metal sink, washing his face. He glanced over his shoulder toward his new cell mate. Theo's chilling glare alone was enough to make him realize that there was a new morning protocol and that Charger had broken it. Charger stepped away from th
e sink, face dripping wet, and made room for Theo.
"Not too smart, are you?" said Theo, as he bumped him farther to one side. Theo didn't enjoy it, but abusing his cell mate was all part of the act. He needed Charger spreading the word throughout TGK that this new guy was a badass.
The noise level within the cell block rose steadily like one collective stomach growl. At 7:00 a.m. the buzzer sounded, the place fell quiet, and the inmates came to the bars, standing in pairs behind locked cell doors. A team of guards passed from one end to the other and counted heads. The cell-house sergeant signaled to the control booth, another buzzer sounded, and forty cell doors slid open simultaneously. The inmates stepped out into the block to form two lines, one on each side of the corridor. Theo tried not to make his curiosity too obvious as he checked out his new neighbors. Even if he hadn't known that the second floor was mostly sex offenders, Theo probably could have guessed what each guy was in for, just by looking at him. The young Hispanic with jet black hair and a movie-star profile: roofies and date rape. The scrawny white guy across from him: jerking off in school zones. The black guy with arms like an NFL linebacker and a missing right earlobe: beats his wife or girlfriend, or both. Jail was a veritable warehouse of broken lives and useless parts. If Theo looked hard enough, he probably could have spotted one or two old Grove Lords. Maybe Isaac had found them, too.
Theo wondered if his search for the safety valve could possibly be that easy.
"Single file, A block first," the cell-house sergeant announced.
The line was long and Theo was near the rear, so he butted ahead to get closer to an inmate from two cells down, a brotha' who reminded Theo of his older brother Tatum – someone who looked like a player. He had the body of a weight lifter, the hands of a prizefighter, and the eyes of a sniper. He was still pulling on his undershirt, half undressed, his briefly exposed back covered with tattoos.
"Hope you like slop," he told Theo, speaking under his breath as he buttoned his shirt.
Theo offered a slow nod – not to express his agreement, just his way of saying it was cool for him to speak without Theo speaking first.
"Yeah, the food really sucks," added Charger. He'd ridden on Theo's coattails to cut ahead in the line.
"Shut up, weasel," said Theo.
Theo was part of the main line, the general prison population, which entered the cafeteria just as the "short line" was leaving through another exit. The short line ate separately – breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was mostly the kitchen crew, but it also included inmates in protective custody who were isolated for their own safety.
"Snitches," said the big guy, again speaking only to Theo.
The line moved steadily but slowly. Theo grabbed a tray and took everything they offered: toast, diluted orange juice, something that resembled watery scrambled eggs, a glob of oatmeal that stuck together like mastic, sausage patties that could have doubled as hockey pucks.
"Over here," someone said.
Theo turned and saw the Tatum look-alike at the end of the second table, sitting by himself. It was unofficial reserved seating, by invitation only. Theo sat directly across from him but said nothing. He just started eating.
"New?" the guy said.
Theo salted his eggs. "Only to this place."
"Done time?"
"FSP. Death row."
He seemed duly impressed." How'd you beat that?"
"Good lawyer." It wasn't a lie, his innocence notwithstanding.
"Cool. Maybe I can use him."
"Only one problem," said Theo.
"What?"
"He doesn't defend punks."
He worked a spoon through his fingers like a miniature baton, shooting Theo an angry glare that would have reduced most inmates to gelatin. Theo shot one right back, then smiled. "Gotcha, dude."
It took a moment, but finally he returned the smile – albeit a thin one. A toothy grin wasn't part of prison culture, unless you were a catcher, and this guy didn't roll over on anybody's bunk.
"Moses," he said, extending his hand.
"Theo," he said, shaking prison style.
Charger walked by with his tray in hand. Theo and Moses gave him a collective look that said, "Beat it." He moved on to the next table.
"What you in here for?" said Moses.
"The food."
Another little smile. "Me too," said Moses, and then he stuffed his mouth with the world's lousiest oatmeal.
They invited no one to join them, so they had their own end of the table for the entire breakfast. It was mostly small talk, guarded but mutually respectful, a confirmation that they agreed on certain basic tenets that would ensure their peaceful coexistence: Miami's Duane Wade (not Lebron James) was the best player to go in the famous first round of the 2003 NBA draft; Kobe Bryant never would have made it in prison; and anybody who messes with you, messes with me – and then wishes that he hadn't.
