"Rachel?"
Killian grinned. "Colson. The victim, remember?"
"Oh. Yeah. I just never thought of her like that before, as a Rachel. Are you two friends?"
"Yeah."
Springman thought about that a minute. "From before last August?" Killian nodded. "And Clint Ross?"
"Him too. We go way back."
Springman sipped coffee and considered the implications. "I guess there's a lot about this case I never thought about before." Silence. "Are you going with Rachel?"
"What makes you ask that?"
Springman shrugged. "I don't know. Something in the way you talk about her. That tape at the end. I hope so. She's not only attractive, she's got... oh, I don't know how to say it... substance, I guess that's the word. Maybe character is closer."
Killian nodded again. "She quit the force you know."
"No, I didn't. That's too bad."
"Yeah, for the police department. There aren't many cops who would have done what she did. But it's a good decision for her. The job was tearing her up inside." Springman didn't understand that but he let it go. "So, legally speaking," Killian said, "what happens to Pratt now?"
"He goes to prison and Burgoyne files appeal after appeal."
"Does he win?"
"Who knows? Pratt did it and if the case were judged on that alone, I'd say no, he won't win but it's the law and anything’s possible. The guy's good. He's laid the ground work for five, six appeals, one of them might work and anything’s possible on a retrial. Anything."
"Yeah, so I've seen."
The two sat silently for a time. At last Killian glanced at his watch. "I've got to go. A junky says he wants to talk. You take care. For a lawyer you're not half bad."
"You too. Take care. Thanks for the help." Killian nodded. Then left to see his man.
~
Burgoyne's meeting with Herbert and Viola Pratt had not been pleasant up to the time when Springman and Killian were ending their conversation. Burgoyne decided it was time to take the initiative. "I understand how you feel but it's not easy. Now it's time for any appeal and I am prepared to guarantee a successful one."
"Guarantee?" Herbert snorted, "you can't guarantee shit and you know it." Herbert was in obvious poor health. He had gained thirty pounds in the last two months and his face was habitually a beet red. Burgoyne was of the opinion that the man would drop dead any day. If what he understood about the architect's business was true, the man would probably blow his brains out anytime if he had the guts which the lawyer figured he didn't. Burgoyne considered the situation and decided that only Viola with her trust fund had the kind of money a deal like this would take.
"Viola, there is a matter I must discuss with you – alone." Herbert objected then meeting his wife’s eye muttered a profanity and went outside, slamming the door as he did.
Burgoyne faced Viola. "You must understand that some things are best said between two, without a third party present. You appear to be the most reasonable about these matters and so I will speak to you."
Viola listened intently. She knew Burgoyne well enough to know that the bottom line would be money. What she wanted was to know how much and what would she get for it.
"Your husband is unfortunately correct. Normally, I could guarantee nothing but as things presently stand I am prepared to make guarantees. I guarantee – let me repeat, guarantee – your son's release within four weeks pending a new trial and I guarantee that some important bit of evidence or testimony will be suppressed so that I can either obtain a prior plea bargain or an acquittal. Listen to me closely Viola and hear what I am saying for I cannot, for obvious reasons, come out and say what I mean in so many words."
Viola shifted slightly in her chair.
"An appeal goes in this state directly to the state Supreme Court. We have no Court of Appeals, at least not yet. Our Supreme Court is smaller than most, only five justices. It takes only three to accept a point of view, issue an opinion and rescind what Judge Mortenson did today and the verdict of the jury. Only three.
"Courts, especially Supreme Courts, are not as people suppose. They are not above politics, indeed, they are the most political of men since every decision they make influences their relationship with the other four justices for years to come. For that reason they are cautious and eager not to offend. They bargain, Viola, just like Congress or the legislature. One or two agree to yield on what is to them a trivial issue in exchange for a similar consideration when they want it.
"Do you understand what I am saying? It's the old, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. They trade off, Viola. They agree to go along with someone in exchange for getting to pick a case they want the others to go along with them on.
"One of those five men is... shall we say, susceptible to certain colleagues he trusts. I am trusted. Do you understand?"
Viola nodded. She thought Burgoyne was saying that he could bribe one of the justices and two others because of tradeoffs would go along and her Jared would be freed.
"I'll need twenty-five thousand to do it – in cash, soon. You will get it and you – alone – will bring it to me. No Herbert. No witnesses. You understand?"
Viola did. But twenty-five thousand was a great deal of money. Recent liens against the house had wiped out what equity remained. She would have to borrow against her trust income, something she had never done before. With Herbert bankrupt, due to file any day, it would leave her more vulnerable than she had ever been before in her life.
"Fifteen. I'll pay fifteen."
"It's twenty-five or no deal, Viola. These matters are not negotiable. And, of course, it goes without saying, no one will hear of it. If they do, it will not get your son out of prison nor, since it will be your word against mine, will it cause me any serious or even minor trouble."
