Butch reached back for the handcuffs at his belt.
If I had blinked, I might have missed what happened next.
In a flash, Bishop dropped his head, reached back and twisted Butch's arm so forcefully, I wondered if he'd just broken it. A shot rang out. He twisted Butch's wrist again. The gun dropped to the floor.
Before my next breath, he had Butch in a choke hold, a shank at his neck.
"Bishop, don't!" I called out.
He turned to me, his eyes smoldering like a brush fire. "Grab the gun!" I froze. "Dammit, Hudson! Pick it up!"
I stepped over, bent down and retrieved it. The handle was still warm and moist. I wanted to rub my hands on my pants. Better judgment dictated that I keep it pointed at... who was I supposed to point it at anyway?
Bishop leaned his face right up against Butch's. He was going to kill him.
"No, wait!" Butch cried. "We can work something out. Anything you want, just name it!"
"You throw me into Gen-Pop, threaten my sister, and now you ask what I want?" he tightened his grip. Butch groaned.
"But...I made you... you rule Gen-Pop! You're the—"
"I want you dead, is what I want!" Bishop tightened his grip around Butch's throat, cutting off his words. He pressed his shank in and Butch let out a girlish squeak.
"Come on, Frank," I said. "Do not do this."
His eyes lit like napalm, aimed straight at me. "What?"
"You've had it rough, and yeah, you're no saint," I said, getting closer. "But you are not a murderer." I curled my right index finger uncomfortably around the trigger.
"Listen to him, Frank," Butch stammered, his eyes wide.
"Shut up!" Bishop yanked the C.O.'s head back, then turned back to me. "You don't know what the hell I am, Hudson!"
"I know you didn't kill that priest— You've never killed anyone." Somehow, I just knew. He hesitated. Then his features galvanized again.
"You have no idea how many I've killed."
"No. This is cold-blooded—"
"Sonofabitch deserves it!" There was no stopping him. I knew that look of desperation, where there was nothing left to lose. No one could stand in Bishop's way and hope to live. He inhaled deeply, let out a slow but savage growl.
I was about to watch Butch's throat get slashed open.
And then, as if all time was suspended, another vision came to me, clear as day. It was Jenn, the night she was murdered, dying in my arms, struggling to speak. A warm, tingling sensation coursed through my body, my mind. I understood, finally realizing what had to happen.
Out of nowhere I shouted, "Mercy, not sacrifice!"
Bishop froze. Both he and Butch looked up at me with disbelief.
And then I knew what I must do.
I aimed the gun.
And pulled the trigger.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Bishop hit on the ground and rolled to his side.
In an instant, Butch made a run for it. "Stop!" I yelled, and cocked the hammer again. With his back turned to me, he raised his hands. "You're not going anywhere."
"Oh, you're in way over your head, pretty boy!"
I walked over to Bishop. Looked down. He was holding his leg and grimacing. "I'm sorry, Frank."
"Sonofabitch," he strained. "I can't—" he gritted his teeth, "can't believe you did that." Keeping the gun aimed at Butch, I knelt down, moved Bishop's blood stained-hand away. The bullet had passed straight through his calf.
"How did you know?" he groaned.
"Whenever you girls are done gabbing," Butch said "My arms are cramping here!" I straightened up and went over to the C.O. Got up close and looked down into his face. He sneered, trying to suppress the tremor in his lip.
I held the gun up to his head. Pressed it into the spot where his bushy eyebrows were conjoined. "Bishop's right," I said in an icy tone. "You deserve to die."
Butch squeezed his eyes shut. His entire body shook. Then I did something that surprised me as much as it did him. It was unplanned, just acting on gut, the same intuition that led me to shoot Bishop.
I grabbed Butch's forearm. Turned his palm up. And slapped the gun into his hand.
He opened one eye. Then the other. Total bewilderment.
"What the hell are you doing!" Bishop said.
"Why?" Butch's mouth hung agape, his eyes bulged.
