Escape Clause

by James O. Born

  “Where do ya think you’re goin’?”

  He turned quickly, and at first thought no one was there, then looked down and found that an elderly lady, not much taller than Emily, had reached up and grabbed him.

  “No cutting in line. We’ve all been here awhile.” She had a sharp New York accent.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know. I wasn’t cutting in line.” As he was about to turn back, he heard a loud voice.

  “Nobody move.”

  It was one of the men he’d been watching. He stood next to the counter and held a large-framed revolver. The other man blocked the front door, with a much smaller revolver in his hand. It looked like a Smith five-shot .38.

  Tasker’s stomach flipped as he glanced back to the table Emily was under. He didn’t see her. Good. He stood still, letting this thing unfold. It was the smart move, keeping everyone out of the line of fire, but it went against his nature.

  The robber at the counter turned to the tellers and started barking commands as he pulled out an empty pillowcase from somewhere under his open shirt. “Fill this quick. When it’s heavy enough, I’ll leave and you can go back to business. You fuck with me and I’m gonna pop a cap in somebody’s ass.” He tossed the pillowcase to the closest teller, who immediately started shoveling cash from her drawer into it. She passed it to the next teller, who did the same.

  Tasker zeroed in on the redneck accent and figured him for a Homestead thug who’d watched too much TV where people were always popping caps and holding their guns sideways. That shit annoyed Tasker as much as robberies.

  He stole another glance toward Emily’s table and still saw nothing. Poor, tiny Emily was probably squished in the corner, terrified.

  The man at the counter banged the grip of the revolver on the counter saying, “C’mon, c’mon,” as his eyes darted around the bank’s lobby and the pillowcase made its rounds. His partner appeared much calmer, watching the people in line and occasionally glancing out the door. His head bobbed to some private beat in his brain.

  Then things changed. The small, pretty manager Emily had fancied as a stepmother took the case from the last teller and approached the robber. The pillowcase was stuffed with cash now. She struggled with the heavy bag as she handed it to him, then took a short step backward. She stood silently, her brown eyes taking in every detail. Tasker wasn’t the only one gathering a description.

  The robber set the bag on the counter and dug through it with his free hand. After a few seconds of searching, he froze, then yanked something from the bag. Tasker could see it was silver-colored, probably a dye pack. The man heaved it across the tellers’ space, causing one of the younger female tellers to let out a yelp. The robber stared at the manager silently and raised the gun to the young woman’s head.

  “Think we’re stupid?” he shouted, sticking the gun barrel in the middle of her delicate forehead.

  She remained placid and said, “I’m sorry, it—”

  Then he pulled the trigger, the sound of the gun echoing hard on the tiled floor of the bank. The bank manager’s legs went limp and she dropped straight to the ground, her long brown hair floating over her face as she fell. Everyone gasped, and for an instant the bank was as quiet as a library. Then came the screaming. The noise seemed disconnected from the people making it.

  Tasker took the moment to grab a look at the punk with the piercings at the front door, who appeared startled by the violence, then to each side. These people were in danger if he took action, but by the look of the guy at the counter, they were in danger if he didn’t. He took one last peek at Emily’s hiding place and didn’t see her.

  The shooter stood over the manager, staring at her body. He still had the gun up pointing at the tellers. His gaze came up as he looked for a new person to order around.

  That was it. Tasker decided to take advantage of the confusion by reaching for his pistol.

  He stepped away from the crowd and yanked a string that opened the front of his bag, revealing the pistol in a holster and a yellow badge patch with the word POLICE under it. He drew the flat gray Sig smoothly, bringing it directly on target without a sound, then fired at the gunman. He was worried that the small caliber might not have enough stopping power, so he reverted to his years of SWAT training and automatically fired three times, twice in the body and once in the head. He caught the robber before he could aim his revolver. The round in the head stopped every brain function the man had and the gun slipped to the floor a second before his dead body.