The lawyer looked at Viola. She'll do it, he thought. She'll do anything to free that pervert. Viola thought then said. "I'll have the money for you by the end of the week."
“Fine, Viola, fine. And I will have Jared out no later than the end of May."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Arizona State Prison was located in Florence, a desert city some ninety-three miles south and east of Phoenix. Eighty percent of the inmates were from the metropolitan areas of Tucson and Phoenix yet the prison was located almost midway between the cities making it equally inaccessible to relatives of both.
The prison housed a predominantly Black and Hispanic population but the rural guards were recruited locally for the most part and were uniformly White. Built shortly after statehood in 1912, the prison, designed to hold twenty-five hundred men, held over five thousand and had originally been constructed to replace the old territorial prison in Yuma, a series of salt caverns justifiably called Hell's Hole.
In its youth, the Florence facility had been the equal of any state prison and was consistent with the correctional policies of a bygone era. In contemporary times it stood a blight on the state which had the audacity to maintain it, daring to call the hodge podge of dilapidated antique buildings a correctional institution.
Cell Block Two – or CB Two – was the oldest in-use structure within the main walls and had been constructed of concrete in 1923. To call it stark would be complimentary. Its four ten foot thick walls rose sixty feet into the clear, arid sky ceiled overhead by a corrugated tin roof that permitted both the wind and the rain equal access to the six hundred men housed within. Against each of the four walls, stacked atop each other four stories high, were animal cages approximately the size of a modest walk-in closet in an average home. The cages were of metal bars, generally rusty, and were neither solid on the bottom or the top.
Against the corrugated tin roof were pigeons, birds who had gained entry generations before and taken up permanently, constant reminders of the freedom the men were denied. The birds, hundreds of them at times, lived far above the heads of the men and shit upon them constantly. The inmates tied or taped newspaper to the ceilings of their cages to k
eep the droppings out. But the dung lay in the inaccessible locations, intermixed freely with pigeon feathers.
Every cage was allowed at least one television – how else to control men in such circumstances? The favorite show featured mindless girls asking inane questions of simple minded, grinning jerks. Each cage held two men who slept in bunks on top of each other. The cages were plastered everywhere with pictures, letters, anything to deny the reality of the situation, to cover the bars, to stamp the dwellings with some semblance of the occupants personality.
Access to CB Two was controlled through a single door buzzed open by a bored guard sealed within a cage of his own. He was never, by standing order and under pain of immediate firing, to leave his cage even if his single partner was murdered before his eyes. He must call for help and stand by. Five years before Pratt arrived a new guard – all guards it seemed were new or about to leave – left his post and both he and his companion were slaughtered. Two guards, only one of whom had the job of supervising six hundred men a task which should keep fifteen men busy to control the entire facility.
CB Two was the hell hole for incorrigibles, the insane, the sadistic, the hopeless, the lifers – the Blacks. Insufferably hot in the summer for it was not air conditioned, unbearably cold in the winter, it was both suffered and tolerated by its unwilling occupants. The men were routinely released twenty-two times each seven day period. Twenty-one times for thirty minutes each to attend communal meals and once each week to bathe, for fifteen minutes. The showers were cold since the water heaters were usually out of order. The concrete stalls were encased with green growths of fungi and in places, moss.
The law of survival in prison, any prison, was quite simple. The new inmate must align himself with a group, always of his own race, and abide by the group norms and decisions to receive its protection. Violate the norms or refuse the discipline and the inmate was left alone, to his own devices which meant to his death.
The only way in which a loner survived was to be bigger and stronger than others and to be feared by all or to be locked within solitary, called protective, custody. Child molesters generally either died early in prison or spent most of their stay in protective custody. The same for snitches.
Prison, especially the Arizona State Prison, was foreboding and intimidating to any new arrival and well it should have been for within were housed the rejects of society; many not all that bad by most standards, others unfit to live openly anywhere, all brutalized and barbarized by the worse elements of the society.
It was into this environment Jared Pratt was brought three days following his sentencing. It took no feat of judgment to recognize him for the odd ball he was and as a matter of routine, he was consigned at once to protective custody.
~
Howard Aldredge rose from bed at seven-thirteen, April twenty-sixth and prepared for the eight to four shift in CB Four. At thirty-two he had successfully resisted taking a position at the prison for his entire adult life but after three struggling years with a new wife followed by a baby four months after the wedding, he had surrendered and taken the job for the security it offered.
Locally reared, employment at the prison was abhorrent to him. Unlike some of the guards he could drive to work in just minutes. Many of the men pooled the long drives from both Phoenix and Tucson.
