“Garcia will be allowed visitors at some point, but I wouldn’t advise it. He’s not exactly what you’d call the student type.” The detective paused. “But if you wanted to make a pastoral visit, I can arrange something. If it turns out you do know him, we’ll expect you to share that information with us. It might help with our investigation.”
“If I know anything about him.”
“Can you come by the jail after four o’clock?”
At four-thirty I entered the PCPD on Fifth Avenue. The exterior is like any public building in Providence from the courthouse to city hall, but not the inside. Nothing else is as wretched as what you experience stepping foot inside the doors of a jail. Visitors must walk through a metal detector. A corrections officer—that night it was a no-nonsense woman with a well-matched last name, Debra Payne—slides a plastic basket across the table and asks you to empty the contents of your pockets into the basket, where they’re kept during your visit. Under bright fluorescent lights and surrounded by surveillance cameras, I removed my watch and waist belt and dumped all the change from my right front pocket.
Officer Payne took the basket and stowed it behind her work desk. Then she walked up to me with a metal-detection wand, and I was scanned and cleared to continue on to checkpoint two. Here rules govern every aspect of your personal identity. You’re told where you can and cannot be, when you can come and go, and what you can and cannot possess. Here you move slowly and quietly, ever aware the officers and guards are watching you. The guards feed, supervise, and transport prisoners, a job that can be as simple as closing a patrol-car door behind an inmate or as dangerous as what happened in this entrance hall three years ago.
A handcuffed inmate named James Frank Norman bucked like a mule, somehow ripped a gun from a state officer’s holster, and got off four rounds in under two seconds, hitting one guard in the shoulder and another in the leg before being “taken out” in a shower of return fire. Norman’s other two bullets ricocheted off the brick walls. The marks are still there; Paul Allen pointed them out to me once.
I signed in, stated the purpose for my visit, and told the supervising officer, Red Forrester, the inmate I was here to see—Carlos Garcia. Red wasn’t in a talking mood, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen him in one. Behind bulletproof glass, he pushed the red security button on the wall, and the two-inch-thick doors slid open. As they did, sounds of hollering inmates poured out, the bouncing echoes of a pickup basketball game in the gym, and the smell of mop bleach.
I thanked Red, and he responded with a token nod. On the other side of the door, I met Sergeant Bill Baines, who escorted me through the long labyrinth of cold institutional hallways. One more sliding door, and finally I was led into a room with a square folding table and two black plastic chairs. Above us in the ceiling, the obligatory bright fluorescent lights.
I hadn’t been in this part of the jail before. When I’d been here with Paul, we’d always set up chairs in the gym for an evening service. This wasn’t like what you see in the movies, a row of cubicles split down the middle by a wall of bulletproof glass, where you pick up a phone to speak to a prisoner. Carlos and I would sit face-to-face.
I stood in the empty room listening to an annoying hum in the lights. A key rattled in a second door, the door opened, and in waddled a handcuffed and leg-shackled Carlos Garcia.
His head was bowed, and his eyes remained fixed on the floor. And even though his black hair was shorter and speckled with silver, I knew him instantly. It was him. The man I’d last seen standing over me with a gun. He sat down across from me on the other side of the metal table.
“Who are you?” he asked in a voice as dry as sand. His eyes cracked open slightly. “Who sent you to see me—the devil?” He laughed like his lungs were filled with smoke.
I took in the sight of a shackled Carlos Garcia looking subdued and controlled in his orange jump suit.
“Don’t you recognize me, Carlos? You said you wanted to see me.”
“I’m here on business, preacher, but I won’t be here too long, so take a good look. The sun comes up tomorrow, and the bird flies away back home.”
He laughed again. A sickening mixture of emotions flooded my consciousness. At my core was molten anger—a raw fever that makes you afraid because you aren’t sure what you’re really capable of—and obscene pity at the loathsome and wretched reptile Carlos was. I felt my pulse drumming inside my cheek. My mind flashed scenes from an arid morning in a New Mexico desert.