Theo was back in his cell by eight o'clock. Charger had voluntary work duty and wouldn't return until eleven o'clock. Theo had yet to be assigned a job, so he had the cell to himself until lunchtime. He lay on his bunk, thinking. Hooking up with Moses was a stroke of luck. He was definitely an operator, a good contact, the kind of guy who would have latched onto an Isaac Reems. Theo could befriend him on many levels, not the least of which was the fact that Theo had distinguished himself as the Clarence Darrow of jailhouse lawyers on death row, an expert on everything from writs of habeas corpus to a prisoner's fundamental right to chew gum. But Theo knew he had to be careful. Ask too many questions too soon around an operator like Moses and you could end up on the wrong side of the prison balance of power.
Theo's eyelids were growing heavy. The restless night was catching up with him. In fact, he hadn't enjoyed a decent night's sleep since that bullet grazed his head. Weird, but the shooting was beginning to feel like a million years ago. The stitches, however, were a clear reminder of just how recent his latest brush with death had been. He no longer had to wear the bandage, and the scar added to his menacing persona.
He rolled onto his side, but something was poking him in the ribs. Shifting onto his back didn't help. That annoying lump in his bunk was unavoidable. He reached beneath the mattress and found the culprit. It was a tube. Theo read the label. It was some kind of age-spot bleacher.
"No way," Theo said, his words coming like a reflex.
Theo amazed even himself with the knowledge he'd gained in prison, and some things he would never forget, even if he was among the lucky ones who'd managed to keep his pants on. Age-spot bleachers packed a double whammy: an effective lubricant with the added benefit of making the unsexy brown skin that sprouted anal hairs more pink and attractive.
Isaac Reems – badass leader of the Grove Lords – had hisself a girlfriend?
Theo put the tube back under the mattress, still not believing it. No way. Charger had to be getting it from somebody else, not Isaac.
There was just no way.
Chapter 24
Jack was in trial all day. The state attorney was determined to make an example out of his client, a high-school valedictorian who should have gone on to MIT, except that he'd already made a cool million selling nonexistent jewelry and sports cars via Internet auctions – always under the stolen identity of other sellers, of course. Jack wasn't optimistic. Predicting jury verdicts was always dicey, but it appeared that this bunch had already left-clicked on Go_Directly_To_ Jail.com.
Trial adjourned at 5:00 p.m., and Uncle Cy was waiting for him in the hallway outside the courtroom. Jack wasn't expecting him.
"What's up, old man?"
Cy kept pace as they walked toward the elevators. "You and me are going to Overtown."
"For what?" said Jack, as he hit the down button.
The elevator doors opened, and they went inside. "For Theo," he said.
Ten minutes later they were in Jack's car, cruising past the Miami Arena, the original home of the Miami Heat and one of the more expensive failed attempts to revive Ov
ertown. In theory, fans would shop and dine in the neighborhood before and after events. In reality, they came and left as quickly as possible. No offense to Uncle Cy, but with Theo having dodged a bullet to the head just last weekend, Jack was feeling a similar sense of urgency.
"Turn right here," said Cy.
It was the same street as the shooting. "You kidding me?"
"You think I'd kid about something like this?"
They parked at a metered space at the end of the street, directly in front of a yellow, three-story apartment building called The Landing. The facade was covered with gang graffiti and murals, though some of the markings had been painted over in a different shade of yellow. Security bars covered the first-floor windows.
The meter was broken. Jack put his coins away said a silent good-bye to his car, just in case, and followed Cy into the building. There was a small vestibule and a sign on the elevator that said out of order. The sign looked as though it had been there since Uncle Cy was Theo's age. Another door led to the stairwell. It was locked. The old man checked the numbers on the mailboxes – there were only numbers, no names – and rang apartment number twenty-two. No one answered. He rang again, and the intercom crackled. It sounded like a woman's voice, but the tinny speaker made it unintelligible. Uncle Cy went to the security door and shouted, "Flo! It's me, Cyrus!"
A buzzer sounded, the lock disengaged, and Uncle Cy opened the door. Jack followed him upstairs to the second floor. The corridor was dimly lit; about half the bulbs were burned out. A brown water stain on the ceiling marked the halfway point of their journey, and the indoor-outdoor carpet smelled of mildew. They stopped at apartment 22. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at them over the chain. Jack met her stare. She had a full face, and her hair was mostly gray. Probably not as old as Uncle Cy, but she could have just looked young for her age.
Last Call Page 12
