by Tom Hogan
But tonight’s session had been sidetracked by Josh’s return that afternoon. He had come into the L shortly before dinner, nodding to Donna and Harry as they played trucks on the living room floor, then heading into the kitchen. Harry, confused by the clean-shaven face and shuffling gait, had curled up against his mother as both of them stared over at the kitchen doorway.
A moment later Josh was back, a six-pack dangling from his hand. He paused at the door, as if about to say something, then left. He didn’t come up for dinner, which according to William was standard practice. It would be that way for the few days, maybe more, he cautioned. Donna looked over to Clark for confirmation; Clark just nodded back.
“No one knows where he goes?” Carol said into the silence.
William shook his head. “First week of June, first week of December. He doesn’t say anything to anyone. One morning he’s just gone. Always for seven days. And he always comes back like this.”
“And no one’s tried to find out where he goes? What happens to him?”
“We’ve all asked, some of us more persistently than the others. The first time you ask you get silence. The second, you’re told to mind your own business. In my case, when I pressed him, he told me to leave him the fuck alone, that he wasn’t one of my clients.”
Donna rubbed her face with her palms. “I’ve never heard him talk like that.”
William nodded out the window. “Well, if you want to hear it for yourself, go visit him. It will be a short conversation.”
She stood up. “Well, I’m going to go check on him anyway.”
Carol’s cabin was quiet in the wake of Donna’s departure, except for the steady hiss of the flames behind the glass door of the Franklin stove over in the corner. The stoves had been Donna’s gift to Moetown, Pete having a friend up in Canada who got them wholesale. He and Clark had installed them in all the cabins over Thanksgiving. Now Carol’s stove was working against the December chill, a small, steep bank of coals hissing gently.
“And you really don’t know where he goes? Or why he comes back so…battered?”
“For the last time, I really don’t know where he goes.” He looked around the cabin, his eyes coming back to her. “Looks like you’re settling in pretty nicely.”
Carol chuckled. “So let’s change the subject.”
William didn’t smile. “Let’s. How are you settling in?”
“I don’t know if ‘settle’ is the right word. That implies a level of permanence that I don’t think came with the invitation.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Donna loves not being the only woman up here. And it’s easy to grow roots with this group.”
She cocked her head. “How about you? Is this a halfway house or am I going to come back years from now and see your headstone?”
“In your dreams.” He nodded at her cigarettes. “As they say in Texas, ‘I’ll be peeing on your grave.’ But to answer your question: I’m a lifer.”
“You don’t think the dynamic will change over time, as more parolees move in?”
“I think the great prison experiment is over. Especially with Harry and other civilians up here now. Any growth from here on in will be organic.”
She shut her notebook. “What was it like, living up here the first time around?” She motioned to her notebook. “Not for attribution. Just wondering.”
William leaned forward, hooking a leg around the chair’s top rung. He drew his knee up in front of his chest and rested his chin on the knee. “It was…meaningful. We knew that if we succeeded, it had ramifications. Not just for the guys down the hill but for those in institutions who were watching what we were up to. So it had meaning.”
Carol reached for her cigarettes, waving him off as he reached for the matches. “What was the basic operation?”
“What do you know already?”
“Josh got the state to buy this place and make it the final step in his parole program. Parolees would spend the last year of their sentence up here. He’d find you jobs down in San Tomas or Kinsella. You gave Josh your salaries. He took out for food and camp upkeep. The rest he put into a fund you received once you were released.”
“Doesn’t sound that revolutionary, does it? But these weren’t your typical white-collar cons. Josh started with the conviction that if you served your time and showed remorse—no matter your crime—you’re entitled to the opportunity to start over.” He looked out the window. “At one point we had two convicted murders, three aggravated assaults, and two mob accountants up here.”
“What was Josh’s role in all this?”
“He determined who got in, first off. Then he got us our jobs—or the opportunities to interview for them, at least. Once we were in place his job was to keep the prison from interfering with the program and keeping us on the straight and narrow.”
He leaned forward. “You had to understand how different this place was—for us and for the authorities. No walls, no bells, no locks. How liberating it was to be self-policing. It was like we were breathing new air, living in new skin. And I’d only served three years. You can imagine what it was like for someone like Stiffie, who’d been inside for thirteen.”
“I’ve got a question about the recidivism rates. Standard prison rates are what, sixty percent?”
“A little low, but you’re in the ballpark.”
“And Josh’s numbers in Alameda were twenty percent. And twelve for the programs at San Tomas, but that was the prison. I couldn’t find any numbers for the camp program.”
“Zero.”
“No records?”
“No. There was zero recidivism. Up until the day they closed us down.”
She squinted at him. “How do you go about shutting down a program with a perfect record?”
“You use the universal language of bureaucrats. Numbers. You say the camp costs too much for too few. We countered by donating all our salaries to keeping the camp open. That bought us a couple of months, but you could see the writing on the wall. We were too much of a problem.”
“With numbers like that? I’d think the officials would have jumped in front of those numbers and taken a bow.”
