BEYOND JUSTICE

by Joshua Graham

  The blacks were busy playing basketball, talking, playing cards, and generally looking tough. On the East side of the yard, The Fourth Reich stared back at the Frats, in my general direction. I tried to swallow but my throat had gone dry. The Frats ignored me as I made my way back to the gate. Rec time was just about over anyway and the safety of my cell beckoned. Only, I never made it back in time to avoid the oncoming storm.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The attack came swiftly. An army of Mexican inmates rushed towards me as I jogged across the yard. For a moment, I thought I was the target. But when I noticed the motion on the East side of B-Yard— Buzz, The Furor, and the Fourth Reich converging—I realized that the war he warned me about was about to break out.

  Not knowing which way to turn, I stopped dead in my tracks. Along with the blacks, I was caught between two colliding forces. The blacks seemed confused too. A sea of blue, gray and white engulfed me in seconds. To my amazement the Reichs and the Frats attacked the blacks rather than each other.

  All around me fists flew. Inmates assaulted each other with punches, kicks, and all manner of shank and shiv. A loud buzzer sounded and over the P.A. the guards shouted, "Get down! Get down!"

  Both Nazis and Frats assaulted the blacks who, despite their furious efforts, were outnumbered and taken by surprise. I could hardly breathe and tried in vain to squeeze my way through the melee. All the shouting, the smell of sweat and halitosis threatened to overwhelm me. I was moving, but like a tiny boat without a sail, tossed by waves of murderous inmates.

  The guards continued shouting for us to get down. But there were only six of them versus more than a hundred brawling inmates. Shots fired into the air had little effect. Then came the moment I had dreaded since Butch dumped me in Gen-Pop.

  Two Reich members grabbed me by the arms. I thrashed about and kicked but could not make contact. They threw me on the ground. My back smacked against the pavement. Pinned down, there was nothing to do but shut my eyes as the two struck me repeatedly in the face, the gut.

  Blood filled my mouth. I nearly choked on it. Butch was finally getting his revenge. It wouldn't have surprised me if he had orchestrated the riot for this very purpose. I finally coughed out words of desperation. "You don't have to do this!"

  "Shut up!" Another blow to the face.

  "You let Butch call the shots? Run your life?" The Nazi standing over me reached into his waistband and pulled out something sharp. He knelt down and held my throat with his free hand. "Don't do this!" I said.

  The edge of a razor sharp shiv pressed into my neck. The Nazi bore down and began to break my skin. Oh God, help me! The Nazi tightened his hands around my throat. Pressed the shiv in harder. I shut my eyes. This was the end.

  And then, something remarkable happened.

  All the weight on my chest, my shoulders, and my neck lifted away. I opened my eyes. My attackers' faces were pale. They'd dropped their shivs and their mouths hung agape. Then they turned and ran.

  I sat up and searched for an oncoming threat.

  Nothing.

  Just a bunch of inmates shouting and killing each other. The riot grew more fierce. Sore from the beating, I stood up and felt my neck. A drop of blood colored my fingertips. I should be dead. Why had they run?

  Another verbal warning from the guards burst through the din of klaxons and shouting inmates. Another set of gunshots rang out.

  This time everyone in the yard dropped to the floor.

  I was still standing in a stupor.

  "Live rounds!" Someone reached up, grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground. It was Louie. Laying on my belly, I saw it. Just twenty feet ahead of me, one of the Furor's lieutenants was sprawled across the concrete, half of his head blown away, the other half lying in a puddle of blood and gray matter.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I never thought I'd live though the riot, nor the informal execution Butch had ordered. But I did, and when all was said and done, I walked away with relatively minor injuries.

  The two Nazis that attacked me had been admitted to the PSU. Rumors had it that they claimed they saw something so terrible that they were all too happy to be taken into psychiatric protective custody. They offered no resistance when taken in for questioning. Probably squealed on Butch. They never stood a chance, though, because Butch was full of plan B's. And C's and D's for that matter. Of course, the doctors decided—or were instructed to state, more likely—that the two Nazis should be medicated for their hallucinations.

