Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  His lined, ruddy face remained stoic. “You don’t mince words.”

  “I do when the situation warrants.”

  He picked up his phone and called his secretary. “Mr. Price, produce guard Zack Johnson in my office in five minutes and bring in the file for prisoner #6011304.” Kendall turned back to me and said, “These are serious accusations, Dr. Adams. I trust you have proof other than the word of an antisocial prisoner.”

  Mr. Price, an elderly black man I’d spent the last hour chatting with in the outer office, entered with a manila folder and handed it to Kendall. As Price was leaving, a knock sounded on the door frame and Zack Johnson walked in. He stood six and a half feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. On the right side of his thick corded neck the sharp angles of a green and red tattoo poked above his shirt collar. His closely cropped brown beard showed a tint of red in the light. From his belt dangled a set of keys with an eight-ball keychain. Johnson stood at attention facing Kendall. The super did not offer him a seat.

  “Tell me about the recent incident involving prisoner Lonnie Washington,” Kendall said while he read the report in front of him.

  Johnson stared straight ahead. “At 14:30 hours, there was a disturbance in an off-camera area near the showers. I arrived first on the scene—inmate Washington was lying on the floor with a shank nearby and convict Hayes standing over him. I questioned those present and determined that Washington had attacked Hayes. Hayes overpowered him, breaking fingers in the process of defending himself. Convict Hayes remains in solitary with all privileges suspended, pending your decision on his punishment.”

  “That’s what the incident report says,” Kendall said, looking down at me for the first time since the entrance of the guard. “Do you have any evidence that anything other than this transpired, Dr. Adams?”

  “Why would he attack Hayes?”

  Johnson looked at the super who nodded for him to answer. “For a blo—for sexual favors, sir. Hayes and other witnesses gave the same story.”

  “What did Lonnie Washington say happened?” I asked.

  “That three men attacked him without provocation.”

  “Lonnie Washington is a hundred-pound cripple,” I said. “What about Hayes?”

  The super referred to a file. “Hayes is six feet, two hundred pounds, and thirty-one years old. I know where you’re going with this. Guard Johnson has already told you Hayes was threatened with a deadly weapon.”

  “How do you explain the multiple fractures to his left hand?”

  Johnson looked for and received Kendall’s silent approval. “After the first struggle, Washington grabbed the knife with his left hand and Hayes defended himself again with equal force.” He added defensively, “There are witnesses.”

  “Prisoners breaking their own code of silence. How convenient for you. Why trust them over Lonnie Washington?”

  He didn’t allow the guard to answer. “I’m going to ask you once more, Dr. Adams. Do you have evidence that anything other than this transpired?”

  “Three Aryan brothers jumped him, held him down and mangled his fingers to bloody stumps so he could never draw again. They used a ball peen hammer given them by this man—” I pointed my finger at the huge guard and said, “—Zack Johnson.”

  The guard glared at me, but Kendall intervened. “What is your proof?”

  “Other prisoners saw Hayes return the hammer to Johnson.”

  “You claim Hayes was seen handing the hammer back. That implies someone saw guard Johnson handing it to the convict. Do you have one witness who will step forward?”

  I refused to go down that road with him.

  He allowed a smirk to form on his lumpy face. “Give me a name and we will conduct a thorough investigation.”

  “How do you explain, in this life-and-death struggle, that only his thumbs and index fingers were crushed beyond repair?”

  “I don’t have to explain it. It happened. Eyewitnesses say Hayes repeatedly stomped on Washington’s hands to disarm him. There was no claim of a hammer, not even by Washington, until hours later.”

  “Being unconscious might have had something to do with that.”

  “Do not give me any lip,” Kendall said, standing.

  I noticed Johnson doing a slow boil so I turned to him. “You did a shitty job keeping Lonnie safe today.” Raising my voice, I said, “Who ordered you to look the other way for five minutes?”

