by Don Prichard
“We’ll do fun things all week, sweetie, beginning tonight with that movie E.T. you wanted to see last summer. Can you believe it’s still in theaters?”
It wasn’t until Saturday, packing for Crystal’s return to the academy, that Crystal finally broke down. “Please don’t make me go back tomorrow, Aunty.” When the child burst into tears, Betty held her until Crystal could put her misery into words. It was the first time Betty had seen Crystal cry since they left the island.
“I know how you feel, sweetheart. When I was your age, the kids at school picked on me too. Just because I was small and not growing like they were. I cried every day at how mean they were.”
Crystal scrunched her shoulders. “I just want them to be nice to me, that’s all.”
“My mother told me we all want to be princesses. To be loved by everyone—or at least treated nicely. But you know what we don’t want?”
“What?”
Betty suppressed a smile. Crystal obviously wanted to roll her eyes, just as Betty had with her mother. “We don’t want them to be princesses.”
Crystal blinked. “But I do. They just make it too hard.”
“So you don’t want to give them what they won’t give to you.”
“They’re mean. Why should I? I’m not mean to them.”
“And I’m proud of you for that.” She kissed Crystal on the forehead and let the issue go. Just as her mother had with her. Sometimes sowing seeds was better than handing over an unwanted fruit basket.
***
After seeing Crystal off, Betty sorted through a drawer of loose keys. She felt downright sneaky, invading Neal’s home office and getting into his files. Silly of her, since all she wanted was a copy of the Power of Attorney he’d drawn up for Jake and her after Jake’s arrest. Oh my but it ached her back to hunch over the two-drawer cabinet, but if she kneeled on the floor she’d have trouble getting back up. She snorted at the picture of Neal returning home from his trip and finding her stretched out on the carpet inside his carefully locked office. As if she wouldn’t have a spare key. The office used to be Frank’s.
The document wasn’t in the file folder bearing her name. She riffled through the other folders, found one labeled Chalmers, and limped to Neal’s desk. The file was surprisingly thick. The Power of Attorney lay on top, but what was Neal doing with this—a copy of Ian MacBride’s report for her on Eve?
Wait … She blinked. Not a copy, but an original bearing Neal’s name as the recipient.
She gaped at the next document—pages and pages of detailed history on Jake. These also were from Ian MacBride, but this time with a bill made out to Neal. Her mouth dried to cotton. What was Neal up to?
The last document in the folder was a copy of a letter from Neal to District Attorney Bradley Henshaw in Chicago. Maybe persuading Henshaw to release her and Jake from the restraining order against Eve? Neal had promised he’d look into it.
She sat at the desk to read it.
No.
Neal wouldn’t do this to her.
She flipped back to Mack’s data on Jake. There it was: a personal note at the end of the report, saying Jake told Mack he’d killed a man on the island by accident. For a moment she was numb. The whole purpose of Neal’s letter was to pass on this information and encourage an investigation of Jake. That the death was accidental was omitted. And nothing, absolutely nothing, was mentioned about withdrawing the restraining order on Eve.
Neal had deceived her. Worse, he had betrayed her. Outright lied to her.
She shook with fury. What else had he done? Was Jake in that filthy prison because of Neal? Was he the one who had bribed the judge to put Jake there?
She rose, her breath as wobbly as her legs, and returned the file to the cabinet. Oh, she’d been mad at how Neal treated Crystal. But now, as far as she was concerned, he was Public Enemy Number One.
As soon as he got home, she would face him—as judge, jury, and executioner.
Chapter 39
Once again, Jake’s name blared over the loud speaker. By the time he trotted to the front gate, inmates packed the prison yard, curious enough to defy the furnace of the noonday sun and its militia of dive-bombing flies. The guards opened the gate wide enough to pull Jake through but refused to include Puno. Jake would have to face the warden alone.
Jake held out his hands for the guards to chain, but they shook their heads and instead motioned him forward. He braced for the prod of rifle muzzles burrowing into the tender flesh of his caned back. Instead, the muzzles stayed a respectful half-meter away. In place of an order barked to ascend the stairs, a mere nod indicated his destination. What was going on?