  For the next week, we were on complete lockdown. During that time, the most exciting thing that happened was Nosebleed getting shanked by the Frat boys in the shower, and a fairly large but brief earthquake, which was pretty common around this part of Southern California. Possum tried to squeeze under his bed that night.

  ___________________

  Sonja Grace brought me a copy of the Union Tribune . She thought I might find the cover story interesting. The headline read: La Jolla Businessman Charged with Murder of Wife and Child. It could have easily been written some two years ago when I was on trial. The accused, Charles Boynton, was an upstanding member of the La Jolla community. An investment broker with Henley-Spears, he lived in the cradle of luxury. He was handsome, in the prime of his life with everything going for him—a beautiful wife and high school senior daughter headed for Yale, a two million dollar house with an ocean view, and so much more.

  The murder charges stunned everyone. But it was the rape charges that sent chills through my blood the day Rachel brought the paper with her for a visit. Looking at the stitches on my head, and the crimson-stained bandages on my throat, she said, "I heard about the riot. You okay?"

  "Been better. How's Dave doing these days?"

  "They've finished rebuilding the church. Dedicated the sancutary to Lorraine's memory."

  "Yeah, Dave told me last time he visited." It had been a brief visit and interrupted by an urgent matter that required his prompt return to San Diego.

  "Have you been injured?"

  "Everyone gets hurt in here at some point." I was too engrossed in the newspaper article to answer with more detail. I should have told her about the whole thing—how Butch had probably setup the riot and ordered the two Reich members to kill me. But that would only have made me appear paranoid. And crazier still, if I told her that the two guys who tried to kill me were now in PSU, claiming to have seen a pair of otherworldly beings, glowing white and wielding flaming swords. "Rachel, this Boynton case. It's eerily familiar."

  "What's even more strange is that it's the second such murder since—"

  I finally met her eyes. Brown, no colored contacts today. "Are they calling them Hudson copy cats?"

  "They're calling them all kinds of things."

  "Seems to be an epidemic," I said. "Fathers killing their wives, raping their daughters."

  "That's not even funny."

  "Wasn't trying to be," I said, peaking over the pages. Something was definitely wrong. Today, Rachel hardly smiled, offered no words of hope. I didn't ask. Instead, I mentioned what had happened with Walker, his contact with someone on Instant Messenger who manipulated him into shooting the girls at Coyote Creek, and eventually killing himself in prison.

  "The same screen name?" Rachel asked.

  "That's got to mean something."

  "I'll have Mack look into it." There should have been a lot more discussion about this, but Rachel seemed distracted. She pulled her chair closer to the table. One advantage of being out of the SHU was that visits were permitted in an open common area, well-guarded, of course, and not behind an inch of plexiglass.

  "Rachel, what is it you're not telling me?"

  She turned away for a moment. When she looked back into my eyes, I could tell something was wrong. "Do you remember that Thanksgiving when Aaron was first put on a ventilator?"

  "How could I forget?" I said.

  "And you remember that word of knowledge I got while waiting with you in Children's Hospital?" Rachel sa
id.

  "Yeah, It's going to be fine." Not exactly what I'd expected a prophetic word from God to sound like. But as an atheist, it didn't matter to me one way or another.

  "There's something I have to tell you."

  "What is it?" I said, barely breathing.

  She glanced around the stark room at other attorneys talking with their clients, girlfriends holding hands with their convict-boyfriends. I hadn't noticed how arched her shoulders had become until they slumped down and she exhaled. "It's Aaron."

  I set the paper down. News about Aaron had been pretty static lately. Nothing ever required this dramatic a prelude. "What is it?"

  "He's suffered another infection. There's a lot of fluid in his lungs. He's been running a high fever."

  I swallowed, opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't.

  Gazing out the window, she sniffed, dabbed her eyes and said, "They don't think he'll make it through the night."

