Night Sun

by Tom Barber

  ‘That’s crazy. How things can change.’

  ‘Tell me about it. She deserves it.’

  ‘So do you.’

  Archer didn’t answer. He was done with his food, and after seeing Marquez was too, he rose and picked up the box, putting the torn lid back to dump it all down the trash chute outside. ‘Speaking of healing, sounds like Lupinetti’s been needing to do a lot of that lately,’ he said. ‘You ready for a full day with him?’

  ‘Let’s just get him to Pennsylvania in one piece and get back home.’

  ‘I’ll see you downstairs at 8. Tell me how the movie ends.’

  After the two detectives parted ways, Archer dropped the pizza box into the trash before going into his own room, darkness settled over a quiet, untroubled Lee County. Life going on in the area much the same as usual, just as at USP Gatlin.

  How things can change.

  THREE

  ‘How far out are we?’ Archer asked the next morning as he filled the tank on their police-issue 4x4 black Ford at a gas station in the local town of Jonesville. Marquez was leaning against the other side of the car eating a granola bar, a cup of coffee she’d just bought placed on the roof, some snacks for the road trip to come in a bag on the back seat.

  ‘Eight miles, give or take.’ The pump Archer was holding cut out so he replaced it on the hook before climbing back into the car, having pre-paid. He glanced in the rearview mirror and seeing there was no-one behind them waiting, opened a folder Marquez had brought with her from New York.

  He looked at the photos showing the evidence of Lupinetti having been repeatedly attacked, the file put together by the Gatlin warden when he’d requested the transfer with the Bureau of Prisons. Three of the wounds had been long slashing cuts on Frank’s torso, back and arm, the other showing a sharpened toothbrush handle prior-to-removal protruding from his shoulder-blade. It had been jammed into his body above the sleeve of tattoos with the NY Yankees insignia and other New York iconography, some new ink on his arm just above where he’d been cut consisting of some letters and numbers. Dates that meant something to him, maybe, or some bullshit code. There was an NYPD shield inked there too, an old tattoo, with the man’s former badge number. The toothbrush wound looked like someone had used it as a bullseye.

  ‘Marshals say they want to be out the gate with him by 10:15,’ Marquez read from a text that had just come through on her phone.

  Passing her the folder, Archer drove out of the gas station forecourt and back onto the road. ‘Hopefully he doesn’t get shanked again before we get there.’

  If a person wanted to make their life inside a US federal penitentiary as difficult as possible, Francisco Matteo Lupinetti of Manhattan, New York would be a shining example. He was a former NYPD lieutenant, a cop killer with a tendency to run his mouth and having most of his life story inked on his arms, there was no way he could keep much of his past secret. After taking a deal and turning on some remaining guys he’d been working with during his years of corruption, getting twenty from the judge at the end of last year instead of forty or life, he’d known the ride ahead was going to be bumpy. But as Archer and Marquez had just been observing from photographs, he’d quickly found himself at the top of the list of targets from the first day he’d been incarcerated.

  At USP Gatlin, the third location he’d been transferred to in just his first year of captivity, he was locked up with drug cartel killers, Somalian pirate leaders extradited to the US and even one of the assholes who’d plotted the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. But after Lupinetti had shown up, he’d bumped them all down to become public enemy number one. A lot of the other inmates hated the Yankees, hated cops and hated snitches, which made Lupinetti a triple hitter. The only way to make it worse would be if he’d also been sent down for messing with children.

  His cellmate for the last few months ticked that particular box. ‘Bout time they shipped your ass outta here,’ the scrawny prisoner called Latham said from his bunk, a mean son of a bitch from some backwater town in Arkansas. He was eyeing Lupinetti who was standing near the open door of their cell, nervously tapping the leg of his orange jumpsuit pants with his fingers. ‘Givin’ me a pig for a celly. I never wanted that shit.’

  ‘You raped your own niece and nephew, Latham. What does that make you?’

  ‘Least I weren’t a pig.’