  His crimson face turned to me, his meat hook hands balled into fists. He took a step toward me.

  “Enough!” Kendall yelled. “These men have extremely difficult, stressful jobs. We house hundreds of violent men here—murderers, rapists, pedophiles, delusional psychotics, violent paranoid schizophrenics, aggressive antisocial personalities—men with no qualms about attacking someone just for looking at them a certain way. The weak are preyed upon. An attack can start and end in a heartbeat. The surveillance cameras give us an eye in the sky for most of the grounds, but there are blind spots and the prisoners know them. The guards cannot cover the blind spots all the time. You are treading on thin ice here, Dr. Adams. Are you claiming there is a conspiracy here?”

  “If Hayes acted in self-defense, why does he remain in solitary?”

  “For using excessive force, for not calling the guards. Take your pick,” Kendall said.

  I noticed Johnson’s jaw muscles tighten and Kendall must have too, because he quickly ordered him back to the cell block.

  Once we were alone I said, “Why wasn’t Lonnie placed back in special security? I signed an affidavit. He’s suicidal.”

  “That decision rests with me,” Kendall answered, “and there is no corroborating evidence to support your opinion.”

  “I am the expert on this subject. Not you, not the guards or kitchen help.”

  He stared down at me in silence, unwavering.

  “It’s almost as if you’ve been listening to our privileged conversations.”

  That got a reaction, albeit brief.

  “Are you insinuating—”

  “I found a bug hidden under the table in the confidential visitation room.”

  Kendall leaned forward, wetting his thin lips. “May I see it?”

  “Not a chance. If anything happens to me, the news goes straight to the media.”

  A tiny smile appeared on his face. “How very convenient for you. You admit stealing a transmitter from the jail. If you did, there will be legal consequences. You’ve crossed the line with this stunt. Why should I believe this latest claim, especially after reading your testimony that your client is suicidal?”

  “Lonnie didn’t want me to speak with you and doesn’t know I’m here, but my profession mandates I speak on his behalf. He is convinced someone will murder him before his case goes to trial, and if that happens I’m holding you responsible.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the talk of a suicidal man. That last part I won’t dignify with an answer.”

  “Then isolate him for his own safety. He can’t defend himself.”

  He sat rubbing his lined brow, his patience waning. “I believe you’ve been led down the primrose path by a very clever and manipulative sociopath in prisoner Washington. You are not the first to be duped by an intelligent con man. You won’t be the last.”

  I smiled up at him and said, “You have an answer for everything today, Superintendent. What about tomorrow, or the next day?”

  He shifted his bulk uneasily in his leather captain’s chair, the springs squawking. “Why the smug expression, Dr. Adams?”

  “I unearth secrets for a living. Too many players are involved for this to remain buried. I want you to know that.”

  “If you’re thinking mistrial, you are sadly mistaken. How much longer do you wish to play this game?”

  I flashed a smile again. “I know you lied about the bug.”

  He stood still for a ten count, then guffawed and folded his pudgy arms across his stomach, the sleeves of his suit riding up his forearms.

&n
bsp; “I never said it was a transmitter. I said I found a bug. You knew the type of bug I found because you knew it was there all along. The day before Earl Mooney was captured, Lonnie confided in me about an operation Earl needed to prolong his life. A handful of hospitals in the country perform the specialty procedure. The next day I received a gloating call from someone higher up the political/legal food chain than you, thanking me for my help in the investigation. You’re working for his boss. Earl Mooney was arrested with the help of illegally obtained information from your jail.”

  This time Kendall smiled. “Prove it.”

  The fat bastard called all my bluffs. My initial nagging feeling when I entered this office vanished when I thought of Maynard. “I saw you at the Haller estate chatting up Maynard and Fallon. You looked like old buddies ... or accomplices.”

  “And you wear your drinks well. I take it you didn’t get any that night?”

  Very funny.

  “What I got was a lot of information that will come back to haunt you.”