"Two things." The words just seemed to flow out of me. Only after I spoke them did I realize that I meant it. "First: As much I'd love to pull the trigger, I'm not the one who judges. That's God's job."
His eyeballs were about to pop out of his head. "What?"
"Second: I need your help."
"What makes you think I'd—?"
"Because your throat isn't slashed open, because you don't have a bullet in your head."
"Oh. Right."
"Get medical help now. For Bishop. And Possum. He's back in that stairwell, hurt really bad."
"Sam, you stupid little— Don't!" Bishop slapped the floor. Butch nodded and jogged towards the building. Every couple of steps he'd turn back and look at me. The sun's rays blazed down from a cloudless, azure firmament. Sweat rolled down my back.
"You're an idiot!" Bishop said.
"Tell me about it." I removed my t-shirt, tore strip from it and wrapped a tourniquet around his leg, keeping pressure on the wound. "He'll be back, trust me." Bishop just shook his head. I grabbed his shoulder and said, "You going to kill me now?"
"No," he said, then smiled. "Not now, anyway. How'd you know?" Bishop tilted his head and looked deeper into my eyes. "Those words. Mercy, not sacrifice. How?"
"They were my wife's last words. To this day, I still don't know why she said that."
"Well I'll be. They were my mother's last words too," he said. I shuddered. "And no one ever knew what was written in that locket."
"Locket?"
"The one you saw in your vision. No one could have known about it. Those words, that verse. It was inscribed into my mother's locket. She gave it to me just before she died." It was too much of a coincidence to actually be one.
I checked the tourniquet and retied it. "So why did you stop when I said it?" That hardness in his demeanor, that great rampart, that fortified citadel of anger and disillusionment, it all began to crumble—like the Berlin wall—brick by brick.
"You were right about one thing," Bishop said as the infirmary staff arrived. "I may have turned my back on God, but I've never stopped believing in Him." He tried to stand but grimaced and stopped. With my arm behind his back, I helped him settle back.
"Last night," he said. "I came to a decision. I was going to give God one more chance." He scoffed. "Yeah, I got some nerve. I told God that I wanted a sign. Anything. I mean, I figured, you'd been getting all these visions."
"I didn't think you gave them any credence."
"Well, I didn't at first. Anyway, I figured, no harm asking. Then this earthquake hits. Stupid cons riot and take over the control room. There was my sign."
An armed guard walked out of the staircase door with Butch. They exchanged a few words and the guard approached. From a distance he said to us, "Stay there. We've got a situation inside."
"How's Possum?" I called out.
"They're looking at him now." The guard gestured sharply at Bishop's shank, still in his grip. Bishop tossed it to him.
"Anyway," Bishop continued. "I'm ready to slash Butch's throat, I'm at a point of decision. You know, if I decided there really is no God, then what's to stop me? You know firsthand the things Butch has done."
"Don't remind me."
"When you showed up, screwing up all my plans, I figure it wasn't a sign, this earthquake. Just stupid luck. And there was no God. As I'd suspected all these years, I was on my own. No way out unless I killed Butch."
"But you stopped."
"Don't you get it?" He cleared his throat and annunciated. "But if ye had known what this meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice, ye would not have condemned the guiltless. For the
Son of man is Lord even of the sabbath day."
"Sounds familiar."
"Matthew Chapter 12. Point is, it can't be a coincidence. When you said, 'Mercy, not sacrifice,' that was my sign." He let out a bitter chuckle. "Not sure it would have been enough to stop me from cutting Butch's throat, though."
"But it did, long enough for me to... Sorry about your leg."
He grasped my arm firmly. "Something happened. I haven't felt it for years. But when you spoke those words, it was like a door opened. Something came though, came back to me. Something I haven't had for years."
"What's that?"
"Peace."
That day, Bishop walked away with much more than peace. The riot had been quelled when a Special Response Team smoked the inmates out of the control room. They nearly lost the hostage in the process but ultimately restored order.
Three inmates made it outside the Prison walls during the riot. The heads of La Fraternidad, the Blacks, and The Fourth Reich. Had I not stopped Bishop, he might very well have joined their exodus.