  Across the block, Lupinetti made accidental eye contact with a large inmate called Rainey, who he knew used to be the president of some major motorcycle club in Georgia with chapters all over the country. The man was standing in his cell, all their doors open for the time being, something permitted for one hour each morning; after they locked eyes, Lupinetti quickly shifted his attention elsewhere, then saw one of the access doors below get unlocked, two COs carrying shackles moving into the cell block.

  They passed some metal tables and stools fixed to the ground, a few inmates sitting at them talking or playing cards. Lupinetti checked his watch again nervously.

  His time to leave had come.

  The correctional officers in Gatlin were accustomed to being heavily outnumbered by the prisoners, sometimes by a rate of twenty five-to-one or even higher, so being hyperaware was an important skill they all learned fast when they started working here. A chiropractor setting up business in the facility would have earned a fortune treating the crooked necks and backs from so many COs and inmates constantly looking over their shoulders.

  But Gatlin’s dangerous reputation was well-deserved and the guards also knew that despite being vigilant, things could turn south in an instant. Eye contact kept too long, someone saying the wrong thing, a perceived racial slur or just a prisoner’s temper snapping could be the spark to set the place ablaze. The aftermath usually left broken skulls, slashed bodies or sometimes throats, illegal shivs slicing open flesh or slammed into necks or eyes.

  The more experienced of the two COs sent to collect Lupinetti and take him out to processing before he was signed over to the Marshals’ custody had checked carefully and was confident of a stable atmosphere as they walked into C Block, which was why the doors had been left open. No signs of trouble or tension. The boys had been well-behaved lately.

  So he wasn’t ready for the moment his partner was rushed from behind and stabbed in the back with a screwdriver stolen from the woodshop.

  The sharpened Philips work-tool was buried deep, the inmate gripping him shanking him again several more times with it. The other CO was grabbed too before he could react, but instead of being cut was dragged back and spun around, a shiv held to his neck as he dropped the shackles he’d been holding.

  ‘OPEN THE GATE!’ the inmate holding him, called Hoffmeier, screamed at another CO inside the block’s adjacent control room, the man jumping up from his seat beyond some protective glass.

  ‘HOFF, DON’T DO THAT!’ the CO shouted back, hitting the alarm as inmates suddenly started yelling, running out of their cells or going for hidden weapons as they realized an attack on the screws was going down.

  ‘OPEN IT OR HE’S A DEAD MAN!’

  The man in the box didn’t move. Hoffmeier nodded to the other inmate called Kattar who’d jumped the first CO and he stabbed the man again who’d fallen to his knees, this time in the neck, the CO collapsing face down to the floor and spasming as blood spurted from the wound. Inmates cheered and yelled as the place started to erupt into chaos.

  ‘ONE LEFT’ Hoffmeier shrieked, punching the bulletproof glass with his fist holding the shiv. ‘OPEN THE GODDAMN GATE!’

  Seeing his colleague dying on the floor, with the other man’s life in his hands, the CO hit the button, and it started to slide back; some of the inmates immediately rushed through, leaving some bloodied footprints as they ran past the dying prison officer, two stopping to take his baton, cuffs and keys.

  Up top, Frank Lupinetti watched this happen and also went to seize the opportunity to run, but was a second too late. His cellmate Latham suddenly threw his pillowcase over the former NYPD lieutenant�
�s head, pulled it taut around his neck, then dragged him backwards as he started strangling him.

  Just inside the front gate of the prison, Archer and Marquez had been handed back their IDs and told to proceed when a siren started to sound.

  ‘What is it?’ the CO with them shouted up to an armed guard in the tower, Archer and Marquez delaying moving off, waiting for the answer.

  ‘Riot just broke out in C Block!’

  ‘Is that where Frank Lupinetti’s held?’ Marquez asked the guard, who looked back at them and nodded.

  ‘You both need to leave right now.’

  ‘We’re here for his transport!’ Archer replied.

  ‘Marshals already arrived. The entire site’s gonna get locked down.’

  ‘We’re already in! Just let us get down there. Maybe we can help.’