  “I didn’t see your entrance, but you know how to make an exit. If it’s attention you seek, you certainly were the buzz the rest of the evening.” He made a tsk tsk sound and couldn’t resist piling on. “Last year and now this. Not everything is a conspiracy, Dr. Adams, but there are no hard feelings. If I were in your position, I’d probably employ the same tactic. Don’t worry, no one’s going to challenge the truth of your affidavit. For now. What you have is smoke and innuendo. I’m a Superintendent of Corrections and Maynard is a symbol of law and order in this city. Of course I’d be there.”

  “You sound defensive.”

  “You’ve hooked your wagon to another dangerous sociopath who’s on an obvious self-destructive path here.”

  “That sounds like your master has already handed you your next job—murder Lonnie Washington. Prove me wrong. Keep him alive. Place Lonnie in special security to make sure no more harm comes to him; he’s completely defenseless in here and must be isolated. He deserves his day in court. Fail to do that and I’ll hire a lawyer that eats attorneys like Denny Hanover for breakfast, one who’ll have state review boards lining up to perform colonoscopies on you and your jail. How long do you think you and your cronies would last in a place like this?”

  He stood up stiffly and looked at his Rolex. “Your fishing expedition ends here. I’m late for a meeting.” He buzzed in Mr. Price to escort me from the premises.

  “Tell your masters I’m not going anywhere.”

  If looks could kill, jails wouldn’t need a death row. Kendall was in Maynard’s back pocket; I just couldn’t prove it.

  Like a judge, he exited first.

  I couldn’t see Sister Thomas or a newbie fresh out of school standing up to Kendall and his masters, but what real good had I done?

  I walked down the long dark tunnel with Mr. Price toward the light of the exit door, despairing for Lonnie. It felt like the light ahead was a speeding train. I considered ways to let the world know what was happening to Lonnie.

  By the time I trudged to the parking lot, the rain and clouds had scudded away and left the kind of muggy, sunny day St. Louis is famous for. The streets glistened as if all the dirt and garbage had flushed down the city sewers. Up ahead, an ear-piercing alarm blared. I noticed a growing crowd in the parking area in front of the jail. Twenty people had encircled a car while others slowed to gawk at the commotion. They’d surrounded my little red Solstice—all four tires and the convertible top had been slashed to shreds; the windshield, side windows, headlights and taillights smashed. A black mini-crowbar and ice pick lay on the curb.

  I ran up and asked if there were any witnesses but nobody stepped forward. Soon an older patrolman pushed through the crowd and said, “Buddy, this your car?”

  I nodded. “I’ve been inside the jail a few hours on business.” I pointed at the tools on the grass. “Have you found the perp yet?”

  “Nah, there ain’t a body attached to them,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You got any ideas?” He looked around the lot. “No other vehicles were targeted. Looks like you pissed off the wrong person.”

  Rain must have still been pouring during the smash job because an inch of water soaked the front floor mats. I shut off the alarm. “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

  The cop looked to be in his sixties, with a pockmarked face and beer belly. He absent-mindedly pushed his cap back with a pudgy thumb and pointed back at the jail, “You be careful, keep pissing people off and you’ll wind up in there. Now you’re peeing on my charcoal. Call for a tow or I’ll have to write you a ticket. All this broken glass poses a safety hazard to the other vehicles. Gotta move the car to sweep up the mess.”

  I got out my cell. “A prison guard named Zack Johnson probably did this in the last thirty minutes. He’s six and a half feet tall and weighs three hundred pounds, has a reddish-brown beard and red and green tats on his neck.” I shouted, “Did anyone see this man?”

  No one said a word.

  In broad daylight, in front of Gateway Jail, with all these cops coming and going through the main entrance nearby and nobody saw anything.

  The patrolman looked at me calmly and said, “Tell you what, I’ll have the lab boys check the weapons for prints. If his prints are there, he and I will speak. When they come back clean, see if you can get him to confess. Here’s my card. Good luck without a witness. Chalk it up to bad karma. That’s why you have insurance, sir. Make the call.”

