Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  Today was the day we planned to meet with his mother and I didn’t want to break my word. I had talked with Lonnie about the meeting in earlier sessions, helped him process his feelings, how to say them, and the toughest part, how to end the visit. LaKeesha’s mental limitations made her prep work more difficult and her behavior under stress less predictable.

  Skinny, Shirley, and Tyra escorted LaKeesha to the city jail and remained in the outer waiting area. LaKeesha was dressed in her Sunday best, a white and yellow flowered dress, and her hair had been straightened and jelled. She wore a matching box hat with a sheer veil. Her white vinyl purse matched her shoes. I caught a whiff of bath soap and baby powder as she entered the visitation room. Signs reminded all that visitor conversations are monitored.

  She stood for a moment with her mouth open, appearing shocked by her son’s appearance. The involuntarily movements increased as she settled stiffly into the metal chair, clearly uncomfortable in this grim environment. Her head swayed from side to side, her tongue darting out of her mouth, and her own facial tic danced as she waited for her only child to speak.

  I sat behind in the shadows, off to LaKeesha’s right, with a clear view of their faces.

  He kept his gaze on his mother, fighting his facial tic by squinting. “It’s good to see you, Momma.”

  Her mouth trembled and her eyes widened when his iron shackles rattled and she whispered under her breath, “Oh, my Boo. You look so thin and tired.” She held on white-knuckled to the purse in her lap with both hands like it was an anchor. Her eyes darted around the room anxiously and she said, “How do the po-lice treat you in here?”

  I sensed his anxiety level ratchet up in tandem with hers.

  “Remember to breathe, both of you,” I whispered.

  “Prison guards watch over and supervise us. Not the police.”

  “Then how come they so many po-lice in the building?”

  He made a concerted effort not to move his hands and rattle his chains. “They bring people to and from the jail. They also have other police business here.”

  She nodded. “Do the guards treat you right?”

  “For the most part, Momma. They do.”

  “How’s the food?”

  “You know me, I never really took much pleasure from food. I only eat enough to fuel my body.”

  She pointed a shaky finger at me and said, “Dr. Mitch here been real good to me. He visits ev’ry week to say how you doin’ and he checks on me. He a good man and he cares about you.”

  “He is. Like the Eddie Green song goes, ‘A good man is hard to find, you always get the other kind,’” he looked at me and nodded.

  I smiled. “Back at you.”

  She gripped her purse tighter and said, “Amen to that.” She struggled to say her next words, stopping and starting repeatedly, the Tardive Dyskinesia getting the best of her.

  “Wha … what … gonna happen … to you, my Boo?”

  “I don’t know. Life has always been hard for us. We had to have thick skin to make it this far. We’ve survived drive-bys and robbers and gangs. Sooner or later it’s everyone’s time. If they convict me, they will keep me in jail for fifteen years.”

  The purse in her hands began to tremble. “I tole myself to be strong when I saw you. Dr. Mitch helped me get ready for this, but I can’t help thinkin’ this is my fault. I wasn’t a fit momma to you. All those foster homes and strangers, no regular place to call home and feel safe, no steady friends. I’m so sorry, Boo.” A tear weaved a crooked path down her cheek.

  He reached out a hand as far as he could toward LaKeesha. “I alone am responsible for this, not you. I’m proud of you—you got sober and straight, learned how to read and manage your checkbook. You are able to take care of yourself now and your home. You’ve always been here for me as an adult. Like you, I did the best that I could. I tried to make a difference in my own way.”

  She took hold of his hand and squeezed hard. “Coretta sends you her love. She tole me Shondra is prayin’ for you, too. Others too, I forget all the names.” She made a sour face as her tongue darted out in spasms, “I hear such talk, what some hateful people say should happen to you.” She broke down, her body racked by spasms. I signaled Sgt. Collins who stood watching near the door the entire time.

  “That’s life, Momma. You can't please everybody. You can only control your own actions and do the best you can.”