Behind him, the murmurs of prisoners echoed his question. With the guards busy attending Jake, the men were free to press all the way to the gate to gape and rattle the metal bars.
For a crazy second, optimism gripped him like a giant hand and squeezed the hope of freedom into a heady explosion of joy. Detective Lee … Betty … his children … Someone … had secured his release!
He climbed the cement stairs and entered the dimly familiar office where his wounds had been tended a week ago. Other than a token photograph of President Marcos, the walls were bare, as were the cheap laminate floor and four ancient desks manned by placid-faced clerks. Except for the whirr of a large ceiling fan rotating barely fast enough to displace the warm air from one corner of the room to another, the office was silent. Jake’s exuberance ebbed.
One of the guards knocked on a solid wood door at the far side of the room. At a command from within, he escorted Jake inside, sat him in a chair, and stood to one side of the room, rifle ready. Behind Jake, someone closed the door. It clicked heavily into place.
In contrast to the barrenness of the outer office, this room was opulent. The rich hue of reddish-brown mahogany reflected light off floors, walls, and furniture. Photographs and paintings adorned every wall; oriental carpet in shades of purpled crimson decked the floors; black leather clothed a thickly padded couch and two armchairs—all radiating around a massive desk of deep mahogany and the man who stood behind it.
Jake sat in a spindly, high-backed, yellow cane chair. Nicked. No cushion. No carpet at his feet.
“I am Warden Mendoza.” As if inviting Jake’s inspection, the man behind the desk remained standing for several seconds. Jake obliged.
If the warden wished to surprise Jake, he succeeded. Judging by the careless way the prison was run, Jake had envisioned a sloven in charge. The man before him, however, was trim, his uniform a perfect fit, spotless with not even a hint of half-circles of dampness under his armpits in spite of the temperature and humidity of the room. Likewise, Mendoza’s hair was tidy in both cut and cleanliness. His face was clean-shaven and his facial features comely enough.
Except for his eyes.
A black patch attached to a band around his head covered his left eye. His right eye, striated with tiny, red blood vessels, peered out of flesh almost as dark as the cloth patch over the other eye. Even a quick glance left Jake’s gut feeling as if it had been walloped with a karate kick.
Was this why Puno had titled him the “forgotten warden”? Rejected because of his appearance and stowed out of sight—a zombie reigning at a zombie prison?
The warden sat down and folded his fingers together on the desk. “I thank you for saving the life of my prison guard.” His words were formal. Starched like his uniform.
Jake waited. Would the warden ask for an explanation of Scar’s death? Or about Jake’s back healing? Perhaps even express regret at Jake’s caning?
Nothing.
As if timed to the end of the warden’s sentence, an office clerk rapped on the door and entered. He bore two cups of steaming tea with three small cookies on the cups’ saucers. He placed one before the warden and handed the other to Jake to hold on his lap.
The warden sipped his tea, munched his cookies. Gall shot to Jake’s throat. Was this some kind of token reward? He clenched his jaw against slamming
the cup and saucer onto the floor. This was deemed worthy of saving a man’s life?
He glared at the delicacies balanced on his lap, swallowed twice at the bile burning his tongue. No, best not to insult the warden. Defying the man would only reap retaliation. He forced a civil sip of tea and swept his gaze over the office. Ah, here was the better path. The grandeur of the room spoke clearly of what the warden valued.
Timing his consumption to the warden’s, barely tasting the sugar-laden treats, Jake spoke at the warden’s last gulp of tea. “I have a proposal that will benefit you and the prison.”
Mendoza clacked his cup onto its saucer and cast a scornful eye at Jake.
Jake ignored the response. “Let me set the inmates up in a trade that will allow them to earn money. We will share the profits with you.”
“Is this your escape plan, Mr. Chalmers?”
“Not from the prison, Warden, but, yes, escape from hopelessness and disease. At the prisoners’ cost, they will improve their lot. You need only provide supervision.”
