by Sean Black
Byron waited for ten minutes in the direct sunlight and searing heat next to the gate. Finally, the guard sauntered back. He took out a key and unlocked the gate. ‘Warden wants me to take you to the hospital wing.’
* * *
Romero looked at Byron as he pulled up a seat next to the old man’s bed. His face was swollen and bruised and his arm was in a cast. He was hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV. He didn’t look great, but he wasn’t dead either.
‘You’re my first visitor,’ Romero said, his voice a gravelly croak.
‘Sorry, I didn’t have time to get you anything,’ said Byron. ‘The gift store was closed.’
Romero managed a smile. Byron was relieved to see that the twinkle was still in his eyes. It was more important than the physical injuries. Those would heal. But if the beating had somehow splintered Romero’s spirit, or reduced his humanity, he would have been more concerned. The gleam in the old man’s eyes told him that whatever Mills and his thugs had set out to achieve they had failed.
‘I heard you were dead,’ Byron told him.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
Byron smiled. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Well,’ said Romero, ‘when you get to my age you pretty much wake up feeling bad and it doesn’t get much better. This is worse than that. Which proves that anything is possible. Even feeling worse.’
‘Something for me to look forward to, I guess,’ said Byron.
‘So who was saying I was dead? Castro?’
Byron shook his head. ‘Mainline gossip. Everyone’s gotten worked up about it. You hear they’re on strike?’
The gleam grew brighter. ‘I’d heard something. It’s good to know that, even at my age, I can still cause trouble.’
‘You sure did that. Castro’s having kittens. You know the women are on strike too?’
Romero gave a little nod. His chin settled on his chest. He was getting tired.
‘So maybe now you’ve proved your point it’d be a good time to call it off,’ said Byron.
Romero’s head snapped up. ‘Castro sent you to ask me this?’
‘Not directly,’ said Byron. ‘It was originally my idea to come talk to you.’
‘And why do you care so much? You have shares in the Kelsen County Corporation you haven’t told me about?’ Romero asked.
‘They’re incorporated?’
Romero smiled. ‘Via a series of companies in the Cayman Islands. You think I’m just an old rabble-rouser?’
‘Your word, not mine.’
‘I did my homework before I came here,’ said Romero. ‘But in answer to your question, I can’t call off the strike. And even if I could, why would I? We’re hurting them in the only part of them that is sensitive to pain. Their pocket.’
Byron wasn’t so sure. ‘You think they’ll just suck that up? Stand by while they watch their profits go down the drain?’
Romero’s head sank down into the pillows. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘So what’s the point of doing this?’ Byron asked.
‘What’s the point of doing anything?’ Romero said, his question seemingly directed at the ceiling. ‘What do you think the world be like if everyone had always accepted their lot in life? If no one had ever stood up for themselves when faced with injustice?’
Byron moved his chair a little closer. He was aware that the guard who’d escorted him there was waiting in the corridor to take him back. ‘I’d agree with you. I just think that, in this case, you can’t win. Worse, I’m worried about what they’ll do if this thing rolls on. Say they leave the men alone and target the women’s prison. Try to force them back to work. What then?’
Romero rolled his head so that he was looking straight at Byron. ‘If you think that women are easier to push around than men, perhaps you understand less about how this world of ours works than I thought you did.’
‘I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. That’s all.’
‘If I didn’t know better I’d say that sounded like a threat,’ said Romero.
‘Hey, I’m the one who took an ass-kicking on your behalf and stopped another. You forgotten that already?’
‘You’re quite right. That wasn’t fair of me.’
The green line on Romero’s heart monitor was peaking higher and more frequently. Byron didn’t want to wear him out. He’d come to say what he had to say. He wasn’t going to get anywhere. At least, not right now.
Byron pushed back his chair. He reached out and touched the back of Romero’s hand. ‘Just get better, okay?’
