Hard Time

by Sara Paretsky

  And then, unlike Nicola, I was in good physical condition and I was used to defending myself, so that despite the jolt from the stun gun—which was what Hartigan shot me with—I was able to shield myself from the worst of his blows. I had apparently managed to put my hands over my head, so that the kick that knocked me out broke the fingers in my right hand but didn’t do serious damage to my skull.

  “You were lucky, Vic,” Lotty said. “But you also don’t have the habit of victims.”

  “But how did I end up here instead of in the hospital? The Grete Berman Institute is for torture victims, isn’t it? That isn’t really me.”

  “I didn’t think you should be moved from Beth Israel until you were more stable, but Morrell persuaded me that the man Baladine could get access to you in a hospital if he was looking for you. I wanted to bring you to my home, but the Berman Institute is secure and fully staffed, so I finally agreed to let you be moved here as soon as you were out of surgery. But besides that, you—” Her voice cracked and she steadied it. “You were in a helpless situation, at the mercy of the law, shot with an electric weapon, beaten, and then chained to a bed. I think you were tortured, Victoria.”

  “She needs to rest now, Dr. Herschel,” the nurse intervened.

  Over the next several days, as I got back on my feet and began to get some exercise in the Berman Institute gardens, Morrell put together the rest of the story for me. He had called Freeman Carter when he got back to Chicago from Coolis that last Thursday, urging him to try to get me a bail hearing in Chicago on Friday; Morrell told Freeman he was worried that Baladine might not let me survive the weekend. Freeman was skeptical at first, but Morrell managed to persuade him.

  Freeman spent all day Friday shaking up the judicial system trying to find me. It was three on Friday afternoon before the head of the circuit court granted Freeman permission to post my bail in a Chicago courtroom and have me released that afternoon instead of making us wait until a circuit judge rode out to Coolis on Monday.

  At that point, although no one outside the prison knew it, I was already chained to a bed in the segregation wing, with a rising fever. Freeman couldn’t get anyone at Coolis to admit to my whereabouts and finally was told that they lacked the administrative personnel to process my release after 5:00 P.M. on Friday, that Freeman would have to come back on Monday.

  Freeman went to the state appellate court and got an emergency writ requiring my immediate release. The prison then told him I had faked an injury at my work station and they had put me in the hospital. On Saturday, as my fever rose, they played a shell game with Freeman, passing him between the prison and the hospital, each saying the other had possession of my body.

  Of course neither Freeman nor Morrell knew what discussions took place at the prison end of things, but the most likely guess was that the staff panicked. Perhaps they thought I might die, and Freeman was making it clear they would face intense scrutiny if they didn’t produce me in good shape. They probably figured they could repeat what had sort of worked for them with Nicola Aguinaldo: dump me in Chicago—where I’d either be hit by a car or die of my wounds—and put out word that I had managed to escape. Morrell showed me the Herald–Star’s report.

  PRIVATE EYE, HELD ON KIDNAPPING CHARGE, FLEES COOLIS

  For the second time this summer, a woman managed to run away from the experimental jail–prison complex operated by Carnifice Security in Coolis. This time, though, the hue and cry is much louder: the woman in question is notorious in Chicago, being private eye V. (Victoria) I. (Iphigenia) Warshawski. Warshawski had been arrested on charges of kidnapping the son of Carnifice chief Robert Baladine and spent a month in the jail wing at Coolis after failing to post bail.

  She was not an easy prisoner, Warden Frederick Ruzich said, often getting involved in fights with other inmates and ignoring orders from corrections officers, whose job includes trying to smooth the adjustment for women new to the Coolis system.

  How Warshawski managed to escape may never be known. Her body was found at the foot of the Belmont ramp to the Kennedy. Although she is still alive, she suffered severe brain damage and may never speak again. Dr. Charlotte Herschel, Warshawski’s physician at Beth Israel Hospital, says Warshawski is able to breathe on her own, which gives them hope for some partial recovery. She has been moved to a nursing home, but Dr. Herschel declined to tell reporters where.