The concept wasn’t new. At the Manila City Jail, Jake had observed the simple trade exchange set up between prisoners and the outside world. For many, it was the only way inmates in the Philippine prison system survived. Coddling jailbirds was not considered part and parcel of punishing lawbreakers.
“The purpose of Salonga Prison is not to improve lots. Unlike your American prisons, we ‘tan hides,’ not pamper them.” The warden twitched a contemptuous smile from one side of his mouth.
Oh yeah, he could vouch for that. Jake kept his face impassive. Better to continue offering the bait than argue. “The more the inmates can look out for themselves, the less money you spend on them. And you share in their profits.”
Mendoza wasn’t saying no. Jake’s nerves buzzed at the encouragement. Time to bring the lure home. “Several men know how to make furniture and can teach the others. I will put up the money for wood and tools. The first profits will pay me back, then we all share.”
“The first profits will include my share.”
Jake pretended to chew on the idea before yielding. “Would you like to draw up the contract, or have me write one out?”
“Contract?” Mendoza spat the word at Jake. “There will be no contract.”
“I am an American citizen using American money. If my government makes inquiry—or your government—we will be protected by an agreement in writing.”
The warden banged his fist on the desk. The empty cup and saucer rattled. “Take him away,” he shouted.
The guard snapped to and strode to Jake’s side. Jabbing the rifle barrel into Jake’s ribs, he prodded Jake to his feet and out the office door. The two guards standing by in the outer office joined him and escorted Jake to the front gate.
Puno awaited him. “You do not return as you left.”
Jake rubbed his poked ribs. “It went better than I expected. He took the bait.” He clapped Puno on the back. “Question is, will he swallow it?”
Chapter 40
Three days later, the loud speaker demanded Jake’s presence at the front gate. His heart pounded as he pushed through the eruption of curious inmates spilling into the courtyard. Did the summons mean Mendoza was agreeable to a contract, or did it presage further punishment? Greed or pride—which had prevailed in the warden’s heart?
This time, the guards placed him in chains and goaded him with rifles. The cement stairs to the offices presented a challenge because his feet weren’t chained far enough apart to mount each step. He had to hop. The guards laughed.
Inside the clerks’ office, he stood for what seemed like hours. Sweat drizzled from his forehead, cascaded over his eyes, dripped from his chin. The guards drank colas from bottles.
At last, the warden opened his office door and stood staring at Jake. Jake curved his mouth into a smile of greeting and nodded courteously. Yessir, a fan overhead, no flies licking his skin, no stench of sewage up his nose—the wait had been pleasant, thank you.
A guard prodded him to the same spindly, yellow cane chair. His sweat-sodden sandals squeaked on the polished floor, his shorts squished when he sat. Jake could almost see a hefty black cloud of body odor waft toward the warden’s nostrils.
“I have a contract.” The warden pulled a piece of paper from a desk drawer and nodded at the guard to hand it to Jake. The contract was brief: the prison would allow the production of furniture for trade by the prisoners at their cost, with half the profits assigned to the warden.
Jake had expected as much. “To avoid problems with my government, I need to add a few details.” He kept his voice business-like, respectful. “Would you like me to use one of the clerk’s desks to write them out?”
Mendoza paused, then waved a guard to escort Jake into the outer office. “Do not alter my percentage.”
“Of course.” Jake held up his chained hands. “May these be removed so I can write without staining the paper?” Be submissive, maintain the warden as the one in charge. Or as Puno had said, “Pet the beast.”
Another wave of the warden’s hand won Jake’s freedom. A clerk yielded desk and pen to Jake, and he wrote swiftly in script tiny enough to cram everything onto the page. He and Puno had spent hours discussing what to include. “Feed the beast,” Puno said, “but allow no access to the source of his food.” Jake wasn’t surprised to learn that Puno had chaired the business department at a prominent Filipino university until Marcos deposed him and stuffed him away at Salonga Prison.
Finished, Jake took the lolling prison guards by surprise and quick-stepped to a copy machine to print off one copy before they stopped him. “For the warden.” He handed the original to a guard and pivoted to the warden’s door to shield his own copy. No way he’d leave the warden with the only document of their transaction.