But they didn't make it very far. All three of them had been shot and killed.
On a day that so many had lost their lives, Frank "Bishop" Morgan rediscovered his and re-dedicated it to God. Because 'Mercy, not sacrifice,' the very words uttered by his mother and by my wife at their deaths, had saved his life.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
It was a day that would forever be engraved into my memory. Not only had the worst earthquake in over two decades struck, but it had brought about a transformation at Salton.
Six weeks after the quake, Butch resigned. A week later, the warden took an extended leave which later became permanent. Artie the Possum, my cellmate had survived his injuries. He would never let me forget that he owed me his life. Each day, I exercised with him and assisted him during rehab until he could walk again.
"If you hadn't come after me," he would say, "I would have died."
Frank had a different way of expressing gratitude. Not like Artie, gushing all over the place. It was much simpler, but every bit as sincere. He now greeted me with something he gave no one else at Salton. Respect.
With tears, I mourned the loss of Sonja Grace—how aptly named she had been. Forever in my mind, will she remain that angel, who risked everything so that I might see Aaron.
As for Butch, I don't know how much he appreciated that I'd spared his life. All I know is that before he left, he met with Bishop alone and had swore that he would not allow any harm to come to his sister.
"You put the fear of God in him," Bishop told me.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Three months passed and my case had been reopened, based on the evidence found at Brent Stringer's apartment. I began to anticipate each conference with Rachel, making sure to time my showers as close as possible to our meetings. Neither of us would, however, admit to the feelings we'd fought so long to repress. My appeal dominated our attention, anyway. That, and the mounting legal battle with the State over Aaron's life support.
Whatever it took, I had to be exonerated. I needed to get out of prison and reclaim legal guardianship of my son. But in this fight, time was no ally.
There was, however, one positive development. The exoneration hearings were about to begin. So that I could appear in court with expediency, I'd be transferred back to San Diego Central.
"So this is it, Silk," Possum said, shaking my hand as I stood by our open cell door, two armed guards and a C.O. standing outside and waiting. "Man, this place is gonna be a whole lot quieter without you."
"You were the talker," I said.
"Only around great listeners."
"Right."
"Well, okay, but my point is—" he choked up. "I'm...oh hell, I'm going to miss you!" He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his head into my chest.
Taken by surprise, I patted his back with my fingers and hugged him back. "I'll be praying for you, for Pam and little Jack," I said. "Don't give up. I know a great attorney."
He just nodded, still in my chest. I was starting to feel awkward and lifted my hands, my arms. But he just stayed there, not letting go.
"Artie?"
"Hmm?"
"Not in front of the cons, okay?"
He pushed away, wiped his eyes and sniffed. "You be good, hear?" He stuck out his hand again. I gave it a firm shake.
"You too." With a smile, I took one final look into my cell—the pale walls, stainless steel sink and commode, the bunks. Dreadful as it was, this had been my home for the past two and a half years.
"Good-bye, Poss."
"Yeah." He sniffed and turned his face back into the cell. Who'd have thought he'd be so emotional? I turned my back to the cell. The door slid and slammed shut, sending a jolt though my body. As I walked down the tier, fellow inmates who had once looked at me with disdain, cheered me on.
"You go, Silk!"
"Knock 'em dead, Hudson. You're gonna beat this rap!"
"There goes my homie!"
"Nice ass!"
I smiled and waved, passing each one of them with high fives, fist grabs, and hope—the culmination of faith and determination over the past couple of years. At the end of the corridor, I found Bishop putting up some new drywall in the corridor that led to B-block's exit. He had been promoted to a managerial position in P.I. (Prison Industry). Never mind that the point of P.I. was to prepare for a transition back into society—Bishop was still on death row—the new warden thought highly of him and afforded him a long leash.
"Frank," I said, stopping for a moment. "I'm off to San Diego Central."
He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped over. "All right, man," he said, grabbing my hand and shaking it in a tight grip. "Remember what we talked about, okay?"
