Punishment

by Linden MacIntyre

  “Marginally.”

  “It came up in some discussions we had about resolving this without a trial. It’s been mentioned that he could be at risk if he went back inside. I’d be interested in your opinion, now that the case could go ahead.”

  “Inside is a risky place for everybody,” I said.

  I could feel his impatience. He was nodding. “I’m curious about the reality … just how real the risk. How big a factor it could become. We figure he’s exaggerating, and we were hoping you could give us a sense of just how realistic his concerns are, providing some context for what, so far, is pretty vague.”

  “I’d rather stay out of this,” I said.

  “I understand you know the family of the victim. We want to make sure that whatever we’d agree to is fair for them.”

  “I also know Strickland.”

  “We’d cover you with a subpoena if it came to that. Otherwise maybe you could offer some informal instruction. Off the record. It would be helpful.”

  I laughed. “There’s a word for people who do what you’re asking me to do.”

  He seemed puzzled.

  “I could tell you that it would in fact be very dangerous for Strickland if he went back inside. In the system he’d be known as a … an informer. I could also tell you that the system is geared up for that.”

  “Give it some thought,” he said.

  “Surely the evidence against Strickland is strong enough to keep the case from being sidetracked by this …”

  “I’ll tell you unofficially, the evidence is thin. The guy is dangerous. But the merits of the case against him are … what they are.”

  At the door he said, “Frankly, if I was in Strickland’s shoes I’d be just as worried about being on the loose around here. There’s a lot of strong feeling against him because of what happened to that poor girl.”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned about that,” I said. “The place is pretty civilized.”

  As I stood at the door and watched him drive away, Birch, beside me, barked four cheerful yaps.

  I gave up on the snowbound trail where it crossed the Shore Road and opted for the ploughed track of the highway. Birch bounded on ahead, liberated from the struggle to keep up in snow that, though crusted over, occasionally gave way beneath his weight. He dashed away around a bend. I jogged to catch sight of him then called him back. He obliged and soon we were walking briskly together.

  The sun was brilliant and the northwest wind stinging on my cheeks. My legs felt strong. At this rate, I thought with satisfaction, I’ll soon have to tighten the belt a notch.

  A car passed, someone waved and I waved back. The dog had disappeared again and I heard the car horn up ahead, and in a sudden panic I began to run. There was no sign of him, but after what seemed like miles, I saw his tracks heading up a lane. I followed.

  There were other footprints left by large boots. They were partly obscured by drifting snow, so it was probably from someone who had walked up the lane the night before. Then it occurred to me that there were no footprints coming back and when I realized that this was Dwayne Strickland’s lane I was walking up, I stopped. I called, “Birch.” No response. Wind sighing in the tall spruces around me. “Birch Bark.” Still no answer. I walked on.

  I remembered the house as being drab and unpainted. But it was a bright shade of yellow, cheerful in the stark contrast of the white clearing surrounded by black spiked trees. The windows glinted. There was no smoke or vapour above the chimney. The dog’s tracks veered off in the direction of the woods. The human trail continued toward the house and I followed it around the side of the house, toward a window. It stopped there, where someone had peered in. I pressed my face to the window and I could see in the dimness a television set, a large sagging couch, a couple of overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table. The footsteps moved on toward the back of the house, paused before another window. I looked in on a sparsely furnished kitchen, wooden cupboards, mostly empty shelves, table, stove, a refrigerator that appeared to be from the early sixties. I placed my thumbs on the sash at the top of the window frame and pushed upward. The window moved easily.

  The footsteps continued but instead of turning toward the back porch, kept straight, toward the trees. I considered following, but at that moment Birch came trotting out of the woods, struggling where snow had drifted. I called, and he came to me in a leaping run.

  I stooped and held his head between my hands. He licked my face. “What did you find in there, old buddy?” I stood and peered toward the trees but the drifts were daunting.

  “Let’s just go home,” I said. He was panting happily. The wind was rising, the sun beginning its quick slide toward the treetops.

  At the store next morning Neil was at the counter, elbows on the paper, reading. “They got the heat on now, hunting for Osama bin Laden. Mark my words they’ll take him out before Saddam. Anybody want to put money on it?”

  Mary said, “Maybe that’s why there was a cop car in my lane two nights ago.”

  “You hiding him up there, Mary dear?” said Neil.

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Late,” she said. “I was letting the cat in. Saw the parking lights. Started walking down and it backed away. But I could see the roof rack, where the flashers are.”

  “You live across from our most notorious citizen,” said Neil. “What do you expect. You’re living in a high-crime neighbourhood.” He laughed and turned toward the coffee urn.

  It was afternoon when I left to visit Strickland at the regional facility. On an impulse, I drove up Mary’s lane. I drove slowly, watching both sides of the road for tire marks. And just before her yard, where the lane widened, they were obvious, on the left. And when I got out of my car to examine them, there were footprints leading up to the tire marks, coming from the direction of Strickland’s woods.