“What business is that, Carlos?”
“I’m here returning a motorcycle.” I felt the quick piercing of silver rage penetrate my anger. Here was the man who’d swaggered through my camp, brandishing the power that came from his firearm. Another face from my past, another reminder of something I once was.
He’d gotten what he wanted, Mitchell’s bike. Now what was he here to take?
A silent prayer rose from my soul for spiritual direction. If this was a divine appointment, then why were we here? I was a follower of the Prince of Peace, so how could I be filled with so much hatred that I wanted to take Carlos by the throat and beat him to a bloody pulp? I prayed again, wanting to hear the clear voice of God granting me direction. And then there it was. Clarity. No audible voice, but a clearness of vision. I saw Carlos Garcia as he really was, a dying degenerating wretch.
His shriveled and powerless act masqueraded as control, but all his conceited crowing was empty. His strength was his weakness. Age, time, and the law had caught up with him. The power he’d held over me that day years before was gone, and then it dawned on me: so was the power of the past that tried to haunt me. It too was nothing more than a toothless phantom, just like Carlos Garcia.
“You know who I am, Carlos. You remember me.” I said.
“I remember I killed you. Now what are you doing in my face, dead man?”
“The Lord spared me that day. He turned your bullets into handcuffs. I’m alive, and you’re in chains.”
He laughed, trying to sound fearless. “Don’t preach at me with your religion! You’re the one who’s wasted. I will kill you again and finish the job this time!”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “Your time, your chances, and your freedom are all gone. You traded your soul, Carlos, for nothing. And my God isn’t a religion; He’s a Redeemer. He saved me from your bullets, then He saved me from myself.”
“Guard!” he shouted.
In an instant the guard’s keys turned in the lock.
“Good-bye, Carlos.”
“Yeah, good-bye to you, too. I will see you again to kill you.”
“No, you won’t. I suspect you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. My anger for you is gone, and all that’s left is pity.”
The guard pulled the door closed behind Carlos, and I was alone again in the sterile, windowless box. I took a deep breath and sat at the table closing my eyes to pray.
“Lord, forgive Carlos Garcia. He’s lost; for now he’s lost. I was once lost too, and yet You saved me. I forgive him just as You’ve forgiven me.”
I left through the door I’d come in and walked back down the long corridor. Officer Payne was holding my wallet and car keys. As I drove away, I knew God had brought Carlos and me together so I could forgive him, so I could be free. Yet there was something more I needed to do. But what?
~ THIRTY-FIVE ~
Whatever road you choose
I’m right behind you, win or lose.
—Rod Stewart
“Forever Young”
After my mind-blowing encounter with Carlos Garcia, I drove along the winding Redstone River Drive to Aaron’s place. It was more than half past nine. The bright three-quarter moon lit the sky enough to highlight the smoke lifting off the chimney and the twinkling snow on the rooftop. From the lights inside his house emanated the kind glow of Christmas.
“We don’t see much of you these days, Jack. How are you?”
Aaron and I sat in front of red glowing embers in the
fireplace. Aaron threw two splits of wood onto the fire. Soon they sputtered, and the glow in the room deepened. He rocked back and forth in his chair, looking like a fat Saint Nick with his trimmed white beard.
“The book’s coming along. You were right about this time of reflection. It has been good—not easy but fruitful.”
I sat across from him on a comfy red-plaid sofa, enjoying the first real rest I’d had in weeks. I drank in the warmth of the room, the crackling fire, the American Indian rug beneath our feet, the framed paintings of Cheyenne on horseback. The frenetic heartbeat of life was finally winding down.
“I’m proud of you, Jack.”
“For what?”
“I dunno … lots of things. Taking on the project, for one. I know it was the last thing you wanted to do.” He doubled his newspaper and tossed it on the fire.
“It’s been uncanny the people who’ve dropped into my life since I started writing.”
