by Martin Clark
They arrived in Stuart at four thirty, two hours prior to daybreak, and Gates was placed in the drunk tank alone. Moments later, the lock clunked and in came Custis Norman, a large, flat jail key dangling from a metal ring in his hand. He snugged the door to the frame but didn’t allow the lock to catch. The room contained a concrete bench for sleeping and sitting, a metal toilet and a small sink and was fierce with the odor of urine, vomit, underarms and pine-scented disinfectant. Gates was already seated, which left Custis no choice but to stand. There was barely enough space for the two of them.
“Well, well, well,” Gates said sarcastically, “if it isn’t my little brother’s loyal sidekick, Robin. Nice of you to drop by so early in the mornin’. You walkin’ the dog and hear I was visiting?”
“Yeah. My pit bull.”
“You done your Christmas shoppin’ yet? Bought my present?”
“So listen, Gates, here’s the deal. You—”
“No, I’m afraid you need to listen, my friend.” Gates ratcheted a mean-spirited smile. “First, I’m not saying a fuckin’ word to you. I don’t need Mason sending his lackey to do his bidding. I’ll talk to him and him only—you’d think he’d at least have the guts to see me man to man. Second, I’m not stupid. I’m on strike until I’m sure you’re not buggin’ me, which I figure is occurring right this minute. So you need to make some arrangements.” He flicked his wrist several times in Custis’s direction. “Hop to it, Boy Wonder. Chop-chop.”
“We’re not being recorded,” Custis said, keeping his anger in check. “And the deal’s the deal, whether I tell you or your brother tells you.”
“Nope. I’m done.” He made a production of reclining on the concrete ledge and refusing to look at Custis.
“Hey, Gates, what kinda bird don’t fly?”
Gates yawned.
“Motherfuckin’ jailbird, chump, and your wings always gonna be clipped.” He left and noisily secured the door, went across the street to their office and fetched Mason. “Has to be you,” Custis said. “I tried.”
Gates was still in full lounge when Mason entered the cell, the pose an insolent, cocky, infuriating show, like he was a damn emperor receiving his subjects. “Ah,” he said, “the hero of Patrick County. I knew you’d somehow find it in your busy schedule to welcome me home.”
Nothing would have satisfied Mason more than lifting his leg and stomping the ever-loving shit out of his brother, but he disciplined himself, considered his child and his mother and how this was part of his own punishment, same as a tablespoon of castor oil. “Gates,” he said, subdued. “I’d hoped you and Custis could handle this.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you did. But it ain’t goin’ to be so easy, whatever it is that brought me here. How’s it feel to have your ass in a sling, by the way? For people to learn the truth about you and your crimes? Get knocked off your high horse?”
“We’re not being monitored, Gates. You don’t have to perform for a tape recorder.”
Gates sat upright, picked at his fingernails. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. See, I’m gonna be forced to demand we hold our brotherly reunion elsewhere, or I’ll be unable to participate.” He sliced the final word into four taunting syllables: par-tic-i-pate.
“Since you’re a convict, our options are limited. Where’d you have in mind?”
“Well, let’s see,” Gates said. “What wouldn’t you think of?”
“This is truly stupid. Why won’t you just listen to me? You can keep quiet, and I’ll do all the talking.”
“Nah.” Gates cranked an insincere grin. “I vote for the restroom at W & W Produce. They’re open twenty-four-seven, right? Maybe I could snag a cold beer while we’re there.”
“You can vote until hell freezes over. It’s not happening for you. You’re a prisoner. Prisoners don’t go on field trips. I’m not about to put Sheriff Hubbard at risk, even if I could.”
“How fuckin’ noble, Mason.” Gates stroked his chin. He was growing a goatee, but it was coming in tatty, needed trimming and thicker whiskers. “Okay. We hike upstairs to the courtroom, the ladies’ bathroom, and you find us a radio to hide our discussion.”
