But she thought about what it would mean to have her new husband come home and find that she had managed to get him into trouble by not handling this thing right.
“Fine.” She exhaled sharply, grabbed the chair, and, pulling it under the high shelf, climbed up.
“Fine.” The chair wasn’t high enough. She had to brace her foot on one of the lower shelves and climb another foot or two up over the delighted guard.
“Fine.” By now the T-shirt was down to about the size of a cloth necklace.
Just do it, she told herself. Just do it just do it just do it.
And finally she was back on the floor holding the bag. In another second she had the marriage papers stuck under the ensign’s nose and felt no surprise when he hardly glanced at them.
“Well, okay,” he mumbled. “I’ll let it slide.”
The surprise came when she noticed he was blushing just a bit. She wondered if he felt guilty about this nasty little trick or if he was just getting concerned. Would the married lady talk? Put in a complaint? Run the old paper marathon and submit it to the cap’n?
Either way, he tore his eyes off her lower half and looked her straight in the face for the first time since he’d barged through the door.
“Whoa. Your husband do that to you?”
“No. It was … a car wreck. Are we through yet?”
“Right. Sure.” He ran his gaze over her scars one more time and whistled softly.
“Just keep away from the windows and don’t make any noise until both you guys are gone.”
“That’s what I was doing.” She stood quietly and met his gaze until he dropped it and turned for the door.
“Okay, then. Be careful.” And then the door closed again and he was gone.
Be careful? she wondered. Oh, right. There were plenty of other guards around. And who could tell how horny some of them might be?
• • •
The apartment was furnished with a futon, a bed, a television, and not much else. Her insurance money had been run down to barely over two thousand dollars by the deposits and initial expenses, but she had helped to pick out the place herself. It was small, and on days when the elevators went out there was a twenty-story climb up from ground level.
But it was hers, and it was safe.
Her very first, on-your-own, dirty as you can stand it, pay for it yourself, don’t let anybody inside who you don’t want to, hang out and look as ugly as you feel like, make as much noise as your neighbors will tolerate, very first place.
CHAPTER
18
The unending noise inside the Los Angeles County Jail is a soundtrack from hell’s lowest levels, stuck on continuous replay. A thick sour stink coats everything like a layer of nasty paint. By early November Robert Peernock was seething in his four-man cell, desperate to find a way to stop his daughter and her attorney from denying him access to his money, poisoning his attempt to mount the best possible defense.
His own money. That phrase kept coming up, over and over as he poured handwritten motions out of his cell. His own money. As an example of the way his civil rights were being trampled, he frequently pointed out in his motions that he was not allowed decent legal supplies and was forced to write his motions with a one-inch pencil stub, sharpened by rubbing it back and forth over the cell’s concrete surface. Clerks began to say that it must have been a Magic Pencil; it sent countless pages rolling into the court clerk’s office, laying out his years of struggle and introducing all who would read them to a tale of conspiracy as grand as the libretto to a jailhouse opera.
Lyle, a convicted child molester, entered L.A. County Jail around November 1. His prior conviction had been for sexually abusing his young daughter, and he was now back in jail for a repetition of the same offense.
Lyle happened to be assigned to the cell right next to Peernock’s. They couldn’t help but notice each other. Both were conspicuous as white men in a jail system dominated by Latinos and African-Americans.
It’s a good idea to seek company behind bars if you can; the L.A. County Jail is an angry and overcrowded place. The simple act of strolling into the declared space of the wrong group can get a homemade knife jammed between your ribs. One wrong glance can touch off brawl like a match at a gas pump. So Lyle and Robert did as other Anglos do, lining up together for mealtime and recreation, following the unspoken tradition.