“They would have, except we were costing them sleep. Literally.”
“You’re going to have to explain that one.”
William didn’t say anything for almost a minute. “Josh and I talked about this a lot,” he said finally. “Prisons are built on two psychological pillars—dehumanization and desensitization. Prisoners are numbers, not people. We’re a ‘population,’ not a collection of individuals with lives and families. Everything is in the aggregate—percentages, reductions. At least for the officials.”
“And for the guards?”
“In order to live with themselves on a daily basis, guards need to numb themselves to their job—especially to how they treat us. That’s where the unspoken rules come in.”
“Such as?”
“Such as you never look a guard in the eye. You never speak articulately, you keep your head down and mumble. You’re not people—you’re sheep that need to be herded. And at times beaten back to the herd.”
He leaned forward, pulling the chair’s back legs off the floor. “So put yourself in the place of the official or guard—and there was always one of each—who had to come up here to assess and report on our operation. Instead of walking around with a clipboard marking down demerits, you’re being asked what you’d like for lunch. Or if it’s the end of the day, do you want a beer. And they’re looking you in the eye when they ask you that. With their actual voices.”
He shrugged. “After an evening like that, how do you go back to locking people in the dark for weeks at a time for petty offenses, to beating them for little or no reason? I couldn’t do it, and at base, those guards aren’t that different from me.”
“So how did it all end?”
/> William leaned back and locked his hands behind his neck. “It started when they repossessed the goods we’d purchased for the camp. Each of us had bought—out of our own funds—a portable TV for our cabin. They repossessed them, all our workout stuff, even our pots and pans. Said that they were needed for our ‘brothers’ down the hill, that they knew we would understand.”
“And did you?”
“Not really.” He chuckled softly. “But we still had the big TV up in the L, so it wasn’t the end of the world. Then they came and took that, saying they needed it for a new rec room they were planning.” He smiled bitterly. “That was the final straw. We decided to take our belongings back. Not from the prison—too risky. And not from strangers who’d never done anything to us. After all, that would make us criminals.”
His smile relaxed and broadened. “We took it from the warden and the other members of the Prison Review Board. Slipped into their houses in broad daylight, while their wives were out for bridge, shopping, tennis. TVs first. Then the pool table, courtesy of the warden. There’s something sweet about football on a 25-inch color set when you’re used to ten-inch black and white.”
“They had to know it was you.”
“Of course. But the warden’s secretary had a crush on Josh. So she’d notify us when a raid was in the works. Jeff Thornton,” he nodded over his shoulder, “next property over, would drive over with his trailer, we’d move everything out, store it for the day of the visit and replace it the moment the warden’s Crown Vic headed back down the hill.”
“So how did it all end?”
“Frankie Denham, one of the parolees, was caught altering the inventory at his job. Instead of calling Josh, the owner called the warden. Frankie tried to deal his way out of trouble, offering to tell the warden where to find his pool table.”
“Ouch.”
He nodded. “Each of us got two weeks in solitary and another year tacked on to our sentences. They fired Josh, but didn’t file any charges. Too embarrassed. Just thanked him for his services in the paper, said he was leaving to pursue other interests. And that was that.”
She thought for a moment. “What happened to Frankie Denham?”
“A week after we were sentenced they found him hanging in his cell. His tongue was cut off and stuck in his shirt pocket.”
CHAPTER 11
Clark was released on a raw January day in 1976. He walked the entire thirty-four miles to Moetown, arriving in later afternoon. He stood at the gate, running his hand along the new fencing. Bent down to inspect the new gateposts, then slid the bolt aside and walked through.
Josh was under the flooring of the L, wedging a small hydraulic lift under one of the supports. At the sound of the footsteps overhead, he stopped work and peered through the hole in the floor.
Clark moved through the L slowly, his hands wedged deep in his coat pockets. A tall brick of a man with close-cropped blue-black hair and perpetual five o’clock shadow, his thick eyebrows hooded his eyes as they measured the work ahead. He ran his fingers over the serving bar, its heavy lacquer top scarred with cigarette burns and half circles of hot pots and pans placed directly on the surface. He inspected the window frames, stared up at the beams, then down at the flooring.
Josh’s face peered up through the hole, followed by a muddy hand with chipped nails. Clark got down on his hands and knees and shook hands. Then he stared into the hole. He straightened up, stripped off his beaten leather jacket, rubbed his hands on the crisp jeans, and lowered himself into the hole.
That was the extent of the greeting. In the four years Josh had known Clark, he had never heard him speak. The files said he had come into the prison in that condition; some of the inmates said his vocal chords had been paralyzed by an early beating by one of the guards. He was doing ten to fifteen for second-degree murder and had served seven. The head of the prison carpentry unit, he was well-regarded by both prisoners and guards.
They worked in comfortable harmony until eight that evening, digging, hefting and hammering. Finally, Josh surveyed the work and called it a day, hoisting the lantern out through the hole. He walked down to the creek and pulled out a six-pack, returning to find Clark stretched out on the porch, his face filthy and content.
