by Mike Gomes
The door to the office opened without a knock. Another man in a police uniform entered the room, but he had earned stripes on his arm, indicating he was a sergeant on the force.
“Is this the dirt-bag we talked about?” asked the sergeant.
Falau was immediately put off the sergeant just by looking at him. He was a rotund man who lacked any of the physical fitness of his junior officers, his flabby belly hanging low over the belt of his pants. He might convince himself he wore just 40-inch waist pants, but that was just because he wore them so low. His chest sagged and was as fat and droopy as his stomach. His face had thin lips and squinting eyes that wrapped around a bulbous nose. His hair was thin and greasy. Dandruff decorated his shoulders and ears, and he lacked any style or redeemable quality in the eyes of anyone who saw him.
Falau scoffed at the sergeant, attempting to measure him up.
“You got a problem, asshole?” snapped the fat sergeant, spittle flying from his mouth. “I’m sure that little noise that just popped out of you wasn’t for me. But just to be clear, if I hear it again we will do this with you unconscious.”
Falau nodded, showing that he understood exactly what the sergeant was saying. Floating that trial balloon to assess his reaction let him know clearly this was a man with a low tolerance for behavior he did not want to see, a weak man that ruled his little bit of the world with an iron fist.
Placing a black bag on top of the desk he unzipped the side and pulled out a laptop computer. The sergeant flipped it open and started to boot it up. Taking the bag he placed it on the floor, then stared anxiously at the screen.
The room was silent with just the three of them inside. Falau was sure the other two understood what was happening, but were unwilling to fill him in on the situation. Trying to read the face of the sergeant was impossible. He just stared at the laptop like a monkey trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle. He had no interest in anything other than doing what he had to do and moving on to the next task. But why was Falau even in the room to begin with?
A voice came from the computer, breaking the silence of the room. “What the hell do you people want with me now?”
“Your Honor, we have a case for you at the request of Mr. Wise,” replied the sergeant, suddenly sitting up straight in his seat and adjusting his posture.
“Mr. Wise? Hmmm. Okay. Link him in.”
“Yes, Judge Steinburg.”
The sergeant went back to typing on the keyboard, pecking out the letters using only his index fingers. A crackling sound came from the speaker on the computer again. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Wise. Your Honor, can you hear Mr. Wise?”
“Yes. Let’s get this going. I want to be in bed.”
“Yes, Sir. This is the trial of Michael Falau. He is being charged with breaking and entering, assault, and criminal mischief.”
Falau rapidly realized that he was being tried now, and not in front of a jury of his own peers. This was a classic backwater railroading, just as was done in small towns where the sheriff, the judge and jailer were all the same man. In the suburbs of Boston maybe they were not the same man, but they took place in the darkness of the night and nobody would be any the wiser.
The fat sergeant belched as he opened his mouth again. “Excuse me. Mr. Wise, do you want to press charges again Michael Falau?”
“Yes, I do. Trash like him cannot be wandering the streets in the commonwealth. Judge, I am sure you will do exactly what is right, as always. By the way, how are Doris and the kids?”
“Very well, and your boy?”
“Great. We’re on for golf Saturday morning, so we can catch up more then.”
“Just as long as you give me five strokes.” An awkward laugh came from both men as if they were a laughter track on a poorly made sitcom.
“We have held you up long enough, Mr. Wise. Please leave the rest of this to us and enjoy the rest of your night,” suggested Judge Steinburg to whom appeared to be an old friend.
Mr. Wise hung up his phone with a simple click. No goodbye to the others listening in, who were far below his station in life, and he liked letting them know it with simple acts, such as not saying goodbye.
The sergeant held still for a few moments, building his courage to speak but not wanting to cross in front of the judge in case he wanted to say something. “If it is alright with Judge Steinburg, I would like to ask Mr. Falau how he pleads?”
Falau looked hard into the face of the man with the squinty little eyes. Could he be serious? Is this an actual trial?
“Did you ask how I plead?” asked Falau. “Is this a trial—”
“Oh, shit. I don’t need to hear what he pleads,” interrupted the judge “It truly doesn’t matter what he says.”
“Wait!” implored Falau. “Don’t I get a lawyer or a phone call? Something? I haven’t even had a chance to try to make bail? How can you guys be giving me a trial for something that just happened?”
“It just happened?” questioned the judge. “Sounds like an admission of guilt to me. Thirty days county lockup! Next time don’t mess with the children of powerful men.” The judge banged something soft against what sounded like a table. No doubt he was attempting to replicate the sound of a gavel.
The link to the judge went dead and all the men in the room said nothing. The sergeant placed his fat hand behind the screen of the laptop and slowly pushed it down until it made a clicking sound, showing it was closed.
“We take everyone having the right to a speedy trial very serious around here,” he said, smirking at Falau and attempting to be funny in the face of Falau, who’d just learned he was going to prison.
“This can’t hold up. How can this be legal? I should have a lawyer and a real trial. You guys are just making the rules up as you go for the rich guy!” vented Falau.
