All right, he told himself, time to get the fuck out of here.
30
James Beck and Walter Ferguson pulled in to the small courtyard of the old motel on the outskirts of Napanoch, New York, at one-twenty on Thursday morning. Walter had recommended the place, having stayed there on previous visits to Eastern Correctional Facility.
It was a no-nonsense, utilitarian motel from a time gone by, set back off the road with a half-circle gravel driveway leading to a reception office. A line of ten rooms ran to the right of the office.
They parked the Mercury and approached the office door. An envelope had been taped to the locked front door labeled: W. Ferguson. Beck pulled the envelope off the door. Inside were two keys to two rooms. The keys were attached to old-fashioned plastic fobs with the room number.
Beck felt like he had stepped back in time. That, combined with their discussion about Eastern Correctional on the drive up, brought back memories and feelings Beck would have rather let lie dormant.
He and Walter exchanged quick good nights and agreed to meet at seven-thirty for an early breakfast before they set out for the prison.
Beck knew before he entered his room that it would be clean, functional, without frills. It was. Not even a TV. A little more worn down than he might have preferred, but no matter.
He showered quickly and slid in between the stiff sheets. There was a blanket covering the bed, too thin to keep him warm against the falling temperature. Much like in prison. Worn sheets and blankets, small foam pillows, and cells that were always too hot or too cold.
Beck closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the sense of dread and anger and loneliness sweeping over him. When he’d left Red Hook, he had expected these emotions to intensify. He’d felt them to one degree or another nearly every time he’d lain down to sleep in the years since he’d been released from prison. But now he could feel the behemoth that was Eastern Correctional Facility looming a few miles away; its presence imposing on him, intensifying the familiar feelings.
He muttered a curse and rolled over on his side. He focused on his breathing, letting the simple in and out of his breaths occupy his mind. He tried to let his thoughts drift, even though they kept returning to the pain he’d lived through, and a man who had helped him deal with that pain and saved him from infinitely more—Packy Johnson.
He kept at it, breathing in and out, trying not to think about his deceased friend. His thoughts drifted to Walter and Manny and the rest of his crew. Beck focused on the living and his reason for being in an old motel on the edge of a scrub forest in Napanoch, New York, until he fell into a cold, fitful sleep.
31
Amelia Johnson let go of the basement window sill and released herself into a dark void, bracing for the unknown. Unable to gauge the distance, she couldn’t prepare for the impact and fell onto her knees when she landed. Fortunately, there wasn’t anything sharp enough to cut her, or uneven enough to twist or break an ankle.
The only light illuminating the basement came from the half window above, and that light was quickly fading. The first thing she did was pull the car cover in after her. Then she looked around for something she could stand on so she could pull the iron bars back into place.
She saw dirty pieces of corrugated cardboard, broken slats of wooden lath, a few shelves, empty paint cans, old bundles of magazines, and piles of junk. But then, along the wall, she saw an old, stained porcelain toilet bowl. She dragged it over to the window, managed to balance herself on the rim, reached up and pulled back the iron bars almost all the way over the opening. For now, she left the plywood cover off so as to catch the last of the dying daylight.
She slowly picked her way around the area until she found a set of stairs leading up to the ground floor. She moved cautiously up the stairwell, feeling pieces of broken glass under her flimsy ballet flats until she reached a wooden door reinforced with three-quarter-inch plywood. She turned the door knob, pushed and pulled. There was no give at all. The door had been nailed to the frame. She felt relieved knowing nobody would be able to come down, but disappointed that there was no way out except back through the ground-level half window.
She made her way back down to the bottom stair and sat on it, closing her eyes, trying to convince herself she was safe. From somewhere behind her, she heard what sounded like dripping water. She followed the sound until she found an empty laundry room. There were no appliances, but the faucet on the wall where the washing machine had been attached dripped steadily. She opened the faucet until she had a small stream of water running.
She used her cell phone to illuminate the room and found a nearly empty box of powdered laundry detergent. She stripped off all her clothes, except for her ballet flats, scraped the hardened soap from the bottom of the box, and squatted under the water faucet.
She used her hands to soap herself with the gritty detergent and rinse with the cold water. Soon, she was shivering almost uncontrollably, but she persisted, soaping, scrubbing, cleaning off the sweat and dirt and stink from every part of her. She washed her face, over and over, working the gritty soap into her skin, rubbing and rinsing away every last vestige of makeup.
At last, she felt clean, scoured down to the point where she finally felt separated from where she had been and the things she had done.
She turned off the water and carefully stepped out of the puddle soaking through her cheap shoes. There was almost no light in the laundry room now, but she was able to pull out the roll of paper towels from her hoodie. There wasn’t much left on the roll, so she started with one piece, using it to get as much water as she could off her smooth, dark skin, squeezing out the piece of paper towel, rubbing herself with it until it became useless. Then another piece, and another until she felt like she had buffed her skin raw.