After the beers they strolled the camp, Josh briefing Clark on what he’d done so far and what still needed doing. Clark nodded, his large hands flexing as he walked. Josh pointed at Two. “I’m in there.” Taking a flashlight from the window sill, he handed the lantern to Clark. “Pick whichever one you want. Then we’ll go get something to eat.” Clark nodded and started up the hill to Five, the cabin furthest from the L.
Mornings they were on their own, working on their own cabin, reading or hiking; afternoons they tackled the L. Evenings were usually at The Gimp’s or in the L, playing chess or reading by lantern light.
The lanterns became unnecessary the third week after Clark’s release. After studying the electrical blueprints that he had smuggled out, Clark hooked into the camp’s dedicated line of current, which traced back to the emergency independent power supply for the prison. By the end of the next day all seven cabins were on line.
The L began to take shape. The foundation was now rock-solid and supported a freshly leveled floor. They held off treating the floor until they received delivery of the new industrial stove and oven, which arrived in late March. Clark refashioned the entire east wall of the kitchen to accommodate the new purchase, which took two full days to install. Clark made lasagna the first night, with The Gimp joining them for the occasion.
It was during the next week that the single drawback to pilfering prison electricity became evident. Around midnight, they were playing dominoes in front of the L fireplace when the lights flickered, then sucked deep down. The lights danced erratically for a full five minutes before regaining their steady state.
Josh finally spoke up. “Bobby Cefalo?” Clark nodded.
They left the game where it was. Clark retreated to his cabin, where he spent the night staring at the ceiling. Josh stayed up in the L writing a letter to Philly Cairo’s widow.
Philly was a young black on Death Row when Josh came to San Tomas. Normally Josh had nothing to do with the ‘terminals,’ but Philly had heard through the wire about the new counselor and requested him, rather than a priest, for his last night. They stayed up all night playing dice and pitching pennies. Philly was up eleven dollars by the time the guards came for him.
As they walked out of the cell and the guards stepped in to take charge, Philly put a hand on Josh’s arm. “You watch me go, man. You tell my kids how I died. Tell them I said they ain’t no pride in that. You tell them that.”
Josh joined the warden, the medical examiner and three reporters in the observation room. He watched through the moist, heavy glass as they strapped Philly at the forearms and ankles. A gentle swab atop his shiny scalp and the metal cap was lowered. The guard placed a slab of rubber between his teeth.
Staring intently at Philly, Josh never noticed the switch come down. But suddenly Philly’s body leapt, running with nowhere to go. His fingertips went a hard white as they grabbed at the armrest. Then the nails blackened and a spit of smoke slipped from beneath the tips.
As if someone had robbed his body of its bones, he slid into the seat, the bonds holding him no longer in but up. Josh watched the urine push over the edge of the chair and form a perfect circle around one of the chair legs.
Both men slept late and came up to the L on leaden feet. Josh asked Clark if he felt like working. Clark shook his head and went back to his magazine. Josh stayed at the table, finishing the letter to Philly’s widow. Then he made two sandwiches and brought them over to where Clark was sitting.
Clark nodded, then scratched a few words onto the notepad that he always carried with him and tossed the pad on the counter in front of Josh.
“Sure. Now?”
They go
t to the pound around two thirty. While Josh inquired about procedures and filled out some initial paperwork, Clark strolled out to the back kennels. By the time Josh joined him, he was on his hands and knees with a sleek, otter-sized prancer, part-Lab, part-Doberman. Jet-black with brown muzzling and paws the size of ashtrays. Josh had no say in the matter. They went back into the office and finished the paperwork. When they got to ‘Name,’ Clark took the pen and filled in “Zeke.”
They rode back to the camp, Clark cradling Zeke in his large hands. He scratched the pup under the chin until the dog’s eyes misted.
Three weeks after Bobby Cefalo’s electrocution, William and Lucky were released. There was no parole for either man; the prison kept the two cellmates for as long as it could. The only oddity was the simultaneous release, since Lucky was originally scheduled to be released two weeks after William. But he called in one of his poker chits and a bookkeeping error let him walk out the gates at William’s side.
A sheriff’s deputy drove them twenty miles out of his way to deposit them at The Gimp’s, where they waited for Josh and Clark. By the time they arrived Lucky was already up ninety dollars at Liar’s Dice and had a date for the next two nights. At night’s end Lucky and William sat at the bar with Sheila as she cleaned up. The Gimp sat with Josh and Clark and tallied the night’s take.
The Gimp looked up from the count, then over at the bar. “That Lucky’s got more moves than Bekins. What was he in for, anyway?”
“Grand larceny, I think,” Josh said, looking over at Clark, who shrugged. “But with Lucky it could’ve been any number of things.”
“Meaning what?”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Forty. Wasn’t my night.”
“It’ll never be your night with Lucky. You just won’t notice it, he’s such good company. And he almost apologizes for winning, so you think it’s a fluke.”