  Warshawski is best known for the work she did in tracking down the murderer of social activist Deirdre Messenger last year, but her successes in investigating white–collar crime have earned her respect from many quarters in Chicago, including the Chicago Police Department.

  Robert Baladine, the president of Carnifice Security, is angry at lapses in security at the Coolis complex, which have made escape begin to seem like a routine matter for the inmates. He promised a thorough investigation of security measures at the prison. Illinois House Speaker Jean–Claude Poilevy (R–Oak Brook) says the legislature granted a number of tax breaks to Carnifice to get them to take on the women’s prison and expects them to live up to their side of the bargain. (See Murray Ryerson’s story on Page 16 for a summary of Warshawski’s most notable cases.)

  The story included a map of Illinois, with a blowup of the northwest corner showing the town of Coolis, the prison, and the roads running to Chicago.

  I put the newspaper lethargically to one side. I didn’t even care what Murray had to say about me. I had remembered recently what was troubling me about my watch, and it left me feeling so futile that it was affecting my recovery.

  “That mini–camera that got me these wounds—it’s disappeared,” I muttered to Morrell. “I don’t know if they took it off me when they put me in segregation or if it just got lost at the hospital, but it’s gone.”

  Morrell’s eyes widened. “V. I.—they were supposed to tell you when they gave you back your father’s watch. I have it. I took it to the Unblinking Eye to get the pictures developed. I didn’t mention it because they keep telling me not to get you excited, and I thought you’d bring it up when you were ready to look at the pictures. They’ll be ready in another day or two.”

  After that I felt giddy with relief. “Did you and Lotty really think I might never talk again, or was that wishful thinking?”

  Morrell grinned. “Alex Fisher from Global kept pumping me, so I thought I’d play it safe. When I told Freeman what she and I said, he thought it was such a good idea that he put it out in a press release. The only people who know the truth besides him and Dr. Herschel are Sal and of course your neighbor. Dr. Herschel thought it would be intolerably cruel to Mr. Contreras to imagine you in such straits. And it gives us some wiggle room to figure out what to do with Baladine and Global Entertainment.”

  Yes. Baladine and Global Entertainment. I wanted to do something about them, but right now I couldn’t imagine what. My first week at the Berman Institute I was too tired and too sore to think about what I’d been through. As I grew stronger physically, I was bewildered by my wild mood swings. At one moment I’d be euphoric over my escape and the knowledge that I had managed to smuggle out pictures; the next I’d see a stranger coming toward me and think it was one of the corrections officers, Polsen or Hartigan. I’d start feeling unbearably helpless, as I had in Coolis, and would find myself moving away as fast as I could, my legs wobbly, as if I expected to be hit again with fifty thousand volts of electricity.

  The institute treated many people who had been held longer and in greater duress than I. I felt guilty for taking up room that someone from Rwanda or Guatemala could have used, but the psychologist who met with me twice a week told me the institute didn’t see it that way.

  “Do you think our doctor shouldn’t treat your broken hand because someone else has breast cancer and needs more intense medical attention? You deserve to make the best recovery you can from your experience.”

  “But the other people here didn’t choose to be tortured,” I burst out. “I chose to stay at Coolis. If I’d followed my
lawyer’s advice and made bail, none of the rest would have happened.”

  “So you blame yourself for your misfortunes. But many of the people here torment themselves in the same way: if I had not gone back to my home that morning, if I had followed my mother’s wishes and gone to see her, if I had not signed that petition. We wish we had power over our fates, and so we blame ourselves when something goes wrong. You wanted to stay in Coolis to try to understand what happened to a poor young woman you tried to help. I think that was noble. And you cannot blame yourself for the fact that men—and women—with unlimited power over the lives of others used that power in very sadistic ways. If Coolis were run along humane lines—well, your young friend would not have died to begin with.”

  I tried to accept his advice, but my dreams were still so shocking that I often dreaded going to sleep. I knew if I could only rest properly, I would recover more rapidly.

  “What will help you sleep?” he asked the next time we talked.

  “If I could stop feeling so humiliated. I know I can’t shut down Coolis. I can’t change any prison anywhere in America. All these degradations will go on and on for any woman who lands there, the sex talk and the rape and whatever else. The law makes it almost impossible for a woman to lodge a complaint, and even if she does, the guards have so much power they can stop her voice.”