It was a loose affiliation. The two didn’t talk much at first. Still, even before Lyle knew what charges Peernock was facing, he noticed that Peernock didn’t seem to belong in jail. At the age of fifty, Robert Peernock was too well maintained to have the look of a regular customer. He was free of jailhouse tattoos and the low-lidded fuck-you shuffle common to seasoned institutionals. Lyle realized that the man was a complete newcomer to the system. This meant that as a middle-aged Anglo with an education, Peernock would be dead in no time if somebody didn’t pass him a few facts of life. But Lyle also knew jail life well. He knew about keeping your distance and about the value of staying to yourself. So even as they hung close physically, he kept his personal distance from Peernock. Lyle just did quiet time, leaving the strange newcomer to twist in the wind while Lyle sized him up.
Besides, Lyle had plenty to keep quiet about. Child molesters, especially the Anglos, get eaten for breakfast by the angry “minority” inmates who easily surpass the numbers of their lighter-skinned colleagues. Molesters don’t fare much better with their own race. All of them tend to do their time peacefully and avoid undue attention.
But before long Lyle had to admit that he liked Peernock’s style. Lyle recognized the man as a true jailhouse lawyer, with his cell space crammed with boxes of legal documents and bits of evidence concerning his case. Plenty of inmates try to buck the system single-handed, but after two months in captivity Peernock had focused himself on the quest for freedom like a man possessed.
Lyle was finally pulled into Peernock’s comer of the world when Cowboy, one of Lyle’s cell mates, sneaked into Peernock’s “house” while he was asleep and stole some cash out of the money belt Peernock kept under Ms shirt. When Peernock awoke and discovered the theft he went ballistic. Lyle was stunned to see this fifty-year-old white man charge into Lyle’s group cell and accuse the wrong man, demanding that the money be returned before the day’s end.
After Peernock stomped back to his own cell, Lyle listened uneasily while the outraged inmate blustered out threats of reprisals for the insult. A major fight was brewing; at the best it would involve injury between these two men, at the worst a full race riot.
Lyle quickly took Peernock aside and explained, in effect, Hey, bozo, unless you’re real tired of living, you just don’t put out that kind of shit in here. To lay it out plain, you broke a strict jailhouse code by offending a man in front of his friends. Now you better go apologize and try to mend the situation before somebody gets seriously hurt. And you better hustle.
Maybe if Lyle had spent more time observing Peernock by this point, he wouldn’t have bothered to suggest backing down. Peernock’s outright refusal to play willing victim to the theft convinced Lyle that the next best thing would be at least to hire some protection before mixing it up across racial lines. So a Latino named Speedy was paid twenty dollars to hold back any others who might want to jump in and make it a family affair.
And that was when Peernock, who would later protest to the court that his “back condition” made it impossible for him to have carried Natasha and Claire from the house to the car, headed back into Cowboy’s cell and beat the living shit out of him.
Speedy already had his twenty bucks, though, and he didn’t do a thing to protect the naive newcomer who had hired him. Lyle watched the spectators getting increasingly ugly at the sight of a frenzied whitey hammering on one of their home boys. A major battle was about to erupt.
With no other recourse left, Lyle began deliberately making enough spectator noise to draw a guard and bring in the authorities in the hope of quelling the situation without
taking the risk of identifying himself as a snitch.
He got his wish. The guards showed up in time to break up a brewing full-scale brawl; Peernock successfully exacted revenge for having his space violated.
And two unhappy men found themselves in the springtime of a budding jailhouse relationship. Now that the ice was broken, both reluctant residents of taxpayer accommodations began to sidle up closer.
Lyle wasn’t eager to discuss his case or try to explain why he had been compelled to sexually pursue his daughter, especially after having been convicted for it once already. But in the days since his arrest he had found himself suffering a major attack of remorse over the harm he had caused in his past; he would later say that somehow the act of taking another man under his wing and showing him a few things about keeping out of harm’s way while behind bars was an act of kindness that he needed to perform even more than Robert Peernock needed a jailhouse mentor. On that basis the friendship quickly grew. He became Peernock’s confidant, trusted as much as anyone was going to be at this stage in Robert’s life.
This is either great news or terrible news, depending on whether you side with the prosecution or the defense.