  They kept making their case with the CO for almost a full minute, who still refused to give them access, but then the guard was distracted by a laundry truck that was leaving the facility and heading towards the gate. He waved it down and the driver leaned out to show his ID as the guard from the booth who’d been going back and forth with Archer and Marquez headed to the rear, undid the latch and pulled it up. He disappeared out of sight, then a few seconds later dropped back down, relocked the door and hit the side of the truck twice, waving the gate to be opened again.

  The truck sped off as Archer and Marquez waited for an answer, the guard turning back to them. ‘Alright, just go in! We gotta keep this gate closed!’

  Archer immediately drove on towards the contained chaos ahead as the gate started sliding across behind them, hoping they could get to Lupinetti before someone in there took the chance to get their hands on him instead.

  They couldn’t have known they were already too late.

  FOUR

  As Archer and Marquez approached the prison’s main buildings, they saw a four-man team of US Marshals talking with corrections officers, all gathered in the area in front of the cell blocks. Archer swung the NYPD Ford into an empty bay and as the two detectives got out, the sounds of a severe disturbance became very evident despite the loud sirens, all the noise coming from inside the clearly-marked C Block with smoke already flowing out of a number of windows.

  The prison COs who the Marshals were talking to were easily identifiable, wearing light gray pants and a similar shade shirt, their belts holding a flashlight, key clips, handcuffs and a can of pepper spray but no pistol. Like other prisons across the country, their uniforms also displayed their rank, the hierarchy similar to that of the military, and as Archer looked at the group, debating who to approach, an African American sergeant peeled off towards them having seen their car arrive.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man asked loudly to make himself heard over the noise.

  ‘Here to assist with Frank Lupinetti’s transport,’ Archer replied, as he and Marquez showed their badges.

  ‘Inmates attacked two of our guards who went in to collect your man,’ the sergeant told them. ‘Killed one, still have the other. We’ve got more COs in there and two of them just stopped responding on radio.’

  ‘So how do we get to Lupinetti?’ Marquez shouted to him.

  ‘He has to wait, right now we’re in the process of locking down.’ The sergeant motioned for them to follow him behind one of the US Marshals’ two black vehicles which helped block the noise of the sirens slightly, allowing them to hear each other more clearly. ‘Last time this happened, eleven inmates got killed,’ the sergeant told them. ‘Their bodies were stacked up in the doorways like loose cigarettes to block us getting in.’

  ‘How many prisoners do you have here?’ Archer asked.

  ‘1200, with 90 more over at a minimum-security satellite camp. But a lot of the boys in C Block know your man’s history and that he’s getting transferred this morning. You might already be too late. He’s a major target.’

  ‘We have to try to get him,’ Marquez said, as the front gate opened again, a truck speeding into the grounds with the Bureau of Prisons logo on the side.

  ‘Maybe he just ain’t meant to make gray hair,’ the sergeant said. ‘Someone’s gonna use this to get a piece of him.’

  Archer looked over at the Marshals who were strapped up in vests and carrying weapons, the four men talking with the prison staff but clearly in no rush to try and extract Lupinetti. He started claiming he’s got dirt on some influential people still in the NYPD, Shepherd had told Archer yesterday. Powers-that-be want him making it to Lewisburg in one piece.

  ‘She’s right, we have to at least try to get him out of there alive,’ he told the sergeant, who took to his radio.

  ‘Williams, you seen Frank Lupinetti in there?’

  ‘Can’t get a look right now, they’re taking over the corrid-’ The man swore and there was the sound of smashing and yelling. ‘-ast we saw, they were chasing down Andrea and Abrams. We’re trying to find them. Pena’s dead. They still have Hannity!’

  ‘Back up’s coming in, just hold on.’ The sergeant left Archer and Marquez and jogged over to join the Gatlin captain, who was quickly explaining the situation to the riot response team who’d just arrived in the truck, the men listening as they started strapping on their gear.

  ‘They’re not gonna bother with Frank right now,’ Marquez said to Archer. ‘Got more important things to focus on.’