  Tasker didn’t pause. Blocking out the screams and movement of the customers, he pivoted and dropped to one knee, his pistol sight coming onto the chest of the man at the door, his eyes wide, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like it was broadcasting a redneck Morse code.

  Tasker assessed his target and saw the young man hadn’t raised his gun; he just stood there in horror.

  Tasker raised his voice above the chaos and, once again following his training, said, “Police, don’t move,” in a clear, direct tone.

  The man froze. Tasker stole a look past him toward the front door. No one else was coming in. The bank seemed to quiet down as if on cue.

  “Drop the gun, now.” Clear, not panicked. That took effort.

  The small revolver clanked on the tile floor.

  “Step toward me, now.”

  The man stepped toward Tasker, and more important, away from the gun.

  Tasker stood, keeping his pistol on the man’s body, and said, “On the ground and spread your hands.”

  The man complied and then everything rushed into Tasker’s head at once as he came out of his tunnel vision.

  He stepped to the man and searched him roughly with one hand as he held the gun to his head. He leaned in close and asked, “How many more?”

  The young man shook his head violently and said, “Just Vinnie the driver, but he ain’t got a gun.”

  Tasker touched the barrel of his gun to the man’s head. “If you move when I stand up, you’re dead meat. Got it?”

  The man nodded his head vigorously.

  Tasker backed away until he was next to the robber he’d just shot. There wasn’t much blood because of the head shot. His heart had stopped getting the signal to pump before he’d hit the ground, but Tasker reached down to check his pulse anyway. Nothing. He picked up the two dropped revolvers and held them with one hand. He hopped onto the counter, still watching the prone man, and then turned to see the young manager sprawled at an odd angle on the carpeted floor. One neat, nearly bloodless hole in her forehead. He didn’t risk losing his line of sight to the remaining robber to check her. She was dead.

  Then he sprang down and darted past the line and looked into the loan area.

  Emily’s face was white as she crouched on the far side of the table.

  In the distance he could hear the sirens.

  two

  Captain Sam Norton of the Florida Department of Corrections stood outside the fence with his best friend, Sergeant Henry Janzig. They were at the edge of the housing units provided to the staff of the correctional facility. Most people called it Manatee Correctional, but he referred to it as “the Rock,” because the goddamn State of Florida hadn’t named it properly. Manatee! What kind of a name was that? The outer fence of the close-custody facility was right behind them and the start of the trailers and prefab houses used by the staff were in front of them.

  Norton squeezed a little packet of sunscreen into his hand and smeared it over his pale nose and cheeks.

  Janzig grunted. “Thought only women used that shit away from the beach.”

  “Skin cancer, you old coot. We all got to worry.”

  “You read too damn many magazines.”

  Norton smiled. Sometimes he looked at his older friend Janzig with his weathered face, gimpy hips and little gut that hung out over his thick leather belt and hoped he didn’t end up the same way. Janzig didn’t much care about exercise, and his years of standing on hard prison floors had ruined his hips and made his kn
ees as supple as a two-by-four. He got his aerobics by riding roughshod over new correctional officers and occasionally beating the living shit out of an inmate. Norton tried to take better care of himself. It was tough, against the examples of the older Department of Corrections officers, including his own father.

  Janzig pulled out a pack of Winstons.

  Norton stepped away and said, “C’mon, Henry, don’t ruin the fine fresh air God has provided for us out here.”

  The older man looked at the corrections captain and said with this old Florida twang, “Don’t ruin a good smoke for me. You fuckers done got smoking outlawed in every fuckin’ building in the state. This is what I’m down to.”

  Norton smiled. Both men kept their eyes on a trustee wearing an orange shirt over his normal-issue gray facility shirt. By definition a trustee was not an escape risk but any time one worked outside the fence he had to wear the orange shirt. Every inmate aspired to being a trustee because of the better privileges and the freedom to be outside once in a while. Both Norton and Janzig had their suspicions about this trustee, though. His name was Mike Matulis and he was serving an eight-year sentence for stealing air conditioners from the back of appliance repair trucks. Norton knew you didn’t get eight years for theft, so he had looked at the man’s record and seen a string of burglaries over the years. Matulis had claimed his wife’s spending on their four boys had driven him to crime. Norton knew how a wife’s spending habits could affect you.