Because after a certain number of hours spent swapping the usual jailhouse b.s. and hanging out watching the stud boys shoot hoops, the new buddies’ conversations slowly zeroed in on more personal territory. Finally Lyle gave out enough information about himself to freely complain that his girlfriend was taking all his money and that he wished she were dead. He now claims it was merely jailhouse trash talk, just a way of blowing off macho steam.
But Lyle was caught off-guard by Peernock’s reaction to his remark about wishing his girlfriend dead. He seized on the concept like a horny lifer snatching up a new arrival on the cellblock. Before long, whenever the two new pals could capture a moment of privacy, Peernock was exploring the idea of eliminating the opposition.
At first Lyle just played along as Peernock repeatedly broached the topic of hiring someone to kill “that bitch Doom” and Peernock’s teenaged daughter, who was “lying her ass off to get at her father’s money.” Lyle kept telling himself that lots of people talk about revenge in the joint; most of it drifts away with the next hit of smuggled weed. But this Peernock guy was pressing the subject, such as, did Lyle know anyone who could set it up? And how much would it cost to actually do it? Not only was it becoming harder to steer Peernock away from the subject, Lyle soon realized that his was not the only doorbell Peernock was ringing.
Other guys were beginning to talk. One of the inmates on the black side had supposedly been hit up for the job. Another of the Mexicans bragged of being approached. So far these men were laughing it off, but Lyle knew that the size of some of the drug habits in the joint guaranteed that eventually Peernock would find someone who was desperate enough to do anything for cash, even seek out a man’s terrorized daughter, identify her by the scars covering her face, and finish her off once and for all.
Lyle couldn’t believe it. The irony of his position was breaking his face. Here he was, feeling coated with shame over the treatment he had inflicted on his own daughter, while the man he had befriended as a part of this attempt to turn over a new leaf in life was asking him to arrange for his daughter’s death.
Lyle might have been twisted but he wasn’t stupid. As he explained it later, he could see from that very moment that life was messing with him.
He decided that this time old Lyle wasn’t going to take the bait. Killing “some bitch attorney” was one thing. But helping Peernock to contract a whack on his own flesh and blood? “Hey,” he explained to Fisk, “at least when you screw them they can survive to go get therapy.”
No, Lyle concluded, he had starred in a few too many of his own personal tales from the dark side. And when he thought about Peernock trying to make Lyle his private flunky in this evil deed, Lyle started to get mad. He wondered, did Robert give a damn about Lyle at all or about whatever might come around in Lyle’s life because of this? Right. Lyle could see that Peernock had no respect for him; the man just wasn’t coming from the heart.
Clearly, it was time to give Robert Peernock a chance to make his own decision about whether he would step any farther into hell or not. Lyle had made his.
And so, two weeks after checking in to the L.A. County Jail, Lyle took a guard aside on his way back from mealtime. He talked fast. Keeping his voice low, he muttered that he had information for the detectives on Peernock’s case and somebody better talk to him soon and, hey, this is no bullshit.
Then he headed back to his cell, moving fast but casual, acting like nothing was up. To simply be seen by another inmate talking to a guard without some clear, valid reason was enough to turn the others on you, get you branded as a squealer. But to actually be heard leaking information on somebody was a sure guarantee of a bad death.
• • •
Steve Fisk knew all too well that there was a dire snitch situation over in County Jail. Some of the inmates would make up stories about their mothers to get a plea bargain or a shortened sentence. The courts never accept an isolated story offered by one con against another, not with so much special interest at stake. With a story like Lyle’s, hard evidence is the only way to go.
Still, to Fisk this report rang true. It seemed perfectly plausible that Peernock wasn’t through yet, not as long as his daughter was alive and willing to testify.
So on November 19 Fisk wired Lyle for sound and sent him back into the cellblock with a story about a fictitious hit man named “Jake.” The plan was simply to feed Peernock a verbal noose and see if he hung himself on tape.