The turnover was horrendous as the underpaid job was tedious, frustrating and dangerous. For eight straight hours the guard was as much a prisoner as the inmate. Because of the turnover rather than because of any particular ability, Aldredge had recently been promoted to Sergeant and he would command CB Four this day.
His young wife stirred in her sleep and Aldredge was careful not to awaken her. The baby would do that soon enough. He made instant coffee and took it with him in a mug as he left for his car and the short drive to work. He paused momentarily at his son's door, wanting to peak in for a look but not wanting to deny his wife a few more minutes sleep by awakening the boy prematurely. He settled for listening and convinced himself that he could hear the infant's breathing through the wooden door.
Aldredge whistled as he got into his car. He was delighted with his son. As far as he was concerned Mary could get fat and ugly and she never had to do another thing in her life to earn his undying love than to have birthed his son.
But she wouldn't do that. She had too much pride. At forty-five her mother was still a knockout and Mary showed every indication of doing her mother one better. Add looks to motherhood and couple them to a pleasing, amiable disposition and you had a very happily married man – except for the terrible job.
The lieutenant had called in sick and so Aldredge learned he would not only be Sergeant of CB Four but he would serve as acting lieutenant for all the CB's until a replacement could be located, or rather, if a replacement could be located. This was not an unusual situation occurring on average twice each month.
"Anyone of interest?" Aldredge asked as he entered his usual cell block from the main yard. As always he had glanced up reassuringly at the guard towers and armed guards on the walls. It made the yard the safest part of the prison.
"Naw. Five new arrivals late yesterday from Phoenix. Oh, one maybe. We got that Pratt guy, the one they had all the stink about who kidnapped the cop and who they say cut up that flower girl."
"Where is he?"
"Protective custody. He's crazy." Officer Hernandez was manning the control cage. He and Aldredge had gone to high school together in Florence. He had only been working at the prison just over two
months.
"Who's orders?"
"Nobody's really. It just seemed the smart thing to do."
Aldredge nodded his head in understanding. Better safe than sorry. Aldredge ran down the work list and noted he would be twenty percent short in staff. Average.
"I'm acting lieutenant again. I'm going over to CB Two and see who's on the door. We don't want any trouble there." The last two riots had both started in CB Two.
~
It was later that same day that Viola Pratt arrived at Burgoyne's office, briefcase in hand. Virginia glanced up at her and ushered the woman into her employer's office.
"Good morning," Burgoyne gushed delighted to see the briefcase.
"Good morning," she replied. The lawyer took the case from her hands and opened it on his desk. Slowly, he counted twenty-five thousand dollars, mostly in twenties. "Fine. Fine. This will do nicely," he commented as he transferred the money to his own empty brief case.
"What guarantee do I have?" Viola asked.
"My assurance. Do trust me dear Viola. I will deliver exactly as I have promised. My appeal is well founded and the court will have little reason to hesitate in granting it, especially since two of the three votes are fulfilling obligations and the third... is as I say susceptible... to the right people.
"Viola, you must understand that I am taking a terrible chance for you. Not many lawyers are in a position to help you as I am." Burgoyne crossed the room and sat on his couch. "We should talk," he suggested.
"About what?" she replied crossing to him but remaining on her feet. "I would think that everything has been discussed."
"Sit, Viola," Burgoyne commanded. She sat.
"A matter like this, you must understand, is not done for monetary reasons. I gain nothing from this... extra endeavor." That was patently untrue but Viola had no way of knowing it. "A matter such as this is done... for other reasons." Burgoyne laid his hand upon her thigh. Viola remained still and silent. "In short, the money is not enough. If it were, Herbert could have delivered the money. There is something else I require of you for your son's freedom." He pulled her skirt to her hips and stroked the inside of her thigh intently.
"I wondered when you’d get to this.”
“Oh?”
Viola stood up them slapped him sharply.
~
Willie Half Mouth at age forty-four was serving his third life sentence for first degree murder. He was housed on tier three, CB Two and had oc
cupied his particular cell for just over four years.
At age eighteen in Riverside, California he had been drinking in a bar which was lax about enforcing the drinking age. Willie was talking to a prostitute who frequented the bar when another man, a steady john, cut in and began dickering with her. Willie took unvoiced exception, went to his car for a rifle, returned and shot the man dead, a single clean shot in the back.
The arresting officer, new to the department, met with considerable hostility from the boisterous Black bar crowd and in the excitement Willie failed to drop his rifle when told. The officer's shotgun blast struck Willie just off center, slightly below his nose, tearing away most of his mouth and left ear. Reconstruction managed to preserve his unattractive features but left him with only half a mouth, slightly to the right. Hence Willie Half Mouth.
He drew the death penalty but it was commuted to life imprisonment during his fourth trip to death row. He began his sentence at age nineteen, made first parole eight years later at age twenty-seven.
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