  A somber Sgt. Collins and stoic Rain Man Marty entered the room. I’d briefed them that this was likely the only meeting between Lonnie and his mother. Neither seemed surprised, which heightened my sense of foreboding.

  Sgt. Collins gently lifted her purse from her lap and handed it to Marty. He held the hand bag in front of his chest like it carried a virus from the CDC, surprise and confusion replacing his perpetually vacant stare. Collins freed Lonnie from his chains and stepped back. Lonnie looked up at the behemoth guard who simply nodded. He hugged his mother and they clung to each other. For the duration of their embrace, the tics stopped.

  She softly repeated the words, “My Boo,” in a trembling voice.

  “I always loved you, even when I didn't know you. You gave me life. You're an amazing, strong woman. Remember that, Momma.”

  She’d remained in control longer than I’d expected; the prep work had helped. I nodded silent thanks to Donnell for his breach of protocol.

  Neither wanted to break the embrace. I gently intervened or we’d still be there.

  “I love you, Momma,” he said, the tic quivering. He passed his hand over his heart. “You’re always here.”

  She reached for him again as Marty gently took her elbow, but she caught nothing but air. “I’ll see you again, my baby Boo!”

  I squeezed his shoulder.

  Too softly for her to hear, he whispered, “See you on the other side, Momma.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

  After Rain Man Marty escorted LaKeesha from the room, Collins searched Lonnie, reattached the leg and wrist irons, then left the room again. Lonnie turned to me and whispered, “They made me watch the news about Benny. I told you I’m a dead man.”

  “I’m sorry about Benny,” I said, frustrated I was apologizing so much.

  “He despised guns, like me. He’d never hold one, much less shoot it at people. And as for carrying a bomb?” A smile bloomed on his face.

  “Am I missing something?”

  “I know why Bennie drove to the zoo and what he carried.”

  I waited.

  “He used to live for his ladies, he wined and dined them, took them clubbing. He has … had a friend who works two part-time jobs, one in retail at Saks Fifth Avenue at Frontenac and one at the zoo. He was meeting his friend at the zoo with cash—no gun, no bomb—because the store was closed. He’d already bought a ring and wanted to surprise Tyra with a sable coat. He was about to propose to her before.…”

  I heard the chirp of Sgt. Collins’s walkie-talkie as he re-entered the room. He said, “Mitch, I cut you some slack earlier, but we have to return Lonnie to his cell.”

  I’ll be damned. He called him by his given name.

  Lonnie leaned forward and said, “Remember, I saw what you saw. Did you know Benny was a big Packers fan?”

  I recalled the footage and nodded. “And I once had an old green Chevy Nova.”

  “You are observant.”

  “Time’s up, Doc,” Collins intervened. “Step away from the prisoner, please.”

  Lonnie nodded. “Watch your back.”

  “You too. I plan on seeing you again.”

  “From one side or the other, you will hear from me. Thanks for everything you’ve done.”

  “You’re very welcome. Until we meet again.”

  We shook hands and I hugged him, shackles and all.

  Sgt. Collins released the leg shackles from the bolt in the floor and followed as Lonnie limped and shuffled away, dragging his ruined right foot. His chains still clanked down the musty hallway long after I’d lost sight of them;
it reminded me of a ghost shambling through the shadows of a haunted house searching for his body.

  By this time, LaKeesha and her friends had already left.

  I felt a sudden tug of envy. If this was goodbye, as Lonnie fears, at least he’d been able to express his feelings one last time to his mother. The last time I’d seen Kris, we’d had a fight and she was angry, walking away from me, shaking her head. The next place I saw her was the morgue. There were so many things I wanted to say, to take back, but I never got the chance.

  The envy turned into a feeling of accomplishment; small maybe, but important for the three of us.

  $ $ $

  Halfway home, my cell rang as I reached the Highway 40 Galleria Mall exit. I hoped it was Baker, but caller ID said Gateway Jail. Denny Hanover, the young court-appointed attorney, called to say that Superintendent Kendall had rejected my appeal to return Lonnie to special security.