Aaron brought our conversation to a point. “So what’s on your mind tonight, Jack? You didn’t come up here to give me a writing report.”
“No, I didn’t. I came to tell you I’m resigning from CMO,” I said.
He offered no reaction.
“Do you know when you’d like to do this?”
“Effective immediately, if possible.”
Aaron closed his eyes and continued rocking in tempo with the slow crackling fire. He’d seen this coming, probably before I did.
“God brought you to CMO for a purpose, Jack, but I think you’re right. That time is probably over. He has something else for you to do now.”
Light and shadows danced across the walls, flickered on the bookshelves lined with photos and mementos. I came to CMO a dozen odd years ago. I remembered sitting across from Aaron in his cramped office at the Urban Missions Board for my interview. He’d told me his dreams for Norwood.
Not old soldiers yet, still we were aware of being further along in the journey. The days ahead of us shorter than those behind.
“Jack, do you remember Conolly Airsdale?”
“He wanted so badly to be on the team,” the memory bringing a smile to my face.
The two of us began to chuckle, then the chuckles became laughter until the bursts came out with tears. “Bought all that nice blue paint for Mrs. Waters’ house and went up to Norwood to get the job done.”
We both knew the story all too well. It had been told a dozen times. Only the barest details were needed to spill our laughter.
“Took his own car.” I said.
“Took his own car and beat the crowd up there by a good two hours.”
I doubled over on the red-plaid sofa, unable to even pause the laughter. It was another minute before Aaron could finish what we both knew was coming.
“Shame he got the wrong house.”
I let out the raucous holler of a man who needed a good laugh. A laugh that could only be shared by old soldiers who’d fought the battle side by side in the sunny days of May, when the women of Norwood planted marigolds in their flower boxes, and through the frozen pipes of January, when the hearts of our fellow men sometimes seemed just as frozen.
We said our good-byes for the night, and I showed myself to the door, leaving Aaron to stir the dying fire.
I slept in Providence that night, then got up early the next morning to drive to Indianapolis. Arthur had asked me to come and spend the morning with his staff. And he needed me there for a photo shoot. The media firestorm Bud Abbott ignited in December had cooled. I ran into the occasional photographer when I was in Chicago, but whether or not those photos ever went to press, I couldn’t say. I don’t read the papers. But apparently, enough press was generated to suit Arthur.
“I should reimburse you for your hotel stay,” Arthur smirked. “You brought us more face time on television than two million dollars can buy.”
There were lots of new staffers at ARP, and all treated me with kindness. A new hire and recent grad of Providence, Jan Clouden, brought me a bottled water—the new status perk for VIPs. She was cute with her youthful glow and gregarious personality. She proudly showed me her engagement ring. I was envious of the exciting adventures in front of her.
Arthur introduced me to everyone in the conference room and retold his practiced pitch about the new book, one he’d honed in a million sales meetings over the past six months. I met with Judith in her office to see how my editor was faring with the pages Bud and I had been sending. Yes, she’d been getting them; yes, they were great; no, she couldn’t think of anything else she needed, but if we could put them in chapter form … I told her we’d try.
After the few brief meetings, Arthur drove me to a photo studio. I was given a haircut, makeup, and a change of clothes before sitting with a photographer, who shot dozens of pictures of my face and dozens more of me standing in various positions in the studio. I’d imagined the photo was for the inside cover, but Arthur was insisting on a full-color cover photo.
After the photo shoot, we cruised downtown for Mexican food. Arthur had spent most of the morning on his cell phone talking out of earshot. If a face can tell a story—and sometimes it tells the only story—Arthur Reed was stressed. Like a clay vase tossed in an earthquake, each phone call brought jarring tremors.
I’d heard him say, “I didn’t say I’d have it on Friday; I said I might have it on Friday,” when we were still at the studio. At the restaurant Arthur left the table before ordering and climbed back into his car, where he stayed on the phone until we’d finished eating.