‘A few more days and they say I can get out of here,’ said Romero. ‘Maybe then I’ll talk to the warden. Present our demands. When I know that I have his attention.’
Byron said goodbye. There were some people whose attention he’d rather not have. Castro was one of them.
55
The prisoners were already gathered, awaiting Byron’s return, when he walked back into the bunkhouse. There was a crackle of tension in the air. Byron was familiar with it. It was the human equivalent of the tight, clammy air in the hours before a thunderstorm.
‘Romero’s fine,’ Byron told them. ‘I just saw him. He has a broken arm and a lot of bruises but he’s alive. In fact, he’s been told he may be able to get out in a few more days.’
That was not what the assembled prisoners had expected to hear. More than that, he suspected it was not what they had hoped to hear. Not that they wished Romero dead. They didn’t. But they might have been looking forward to the righteous anger that could be unleashed upon the news of his death.
The inevitable challenge came a few seconds after Byron finished speaking.
‘Why should we believe you?’ a heavily inked Mexican prisoner asked Byron.
Byron wasn’t about to play that game. He hadn’t wanted to intervene on Romero’s behalf. It had cost him his chance to escape. He didn’t want to help Castro either. He flat-out didn’t want to be on anyone’s side in all of this. Yet he found himself being constantly asked to pick either one or the other. It was beyond old by now.
‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘Believe me or don’t believe me. I couldn’t give a fuck. But Romero’s fine. He told me he may be out in a few days and then he plans on sitting down with the warden and working out some kind of compromise.’ He threw up his hands. ‘That’s all I got.’
* * *
Word came back a few hours later, from another source in the prison hospital, an orderly who took food over there, that Romero was indeed alive. Those who had doubted Byron went back to their card games.
The mood was more somber than before. Now they were dug in. The novelty of thumbing their nose at the warden and guards had begun lose its sheen. A good number of the prisoners had been hyped up by the rumor of Romero’s death. It would have lit the touch-paper of a riot. Now it was back to the dull mundanity of trying to hurt the warden and Mills by doing precisely nothing.
The prisoners had dinner. They had an hour on the yard. Then they went back to the bunkhouse. A few hours later it was lights out.
The morning would bring more of the same. More nothing.
56
It was just after lunchtime on the fourth day of the strike when a guard appeared at the gate leading Romero into the yard. His arm was still in a plaster cast, and he was walking with the help of a stick, but he was walking. Or, rather, hobbling.
Byron could tell from the drawn look on the old man’s face that he should still have been in hospital. He wasn’t fit enough to be discharged. But he wasn’t about to lie in bed a day longer than he needed to. Not when the action, or what passed for action, was out here.
The guard let him pass through the gate and beat a fast retreat. Mexican prisoners swarmed around the old man, clapping him on the shoulder and trying to shake his hand. No doubt about it, he was the conquering hero. Byron pushed through the melee. ‘Okay, give him some space,’ he said, falling into impromptu bodyguard mode, pushing a few over-eager supporters out of the way.
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br /> ‘Didn’t I tell you I would be out in a few days, Davis?’ Romero said.
‘Your idea or the warden’s?’ Byron asked, squaring his shoulders against the press of bodies.
‘It was mutual. I don’t like hospital beds and he wants to sit down so that this matter can be settled.’
‘Is that so?’ said Byron.
Romero struggled to keep his balance as a hand reached through the wall of bodies for his. He stopped, hooked his walking stick over his wrist and shook it. Byron tried to keep him moving to get him inside the bunkhouse where he could sit down for a few minutes. He wasn’t a fan of crowds like this. He wouldn’t have put it past the warden to pay off an inmate to finish the job that Mills had started. A crowded prison yard was an ideal location for an assassination attempt.
A few more steps and Romero took Byron’s arm for support. ‘Let’s go talk to the warden. You can come with me.’
‘You don’t want to rest up first?’ Byron said.