“I’m going to let you get away with that little rant and not smash your punk-ass face because you’re in shock, but if I hear anything more from you it will be beating time. Do you understand?”
Falau nodded, not wanting to infuriate the little troll by speaking.
“Let me give you some advice. You’re going to prison at the county. That can be as good or bad as you choose to make it. Do your time and shut up, and you will be out in thirty days. Shoot your mouth off or make a problem, and they will lose your file and you could be there a lot longer. Thirty days is a gift. You think most people with the charges you had would only get thirty days? You would have waited longer than thirty days in lockup just waiting for a trial. You should be happy.”
The portly man stood up and stuffed the laptop into the bag from which it came. He walked to the door and opened it. Looking back at Falau, who had not dared turn his head or respond in any way, he smiled.
“You know, it’s going to be hard for you in there. Just remember, if you take on one of the big guys as a lover and they will protect you.”
Chapter 16
A gray van with a sheriff’s department insignia pulled through the gates of the Southern Massachusetts House of Correction as daylight broke over the horizon. The van carried a driver and just one passenger, who sat inside a specially designed cage for transporting prisoners to and from the corrections facility.
Falau looked out sternly between the opening of the metal fencing inside the van. The House of Correction building stood tall and ominous in the morning light. It looked more like an old castle than a prison, and if someone had said it was haunted most would believe it. The building had stood for over a hundred years and despite the modernization and refurbishments inside, it still bore the hard and dark exterior it always had. Stepping through its main doors for a prisoner was like walking into the mouth of a great dragon who was swallowing you whole.
The van door slid open and a burly man in his fifties grunted and motioned for Falau to step from the van. His shackled legs could spread no more than sixteen inches and his hands cuffed together made movement and balance tricky. Grabbing the side of the door of the van he
extended his leg, with the tip of his toes just touching the ground.
Getting his feet under him, Falau took a good look around the massive building rising before him. The building extended in each direction for several hundred feet. Windows shone light from night staff that would soon be calling it a day. The facade of the building was stained from years of weather and neglect, and the sooty exhaust from cars. To the sides and beyond the building is where the great wall stood. Not a fence like in the movies, but built from thick stone, mostly the original stones from a hundred years ago, when the prisoners were forced to build the very wall that held them in by using stones from the local quarries. The wall was thirty-feet high with spikes sticking out the top. A razor-sharp barbed wire that rolled around the top was added for good measure. A guard stood in a watchtower every fifty-feet. The silhouettes of two men carrying scoped rifles could easily be seen as the morning sun rose behind them. If one were to try to run from this place these sharp-shooters would have five-hundred yards of open ground to hit their target before they got to the tree line.
“Who the hell did you piss off?” asked a guard who carried no less than forty extra pounds on his modest frame of five-foot, eight inches. His face was round and he wore transition glasses that had started to darken from the rising sun. Under his nose wiggled a bushy mustache that made him look more like a walrus than a man.
“Excuse me?”
“You must have pissed someone off to get a special ride here this early in the morning. Who did you piss off?”
“I got thirty days for a B & E.”
The heavy-set guard grunted, amused by what the new prisoner had told him. “Is that what they told you, thirty days?”
“Ya.”
“You’re not even on record here. You’re a special delivery, and I doubt any file will be following you later on. Your time here will be based on what the warden wants to do with you. But I wouldn’t go making any dinner plans for the next few months.”
“You’re joking,” said Falau, trying to assess if the portly guard was just trying to scare him.
“Nope. You’re fucked.”
The guard grabbed Falau by the shoulder and started to guide him into the front door of the beastly prison, though his grip was looser than the other law enforcement he had dealt with. This was a man who knew that Falau had nowhere to go. If Falau did choose to make a break for it, death would meet him swiftly in the form of a bullet in his head.
Stopping at a desk the guard helped Falau down into a chair and then moved himself around to the other side of the desk.
“Okay kid, what’s your name?”
“Michael Falau.”
“Alright, Mike. I’m the guy that gives everyone orientation around here. I tell them about money getting deposited into an account for the canteen, when visitors can come, and all the other rules. But you’re different. You’re a special delivery. I have been here over twenty years, and there have only been about a dozen of you. You must have pissed off the wrong person at the wrong time. You’re not going to get any canteen or visitors. The system will not list you as existing, or you’re going to be put in by another name. Most guys in your situation don’t get out of here alive. The other prisoners take care of that. The best thing you can do is stay low and don’t interact with anyone. Then just hope for the best. That’s all I got for ya, kid.”
The burly guard slapped his hand on the desk and stood up. Within seconds a younger guard came through the door. Muscles rippled through his short sleeve shirt, stretching the material to its fullest extent. His hair was cut into a flat top and he looked to be the same height as Falau. His immediate disposition was harsh and militaristic. He stood at attention and waited for an order from the hefty guard.
“Shit, Jimmy, enough with the attention stuff. You’re not in the Marines anymore. This guy is Falau... take him for processing and onto cell block G. The orders are strict with him. No adjustments.”