  ——

  The visiting area was quiet, one woman leaning close to the screen that separates the public from the inmates, talking intensely into a telephone receiver. A tall guard standing near the door stared silently as I entered. “You’re Mr. Breau,” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Here for Strickland.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, still staring. “You wouldn’t remember me.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ron Graham,” he said. “From St. Ninian originally. You’d have known the old man. Roddy.”

  “Ah,” I said. Remembering. “So you’d be …”

  “Yes. I don’t suppose you remember coming to the school once, talking about this line of work.”

  I shrugged, recalling something else.

  “It was you got me interested.” He reached out. We shook.

  “So,” I said, gravely, carefully. “It would have been your …?”

  “Yes,” he said. “My two younger brothers.” He was nodding, face full of conflict.

  “I remember,” I said. “And now …” Tried to smile.

  “It was an accident,” he said and shrugged. “But he was a piece of work anyway, your man Strickland. Still is. There he is now.” Nodded away from us.

  Strickland was sauntering toward his side of the protective barrier. He smiled and waved.

  “I’m going to beat this thing, Tony.” The matter-of-factness in his voice was a perfect projection of the expression on his face. “I am going to beat it and I’ll tell you why.”

  “Tell me, Dwayne,” I said. The other visitor, the woman, was speaking furiously now. The inmate on the other side of the barrier, like Strickland, seemed relaxed.

  “Because I did nothing wrong, but more important there isn’t a shred of evidence to make a case that I did.”

  “I thought you were ready for a deal.”

  “I was. Then the day before the plea I read the agreed statement of facts.” He laughed. “Facts. What a joke.”

  “You could have gone home … just by saying guilty, to something.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. In any event, try living in St. Ninian having plead
guilty for causing that kid’s death.”

  “I thought the plea would be for bodily injury.”

  “Same fuckin thing, man. The kid’s dead, right. And they need somebody to hang for it. Anyway, the Crown is groping. It’ll never go to trial. There’s nothing.”

  “You’re prepared to gamble—”

  He interrupted, voice intense now, knuckles white on the black phone receiver. “Hey, Tony, how many people have you known ended up pleading guilty for the convenience of the system. Think about it. Deals getting made by lawyers when the con’s done worse than what he’s pleading to. And sometimes he’s done nothing at all, but wants to get it over with, for whatever reason. Come on.”

  “I hear you but …”

  “It’s done, Tony. Hey. I have faith in the system. Okay? Where’s your faith? Come on, man.” He sat back.

  I couldn’t suppress the smile. “You’ve been sitting here for months when you say the Crown doesn’t even have a case against you? I’m surprised Sullivan hasn’t tried to get you out.”

  “That was my call,” he said. “I’m okay here. It’s insurance. Worst-case scenario and they nail me, they’ll consider time served. Give the old judge something to work with. And it’s a good time to be out of the cold. That old house of mine? Shit, you need your own oil well to keep it warm. What about your place?”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  The young woman stood suddenly. We watched as she headed for the door, hand covering her mouth. The guard, Graham, opened up and let her out. The young man inside sat for a while, studying his hands.

  “You know that guard?” I said to Strickland.

  He peered for a moment, “Don’t think so. But you know what? I think for the sake of the place, it’s best that I be away from there while people are understandably upset.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You have a point.”

  “But when they hear the facts …”

  “You really plan to go back there to live?”

  “Where else would you suggest?”

  I shrugged, chose my words carefully. “There will always be some who—”

  “Don’t believe me?” He laughed. “I’m used to that, Tony. I’ve been blamed for every little thing that’s happened there for as long as I can remember. But this time the facts will speak for themselves.”

  “And what are the facts?”

  “Poor young thing shows up at my place looking for somewhere to crash. Unbeknownst to me she has a pocket full of pills. Sometime during the night, accidental overdose. End of story.”

  “You said she was feeling down.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. She seemed that way to me.”

  “She didn’t say why?”

  He held the receiver away from his ear for a moment, scratched. “I hate talking on these things.”

  “Do you know why she was down?” I asked again.

  “Something about a row at home, but I really didn’t pay attention. We were sitting at the kitchen table and yes, now that I think back, I got the impression that she was upset. She wasn’t crying or anything. Just depressed or distracted. Maybe I should have paid more attention.” He looked away briefly. “I suppose I’ll always wonder.”

  In the new silence that now lay between us I could hear distant fragments of old familiar sounds, a loud voice complaining, door buzzer, a metallic slam, all amplified by steel and tile and concrete. I could imagine the bored and wary guards, the inmates looking for attention or seeking to avoid it, everything exceptional, and critical and tedious.

  “What did you think when you heard?”

  “That she was dead, and at my place? Blown away, man. Obviously didn’t connect the dots at first. Half-listening to a story on TV about some kid found dead in suspicious circumstances. Police looking for a person of interest. Had no clue it was me they were talking about.”

  “Didn’t the girl’s name mean anything to you?”

  “Tell you the truth, no. They were using a name that didn’t mean a thing to me. Mary Alice. What was it the kids called her?”

  “Maymie.”