  ‘So we need to find him,’ he said, before approaching the Marshals. ‘We want to try and get Lupinetti out,’ he said, showing his badge. ‘Could use your help if they give us permission to go in.’

  ‘No way, guy; we’re not taking one step in there until this is over,’ their lead deputy answered. ‘We’re getting paid to transport a fugitive, not get involved in a riot.’

  ‘It’s your responsibility to get him to Pennsylvania,’ Marquez pointed out, joining Archer.

  ‘I’m not risking any of my people to save his crooked ass. The animals in there will swarm on anyone wearing a shield or carrying one. Let the riot control team cool it down. If he lives, he lives. I heard what he did to get sent down here. He dies, not a great loss, right?’

  ‘It is if he actually has some information we need,’ Marquez argued.

  ‘That worth you going in there and getting cornered?’

  The pair of NYPD detectives looked at each other, the sirens still wailing their repeated warning. The riot response team had finished prepping their gear and their leader was standing with the Gatlin sergeant who was liaising with their COs still inside. As the sergeant talked, he made eye contact with Archer and then Marquez before presumably explaining who they were. Marquez jogged over to talk to the riot team’s leader and after she spoke to him for a few moments, Archer saw the man nod.

  That was all he needed. He immediately went to the trunk of their Ford, opened it up and removed his Sig Sauer from its holster, storing it before starting to strap on a vest as Marquez joined him. ‘There’ll be a lot of makeshift weapons in there, but you can’t just start shooting folks,’ the Gatlin sergeant warned, re-joining them.

  ‘We won’t,’ Marquez said, as she pulled her pistol too and stowed it in the trunk alongside Archer’s. The 4x4 was stocked for all sorts of situations, and vested up, Archer unlocked and opened a large inner compartment. The two detectives each took out a special twelve gauge shotgun with a yellow barrel and stock, before Archer withdrew a box of bean-bag ammunition. The shells contained lead pellets inside a small cloth bag and getting hit with one was like getting kicked off your feet by a horse, but it didn’t kill you. The Ford was fully packed with lethal and non-lethal ammo, as well as two rifles, two more twelve-gauges and spare handgun ammunition.

  ‘Don’t let ’em get the drop on you,’ the sergeant warned as they loaded the shotguns. ‘A lot of the boys in C Block are lifers or doing bids close to it. Nothing more to lose. They’d love to brag they killed a cop.’

  ‘You’re planning to go in?’ the Gatlin staff captain asked, coming over when he’d noticed the NYPD pair strapping up and loa
ding the shotguns.

  ‘Your role is to stop this thing,’ Archer said, sliding a last shell into his twelve gauge and stuffing more into his pocket as Marquez did the same. ‘Ours is getting Frank Lupinetti from here to Lewisburg with a pulse.’

  ‘He’s not gonna be sitting nicely in his cell doing a yoga pose waiting for you guys to show up. Could be anywhere in there right now.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Marquez said.

  ‘Take this,’ the sergeant said, giving them his radio. ‘I’ll watch the monitors and guide you best I can. I’ll try to locate him on the cameras to help you out.’

  ‘We’re not taking responsibility for you in there,’ the Gatlin captain warned. ‘Your choice to go inside. If you do somehow manage to find him, get the hell out again as fast as you can.’

  Archer racked his shotgun, took the radio, and then without another word he and Marquez followed the riot control team towards the locked doors of the facility.

  Inside the prison, the riot in C Block was following a scenario similar to a flooding ship, the water reaching a compartment and building pressure until the next seal burst. The inmates’ way of breaking through to each new section was the same leverage they’d used to get the first door opened, another CO called Abrams acting as their currency. The sight of a sharpened shank held to his neck had given them access through three more doors and gotten the prisoners more sets of keys.

  But while all this was going on, Lupinetti had been struggling with Latham, fighting for his life. His skinny celly had maintained the upper hand thanks to that initial element of surprise, despite being the smaller of the two men, and after a back and forth struggle Latham had managed to retighten the material of his pillowcase around Frank’s neck and was doing his best to finish choking him to death.