  It had taken Matulis three years to work his way up to a trustee. That was about average. Some made it quick, if they did the right people favors, but most inmates never got to trustee status. And few who made it risked doing something to lose trustee status. Matulis appeared to be the exception.

  Now the two men stood silently with Norton’s personal pet German shepherd, Hannibal. The beefy captain tossed a rawhide bone for the big, hairy dog every afternoon at right about this spot so no one noticed anything unusual. Janzig usually joined him. It was the one place they weren’t afraid of people overhearing their private discussions.

  Norton thought that Janzig looked like a World War II veteran, even though he was only fifty-seven. He wobbled on his slightly bowed legs and was missing the end of his left ring finger. The old sergeant always claimed an inmate had bitten it off in a fight at Union Correctional. Norton knew the truth: He had tried to adjust the wheel of a running lawn mower and gotten too close to the blade.

  Now Janzig ran his right hand through his thinning hair coated with oily gel. “What d’ya think, let ’im go now?”

  Norton kept watching the trustee as he went about his assigned job of picking up trash around the middle row of trailers. “Not yet. He’s gotta go inside to confirm he’s the thief.”

  “Who else is it gonna be? I mean it makes sense. Tall som-bitch can reach up and try any door without goin’ up the stairs.”

  “Might be one of the other trustees that works out here.”

  “One of them niggers that comes out here to clean up the dog shit?”

  Norton gave him a severe look. He didn’t have to say anything. Everyone who knew him knew how he felt about that word.

  Janzig shrunk slightly. “Sorry, old habit. Didn’t mean nothin.’ ”

  Norton nodded, but said, “Just want to make sure Matulis is our thief.”

  “It’s him, all right. I garun-damn-tee-it.”

  “Don’t worry, Henry, if it’s him, we’ll deal with it. Terry’s wife is pissed she’s missing that watch and ring. I wanna know where he’s stashing this shit, too.”

  Janzig grunted and tossed the bone for Hannibal to chase so they looked natural.

  Norton said, “What about our other problem?”

  “Which one? Since you got us involved in all the shit, we seem to have more problems than ever.”

  “I mean Luther Williams.”

  “Why’s he a problem?”

  “He could talk.”

  “Not while we got him here. Shit, you made him a damn trustee. He’ll keep his yap shut. Besides it’s too soon to have anything happen after Dewalt’s body bein’ found.”

  Norton nodded. “But we didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. You told me you didn’t even ask anyone to kill him.”

  “I didn’t, I swear. It was just good luck.”

  “Not if his parents don’t shut the fuck up. They might send someone to look into his death. That wouldn’t be good for anyone. We don’t need no strangers around right now.”

  Janzig nodded his head now. “You tellin’ me we couldn’t scare off anyone who looked to cause us trouble?”

  Norton’s creased face eased and he said, “Guess you’re right.”

  From the direction of the administration buildings, Norton noticed the tall, gawky form of one of the younger correctional officers, Lester Lynn. He didn’t like his quiet time with Hannibal and Janzig interrupted and wished people would figure that out.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” said the thin man in the standard brown-and-white uniform.

  “What is it, Lester?”

  “I was just leaving from my shift in the hatch.”

  “Uh-huh.” He knew where this was going.

  Janzig cut in. “Want a medal? You made it through the seven-to-three shift without lettin’ one of the nuts escape.”

  “Yes, sir. But I wanted . . .”

  Norton gave a hard look to Janzig. Sometimes the old sergeant could be a little rough on officers as well as on inmates. In an easier tone, he said to Lester, “I know what you want, son.”

  “You do?”

  “Want another shot at the control room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No spots open right now.”

  Lester’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked down at his long feet.