  “The man’s suicidal. He can’t do that.”

  “The super didn’t believe you. He said there were no other reports from guards or ancillary staff corroborating your testimony and no self-destructive behavior observed from the prisoner. He thinks you fabricated the story.”

  As if he listened to our conversations.

  “What was your response, Denny?”

  He sniffed again. “I told him he better be right about this.”

  “Your concern for Lonnie is overwhelming.”

  He guffawed in exasperation. “Hey, I didn’t have to call. I’m doing you a favor. I’m also calling to say your ‘suicidal’ client just started a prison fight with another inmate. He came in second. If he wasn’t depressed, he should be now. Thought you might like to know.” Click.

  By the time I headed back east and parked at Gateway City jail, a heavy rain pounded steadily from a bloated slate-colored sky and thunder rolled. No breeze stirred as the downpour beat hard and loud on the convertible top, sloughing off the windshield in sheets. The few umbrella-toting pedestrians moved quicker with each lightning flash. I was drenched long before I walked inside.

  Sgt. Collins allowed a second visit in the same day with Lonnie, no questions asked. The look on his face was as bleak as the weather.

  Lonnie held his now unshackled hands in his lap. His head bowed, eyes fixed in a vacant stare, as if he’d seen too much or his body had shut down. He didn’t acknowledge my presence or return my greeting. A nasty strawberry knot loomed under his blackened left eye, threatening to close it. Occasional jerking movements seized control of his body. The facial tic was constant. He ignored my questions about his eye and his well-being.

  “It’ll be soon.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, knowing the answer.

  At last he lifted his emotionless face to meet mine. He raised his slender hands above the table top. The thumbs and index fingers had been twisted and fractured, splinted and bound in heavy white gauze, with traces of blood seeping through the outer layers. “My drawing and engraving days are over.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. “What happened?”

  Wheezing, he said, “The Aryan brothers had left me alone during my stay ... until a couple hours ago. Three jumped me. They took a ball peen hammer to my right thumb and index finger while the others held me down. They bent and twisted them until the bones snapped.” He fell silent. He looked up, exhausted. “I lost count how many times. I passed in and out of consciousness. They stomped on them. After that, they started on my left hand, just to be sure.”

  I clenched my fists and forced myself to sit still in the chair.

  “I woke up in the infirmary. An orderly I know said he saw a Good Wood hand the hammer to Zack Johnson after they were done.”

  “Good Wood?”

  “It’s one of many prison terms I’ve learned here. It’s a ‘stand-up’ white guy who brutalizes other prisoners for privileges or favors.”

  “I have to stop this.”

  He lowered his head to the table. “I never expected to be captured. Dr. Adams, I welcome my fate because of what happened to my friends.” He paused to wet his cracked and swollen lips, raising his sad eyes to mine. “Help me find Benny’s share. He broke the basic rules of counterfeiting: never tell anyone you’re printing, never pass it where you live, and never spend too much in one place.” He suffered another coughing fit and doubled over in pain.

  I started to talk but he waved me off. “They’re right on schedule. There won't be a trial. The good times pass in an eye blink, the rest is … this. Don't worry about me. I have to settle my account with The Man.”

  “What can I do?”

  He locked his eyes onto mine again, seeming to find more resolve. “Paint my life with a broader brush than the sharp tip of an antisocial felon. Remember, no matter what you hear about my death, I was murdered. I did not kill myself, nor will I try to escape. I have harmed no one here, nor will I hurt anyone. Between you and Skinny, I know you’ll make sure Momma understands. They will have to kill me in cold blood or have another prisoner do it.”

  I never felt so impotent with a client before. “There must be more I can do.”

  He looked at me and said, “Tell my story. It won’t be easy. Many won’t believe you. I can help with that. You’re a good man, I know you will. I wish I’d met you when I was young. Maybe my life would have turned out differently.”

  “I feel like I’ve done nothing to help you, and this sounds too much like goodbye.”

  The tic beat along with his heart. “Word getting out sealed my fate.”