‘What do you think I’ve been doing? No, the quicker I can speak with Castro, the quicker this can be settled,’ Romero told him.
‘Why do you need me with you?’ said Byron. Once again he was being pulled inexorably into a situation that he wanted no part of.
‘I don’t need you there. But it would be good if you were.’
The crowd was still pressing around them. If Romero didn’t want to go back to the bunkhouse then the warden’s office was as good an alternative as any. At least it had chairs.
Byron helped Romero turn back towards the gate. The crowd pivoted with them. Slowly they made their way back. The guard eyed them as they reached the fence.
‘I would like to speak with Warden Castro,’ said Romero.
The guard rolled his eyes but opened the gate. A cheer went up from the crowd of prisoners. As Byron began to escort Romero through, the guard’s arm fell across his chest. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Davis?’
‘I’m helping him.’
The guard stepped back. ‘Jesus, it’s like you people are running this place, these days,’ he said, through teeth so gritted that Byron could almost hear the enamel chipping off them.
This time there was no wait to see Castro. Romero and Byron were shown straight in. They took a seat as the warden made a show of finishing up some paperwork. He signed his name, put the papers in a folder and closed it.
‘How are you feeling, Señor Romero?’ he asked.
‘All things considered, I feel good, Warden Castro,’ said Romero. ‘Thank you for asking.’
The forced politeness between the two men was entertaining to watch. Both would have happily seen the other dead. Yet they moved through the dance that was expected of them, as if they were old friends sharing late-night brandy and cigars.
‘Okay, shall we get this done?’ said Castro.
The bluntness drew a grin from Romero. ‘Texan charm. And I always thought it was a myth.’
Castro glared at him. There were few things that Texans disliked more than someone who wasn’t Texan criticizing their beloved Lone Star State. They might bitch about it, but that was different.
‘Our demands are very simple, Warden,’ Romero began. ‘Nothing that will trouble you too much. Or cost you too much money. At least, not as much as a prison strike.’
Castro was still glaring at Romero. There was something else that Byron detected. A smugness that suggested Castro was already at least three moves ahead. That he’d been planning for this discussion, that he had Romero all figured out and knew just how to deal with his demands.
‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ said Castro. ‘Please, do continue, Señor Romero. Though I should counsel you that I had a very similar discussion not too long ago with a young man from your side of the border. I believe he was your nephew.’
If the jibe was intended to provoke a reaction from Romero, it failed. He smiled politely, though Byron saw, below the desk, his hand tighten around the top of the walking stick so hard that his knuckles went white.
‘Shall I tell you what we require?’ Romero asked.
‘Please do.’
Castro picked up the folder he’d just put down and opened it. He studied the piece of paper on top. His finger ran across it, tracing the text.
Romero began, ‘First, we ask that efforts are made to ensure safe working conditions for the inmates. We believe that the same standards should apply inside this institution as outside.’
‘That seems very fair, Señor Romero. Certainly something we can look into. The accident that happened was very regrettable. Not something I’d want to happen in any prison that I run.’
Romero looked surprised at this response. It was not what Byron had expected either. Not by a long way. Castro had never struck him as the apologetic kind.
‘I appreciate that. Thank you,’ said Romero. ‘Second, we would like to see . . .’
‘If I could stop you there,’ Castro said, holding up his hand. ‘Perhaps if you could write all these demands down for me before you leave.’
‘Leave?’
Romero looked as if the floor had disappeared from under him. Byron guessed that was the reaction Castro had intended. Let Romero come in, be polite and agreeable, then tell him they were releasing him.
‘Yes,’ said Castro. ‘Judge Kelsen has granted you an immediate release. Medical grounds. We’re concerned about the state of your health.’
The bitter irony of Castro’s concern for the man’s health wasn’t lost on either Byron or Romero. Romero gave a nervous laugh, as if he knew he’d been outmaneuvered but still couldn’t quite believe it.
