by Kyanna Skye
“Much as I do love this place,” Mr. Rizzuto had commented one night after another of the inmates had made use of the bar’s stage to perform a short stand-up comedy routine, “I do wish that they’d serve us something more potent than this.” He indicated a glass of something that pretended to be a red wine that had been served with the steaks that they had ordered.
Jamie could agree with that fact seeing as how 2% alcohol more or less tasted like flavored water – and disgustingly so at that – she had sensed another opportunity to learn something new about her client. “Something you miss from home?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Rizzuto said, holding up his glass as if examining its contents. “Wine is like a fine woman if you’ll pardon my lapse in manors and stoop to the cliché. It all begins on the vine, doesn’t it? It starts with the grapes that are raised and harvested when the seasons permit the most perfect of times. They need to absorb the rain, the sun, even takes a good bath in the dirt that nature sees fit to blow around, and then be harvested when nature deems them worthy. Then they need to be plucked, ever so carefully and crushed in a giant vat of a wine press, and always in a wood vat, never let anyone tell you different. And then the resulting juices need to be aged, properly, before they’re bottled. And again, the bottles need to be aged before they’re finally opened.”
He closed his eyes as if lost in a grand memory once again. “Perfection. The process I’ve just described is over-simplified, I admit. But the gist of it is there. There is an art to making wine… a tradition if you will. There is something that honors our forebears that are not done here.” He looked again at the glass in his hand and set it gently upon the ground and wiped his fingers on his napkin as something oily had been on the glass. “The swill that they served us here tastes very much like it could have been concocted under the bunk of any inmate in any other prison that you could name.”
Jamie wished that she had had her pen and pad with her to have written down everything that he had said. Not only was it the longest batch of words that Dominic Rizzuto had ever spoken to her, but there was something else behind it: passion.
He’d spoken of making wine as if he had done it, countless times, and from a young age. Obviously, he had an appreciation for it and that had made him a little easier to read. He had described harvesting grapes for wine as if he had done so from one who had to observe the changing of the seasons and that he knew how to read them. He’d commented that crushing grapes in a wooden vat – not the metal ones that most tended to use these days – was the way to go. Jamie knew nothing about making wine, but even that sounded like something that was done for the sake of tradition if nothing else. That told her that Mr. Rizzuto had an affinity for doing things in an old-fashioned sense.
Again, all of this smacked of an old family with old-world values and traditions. Perhaps one that owns its own vineyard or winery? Still, that didn’t narrow her field of search at all. When she returned to her hotel that night, her research revealed that there were hundreds of families up and down both coasts of the country that owned their own fields and wineries. None of them matched the Rizzuto family name either, which frustrated her thinking that she had hit another dead end with the biggest bit of information that her client had given her.
Christ, he could have grown up on a vineyard and played with rich kids his whole life and dreamed of a life of eloquence. It didn’t seem so farfetched, that, and unfortunately for her, it wasn’t something that she could research and confirm. Not without asking outright either.
Now that is an idea. Just ask outright questions. Yeah, why not? Her mind flooded with questions that she could have asked.
Is Dominic Rizzuto your real name? Where were you born? Who were your parents? Do you have a sweetheart waiting for you when you get out? What are your plans when you do get out? Where did you hide the money that you embezzled from the people that sent me here to get that info from you?
She softly chuckled at the thoughts as she prepared for bed that night. Yes, she could try the direct approach and get what she needed from Mr. Rizzuto. But that would destroy everything that she had been working to accomplish and completely foil any chance she had at proving that a soft approach to client’s confidences could be inferred. I’d be a laughing stock then, wouldn’t I?
As the days went past, they found other ways to occupy their time. They took many frequent walks on the grounds inside of the wire and she found the view around them beautiful. “It really is gorgeous up here,” she’d remarked one morning as they walked.
“What did you expect?” Mr. Rizzuto had asked.
She’d shrugged. “Well, I’ve heard that Colorado was pretty much the stoner capital of the country. I expected to see pot farms everywhere and guys with dreadlocks selling dime bags on every corner, and the smell of marijuana in the air everywhere I went.”
Mr. Rizzuto laughed at that. “And now?”
She looked out at the landscape again. “All I see is mountains. I smell evergreen trees. I can hear the wind rustling through the leaves. I can hear birds that aren’t pigeons or crows. There're no car alarms here, no sound of angry traffic at all. I don’t hear the sounds of shoes on concrete. I don’t hear any neighbors screaming at each other over rent or whose turn it is to stay home with the kids. It’s almost… peaceful here.”
He nodded in silent agreement with her analysis. “You’re a city kid, I take it?”
She confirmed with a nod, “My whole life the ‘great outdoors’ was something that you either saw on TV or read about in a book. I always used to think that there wasn’t anything even remotely resembling a ‘wild frontier’ anymore. I thought every place was just plowed under or covered with cement. You know… civilized.”