  The light at the end of the tunnel had been a train, Zack-the-Train Johnson.

  “To protect and to serve, huh? Who do you serve?”

  “The law, the status quo, my wife, and my boss—but not in that order. Call for the tow or I’ll have it impounded.” This time he raised his voice, shouting, “Show’s over people. Move along.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve had a car vandalized in a work-related conflict, but I hope it’s the last. I made the call and checked with security at the front desk, asking them to look at the tape from the outdoor camera thirty minutes ago. They told me the storm had temporarily knocked out a number of cameras, including the two monitoring the front lot. I also noticed my garage door opener was gone.

  I’d violated the unspoken prison code Lonnie mentioned. I couldn’t stop them if they meant to kill him, so I'd lashed out with threats of my own.

  Low clouds on the horizon had turned from crimson to indigo by the time I pulled in my driveway with a white rental Mustang GT and parked in the garage. I found my spare garage door opener and changed the code. Just in case. My eyes hurt and my belly growled after a long, shitty day.

  Cutting off the head. A transmitter used for privileged conversations? An altered police report? Lonnie’s assault. My car vandalized. Plausible deniability. Missing perfect duplicates of millions of dollars? Were Peebles’ warnings turning prophetic?

  Fighting City Hall seemed like child’s play compared to taking on the Golden Boy.

  chapter twenty

  everyone ends up blind

  Before I could close the garage door and shut out the world for the night, a car horn blared. Baker in his black Fleetwood, passenger door open.

  “Get in,” he ordered.

  He didn’t answer when I asked why.

  He revved the powerful engine as I closed the door and we raced back toward Highway 40. His only movements were tiny hand corrections on the wheel while mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes in the spreading darkness.

  “What happened the last time we were on the phone?”

  Baker’s toothpick gently bobbed up and down as he maintained a cool faÇade. It was his one tell, the only yardstick that his internal emotions were running high. “Let’s say the Secret Service and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on things. They made it clear they didn’t appreciate a city homicide dick pokin’ around a counterfeitin’ case. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “How’d they find out?”

  “Don’ matter now.” He sounded defeated.

&n
bsp; I looked at the road and noticed just how fast this souped-up ghetto car was racing east without the bubble light on. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

  The toothpick bobbed again. He sat still but for a pulsating vein on the right side of his shiny bald skull. “You been there once before. No more talking. I’m in no mood.”

  Baker was a force of nature, and I learned a year ago not to fight it. We drove in silence until he cut across the two left traffic lanes and took the north exit onto Fourteenth Street. He parked next to a fire hydrant and said, “Out.”

  On the sidewalk, I looked up at the building and said, “Oh, no.” Why did I spar with Kendall?

  “’Fraid so, Breezy.”

  Walking into the city morgue, feeling the bite of the cold air, waiting for the attendant to present the body, all seemed to take place in slow motion.

  “It’s no longer just a funny money case,” Baker said, still wearing the shades. “I’m on the job now.”

  The color of Lonnie’s skin was otherworldly, his eye sockets buried by the swollen flesh from a brutal beating. His nose was broken in two places. He finally looked at rest but I knew his spirit wasn’t.

  “Who did this? When?” I said.

  “Couple hours ago … by a new arrival busted for dealin’ drugs. Nigger outweighed him by two hundred pounds. Said the little brother tried to force him to suck his Johnson.”

  “With two useless mangled hands. That’s the same story Kendall fed me after three men jumped Lonnie earlier today and broke his fingers.”

  He nodded. “It was an execution, a sadistic one.” Baker raised the sheet again to reveal Lonnie’s club foot. It had been broken and twisted backward. “My pigeons are all singin’ now that the little brother’s dead. It started near the john. Nigger beat him to a pulp and stuffed his head in the crapper. Said he was launderin’ the little brother.”