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It took a while for the news to sink in. After laying in a coma for two years, my son was going to die. I didn't want to accept it. Even after Rachel left, I paced around my cell, then out in the yard. Screw Butch, if he had another surprise for me.

  Standing watch by the concrete picnic table, Possum asked me why I was pacing, why I was so agitated. His words barely registered. Until he grabbed me by the arm. "Cut it out, Silk!"

  "What?"

  "You're talking to yourself. Freaking the hell out of me."

  "Leave me alone."

  He stood perfectly still, eyeballed the yard, then drew close and whispered, "You wanna join your Nazi buddies in PSU or something? Knock it off."

  I stopped and turned to face him. "It's Aaron."

  "Oh no." His features crumpled with an expression which only a parent could fully understand.

  "They're saying he won't make it through the night."

  "Sucks."

  "Yeah," I sighed. Sometimes finding the right words to express yourself is too much of a challenge. I slammed the bed frame. "Dammit!"

  Possum put his hand on my back. "Maybe if you talk to the warden, he'll let you out with a guarded escort to see him. You know, to say good-bye?"

  I shook my head. "Even if he agreed, there's still a restraining order." I slammed my hand against the bars so hard it made some of the guards to turn their heads.

  "Do you believe in God?" Possum asked.

  "I don't know, do you?"

  Possum's nose twitched. "Might help to talk to someone."

  "Chaplain's too scared. Five minute sermon and he bolts."

  "They don't call him Father Speedy for nothing."

  "I don't know. I just don't know." Why would I want to talk to anyone about a God who—if he even existed—had been so cruel to my family. As much as I respected Rachel, that word she claimed to have gotten from God—it's going to be fine—just wasn't panning out. What kind of God would make a promise like that and renege?

  "Well, I ain't all that religious myself," said Possum. "But alls I know is that when we got our backs up against the wall, there's one name we call out, whether we believe or not." He smirked. "You got a better idea?"

  I shrugged.

  "Whatcha got to lose then?"

  "What, you want me to pray?"

  "Won't cost you anything but the time it takes."

  "Maybe," I said, desperate enough to try anything. "But I don't know the first thing."

  "There's one other person you might try." Possum's beady eyes darted around, stopped, then met my gaze once again. "Whatever you do, don't tell him I suggested it."

  "All right."

  "And don't let his past, or his nickname fool you, okay? He's not someone you want to piss off."

  "Don't worry about that."

  "You know, maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all."

  "WHO, DAMMIT!" I grabbed his shirt and started to shake him.

  "Him!" Possum stood up pointed down into the corridor, to the one person I would have never guessed. And he was heading our way.

  I was going to be ill.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I learned from Possum why they called Frank Morgan, the most feared inmate at Salton Sea, the Bishop. And I'd have to jump through some frightening hoops just to get close enough to talk to him. If I survived, I would kill Possum for suggesting it.

  "Excuse me, Bishop?" I said. Either he didn't hear me, or didn't care to turn around and answer. His massive back was turned and he sat at a concrete table grunting to himself unintelligibly. I tapped his shoulder.

  Big mistake.

  With a fist ready to strike, he spun around and snarled. "What do you want!" As far as I could tell, Bishop was engrossed in a caveman like conversation with he, himself and Irene.

  "Sorry, I just—"

  "I don't like being interrupted." He stood up, tilted his head and popped vertebrae in his neck.

  "I'm sure you don't. But I need to talk to you." What was I thinking? I didn't even know where to begin. Right off the top of my head, I said, "You were a priest, weren't you?"

  He narrowed his eyes with contempt, then he started walking away. Should I follow him or did I want to keep living? I thought of Aaron. If prayer was his only hope, then it didn't matter if I believed or not, I had to take the chance—on God, on Bishop.

  "Hey, wait!" I went after him, determination overtaking good sense. At first I kept a safe distance. "Look, I need your help. It's my son. He's dying."