“He’s never totally here, Jack,” Carol Phillips, ARP’s publicist, confided.
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. I think it has to do with money, but I can’t understand why. I know the figures on your book. You’ve known him longer than I have. Has he always been so obsessed with money?”
“I wouldn’t say obsessed. Lured by it, perhaps. It’s important to him.”
“I haven’t worked with him long, but everyone thinks he’s acting odd.”
“How so?”
“He’s in the office for a day, then gone unexpectedly for two or three. One Friday he missed signing paychecks. You can imagine how that went over. He wasn’t back in the office until the following Tuesday.”
“I know he’s been erratic.”
“That’s not all. He’s bounced some checks too. My assistant Beth banks at Indiana National where ARP has its accounts, and last week they wouldn’t cash her check due to insufficient funds.”
“You’ve got to be kidding?”
“No. That’s why she didn’t join us for lunch; she’s looking for another job. I’ve talked to Margaret in accounting. She hasn’t come right out and said it, but I don’t think Beth’s was the only check made of rubber.”
“That doesn’t make sense at all. ARP should be swimming in dough.”
“More like swimming in debt.”
Arthur walked up to the table as the waiter cleared away our dirty dishes.
“Sorry, everyone. Business calls.”
We drove back to ARP with Arthur talking production chitchat while Carol “uh-huhed” him from the backseat. I wondered if she was thinking of joining Beth in the job hunt.
After saying my good-byes back at the office, I took off for Chicago. Bud and I had another writing day ahead of us. The next morning I had breakfast delivered from the fifth-floor deli. Fresh bagels, cream cheese, black coffee. Bud was in by eight thirty, and we caught each other up on the story between bites and sips.
“I read through the pages you sent. I’m also transcribing the tapes. Looks like you had a productive holiday.” Bud rolled his squeaky office chair over the Berber carpet. He set a thick stack of printed pages on the coffee table, a visible sign of the progress we’d been making.
“Jack, right now what we have is a lot of stories. I’ve started assembling the data, trying to think like an editor.” Bud took a bite from his bagel and chewed while he spoke. “I’m seeing a couple of holes I thi
nk we need to plug up.”
I noticed a change in Bud’s commitment to the story we were working on—my story. Maybe his opinion of me would change too.
“Like what.”
“Like this Brian Aspen guy from Chicago? I had a buddy of mine down at first district run his name through their police computers.”
“And?”
“Well, the guy’s dead.”
I looked up.
“How’d he die?” I asked. “And are you sure it’s the right Brian Aspen?”
Bud reached for his yellow legal pad and flipped through the pages. “He’s the Brian Aspen who never left Chicago other than two years of college in Indiana. He went to Chicago University for a while, dropped out, worked at XN-tricity on Ellsworth, was busted for drug possession 1987, busted for trafficking in 1990. It’s him.”
Bud pulled out a fax photo the CPD had sent him. It was Brian.
“The kid kept busy. But he DUIed into a cement embankment doing about sixty. Not good.”
I hadn’t seen Brian since the night he’d left me at the hospital with Mitch, but I felt sympathy for him.
Bud continued. “Anyway, if I can talk to some of these people you mention in your stories, then we can get a little more perspective on things. I think that’s necessary.”
“Who do you want to talk to?” I asked, dubious.
He rolled the chair back to his computer bag and pulled out a smaller notepad. “For starters, there’s Erin Taylor. Any idea where she is?”
“No, but wherever she is, I doubt she’d want to do an interview for the Jack Clayton story.” I could see where this was going.
“And Jenny. I take it she’s still in England, but your readers are going to want to know what’s become of her, as well as the other people who are key to your story.
“She’s been a missionary in England. That’s what became of her.”
“I don’t mean we guess, Jack. I mean we find out for certain.” Bud took his mug to the kitchen for a refill. “Plus, it would be interesting to learn what they think of your success as a writer. We need to wrap up the story somehow.”
Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance Page 23