"I will."
"If you're ever in doubt, remember, confirmation of the scriptures." He'd taught me to recognize the promptings, the quiet voice of God, as I'd experienced so early in my faith. But I also learned that His voice would never contradict the Scriptures.
"You've got a gift, Sam. A real gift. But like all spiritual giants, it's going to be tested, refined."
"Never ends, does it?"
With a warm smile, Bishop pulled me into a manly, one-armed embrace. "Ends once, and then begins eternity."
"Thank you, Frank."
A heavy thump on the back and he released me. "No. Thank you."
"For what?"
"Your faith, your obedience to God. For letting him work through you to help me find my way back."
"Just doing what I knew I must."
"You go out there and keep doing that. No matter what anyone tells you."
Presently, I became aware of an odd contradiction in my heart. I'd been caged like an animal, brutalized, abused, all the while innocent of the crimes of which I'd been charged. Justice had not been served, it had been violated. Shouldn't I have been elated to leave this legal and moral cesspool? But now, realizing that my time at Salton was over, that I might be a free man in matter of weeks, I found myself looking with nostalgia at this, my spiritual birthplace. The home of unexpected brethren.
Frank lifted his hand, pressed his thumb against my forehead and drew a tiny cross. "Dominus vobiscum."
"And with you also," I answered. I had been concerned for him, daring to hope that he might one day be exonerated. After all, like Jenn always said, "Miracles are happening every day, if you know how to spot them."
I turned, nodded good-bye and then began to worry for his safety. True, he didn't fear for his own life, he'd entrusted it to God. But he was no longer the dreaded Tiger of Salton. Heading up P.I., helping the chaplain with religious services, Bishop was now a model inmate with a reputation as the kindest, most gentle soul in the prison. But kindness and gentleness didn't lend itself to survival here.
I said a silent prayer for him and started to walk. Just before exiting, I turned back and saw something which I recognized right away. I wasn't seeing this with physical sight. Two bright lights shaped like form
idable warriors flanked him. No reflective glow, no shadow cast. No one else seemed to notice.
It's going to be fine.
Chapter Eighty
Otherwise known as "America's Finest City," San Diego had never seen such tumultuous times. The judges had not issued gag orders for the many hot cases on their dockets.
As multiple high-profile criminal cases ran concurrently, the media enjoyed its wildest three-ring ever. Brent Stringer, a.k.a. Kitsune, faced multiple murder charges, while my own appeal got fast-tracked.
The court entered its final stages in the deliberations over Aaron's fate. This too had garnered national attention. True to form, politicians and all manner of organizations, religious and non, gathered on both sides of the moral divide, mounting their soapboxes, ostensibly in the name of what was best for "the Hudson boy." A politician's playground. Not one of them had ever known him.
The Stringer case was now in discovery. In an ironic twist, D.A. Thomas Walden, the man who prosecuted me got me convicted, now called me as a witness against Stringer. For that reason, and because he knew it was inevitable, he did not plan to contest my exoneration. It wouldn't take Barry Scheck and the Innocence Project. Frankly, it would reflect better on the D.A.'s office if they laid low and focused on convicting the real killer, a heftier flounder for their legal skillet.
My hearing was to take place tomorrow morning, but that didn't stop Walden from sending in his Deputy D.A., Kenny Dodd to prep me for my deposition as a witness for the Stringer case.
Alone in a secure meeting room within the skyscraper-like building of San Diego Central Jail, I sat on a steel folding chair behind a steel framed table, waiting for Kenny Dodd to arrive. Just a day before my exoneration hearing and my feet were still shackled. I was beyond it, though. A couple of years at Salton made commonplace these chains, which once stripped me of dignity, lowering me to the status of a wild beast.
The wall clock read 10:15 AM. Half an hour late. I found the quiet within the soundproof room soothing. Nothing but the steady hum of the fluorescent overheads. The square window in the door was barely wide enough to see the guard outside stand, exchange words with another guard, yawn, and sit back down.
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