by Evan Ronan
I come across a little information about both sets of parents. Nick Carlisle’s dad owns and operates a healthcare consulting firm. Julie Stein’s pop is an investment banker.
As I’m headed out, I wave at Wally and Roy. “Keep an eye on the place.”
Nobody else will be in till noon. Wally and Roy will enforce the honor system.
“Pretty lady,” Wally says.
Here we go.
I open the register and check how much cash is in there, then grab my keys.
“Not married either,” Roy says.
“Not anymore,” I, very stupidly, answer. When somebody is trolling you, the last thing you do is feed them.
“Why don’t you ask her out then?” Wally offers.
“Gee, Dad, do you think I should?” I lay on a bit too much snark. I’ve known these guys almost my whole life, so they’ve taken it upon themselves to serve as father figures and constantly offer unsolicited advice.
Roy laughs. “You’re right, Greg. She’s too pretty for you.”
“Too smart too,” Wally adds.
That’s more like it. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“You’re worse than the cable repair guy,” Wally says.
“If you want, I can kick you out now and lock up,” I say.
“No, no, no,” they echo each other.
“Alright, thanks, guys.”
“Where you headed?” Roy asks.
“The police station,” I say mysteriously. “Then out to Johnsonville.”
Wally was about to shoot, but he comes out of his crouch and eyeballs me. “To see the Carlisle boy?”
The drive to the police station takes ten minutes. Half the fleet of white cruisers is parked in the lot. I watch as a couple uniforms drag a highly intoxicated man inside.
“Hey, Greg,” the duty sergeant says.
“Shawn, how’s it going?”
“Busy as always.”
Other than the drunk being processed, all is quiet on the western front. There might be seventy thousand people living in town, but it’s still a small place with small town values.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
Shawn looks over his shoulder, shouts at an open office door. “Going for my smoke. Be back in five.”
Local regulations have banished smokers. I follow Shawn down the sidewalk, around the building, out across the lawn, toward a gazebo where the smell of smoke still hangs. It took us a full minute just to get out here.
Shawn and I graduated together way back when. He joined the force right out of high school, got his college degree at night, and at the age of forty is close to retirement. I’m not jealous.
No, not at all.
He’ll collect his pension and under the rules can draw a salary elsewhere too. Back when I started up my PI business I had Shawn in mind for joining me when he retired. The idea was to hire a bunch of guys to do the leg work while I managed the biz.
That was the idea, anyway.
“What’s up?” Shawn asks, taking a drag. He’s a big fella, a little soft around the middle these days.
“Saw Denise today.”
He arches an eyebrow. “The one that got away.”
I laugh. “The one I never had.”
Shawn shrugs apologetically. “What did she want?”
“She wanted me to talk to Nick.”
Shawn takes a long drag on his cigarette. Says nothing.
“What do you know about the case?”
“I know he’s guilty as sin,” Shawn says. “No doubt.”
“Was there any evidence that didn’t get in at trial?” I ask.
Shawn gives me an odd look. “Thought you were out of the PI business.”
“So did I.”
Shawn frowns. “Minghella and Barnes won’t take too kindly to you looking into their case.”
“I don’t blame them,” I say. Minghella and Barnes were the two detectives that brought Nick Carlisle in, setting a new land-speed record for an arrest. “But I promised Denise I’d talk to Nick. Between me and you, I don’t think there’s anything here. Just doing my due diligence.”
Shawn laughs. “Due diligence, heh?”
“Denise asked for my help.”
“The more things change …” He doesn’t finish.
“Any chance he’s innocent?”
“About as innocent as OJ.” Shawn laughs harshly. “You asked about evidence that didn’t make it in at trial? He scared the living shit out of her one time, put his hands on her.”
Fuck.
“When was this?”
“About three months before he murdered her,” Shawn says.
This keeps getting better and better.
“She decided not to press charges,” Shawn concludes ominously.
I let this sink in. “Anything else you can share?”
“He got what he deserved.” Shawn finishes his smoke and disposes of the cigarette. “I understand you’re trying to help a friend, but this is exactly the kind of case that will piss a lot of people off. You sure you want that?”
Five
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Johnsonville and then another five to find the state penitentiary. It’s a little after noon now, so I call the pool hall just to make sure Wally and Roy haven’t burnt the place down.
“Greg Owen’s Den of Inequity,” somebody answers.
“Who the hell’s this?”
“Oh, hey, Greg. It’s Bernie.”
Of course Bernie, the freeloader with about eighteen tabs all across town, manages to show up the one day of the year I go with the honor system.
“Heard I wasn’t minding the store, did you?”
Bernie’s been out on disability since he came home from the hospital.
As an infant.
Bah-dum-bump.
“I am offended by the implication I would take advantage of a kindness.”
“You must be offended all the time then. Wally or Roy there?”
“They’re in the midst of an epic—”
“Put one of them on.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez you’re in a mood.”
Bernie has a way of putting me there. Wally takes the phone. “Greg, I was on a fifty point run.”