  Bishop stopped. Without turning around to face me, he said, "So what do you want from me?"

  It took a moment to finally say it. "I need you to pray for him."

  Bishop turned slowly, his lip curled. His clenched teeth barely allowed words to escape. "You think I'm some kind of holy man, a shaman?"

  "You were a Jesuit priest."

  He pulled on his sweatshirt. "You see a collar somewhere?"

  "No, but—"

  "Rosary beads?"

  "But you—"

  "Don't you get it, you idiot? I'm not a priest!" He stormed off again.

  Damn. Of course he was no longer a priest. He'd been sent to prison for a violent crime. Dangerous as he appeared, however, I doubted that he was guilty of the crimes of which he'd been convicted. There was just something about him—not tangible. Perhaps it takes an innocent man to discern another—perhaps I was deluding myself.

  Before he got too far, I went after him. The thick grass cushioned my footfalls. Bishop ignored me. I called out to him again, but he would not stop. Finally, I caught up and reached for his shoulder. As soon as I gripped it, he swung around.

  What happened next came so quick I can hardly recall. In a flash, I was on the ground with what felt like a broken jaw. When my vision cleared, Bishop bore down into my face, huffing. "You do not want to get on my bad side, Hudson!"

  I spat salty blood onto the ground. "You might not be a priest anymore, but you must still believe. Please, I need you to pray for my son."

  "I don't bother with God anymore. You think He's going to take time out of His busy schedule to listen?" He shoved me back down into the grass. "You pray for him!"

  Chapter Forty-Six

  That very day, while I lay in my bunk with a cold towel on my bruised jaw, the evening edition of the San Diego Union Tribune reported two items of morbid interest. First, another man had been charged with the rape and murder of his wife and daughter. This third murder happened in Poway.

  But it was the next report that truly stunned me. An email had been sent to one of the staff writers at the paper. The sender identified himself by a cryptic, mythological name. The text from the email read:

  Dear editor,

  That your journal likens the recent wave of brilliantly executed dramas to a psychological pandemic is offensive. With each of the recent sublimations, resulting in the spiritual transcendence of mothers and their daughters, I have manifested my glory. You seek swift punishment and of course, you convict as I direct: the fathers, the husbands. I have sto
od silent about that for my own reasons. But I will no longer permit my glory to be misdirected.

  My chosen subjects, I mold for my pleasure. I am incarnate in the lives of my favored creatures as I beatify them. For all intents and purposes, I am God. But that you may conceive of me in your feeble mortal minds, you may call me by a more conventional name.

  Kitsune

  When Rachel read the article, she felt a disturbing sense of convergence. She called Mack immediately.

  "Are you certain?" Mack said.

  "It's worth a look." Rachel was already putting on her Nikes, still reading the paper on her coffee table. The glass top reflected the sickle moon through the window of her studio apartment. "Something about that name, Kitsune, sounded familiar, so I Googled it. It's the name of a mythical Japanese fox."

  "That's interesting but—"

  "And that screen name that had contacted Sam," Rachel said, with the phone clamped between her ear and shoulder, as she wrestled her running shoes on. "That was someone called Huliboy."

  "You've got a point somewhere in all this, I hope?"

  "Huli!" She said nearly falling forward as her foot popped into the shoe. "It's Chinese for fox. That much I knew. There are tons of Chinese legends about shape-shifting fox spirits called Huli Jing."

  "All right, hold on. You got two Asian fox tags, so what?"

  "Three screen names, because Walker told Sam that the person who said he was God and told him to kill the girls at Coyote Creek used a screen name too: Dr.Hu, spelled H-U."

  "Right, three people with fox—"

  "No, Mack. Don't you see? When you fill in the blanks it all makes sense."

  "Ray, I'm just not follow—"

  "One killer, three different screen names. Walker's cellmate claimed to have heard him say that God told him to kill those girls at Coyote Creek Middle School. And then later, "god," who had been sending him post cards in jail, commanded him to kill himself."