  “I know I said that if you done a good job in the psych ward you could move to the control room after a year.”

  “And I done a good job, sir. No problems when I was in there.”

  Janzig said, “Linus Hardaway didn’t try to get friendly with you?” He cackled through his ill-fitting upper bridge.

  “No, sir, Sergeant Janzig. He’s in his room all quiet.”

  “All quiet?” asked the sergeant.

  Lester’s face turned red. “Except for the thumping noise.”

  “You mean humpin’ noise.” Janzig wailed at his own joke. Even Norton had to smile, seeing the old man’s glee at his cleverness.

  Norton said, “Okay, Lester, you can have an overtime shift on Sunday afternoon. We’ll see how you do.”

  The young man brightened. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said as he backed away, like he didn’t want to give the captain a chance to change his mind.

  After Lester was out of earshot, Janzig said, “You think that boy is ready?”

  “We’re gonna give him a test right there on Sunday and find out. You set something up.”

  The old man just nodded, then turned back to see if he could spot the trustee.

  Norton said, “Look there. See, we got ’im now.” He watched as the tall trustee casually walked up the three steps to a trailer occupied by one of the officers who worked lockdown. In less than a minute, he was back outside and picking up trash like nothing had happened. Norton didn’t like it when people thought he was an idiot. Especially inmates.

  Norton knelt down to his furry shepherd and attached the leather leash to the dog’s collar. The two men walked the dog toward the trustee, who held a black plastic garbage bag.

  “Hey, Matulis. What’re you doin’?” asked Janzig.

  “Picking up trash, sir.” The forty-five-year-old man was tall and fit, with close-cropped black hair and a thin Fu Manchu mustache. He’d be a handful if he wanted to.

  Norton didn’t reach for his ancient hard plastic nightstick. Janzig hadn’t even bothered to bring his along. They both knew what was going to happen.

  Janzig said, “Lot of trash inside the trailer?”

  The inmate froze. His eyes shifted from one side
to the other. “What do you mean, sir?”

  Janzig wasn’t imposing physically, but his voice could convey threat. “I mean I just saw you go inside that fucking trailer. Why?”

  The inmate shook his head. “No, sir, Sergeant Janzig. I just grabbed an empty plastic bag off the steps.”

  Norton kept quiet and used his best poker face. That unnerved people more than anything.

  Janzig said, “Look, asshole. We ain’t got time for this. You went inside and stole something. You did it last week when you was out here. We want the ring and watch from last week and whatever you took now.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts, asshole. We want them now.”

  The inmate started to shake.

  Hannibal let a low growl come from the back of his throat.

  The front of the inmate’s pants stained slightly as he pissed himself.

  Norton said, “Calm down, boy. We’ll work this out.”

  The inmate swallowed hard and let out a deep breath. “We will?”

  Norton nodded. “Yeah, but not here. You trot back to the admin building and wait for us.”

  The inmate straightened. “Yes, sir. At admin.” He turned and started off in a jog.

  Norton called after him. “And, Matulis.”

  The inmate turned slightly.

  Norton released Hannibal, who started after the trotting inmate, then said, “You better run hard.”

  The man took off in a full-out sprint as the big shepherd closed the distance quickly.

  Janzig said, “I say one.”

  Norton smiled. “No way. Hannibal is up for this. I’ll lay ten on both of them bleeding.”

  Janzig stuck out his hand. “You’re on.”

  They started to walk calmly toward the fleeing inmate with the dog on his heels. Norton appreciated the inmate’s speed, but it wouldn’t matter soon.

  At a full gallop, Hannibal poked his massive head between the inmate’s legs, and with one snap of his jaws on the man’s groin brought him to an abrupt stop. Matulis pivoted in midair as his face slammed down into the hard ground.

  Matulis’ scream seemed to penetrate the buildings. Norton looked up at the nearest tower and waved off the officer who had already raised his rifle at the sound outside the fence. The officer turned his attention back to the yard without hesitation.