The young guard grabbed Falau by the shirt, pulling him up and out of the chair. “You heard the man, time to move on. Let’s go,” barked the rambunctious guard.
Falau gained his feet again and shuffled to the door as the young guard yelled at him to move faster. Looking back over his shoulder the older guard gave him an affirming nod and a clenched fist, indicating that he needed to stay strong. Falau knew that the old timer had been around the block a time or two and he wasn’t just blowing sunshine up his skirt. He was letting him know what to expect and how to get out of this place alive. He knew that being off the grid in a place like this meant death, if that’s what they wanted. Another inmate could kill him over a simple rumor, and nobody would be the wiser.
Heading into a door that read ‘issued clothing’, Falau’s foot hit the frame of the door, causing him to fall to the ground in a heap, unable to brace himself due to being handcuffed. He slapped hard against the tile floor. He grunted as blood started to flow again as his cheek smacked hard on the floor. The day had produced a beating on Falau that was not hidden to anyone, and he was not at all upset by it. The words of Grady rang in his ears... too pretty for prison. Looking at the pool of blood forming around his face, he was sure that was not the case anymore.
The brash young guard’s foot suddenly found its way firmly into Falau’s mid-section, causing him to gasp for air. “What the hell are you doing lying down, prisoner? Does this look like a place of rest to you?”
With the little strength Falau had left, he managed to roll his eyes. The young guard acted like he was in a movie about boot camp, himself playing the part of the drill instructor. Falau knew it was just best to ride the wave of his exuberance and move on to the next thing, but a deep desire to punch him leaked into the back of his mind.
“You understand all this now and your life here will be easier,” commanded the young guard. “You will do everything I say. You will do it when I say to do it. If you do not do what I say, then I will beat you until you understand. I am your God. I am your life. Without me you have nothing. Do I make myself clear?”
Pulling himself from the floor and with blood running down the side of his, face Falau nodded.
“I said, do I make myself clear?” demanded the young man, looking for Falau to subjugate himself to the power he held over him.
“Yes.”
“I have a few questions for you, and you will answer them with honesty. If you lie you will never get out of here. You will die in this godforsaken hell-hole.”
Attempting to stand up as straight as he could Falau held his tongue from telling the guard he was laying it on a bit thick. Falau smiled to himself, realizing maybe he was maturing, and finally able to control the smart-ass side of his personality.
“Be careful how you answer the following questions. Your life depends on it,” said the guard, reducing his volume to a normal tone. “Why were you at Mr. Wise’s house?”
“I was there to get pictures.”
“Who were you working for?”
“Freelance.”
“Who wants pictures of Mr. Wise?”
“Nobody wants pictures of him, they want them of his son. Every paper and online blog will pay top dollar for pics of him.”
“When you say top dollar, how much are we talking about?”
“A standard picture on the street, about $100. Get him at home with a telephoto lens and it rises to about $500. But the big one is him on a computer or coming out of a bar. Then get you a minimum of $1000. I figured from the location I was in, if I was lucky I could get a few of him in the house.”
“You were wrong,” snapped the guard, clearly disgusted with the line of work Falau was feeding him. The guard paused, trying to read his face. “What camera do you use?”
“Nikon.”
“Model number?”
“D810.”
“Film?”
“None. Digital.”
The guard hit him with rapid-fire questions, looking for a weakness in his story, but Falau provided none. He was sure the guard w
ould not have the discipline to go back later to check what he’d said was right. He was only looking for a physical change in Falau or for him to crack.
“Okay, I’m done with you.” The guard reached to his shoulder, depressing the hand microphone that rested there. “Trash to be taken out to Cell Block G.”
“Coming to pick up the trash,” responded a voice from the other end of the communication device.
“Be careful in there,” mocked the guard, pointing his finger at Falau and wiggling it in a childlike motion. “Those guys are not very friendly when it comes to outsiders moving into their little community. If you think I’m bad just wait and see what they have in store for you.”
Chapter 17
Falau was led through the corridors of the large prison, often needing to stop and wait for an automatic door to open between one section of the facility to another. It was a constant maze of hallways that led to foyers of every office and cell block. The only thing that could open them was central control, or the eye in the sky, as the inmates called it. They had control of all the doors and they could lock the entire prison down with the flick of a switch. If a riot were to break out one had better pray they were on the right side of the doors, or they would be locked in with the rioters themselves. Containment was the prison’s best friend.
Falau learned quick–as he was pushed against the wall–that prisoners kept to the side and walked on a yellow line that ran on each side of the hallway. Down the center was a blue strip that was for personnel and visitors. If a member of the personnel or visitors needed to get by, a guard would call out “coming through” and all the inmates would stop walking and immediately face the wall, not permitted to look back to see who was going by. Once the person passed then the inmates would again go on their way.
“Stop here,” commanded the guard as they reached a large door on the right with the letter G visible in massive print. The guard pressed a small button next to the door and waited without making any conversation with Falau.