THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  "Yes," she said.

  "Do you understand why I could never go to the police?"

  "Yes," she said.

  But by then her eyes had begun to well up. A lone tear making its way down and past her cheek. She leaned back against her chair, shoulders slumped. She had no idea how bad it would feel. And I just had no idea, period.

  I should've taken Tyler's advice.

  The park. That little box he was waving over me. "It also picks up wires," he had said. "You ought to look into getting one."

  You ain't kidding, Tyler.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  There is no Zagat guide to New York-area prisons. If there were, I'm afraid the Butler Correctional Facility in Wayne County wouldn't rate very well. Bad food, bad decor, bad service.

  The charge was second-degree manslaughter. The plea bargain was for criminally negligent homicide. The interesting thing about the wire they had Jessica wearing was that it came down to an all-or-nothing proposition for the district attorney's office. Meaning, that to believe any of it was to believe all of it. They couldn't point to my actions regarding Tyler as intent to kill without accepting the fact that I couldn't go through with it. That I was selectively telling the truth was something they knew they could never prove. There were no witnesses and there was no murder weapon to speak of. It was my word against... well... my word.

  Meanwhile, Jack had offered to represent me. Instead, I asked for and took his recommendation of a hotshot attorney over at Burnham, Burnett, Redway & Ford. In the end, I was simply too crestfallen to be around Jack. I think he understood.

  As for Jessica, what can I say? I guess she would've made one hell of a poker player after all. Not once did she tip her hand. Nor was there a single tell. She played her cards perfectly.

  She played me perfectly.

  She never did stick to the plan. The cops had gotten to her and her conscience right from the start. She told them about Tyler — what Connor had said in the hotel room — and it didn't take too long for the connection to be made. Word got back to my good buddies Detectives Hicks and Benoit that their lawyer boy was in trouble again. Gee, maybe that drifter didn't do it after all.

  Yet, with all that on the table, they still didn't have a case. There were two people who could've sealed it for them: Connor and Tyler. Thing was, they weren't exactly around to testify.

  Their last hope was Jessica. Maybe they had to bear down on her a bit, coax her into wearing that wire, or maybe she had it in for me the moment that gun went off and Connor fell to the floor. Either way, by the time we met at the restaurant, she knew her part cold. Ice cold. The groundwork of trust had long since been laid. All she had to do was exploit it. I wasn't about to tell them what Connor had said without giving you the chance to explain, she had led me.

  Like the fly to the spider.

  She listened while I delivered the whole story and what she did was stare. She was looking right into my eyes and I was looking right back into hers. I thought I saw understanding. What I was really looking at was revenge.

  * * *

  "Randall!"

  I had a visitor, the guard announced.

  I wasn't expecting anyone. My parents had already made their one visit, flying in and out within the span of a single day. It felt very much like they were paying their last respects. I couldn't blame them. Their son, who had long before grown apart from them, was no longer anyone they could remember. I had hoped, however, that they wouldn't blame themselves. I tried to tell them that it was nothing that they had done or not done. Mom never made me wear a dress. Dad never shot the family dog. Sometimes people were the way they were because that was simply the way they were.

  When I asked the guard who my visitor was he gave me the fool's grin. "What do I look like, your fucking secretary?" he cracked. Of course, to see his fat body, balding head, and pockmarked face staring back at me was to realize that, yes, he kind of did look like Gwen.

  Maybe that's who it was. Jack had told her about my request that she keep her job and this was her way of saying thank you.

  I walked the long stretch of low-ceilinged hallway down to the visiting area. Though she had her back to me, I could tell immediately that it wasn't Gwen.

  It was Sally.

  Sally Devine had come to see me.

  She hugged me real tight and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She followed that by taking a step back and looking me over. "Blue denim is just all wrong for you," she said, shaking her head.

  I couldn't agree more.

  "I brought you something," she announced. She peeled back a foil cover from a plate. "Flour-less chocolate with raspberry ganache."

  Sure enough, Sally had brought me two slices of her favorite cake.

  "Were you able to fit the file in them?" I joked.

  "No, but I couldn't believe that the guards actually poked at them to make sure. I could've killed them!"

  "Not so loud," I said, mostly kidding. "The walls have ears."

  She laughed and hugged me again. I thanked her for coming. I also ate the pieces of cake rather quickly. They were the first things to taste good in a long while.

  "Does Jack know you're here?" I asked.

  "He thinks I'm shopping at Woodbury Common. I don't think he'd really mind, except I didn't want to take the chance of telling him. Besides, I kind of like the idea of having a guy on the side."

  "It's more like on the inside, Sally."

  "Oh, god, I know," she said. "I can't imagine what this must be like for you. Have you been all right?"

  "For the most part, yes."

  "Jack did tell me that with good behavior you should be out in a year and a half."

  "Let's hope so," I said. "And you thought you had problems."

  She smiled. "You were there for me and now I'm here for you."

  "I appreciate it."

  "I'll have you also know that I'm still not drinking," she said proudly.

  "Congratulations."

  "Thank you. One day at a time, as they say."

  I glanced at the cinder-block walls. "I know the feeling."

  We talked some more and after an hour or so had passed, Sally told me that she'd be back again in a month — if that was okay with me.

  "More than okay," I assured her. I added that while I may have known a lot of people, few would ever make a trip like this for me, let alone on a regular basis.

  She accepted the compliment by grasping my forearm. On that once heavily bejeweled hand of hers I saw now only a simple platinum band.

  "You were smart not to wear a lot of jewelry here," I said to her.

  "Actually," she said, looking at the band, "this is all I've worn for the past month. Call it the new me. I found all that sparkle was getting too damn heavy."

  "I like the new you," I told her, giving her a kiss on the cheek good-bye.

  I watched as she left before going back to my cell. My cell. Give or take, my new home was only 3,420 square feet smaller than my old one. It would take some getting used to. So too would the rest of what had become my life.

  In looking back I practically had to convince myself that it all really took place. I had been blackmailed and I had plotted murder, and although I had killed no one, two people were dead because of me. The woman I had married for money ended up taking nearly all of mine. And the woman with whom I had betrayed my wife was the woman who, in the end, betrayed me.

  It was, like, defining moment a-go-go.

  There were no more cases for me to prepare for, no more hotel rooms to rendezvous in, and no more restaurants to have reservations at. As for guys' night out, the television was turned on in the prison lounge from eight to ten.

  What there was for me was just time — time taking its time before I could start over. New and improved. Safer for the environment. It wasn't going to be easy. Then again, maybe that was the problem all along. Everything had been a little too easy.

  The temptation was to be bitter. The resolve was to let it go. Holding a grudge would've
simply been me, once again, elevating my interests over everyone else's. A nasty little habit there for a while. In any event, I took some comfort from the fact that Jessica had learned I wasn't the monster of her worst fears realized. Merely a guy in over his head.

  I picked it up and read it again.

  My brother's letter, which had arrived a few days earlier from Portland, Oregon. In it, Brad mentioned nothing about my misfortune. Instead, he chose to recall the things that used to mean the world to us as kids. Little possessions. Our ticket stubs from Wrigley Field. The silver dollars sent to us by our grandparents. The volcanic rock we found while digging in the backyard. He wrote that he couldn't remember when it was exactly that these things had stopped meaning so much to us.

  Only that whenever it was, it was surely the saddest day of our lives.

  THE END