  Freeman Carter was filing lawsuits for me—one against the Chicago Police Department for the violence committed against my person and against my office by Douglas Lemour. The other was against the Illinois Department of Corrections for my injuries there. Bryant Vishnikov was studying the OR films of my injuries and thought he might be able to prove they’d come from a particular set of boots. Such as those of the man Hartigan out at Coolis.

  “But these cases will take years to work through the courts,” I told the Berman psychologist. “By that time I could be out of business and too broke for a settlement to help me. I want Robert Baladine to pay a price now for siccing his bent cop on me and for having me arrested on a trumped–up charge. I want that cop out of the force, and I want Baladine publicly exposed. And of course I need him off my back if I’m ever going to run my business again.” Miss Ruby had told me if I wanted to eat revenge it would give me indigestion, but it seemed to me passivity was making me sicker than revenge ever would.

  The psychologist didn’t exactly endorse my wish: he told me he thought it was helpful to imagine a recovery of my own power and see where that left me.

  A recovery of my own power meant I needed to recover my physical fitness. I began working out in greater earnest. Four weeks after I was found on the expressway, I ran a wobbly mile, but after that my strength grew measurably every day. On the Thursday before Labor Day, as the El Niño heat finally subsided into a bearable warmth, I felt ready to move on.

  43 Planning Session

  I’d decided it was time to move on, but I wasn’t sure where to go. My own apartment would leave me a sitting duck as soon as Baladine learned I’d surfaced. For the same reason, I resisted Lotty’s invitation to come home with her: I’d rather be killed than endanger her life one more time in one of my exploits.

  It was Morrell who suggested that I spend a week or two in Father Lou’s rectory. I kept asking him to make sure he’d discussed it with Father Lou and that the priest understood the potential risk; Father Lou in the end sent me a terse note saying I was welcome as long as I didn’t smoke. The kids around the school were used to strange families moving in and out as the priest offered refuge to people who’d been evicted or were seeking sanctuary; they wouldn’t blow my cover through idle chatter around the neighborhood. And so the Friday before Labor Day I moved from the modern, warmly furnished rooms of the Berman Institute to a narrow bed under a crucifix and a bathroom holding a badly stained tub and toilet. It was still a big step up from Coolis.

  During the weeks I was healing, Morrell or Lotty came to see me almost every day. Lotty brought flowers that well–wishers, believing I was in a brain–damaged stupor, sent to her office. Darraugh Graham, my most important client, sent a miniature orange tree and a note that said if I ever felt able to get back to work he was eager to continue to do business with me. I was touched, and relieved as well, although Morrell, collecting mail from my office, found an ominous number of letters from clients canceling my services. (We find a large firm such as Carnifice better meets our security needs at this time. . . .)

  Mr. Contreras visited me regularly while I was at Berman. Once he learned he could bring Mitch and Peppy, he’d bundle the dogs into the Rustmobile and drive down, careful to follow Morrell’s instructions to keep anyone from tailing him. The dogs helped my recovery. When I ran around the gardens behind the institute with them, I started feeling more like myself.

  A bouquet of anemones came with a note from Abigail Trant, wishing me a speedy recovery from all my ailments. After her surprise visit the week before my arrest, I wasn’t exactly startled, but I was very pleased.

  I saw Mrs. Trant’s name in the papers from time to time, especially as the swim meet Eleanor Baladine had organized drew near: the Herald–Star, in its new role as shill for Global Entertainment, actually treated the event as front–page news. The meet was to raise money for several children’s programs dear to Abigail Trant, Jennifer Poilevy, and Eleanor Baladine. The three women were photographed around Eleanor’s pool, looking like beauty queens in their sleekly fitting swimsuits. Tickets were a thousand dollars; anyone with a child under thirteen who wanted to compete should get in touch with Alex Fisher at Global.

  Another evening Lotty arrived with an outsize bouquet of scarlet and gold flowers and a letter from Murray Ryerson.