Seated once again in the spindly cane chair, Jake spoke before the warden’s glower could harden into cement. “Please, permit me to read this out loud for your approval.” Without waiting, he read the opening paragraph. For the most part, it was as close to fawning over the warden’s generous permission as Jake could stomach. The next paragraph assigned the prisoners the full responsibility for the supplies, tools, production, transportation, and sale of the furniture. The prison guards would supervise them, as well as the safe storage of materials, tools, and products outside the prison walls.
The warden’s scowl softened, but the gritty part of the contract was coming up. Beneath the warden’s initial version, Jake had added financial terms that were more explicit. Until Jake’s loan for the start-up was fully repaid, he and the warden would split the income fifty-fifty. Thereafter, the profit would be shared twenty percent to the warden as the representative of the prison, and eighty percent to split among the participating inmates. “That’s twenty dollars to you, Warden, for every two dollars paid to four hundred inmates.”
“That is not fifty percent.”
“You’re right, Warden. It’s not fifty percent of what each worker makes, but ten times what each makes.” Puno had emphasized presenting the payout with this configuration. Would the warden go for it? “Or we could pay them more and you receive fifty percent of their profit. But why settle for that when this amount”—Jake pointed to the contract in his hand—“would not draw my country’s attention, nor, I imagine, your government’s?” Hold a sharp axe over the beast’s head, Puno had said.
Mendoza’s visible eye all but disappeared beneath his beetled brow. Mouth and chin closed in tight knots, as did his fists. Jake hurried to get the worst part out into the open.
The last paragraph put the accounting into a third party’s hands. Detective Lee’s.
The warden crushed his sheet of paper into a ball and slammed it into a wastepaper basket. “We have no contract. No deal. Go.”
Jake stood. “The Manila City Jail warden earned hundreds of thousands of pesos from the prisoners’ trades when I was there.”
Mendoza jumped to his feet. “Go!”
Puno awaited him a
t the gate. Inside, out of earshot of the guard, Jake filled his friend in. “I got to the last paragraph before he threw a fit.”
“Ah, the beast has gone to lair. He will want to spit fire one more time before he concedes. Until then”—Puno pulled four fat envelopes from beneath his shirt—“Detective Lee was here and is rounding up what we need to start the furniture. He will return next week.”
Jake snatched the envelopes from Puno. “Not to be rude, friend, but hold back my mail and you will have another beast on your hands.” His fingers trembled. Four letters—a feast for his soul. He shuffled through the return addresses. Brett, Dana, Betty, Crystal. He headed for his bunk, the closest thing to privacy he could get, short of a pungent corner of the courtyard and piranha flies.
“Wait, Jake. There is more.”
The tension in Puno’s voice halted Jake’s stride. He turned to face Puno.
“I learned from the guards where Captain Emilio disappeared to. After your fight, the doctor pulled him out and tended to his shoulder until his injury could sustain prison life.”
Jake blinked. “The warden knew about this?”
“The warden favors him for his bribes.”
All the old fury rose to Jake’s throat. “I knew I’d seen him at the caning.” He glared across the courtyard at group one’s archways. “He’s stayed out of sight since then. If he’s hiding, it’s not from fear. He’s up to something, Puno.”
Puno stroked his goatee. “Two enemies cannot rest in the same master’s bosom. One of you must prevail. I suggest it be you.”
Jake sighed. “Let’s hope that contract didn’t get me kicked out just now.”
Chapter 41
None of the four letters Lee gave him bore good news. Jake raced through each one, craving the contact of his loved ones, then slowly reread them. By the end of the week, each would be memorized, yet he would still read them over and over. Touch where their hands had touched the paper. Gaze at the familiar handwriting. Hear their voices as thoughts flowed from pen to paper. And in Dana’s case, inhale the perfume dabbed on her stationary. Her mother’s perfume. From the bottle he had set aside for Dana when he first arrived home from the island. A lump caught in his throat.