Murphy’s Law being what it is, naturally the machine malfunctioned.
What Lyle brought back was a tale of how Peernock had made clear and incriminating statements during the bugged conversation, but that something bungled the connection on the microphone wire. Fisk wound up with zero. The pressure increased when Lyle assured him that Peernock was shopping for killers on other cellblocks, leaving Fisk with the possibility that Peernock might find one before Fisk could use Lyle to get the drop on him.
What would happen, Fisk wondered, if Peernock had a hired killer lined up already?
Fisk feared that Lyle might be getting buyer’s remorse. Maybe the guy sabotaged the mike himself, Fisk thought. Speaking to Lyle so there would no chance of miscommunication, Fisk warned that if a young girl died because of any such sabotage, Lyle’s life would fall face-first into the toilet.
Then Fisk had the audio experts wire him up again. He ordered them to do it so carefully that if anything screwed up this time, they would know for sure whose fault it was.
• • •
On November 24 Lyle went back into the cellblock wired for sound. The tape recorder functioned properly this time. Nevertheless the tape Lyle brought back was maddening, nearly impossible to listen to. Fisk strained his ears for more than half an hour, struggling to hear through the deafening background din produced by a rooftop basketball game, countless bickering jailbirds, and frequent unintelligible announcements blaring over what sounded like the world’s worst loudspeaker system.
But then—toward the end, practically buried in the ball-court babble—there was that one section. Five minutes and six seconds that simultaneously chilled Fisk’s blood and gladdened his heart.
Lyle had gotten Peernock to say it out loud after all.
On top of the jail, in the rooftop ball-court area, sprinkled in with inane bits of jailhouse ball-game chatter and questions about passes to see the chaplain, the ice-cold truth came out.
Lyle: “So I got one phone call before I got back. And, uh, you won’t get hurt.”
Peernock: “Is there a wire on you, by any chance?”
Lyle: [sounding crushed by the implication] “No, Bob.”
Peernock: “’Cause they’ll do that.”
[There is a rustling sound as Lyle pulls up his shirt to make it look like he has no wire. He manages to pull it up just high enough to bunc
h the fabric over the recording unit, which was taped high on his back between the shoulder blades.] “I don’t mind. I don’t have nothin’. I’m clean. I wouldn’t let ’em do that. I don’t mind, I’m glad that you’re, uh, y’know, that you watch.”
Peernock: [apparently satisfied] “’Cause that’s one of the only reasons why I came up here. I’m ver-y cau-tious.”
[other inmates discuss the game for a while, then:]
Peernock: “I don’t know when my attorney’s coming this week. But I’ve got the case starting Wednesday of next week. Which is the second.”
Lyle: “Next week?”
Peernock: “The second. We’ve got one weekend.”
[garbled words in the background]
Lyle: “Well, I got on the phone when I was up there.”
Peernock: “Say again?”
Lyle: “I got on the phone. When I came back? Just briefly, they got me off of it right away. I did get hold of Jake. He said he’ll want to get some money but he’ll take care of these things.”
Peernock: “Mm-hm.”
Lyle: “He said he’ll be glad to take care of the situation. He lowered it to fifteen thousand.”
Lyle later testified that Peernock had chortled off tape: “If this thing works, maybe we should go after the district attorney and the lead investigator on the case.” Lyle claimed that Peernock even discussed how lucrative it might be to go into the murder-for-hire business. Fisk knew that no one can deny that there are plenty of other arrestees who would appreciate the service of having inconvenient witnesses removed. Fisk also knew that Robert Peernock had always been good with money and seldom missed a chance to turn one dollar into two.
Robert Peernock was immediately charged with solicitation of the murders of Victoria and Natasha.
Lyle has been given a false name here. Whatever crimes he may be paying for currently, he neither requested nor received special privileges for his testimony about Robert’s solicitation attempt. And he did not ask for early parole by risking himself for Victoria and Natasha.
A Checklist for Murder Page 19