“I’ll make sure to contact Guinness so they can check the world record. More importantly, is Bernie paying?”
“I’m in the middle of a game here with Roy. You can’t expect me to run the pool hall when you’re not paying me.”
“You guys basically pay for free.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear—”
“You get half of whatever Bernie pays.” I figure half of something is better than all of nothing.
“Say no more, Greg. I’m on it.”
Yeah. Wally and Roy are the nicest guys in the world.
And they’ll very kindly, most politely, take all your money.
While I’m waiting for the corrections officer to process me, I use my phone to search the internet for information on the Nick Carlisle – Julie Stein case. While I refresh my memory, people come and go. Visitors happily enter and just as sadly leave. There is an antiseptic odor about the place that reminds me of a hospital. But even that odor cannot fully mask that human smell. Eighty years of sweat have seeped into the cinderblocks here, and no amount of soap can wash that away.
Wonder why I’m doing this.
Remind myself that there’s no obligation beyond this meeting with Nick Carlisle. I will talk to him and draw my own conclusions and hand the money back, minus half a tank of gas, to Denise and tell her we should get together again soon, preferably under happier circumstances.
The door opens, I’m motioned inside. Another corrections officer reads me the visitation rules. I have to sign another piece of paper acknowledging my understanding of said rules, then I’m led deeper into the prison. We bang a couple turns and I can hear, but not see, the inmates. Finally we reach the visiting area. Another officer stands guard by the door, checks the visitor pass I’ve been given agains
t my ID, then unlocks the door permitting me to enter.
Inside.
Five men in bright orange jumpsuits are spread out at circular tables, surrounded by their families.
One of them jumps up at the sight of me, causing a guard to instinctively reach for the weapon at his belt.
“Greg Owen! My man!”
I motion the guard it’s alright. “Miles and I go back.”
The guard shrugs as if to say, Buyer Beware. “Carlisle will be out in a minute.”
Miles gangsta-limps over. We do the half-shake, half-hug thing.
“Miles, my friend, you look like a million dollars.”
“Been working on my swell,” he says, hitting me up with a biceps pose that, admittedly, is impressive. Miles was always short and wiry, but now he’s starting to look like a bodybuilder. “Lot of time to move iron in here. Lot of time.”
“Meanwhile, I’m a law-abiding citizen who can’t find time to get into the gym. Something’s not right about that.”
He laughs. “Gotta make the time, brotha. No other way.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” Miles was busted for running—of all things—moonshine around the state. Fucking moonshine. Wonders never cease. As far as the IRS was concerned, he was officially making money at the poker tables. High stakes Texas Hold ‘Em.
“When are you getting out?” I ask.
“Soon, brotha. Now listen, while you’re here.” And he leans in, and I know I’m about to be sold something I don’t want any part of. “I got this idea. We’re talking game-changer. I’m gonna start a blog.”
“A blog?” Does he know approximately fourteen billion other people have tried to make money off blogs and only the one percent of the one percent of the one percent succeed?
But who I am to burst his bubble? I run or am a part of half a dozen mostly break-even ventures. Maybe my version of the American Dream is insane.
But still … a blog?
“Yo, here it is.” He moves alongside me and holds his hands up making an imaginary computer screen. “This blog? It’s for guys who are doing time, or about to do time. You know?”
It’s still a blog, though. “Nice niche market, I’ll admit.”
“Yeah, see?” Miles looks over at the two women, both roughly his age, sitting at his table. “My man Greg over here gets it. He gets it. Got a mind on him.”
Miles taps the side of his head.
“So you’ve got an audience in mind. That’s a start.”
“Yeah, but check this. Not just an audience. I give out free advice by posting a few times a week, you know?”
“What kind of affiliate ads can you put on there to make money?”
“Affiliate who?”
“Uh, never mind. What’s your plan?”
“The free stuff is just a loss leader, you know? The real product, the real service, are my two courses. One’s on getting prepared for the joint. The other’s for surviving inside. We get a lot of free time in here, a lot of time to improve our situations, you know?”
I have to admit, “Sounds like a pretty cool idea. How many people—”
“Over two million people are newly-incarcerated every year in the States. Plus, you gotta think bigger than the US, you know? There are international markets too, lot of people read English.”
He has a point.
“Think about it. If we can capture just half a percent to one percent of the English-speaking prison population, charge them a couple hundred bucks for each course … shit starts to add up.”
I can see it.
It’s also not lost on me that he just said “if we can capture …”
Miles leans in. “So here’s the deal, man. I’ll provide the content. You handle the business aspect, the website, the product development, orders, customer service, you know. And the startup capital, we’re good to go.”
Ah, yes. The startup capital.
“Miles, you’ve got a killer idea there and I wish I could join you in this venture, but I’ve got a million plates spinning right now so I’m not in the best position.”
Miles gives me the dead-eye for a moment, then bursts into laughter. “Man, you full of shit. But I like you. So think about it and get back to me, but don’t think too long. Brothas are lining up at the door to be my business partner.”