  We passed the next few minutes in silence.

  “Did you know there’s a patron saint for social workers?” he said.

  I nodded. “Saint Louise de Marillac. Born in France near the end of the sixteenth century. With St. Vincent DePaul, she founded the Daughters of Charity. Do you have a patron saint?”

  “There isn’t one for counterfeiters or forgers. There is a saint for thieves, St. Dismas, but I don’t consider myself a thief, so I adopted St. Eligius of seventh-century France. He’s the patron saint of metal smiths. He was master of the mint in Paris and built the basilica of St. Paul. He was generous to the poor, ransomed slaves, and was known for his hard work and honesty. He foresaw the date of his own death.”

  I didn’t like the last part. “I didn’t know you were a religious man.”

  “I enjoy the allegories and messages in the writings and scriptures of all religions. I believe God created the world and that nature is a part of God, but God lets the world play itself out in random fashion. I do believe in an afterlife where your spirit is reunited with everyone you’ve ever loved. If you haven't loved, your soul wanders the earth. I believe heaven and hell are constructs of men because both exist here.”

  “Maybe God intervened by giving you the abilities you have.”

  “Had,” he said wistfully.

  “Some of the help some people received occurred after your arrest—intricate, detailed, time-consuming business matters—and could never have been managed behind bars.”

  “Who says I helped anybody but myself?” Lonnie said quietly, wincing.

  “You’re still a bad liar. I know about the letters, Lonnie. Many good, noble people were rewarded for their St. Eligius-like behavior. He would have been proud.”

  He looked into my eyes. “Does the name Michael Anthony ring a bell?”

  It’s vaguely familiar.

  He smiled and said, “If you’re a fan of old television shows as I am, you may remember him as a man with a silky voice, the secretary to John Beresford Tipton, the semi-retired industrialist on—”

  “The Millionaire,” I said. “Each week Mr. Anthony handed out one million tax-free dollars to a person thought to be worthy by the philanthropist. I remember seeing the occasional rerun when I was a kid. I liked the message of the show, but I don’t think it enjoyed a long run.”

  He whispered, “Help me. I’d love to have Mr. Anthony get Benny’s share, but that’s asking too much. I have an idea about the bags. You�
�ll hear from me soon.”

  Don’t wait too long, Lonnie. I want to help while you’re alive.

  “You’ve met some of my more vocal detractors. They say I enjoyed playing God, that I thought I was Don Corleone in The Godfather. I agonized over those decisions. Six million doesn’t go far with all the need out there. People kept coming to me after my share was spoken for. I had to turn so many away.” He winced in pain again. “I changed my little piece of the world, at least for a time. I helped caring people help those in need. They did, and continue to do, the real work.”

  He seemed about to pass out. I got up to get Sgt. Collins but he said, “No. I will ask things of you … difficult, dangerous tasks. You’re under no obligation to take them on. You got me this far and that’s what I needed. You’re a good friend. Thanks, Mitch.” He raised his head, determination on his face, and yelled, “Guard! We’re done here.” Then he looked at me and said, “Please go. I don’t want them to see me break down. The tic is bad enough.”

  As Collins stepped through the doorway, I said, “What tic?”

  He grinned at me one last time and for a moment it stopped.

  I gave him the peace sign and smiled, but it felt like goodbye.

  Smilin’ Henry walked me out and the look on my face told him this wasn’t the time for a corny joke.

  $ $ $

  The super kept me waiting an hour. James Kendall looked to be in his late fifties, balding, shaped like a bowling pin, with a salt-and-pepper colored crew cut and black-framed glasses. Broken blood vessels crisscrossed his bulbous nose. He wore a conservative black suit, white shirt, and black-and red-striped tie. He looked like a man from an earlier decade or maybe just old before his time. There was something about him....

  I sat in front of his imposing desk, aware that the room was specifically designed for his chair to be elevated from the visitor ones, like a judge’s bench. “Who ordered guard Zack Johnson to arm three prisoners and turn a blind eye when they crippled my suicidal client?”