Much of her back was still wet when she put her clothes back on, but once dressed, her shivering subsided into a weird quivering centered in the pit of her stomach.
She found the remains of a cardboard box and used it to scrape a clean space until she had a big enough area to set down another piece of corrugated. She lay down on top of the cardboard and wrapped herself in the car cover. She found an old paperback book, which she used as a pillow.
She stretched out in stages, trying to ignore how hard the floor felt underneath her. She thought about finding more boxes to flatten and lie on, but she was too tired. Too enervated. She remained flat on her back, not on her side, because she knew her hip and shoulder would ache against the concrete floor.
Her quivering subsided. She closed her eyes and wondered how she could escape from the Bronx, and Biggie and Juju and Whitey, and wondered if she would die trying.
32
Manny Guzman had been awake since his usual time, five A.M. He came out from his small kitchen on the ground floor of Beck’s building in Red Hook to sit at the old oak bar with Demarco Jones, who had come down just after seven.
They were eating breakfast burritos Manny had made and drinking strong black coffee. Laid out on the bar were the IDs they had taken from Derrick Watkins’s crew.
Both men ate without rushing. Their day was going to be filled with tracking Biggie Watkins and trying to find Amelia.
Demarco pointed his fork at the IDs on the bar top.
“I know we have to find the brother, but we might have to start with one of the others so I scanned those and sent copies to Alex last night.”
“Mr. Computer.”
“Yeah. He’s probably run them through every database in the world by now.”
“Does he ever sleep?”
“Sleep is a problem for Alex.” Demarco he took another bite of his burrito. “He once told me for a year he only slept two times a week. On Wednesdays and Sundays.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To see if he could.”
Manny shook his head. “That’s a good way to die faster.” Manny wiped his mouth and mustache with a napkin and said, “How do you want to do this?”
Manny nodded and said, “Between us, we have to know somebody in the Bronx who can put us onto that chulo.”
“Agreed. And maybe Alex came up with something. I’ll give him a ping before we hit the road.”
“A ping?”
“A text.”
“That’s not an e-mail?”
“No. Over the phone. Not the Internet.”
Manny stared at Demarco. Demarco said, “Never mind. How’s the coffee? I made it strong.”
“You’re getting there, amigo.”
* * *
The coffee in the diner where Beck had gone for breakfast was only passable. From the motel, he and Walter found a classic highway diner set off the main road between Ellenville and Napanoch surrounded on three sides by a large parking lot.
Beck ordered ham and eggs, no potatoes, rye toast, coffee. He was pleased to see the diner served a proper slab of ham steak.
Walter ordered cottage cheese and a bowl of mixed fruit. As they ate, Walter outlined his plan.
“So, James, I’m going to try to find out if any of the staff knows something about what was going on with Packy before his release.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“I’ll check in with the warden first. Tell him what happened. Make sure he understands I have to investigate Packy’s death. That’ll clear the way for me to talk to the staff.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll start with Packy’s facility parole officer. Then work my way down from the supervising guards to the COs on the floor. I have to tell you, James, I expect them to close ranks on me.”
“See what happens and then press them. Ask as many of the staff as you can about anything that would explain why Packy got murdered. Remember, you’re investigating a murder. That ought to give you some leverage.”
“And you’re going to work the prisoner side?”
“Yes. I gave Alex Liebowitz a list of guys I knew in Eastern. He’s running a check to see if any of them are still there. I’ll start with them.”
“How?”
“I’ll put in calls. Letters, if that doesn’t work. I’ll get on their visitor lists if I have to get in to see someone.”
“Getting on a visitor’s list won’t be easy, you being a former inmate there.”
“I’ll work around it.”
Walter didn’t ask how.
Beck said, “My end is going to take time. I’m figuring you can get to most of the staff before the day is out.”
“Everybody but the night shift.”
Beck finished his first cup of coffee and said, “Do what you can, Walter, and we’ll see what happens. Hey, not only are you entitled, you’re obligated to investigate Packy’s murder.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will. Somebody in that prison knows something. Packy didn’t get shot down in the street for no reason.”
Walter nodded, but said nothing. They finished their food and Beck motioned to the waitress for a check.
“What are you going to do while I’m in there?” asked Walter.
“Me? I’m gonna shop for another vehicle to use while I’m up here.”
“Really?”
Beck smiled. “I can’t be driving around redneck country in a customized Mercury Marauder. Plus, I gotta send you home in it. I’ll get some piece of crap truck like all the local yokels around here drive.”
“How long are you planning on being up here, James?”
“As long as it takes.”
Walter stared at Beck, unhappy with Beck’s vague answer.
“James, you do understand my position here.”
“Of course I do, Walter. And I’m sure you understand mine.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You know who I am, Walter.”
A pensive look came over Ferguson’s face. He said, “James, we both know you only reveal part of yourself. Not because you’re duplicitous. Because you feel like you have to protect the people around you. People like me.”