He turned a curious eye towards her and the single look informed her that she had touched on a delicate subject. “So, by your definition, anyplace without concrete under your feet… a Starbucks on every corner… or free Wi-Fi isn’t civilized. And by extension, anyone who would choose to surround themselves with such things is what, a savage?”
Jamie had never even considered military service, but she felt like the time had come to throw herself on a hand grenade… one that she had thrown, in fact. “No, not all Mr. Rizzuto,” she said, thinking quickly. “It’s just, I wasn’t expecting a place like this when I first came here. I mean, from here, I can see the horizon to horizon and all I see is this beautiful mountain range. I had thought that anymore – no matter where you went – you couldn’t go anyplace without being able to see the next small town or city. It’s just amazing that there some land that remains untouched out here.”
Mr. Rizzuto watched her carefully for the span of no more than a few seconds before he seemed to accept her explanation. He gave a small nod. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Though she didn’t let it show, she had breathed a sigh of relief inwardly that would have doubled most people over. I learned something new today, she later realized, I think he’s a bit of a rustic kind of boy.
She took that realization and tried to turn her near-blunder into an advantage. A quick look at the prison’s list of past times revealed that there was something that she was quick to suggest and that Mr. Rizzuto had been quick to take up.
“Archery?” he’d asked, beaming at her when she suggested that they make use of the prison range. “I never would have thought you for the type.”
She smirked at him. “Well, I’m not very good, but I’ve always been fascinated by it.” Not a complete lie. Jamie had been fascinated by archery as a child and that fascination had continued into her adulthood, even to the point where she followed it with close attention whenever the Olympics came about.
There was something interesting about one person, taking a shaft of wood or metal, and letting that shaft – tipped in something that could be very lethal – fly down range at a target that had a center no larger than a silver dollar. There was something to be admired in that, she had always thought. To focus one’s attention – and intention �
�� so diligently on a target just so far off and intending to pin that target with something the diameter only slightly larger than a pencil.
“It’s a lot like golf,” she said. “Focusing on something small and then using something larger to try and put that small object into a slightly larger target? I think it requires something a little extra.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Rizzuto said as they signed out a pair of bows and dozen arrows each.
The archery range wasn’t what she had thought it would be. She had imagined an open-air field with large round circular targets at the end of the range, or perhaps plastic facades of animals to shoot at. But again, she was reminded that this was a prison with its limitations and guards would now allow a convict – even a well-mannered one – to bring obvious weapons onto the grounds where they might be turned against them or other inmates.
What they got instead was a small range that was but four long narrow cement channels in an indoor room that were illuminated by fluorescent bulbs overhead. At the very least, there were the large circular targets at the end of each lane with their target rings marked with rising values the nearer one drew to the center. Jamie counted them lucky that at the very least they were alone in the small range where they could talk freely.
It was only a short while before he noticed her watching him, a tad more intently this time and a curious smile graced his features. “Something interests you about my form?” he asked, sending another arrow down the range.
“No… it’s just,” she bit her lip nervously; “I can’t quite figure you out, Mr. Rizzuto.”
“And that’s bad?”
“No, not at all. But I’m usually better at reading people. I just can’t seem to get a lock on the kind of person that you are.”
He sent another arrow down range. “I’m familiar with that kind of complication. I usually find that when that happens to me, I’m able to discern a few other things if I tally what I already know of a person. Why not start with that?”
Got him, she thought triumphantly, but outwardly she wore a mask of contemplation that showed the appearance of a woman who knew less than she really did.
“Well… you’re a well-mannered person; that tells me that you obviously had a proper upbringing. I’m thinking an old family. Old families usually mean old money, even to the point where you likely have wealthy relatives in the old country.”
Mr. Rizzuto said nothing but sent another arrow down the range. His silence told her that she was on the right track.
“I looked up Lester & Desoto,” she went on, continuing with her fable. “They’re a high-end law firm. Usually, people who end up working there are the kind of people who know other people. Most people get a job there because of who they know. People who get representation from them get that kind of attention because of how they know them. So I’m thinking that you have connections.”
Again, Mr. Rizzuto said nothing and continued with his archery practice.
“You had to have had some kind of ties that landed you a job there. But after talking with you all this time, you strike me as an empirical thinker. You’re obviously smart enough if you took millions of dollars from a high-end firm like Lester & Desoto; that kind of thing isn’t done overnight, it takes a long time, which tells me that you’re patient.”
Again, he said nothing but continued to shoot his arrows at the target down the range.
“But most people wouldn’t see anything wrong with stealing from a firm that makes untold amounts of money from people that are rich, guilty, and have something to lose. But you, you turned yourself into the authorities, pleaded no contest, and because you’re not a violent offender you wound up here. That is also interesting to me because from what I’ve been able to gauge of you, you were smart enough to avoid prison altogether. But you were consumed by your conscience… that’s something that a lot of old families usually aren’t bound by.”