As switches went, its beauty lay in its simplicity. Byron was just surprised that Castro, or whoever had come up with it, hadn’t thought of it sooner. This wasn’t like releasing some political dissident back into the general population, returning them to their supporters, where they could foster further trouble. Quite the opposite. Romero’s cause was contained within the footprint of the Kelsen County Jail. Place him outside and that was that. Romero was being released into obscurity. Or, potentially, something much worse.
‘Sorry, Davis,’ Castro said, as he slid the piece of paper across the desk towards Romero. ‘You’ll have to wait. No extenuating circumstances.’ He turned his attention back to Romero. ‘Actually, Davis here gave me the idea. Kind of kills two birds with one stone. Everyone’s happy. Ain’t that right, Davis?’
Romero glared at Byron. ‘This was your idea.’
‘Indirectly, I guess,’ said Byron, as, in turn, he stared at Castro.
‘You just need to sign here and here,’ Castro said, tapping two dotted lines on the release form.
‘Can I at least read what I’m signing first?’ Romero asked.
‘Never known a man who wanted to read the fine print when he’s being offered his freedom,’ said Castro. He seemed more delighted with himself with every passing minute.
‘That’s strange,’ said Romero. ‘I’ve known a few.’
The comment flew straight over Castro’s head. Byron, too, knew of many dissidents or leaders who had refused their freedom because their release came with conditions they found unacceptable. Somehow, though, he doubted that Romero would be offered a choice in the matter. They wanted Romero out and that was what would happen. If they had to, they would pick him up and carry him out of the gate.
‘I’ll have to arrange transport home,’ said Romero.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, Señor Romero,’ Castro said. ‘Sheriff Martin has it all worked out. Concierge-level service, if you will. A Kelsen County deputy is going to drive you right to the border crossing.’ Castro’s eyes narrowed. ‘As you entered illegally we want to be sure that the Department of Homeland Security has your name on file so you don’t come back. Not that we haven’t enjoyed having you as a guest, you understand.’
Byron watched as Romero, very reluctantly, took the pen that was handed to him and signed his name twice. Castro put out his hand to take the form but Romero
began to write something under each of his signatures in block capitals.
He finished and handed the paper back across the warden’s desk. Byron caught a glimpse. Under both signatures Romero had written: ‘I SIGN THIS UNDER DURESS.’
Castro didn’t miss a beat. He took the paper and placed it back in the manila folder. ‘Thank you, Señor Romero. Your transport is waiting outside. Davis, you may return to your cell. If you like, you can share the good news of Señor Romero’s release on compassionate grounds with your fellow convicts.’
57
There was added poignancy to Byron and Romero’s goodbye because both men knew what had happened to Romero’s nephew when he was released. Byron’s mind was racing as he tried frantically to think of some way around it. He had nothing. If he hadn’t been able to extricate himself safely from this situation, how could he possibly help Romero?
Of course they might just be getting ready to drive Romero to the border crossing in Laredo and hand him over to the INS for deportation, but Byron doubted it. Castro wanted to make an example of him, just as they’d done with the nephew. Come across the border to create trouble and you’ll be sent back home in a box. It was justice, with a Texas twist.
If anyone asked the county sheriff’s escort what had happened, all he would need to say was that Romero had escaped the patrol car. It would be the word of a deputy against that of Romero. And Romero wouldn’t be alive to give his account of what had gone down.
Byron’s best guess was that Romero would be found somewhere in the desert with a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Assuming he was found at all and the coyotes hadn’t eaten him. As soon as he climbed into the back of the Crown Vic that was waiting for him outside, engine idling, his fate would be sealed. Strangely Romero seemed resigned to his fate. He had registered his final protest in ink. It struck Byron as a lame way to go for a man who must have fought so hard through his life. Maybe he was just done. Byron had experienced moments like that. He’d had times when he’d contemplated giving up and surrendering to his fate. Losing his wife had brought him to that point.