  Dear Vic,

  I can’t believe you’re really lying in a stupor. Half of it’s denial, and the other half is my sources: they can’t find you in any of the nursing homes in the area. So maybe Lotty Herschel will bring you these flowers and my letter.

  I’m sorry you were arrested. I’m sorry you spent time in the big house. I don’t know how you got out without posting bail, but my compliments: that took some doing. I’m sorriest of all I blew up at you over Frenada’s finances. I don’t know who or how that strange data got into his LifeStory report, but it was bogus. When his sister tried to access one of the accounts, it turned out there was nothing there. For reasons I haven’t been able to find out, Carnifice may have wanted to discredit Frenada. At any rate they certainly have the technical wizardry to plant phony data on Frenada.

  Anyway, I want you to know that I tried to do the right thing. I tried to tape a follow–up to my show explaining that I had received erroneous information about Frenada. The station wouldn’t allow the tape. I tried to print a story in the Star, but the editor blocked it. I’ve been asked to take a vacation for a few weeks to see if “I can regain a sense of proportion.”

  If you’re alive and well, give me a call. On the other hand, if you’re really in danger of your life, V. I., I wish I could see you to tell you I’m sorry. And beg you not to die. I don’t think I could keep working in Chicago if you weren’t part of the landscape.

  Murray

  I pinned one of the flowers to my blouse and danced around the Berman gardens with it. I had a moment’s euphoric impulse to phone Murray, to relieve his own anxiety. We had worked out some amazing stunts together in the past. But I couldn’t afford to take risks right now, even for an old friend. Murray’s course this past summer had been too rocky for me to trust him based on one letter.

  The day I heard from him was the same day that Morrell brought in the pictures I’d taken at Coolis. There were thirty–three: I hadn’t had time to shoot the whole roll. A few showed scenes in the jail, like the time CO Polsen was trying to pull down Dolores’s jeans, or the pustular burn on the arm of a woman in the kitchen. Where I’d had time to focus, however surreptitiously, the quality was good enough to make out detail.

  Many of the two dozen I’d taken in the back room were blurred because of my nervous flying around t
he space, but there was one clear shot of Lacey’s face on a T–shirt, with a man in an IDOC uniform standing behind it. I had two shots of women operating the stamping machines. And somehow, at the end, I’d photographed Hartigan standing over me with the stun gun pointed down at me. I didn’t remember taking it; perhaps his shooting or kicking me had inadvertently clicked the shutter. He was foreshortened by my lying on the floor, with his head, bloated and shining in sadistic pleasure, looming larger than his body. The gun appeared in one corner.

  Looking at the picture made me start to sweat. I had to take a walk around the Berman gardens before I could sit down again with Morrell. I felt embarrassed by my weakness.

  “What do these pictures show, Vic? Besides the idea of a certain amount of sadism in the prison, I mean.”

  I’d had a lot of time to think during my recuperation, and I spelled it out slowly, putting the events in order as much for myself as for Morrell. “A prison is a great place to run a factory. Labor is cheap and it’s captive: you never have the danger that a union will form or that anyone will protest work conditions. Even if you’re paying the workers more than you would in Southeast Asia, you still save money because you don’t have any capital costs. The state provides the physical plant. The state buys the machinery. Shipping to the world’s biggest market is cheaper than from Thailand or Burma, especially if you’re close to the main shipping routes out of Chicago. So Coolis started producing shirts and jackets for Global Entertainment.”

  He frowned. “It sounds disgusting but not a reason to try to kill you for finding it out.”

  “Illinois law. You can only make things in prison for sale in the prison system. Baladine and Teddy Trant at Global are good friends. When Baladine started running Carnifice Security and got the bid to build and run Coolis, the two of them probably saw what great potential there was in the captive workforce. The two men are very tight with the Speaker of the Illinois House. Poilevy ran a special legislative session exclusively on crime a couple of years ago. I think he probably promised Baladine that for enough money sprinkled around the right way he could overturn the law, but labor balked. Usually they do pretty much what the Speaker says, but they wouldn’t budge on this one, because they’d face a rebellion from the rank and file if they undercut real jobs in the state.”