At this, he froze, not freeing his latest arrow and turned to face her. “You have much contact with these ‘old families’ as you call them, do you?”
“I’ve met a few,” she admitted. “In most cases, if you can hide it, cover it up, bury it, or buy a way out of it, or get someone else to take the blame for it, that’s the way that those possessed of old money tend to work. That’s not the impression that I get from you.”
He watched her for a few moments and then turned back to his archery and sent down another arrow, striking a semi-distant target.
“That’s what adds to the mystery of you, Mr. Rizzuto. When we had steak the other night at the lounge and you spoke of wine, you did so with passion… like someone born to that kind of work and taught to see the beauty in it. Like you are someone taught to relish that kind of work and to appreciate every last ounce of effort that goes into it. I’ve seen people get passionate about many things before now, Mr. Rizzuto. I’ve seen men speak about muscle cars the same way that some men speak about their wives. And I’ve seen women speak about this brand of dress shoe or another with the same enthusiasm that teenage girls talk about whichever celebrity they have a crush on.”
She allowed that to penetrate his mind and pressed on. “And in all of the time that I’ve been talking with you and you’ve never spoken of anything like you have that wine. Now, I for one do appreciate a good glass of wine and under the right circumstances, but the way you spoke also assigns my confidence to the belief that you come from a line of people who made that their life’s work.
“But it also assigns mystery as to your origins, Mr. Rizzuto. Now, I don’t doubt that there’d be more than one Rizzuto family on either coast that knows how to make wine, so any one of them could be yours. And unless I flew out to each of them and started asking questions, I don’t think I’d get anywhere and I’m not a believer in wasting my time.”
“Admirable,” he spoke finally, shooting off another arrow. “Is that all you’ve been able to deduce of me so far, Jamie?”
She crossed her arms reluctantly. She did know a bit more, but the major details that she had just divulged pretty much eclipsed anything else she could have added to the point of worthlessness. “More or less,” she admitted.
He laughed. “Then you really don’t know too much about me, do you?”
She sighed. “No.”
He shot off his last arrow and for the first time, she noticed that his archery was impressive. Each of his shafts, she noticed, had grouped very near the center of his target. Were this an Olympic event, he would be qualifying for a medal. “Well,” he said, allowing his bow to slide in his hand so that it touched the floor as though he were holding a cane, “I’m sure that we have much more to talk about then, don’t we?”
Oddly enough, she found that prospect rather appealing.
With the days passing, they made more and more use out of the many different pass times that the prison offered and Jamie had managed to wrangle a few more details from her client about the whereabouts of Lester & Desoto’s missing money, but each turned out to be as fruitless as the next. And while she noticed that Mr. Rizzuto was chatty about some things, he was a mom on a lot and she grew more and more doubtful that he would be forthcoming if she were forthright in her questioning.
And with Mr. Rizzuto’s release drawing ever nearer she felt the pressure of time upon her increasing steadily. And while using each of the facility’s diversions, she had found most useful of them all was the prison’s track. And thanks to her own pastime of jogging, she had been able to use this to good effect.
Like today.
“You know, I at times wonder why you enjoy running so much,” he said to her, trying to keep up with her quicker pace. It was only one of their many different outings where she successfully managed to surpass him.
She smirked. Even the Colorado altitude did nothing to slow her down the way it did some people. She had had a difficult time adjusting at first, but now it seemed positively easy to jog at such a high altitude. “It relaxes me,” she said with a smile. “It helps me think.”
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“So I noticed,” Dominic said, his forehead beaded with sweat. “And now that you bring it up, I’m actually curious about something if you wouldn’t mind sharing?”
The question had come up so suddenly that she almost tripped and fell. For all of the time that she had been spending with Mr. Rizzuto, he hadn’t been one to ask many questions.
Maybe I’m finally getting to him, she silently hoped. “Sure. What’s on your mind, Mr. Rizzuto?”
“Have you decided yet how you’re going to help me?”
She felt a twinge of regret in her heart and a short bout of panic. The first few days here it had been easy to stick to her principals about helping him and being openly honest. But eventually, it had gotten to that point where she could not keep from talking about why she was here. A quick fabrication had been necessary and she had led him to believe the fact that she was here on the behalf of a third party interested in helping him after he was paroled, which wasn’t a complete lie. He had seemed to accept that without question.
Whether he does or doesn’t is immaterial, she had told herself. He can walk out of here without telling me a thing unless I show him what I’m really after.
“No, not yet,” she admitted. “My employer says that he wants to get a feel for you first. He wants to know the kind of man that you are before he decides if he’s going to help you.”
“Well, it’s his money and your time that you’re spending, my dear. So, as you please.”
“Thank you,” she said with a grin, amazed that her simple lie had had help for so long. Though in the back of her mind that lie felt almost like a child, growing to maturity within the confines of her brain and threatening to burst under the growing pressure of why she was really here. “Uh… where were we?” she asked, trying to switch back to the topic at hand.
“The trial,” he reminded her.