We do the man-hug again, and Miles gangsta-limps back to the two women sitting at the table. He’s got his arms around both of them before I find my own table.
For shits and giggles, I tally what I think the startup costs might be for Miles’s business. Websites and blogs are cheap. Developing internet content probably is too. Dealing with online orders, the return of money, cashing checks … all of that could be done through PayPal.
The deal is sounding better and better. Deep down I know I’m suffering from my usual case of Bright Shiny Idea Syndrome, a chronic and debilitating condition that leaves one restless and always distracted by some new hare-brained scheme.
Plus, there’s the fact that Miles is a convicted criminal. As much as I’ve always liked him, I wouldn’t trust him with my wallet.
As I ponder the delicate—and hypothetical—complexities of entering into a business deal with an untrustworthy man currently incarcerated, a door opens.
Another bright orange jumpsuit with what used to be a human being inside of it shuffles into the visiting room. The inmate’s eyes do a little thing when he sees me and it takes me a moment to recognize Nick Carlisle.
He’s in the far corner. I make my way over.
Last time I saw him, Nick was catching a pass in the end zone to put Apache High up by a deuce with three minutes to play.
Now I barely recognize him. He’s put on thirty or forty pounds of bad weight. His face looks bloated. The teenager is gone. He must be … twenty-three or twenty-four by now. But he looks like he’s going on forty. One eye is only half-open, reminding me of what Denise mentioned earlier.
The guard shackles his cuffs to a metal ring anchored in the floor. Nick stays standing, awkwardly hunched, as we regard each other awkwardly. Nick gives me puppy dog eyes like he wants a hug.
I sit instead.
“Thank you for coming,” he says meekly.
“My name is—”
“You’re Greg Owen,” he interrupts.
I ask him how he knew that by arching an eyebrow.
“Aunt Denise knew you would come.”
I laugh. There’s a touch of bitterness in the laugh. “I’ll bet she did.”
He makes an apologetic face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” I wave it off. “Let’s get down to business. Five years ago you pled not guilty then took a deal before the case went to the jury.”
Nick is flustered by my brunt approach. “Yeah, actually, yeah.”
I’m ready to go. “And?”
“I didn’t do it, Mr. Owen.”
Mr. Owen. Still sounds like a high schooler. I try not to stare at his bloodshot, half-open eye. “Why should I believe you?”
“Look …” He tugs at the collar of his jumpsuit, the ultimate sign of nerves. “You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.”
“I don’t gotta do anything, kid,” I say. “Least of all believe you. So get on with it and tell me what happened.”
“Julie and I dated for almost three years in high school,” he begins. “She was my first—I mean, my only—serious girlfriend. Sometimes we argued—”
“Why?”
“Why?” He pauses, as if searching for an answer. This pisses me off.
“Don’t dress anything up. I want the truth, kid, and then maybe—maybe—I’ll help you. But right now, I don’t want to get involved.”
He looks away and won’t meet my eye. “Have you ever been depressed?”
“I almost cried when the Phillies lost the World Series in 2009.”
He snaps his head around, finally treating me to some anger. “Aunt Denise was wrong. You’re a fucking asshole.”
&nb
sp; “At least I’m not a murderer.”
“I DIDN’T KILL HER!” he snaps.
A guard raises his voice. “Quiet down.”
I hold up a palm. “We’re okay. Just a couple guys talking, that’s all.”
“One more outburst and I take him outta here.”
“He’ll be nice and quiet from now on.” I give Nick a hard look. “Right?”
He’s choking on his anger. Manages to nod his head.
I let him decompress for a moment. “Okay. So you suffer from depression. Anything else?”
“Anxiety. Suicidal ideation. Low self-esteem, which made me jealous and possessive.”
This kid just keeps digging his grave with me.
He goes on. “I never talked about it. I tried telling Dad once, but he said everybody got down from time to time and a real man just dealt with it. I never told my friends—fuck, I didn’t want anybody in high school to know.”
“Julie?”
“Yeah, she knew.”
At the mention of Julie, his one good eye tears up. He’s been inside for five years, and that time has surely hardened him. But deep down he’s still that teenager.
“Anybody else?”
“The only person who really knew how bad it was was Mom. She took me to a doctor on the sly. We never told Dad.”
“How long was this going on?”
“I’ve been like this for as long as I could remember.”
“You and Julie dated for three years. Why did you start fighting?”
“It was all my fault. Every time she looked at another guy, I got jealous. I stopped trusting her and started checking her phone and hacking into her email because I swore she was up to something. We started fighting a lot … like I said it was all my fault. I wasn’t in my right mind. Never have been.”
I keep quiet.
Nick goes on. “Eventually I wore her the hell out. She had threatened to break up with me before, but then I’d beg her to stay with me or I’d threaten to do something to myself if she did. But she’d had it. So she dumped me.”
“Right at the end of Senior Year. Must have hurt,” I say.
He nods. A tear streaks down his face. “It fucking killed me. You ever had your heart broken?”
“Sure.”