Beck tipped his head toward Walter, neither agreeing or disagreeing.
“James, anyone anywhere near the penal system finds themselves immersed in a tidal wave of misery. The chances of standing against it, ameliorating even a small part of it, are beyond daunting. Paco Johnson did that for you. And then, against all the odds, you got a chance to help him. And that rare chance was snatched away from you, suddenly, tragically, irrevocably.”
Beck leaned across the table and looked Walter directly in the eyes. “And your point, Walter?”
“I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About how that has affected you. About what you might do.”
Beck sat back, taking a moment to think before he spoke. “I won’t do anything that hurts you, Walter. You should know that.”
“I never thought you would. What about others?”
“What about them?”
Walter stopped talking and looked down, feeling his way with it. Beck remained silent. Finally, Walter looked up and said, “Okay. I have an obligation to see this through for Packy. He was my responsibility. So I’ll go into Eastern and find out what I can. But James, can you promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“If I learn something that helps you find out what led to his death, or who killed him, can you promise me you will bring that information to me? Let me at least give the system a chance to investigate and arrest whoever did it. A chance to do this legally?”
Beck stared intently at Walter Ferguson.
“Legally.”
“Yes.”
“The system that incarcerated me illegally for eight years? That tried to break me, that took everything away from me? The system that institutionalized Packy Johnson from the age of eleven, then spit him out on his own to try to build a life from nothing? From worse than nothing? The system that does those things every day to hundreds of thousands of people whose main crime is being black or brown or poor? The legal system that doesn’t give one goddam about Packy Johnson? You want me to give that system a chance to investigate and prosecute whoever killed Packy? Legally?”
“I’m part of that system, James. And I give a damn.”
Beck’s voice softened. “I know, Walter. I know. But what about the others in that system? The ones who are corrupt, or inept, or too overworked and battered themselves to give a shit?”
“They can’t stop me from trying.”
Beck saw the pain his question had caused his friend who had spent decades trying to make the system work, experiencing every disappointment and frustration that meant.
Beck nodded. “Fair enough, Walter. If there were more people like you, there wouldn’t be a need for someone like me.” Beck leaned forward. “How about this? We’re partners. So I promise you, I will share everything I find out, whether it’s from a lead you come up with, or from something I find out myself, or from any other source. You can use the information to do whatever you think is right.”
Walter paused, making sure he had heard Beck correctly, then said, “I can’t ask for more.”
“Good. And will you promise me the same thing, Walter? Will you promise me you’ll follow through with what the cops are doing about Packy, good or bad, and share the information with me?”
“What will you do with the information?”
“Same as I’m asking you to do. Whatever I think is right.”
Walter looked away, staring out the diner’s large window into the parking lot and beyond. Without seeing it coming, Beck had maneuvered him into a checkmate. There was no comeback. He supposed he had known it would end up this way. Was he with Beck, or against him?
He turned to Beck and nodded his assent.
“Agreed.”
33
They finished their breakfast in silence and Beck drove Walter to the entrance of Eastern Correctional. He had been locked up there f
or nearly two years, but had never clearly seen the outside until the day he’d left. Seeing the prison now, it seemed more foreboding than ever. From the road, the immense structure looked like a massive Germanic medieval fortress that had been dropped in the middle of the countryside.
The four-story-high center of the prison had been built out of huge brown blocks of stone, topped by a massive pyramid-shaped roof. All four corners ended in battlement towers and cone-capped turrets. Long cell blocks made of the same massive blocks of stone flanked the center section. The structure looked so imposing it seemed able to hold its own against the jagged Shawangunk Ridge in the background.
Beck had spent relatively good time in the prison. Eastern had a reputation for being perhaps the easiest maximum-security prison in the system. But prison was prison, and Beck didn’t want to be anywhere near the place for a moment longer than he had to.
He dropped Walter off and told him to call when he was ready to be picked up.
Beck sped out of the parking lot and took Route 209 toward Ellenville. As soon as he entered town, he turned in to a hospital parking lot, pulled out his smartphone to call Demarco, but changed his mind. He wanted to hear Demarco’s plan to find Jerome Watkins. He wanted to urge him to find Packy’s daughter, knowing Watkins would be looking for her to avenge his brother’s death. He wanted to warn Demarco to watch out for that cop, John Palmer, who would also be looking for Watkins and the other members of his crew.
But Demarco didn’t need a call from him. Demarco knew what was at stake, and he had Manny Guzman, who could give him any counsel he needed.
Beck realized he wanted to make contact with somebody who understood his reaction to Eastern Correctional. And perhaps he wanted to share his misgivings about getting any information from the prisoners in Eastern. Packy wouldn’t have shared his plans with very many. Finding the one or two who might know what had sent Packy off on a tear to get his daughter wouldn’t be easy.
Forget it. Demarco and Manny have enough to deal with.
Bronx Requiem Page 16