  “That was it. In the media she was Mary Alice. Anyway, the girlfriend and I were checking in for a flight to Toronto when I got the tap on the shoulder. And there they were. Two big guys in suits and before I knew it I was being marched away in handcuffs, everybody gawking at me like I’m Osama what’s-his-name. And the girlfriend, clear hysterical. No need for any of it. All they had to do was tell me.”

  He was shaking his head. “Of course I know it’s all procedure. All by the book. But when it’s happening to you. Wow. Hard to describe.”

  I believed him, felt almost sympathetic.

  “You could help, you know. Your words would have a lot of weight. I want to avoid putting people through a trial. You could make the difference.”

  “How?”

  “If I need a character witness. You’d be great.”

  “You know where I stand on that, Dwayne.”

  He looked away, exasperation real.

  “What could I possibly …”

  “You could fuckin tell the world that I’m not poison. Court or no court, I’d like just one person in the place to step up. Say something positive about Dwayne Strickland. Speak up in the store. Write a letter to the editor. Stand up in the court if it comes to that. In my entire fuckin life, I’ve never heard one person stand up in the crunch and say, like, maybe there’s a tiny little streak of something worthwhile in Dwayne Strickland. But you could, Tony. We got a lot in common. It would make a difference.”

  His face was flushed. It was a Strickland I’d never seen. Then he looked away, chewed his lower lip. “Sorry. I’m just whining. Forget it. All I want is … fuck it. Never mind.”

  His eyes were suddenly dark, a slight throb at the temple, near his left ear. The guard walked up behind me. Leaned over me, hand on my shoulder. “Ten more minutes, guys.”

  Strickland watched him walk away. “I don’t intend to beg.” Then, distracted: “That guy? He looks familiar.”

  “He’s from St. Ninian.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is there anybody looking after your house, Dwayne? Checking in now and then?”

  He seemed puzzled, now studying the guard, trying to remember. “No, not really. The place is pretty secure, up that long lane, off the beaten track, nothing there to steal anyway. I hardly ever locked the doors. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Wondering what? Is there something I should know?”

  I considered mentioning the footprints, cars at night. Decided not to. “Nothing specific.”

  “Feel free to check in now and then. I’d appreciate it. That would be good.”

  “Will do.”

  “You must find the time long, eh? After years in the rat race. Now retired.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why did you take early retirement, Tony?”

  “I just felt it was time.”

  “I remember you getting in touch about Pittman. Asking questions. I didn’t know much. But there were rumours afterwards.”

  “You know about rumours,” I said.

  “Officer from KP arrived at Warkworth while I was there,you probably knew him. Steele. Tommy Steele. The guys called him ‘Stalin.’ ”

  “I knew him,” I said.

  “Mad at the world. There’s a lot of that in the system as you well know. He took it out on everybody. Then I heard that he’d been demoted and shipped off to Warkworth against his wishes. It was that or quit. Something to do with Pittman. You were there when Pittman got it, I think? You and Steele. I hear there was an internal inquiry.”

  “You said you didn’t know anything about Pittman.”

  “I didn’t know why you were asking. And we were talking on the phone.”

  “Okay. Now you know.”

  “Pittman was the go-to guy for drugs in Millhaven when he was there, as you probably knew.”


  “I didn’t.”

  He looked away thoughtfully. “Everybody knew he was working for a little group of maggots who were running drugs into the population. You must remember the guy who got killed in Collins Bay some years back? Picked off with a high-powered rifle from the tower. Weird, eh? The con was a drug dealer. You knew that.”

  “No. News to me.”

  “Anyway, one of the fellas in the yard that night was Pittman. And it seems that Steele was in the tower.”

  “I never heard that. About Steele.”

  He stared intensely at my face for what seemed like a full minute. “They never did find out who murdered Pittman, right?”

  “Never did.”

  “Big surprise. Same thing with the poor fuck at Collins Bay.”

  “What are you trying to say, Dwayne? You got something specific to say about Pittman?”

  “You kidding?” He was shaking his head, but his eyes were still intense. Time to move on.

  “Hey, Tony … that little speech before … forget that, okay? That wasn’t me talking. I don’t know where that came from. Right?”

  I stood. “I hear you, Dwayne. Maybe when you’re out of here we can have a real talk.” I placed the palm of my hand against the screen.

  He stood, ignored my hand. He was about to put the phone receiver down. I smiled at him, withdrew the friendly hand. “Actually it was partly because of you that I went out early.”

  His face now openly registered surprise, and caution. “Me?” he said.

  “They said I had a tendency to take the side of inmates in too many situations. Ironic, eh? It was on my file when I got to see it, just before I left. Pittman, Vito. They were both mentioned. But you were Exhibit A. They said that for reasons that were personal I took an inappropriate interest in you when you weren’t even part of my caseload. Think about that, Dwayne.”

  He nodded, but his mind had gone somewhere else. You could see it in his eyes. I’ve noticed that the most revealing moment in a conversation, whether face to face or on a telephone, can come at the very end, when formalities and niceties are done.

  “Good luck,” I said. “I mean that.”

  He sat down again, studied the receiver for a moment, chuckled, then said, “You know, for a minute there I thought you were going to say that you had to retire early because I was fucking your wife.”