The jailer was reluctant to relocate Gates, protesting he didn’t want to get in the middle of a murder trial; he knew Gates was supposed to testify against his brother and he’d only gone this far because it was Custis doing the asking and the sheriff himself had okayed it before he’d signed off for the day. Custis returned and browbeat him, and they finally phoned the sheriff at home—he was up, dressing to feed his cattle—and he said there wasn’t any problem so long as the prisoner remained in custody, instructed the jailer to take him on to the courtroom toilet and sit there next to the door until Gates and Mason finished. “If he wants to see his brother or our assistant commonwealth’s attorney, it’s his business,” the sheriff stated and brusquely ended the connection.
Mason trotted to his office and borrowed Sheila’s small black radio while the jailer accompanied Gates to the ladies’ bathroom. He stayed with Gates, aimlessly chatting until Mason arrived, then searched the radio, shut the door and left the brothers to themselves.
Gates also gave the radio a good going-over and spent several minutes combing through the bathroom, pouring out the syrupy blue soap from its dispenser, unrolling toilet tissue, upending the trash can, poking and shifting ceiling tiles. “Never can be too careful, huh?” he told Mason. He tuned the radio to mostly loud static, opened both spigots full blast and ran water into the basin. The water struck bottom and splattered up drops onto the cloudy old mirror and the dingy plaster around the sink.
“Satisfied?” Mason asked.
“Well, almost. Never know about you, do I?”
“Feel free to pat me down,” Mason said.
Gates laughed. “Don’t think so. You feel free to undress, and we’ll proceed from there.”
Mason glared at his brother, who’d flipped down the commode lid and was sitting on it with his legs arrogantly crossed, one foot on the floor, the other dangling off his knee.
“You too high and mighty for that, Mason?”
“I’m not wired,” Mason told him, but he knew it wouldn’t matter.
“You can strip, or we can talk about sports and current events. How ’bout them Redskins?”
Mason began with his belt, handing each clothing item to Gates for inspection until he was completely naked, a bare ceiling bulb illuminating him, cold air bleeding into the room. “See? Nothing. Hope you’re happy.”
“Almost,” Gates answered. He discarded the clothes into a haphazard heap on the floor. “Now you can lift your nuts and finish by turnin’ around and spreadin’ your lovely butt cheeks. Kinda like we do in prison. Kinda like what they did to me before I left this morning and then again when I got here.”
“No.”
“Have it your way. I don’t care. You can save up till you’re able to do it for real, after you’re convicted. With a prison guard and a larger audience.” Gates smirked.
“And you can finish your forty-four-year sentence. Every second of it.”
“I’d say you have more to lose than me. Like you’ve said before, I’ll hit mandatory parole in several months, anyway. Thank heaven I was tried before they monkeyed with the rules, huh?”
“You’re pathetic, Gates. You truly are.”
Gates unfolded his leg and lowered his foot to the tile. “You can do the nut juggle, or I’ll call ol’ Barney Fife out there and we’ll stroll back to my personal suite without you and me ever talkin’ brass tacks. Take your pick, big fella.”
“Shit like this causes you to seem even more the punk.”
“Barney?” Gates yelled, all dare and challenge. “Deputy Fife?”
Mason complied. He cupped and raised his testicles and then turned and spread his legs and reached around and pulled his butt apart.
Gates responded with mock applause. “You’ll make somebody a fine bitch. Yessir.”
“Can we cut to the chase
now, Gates? The less time I spend with you, the happier I am.”
“No reason to be so rude.”
“May I have my clothes?”
“May I have my clothes, please,” Gates chided him.
“Please,” Mason said, boiling.
“No, you may not. Let’s see how you enjoy bein’ humiliated and denied even basic necessities.” Gates rested against the commode tank. “So why am I here? What are you plannin’ to do for me? And don’t waste your breath on any bullshit that doesn’t have me waving bye to the penitentiary.”
“I could come over there and take them,” Mason declared.
“You could, but you won’t because you can’t afford to upset me.”
“At nine sharp, the judge will hold a bond hearing on your writ of coram vobis. You stand there and keep your smart mouth shut, and you’ll be okay. If anyone asks, you and your jailhouse advisors wrote the motion.”
“I didn’t file anything, not here, not lately.”
“Correct. I did, on your behalf.”
Gates cackled, bitter as hell. “I knew havin’ to save your own precious hide would focus your mind.” He cackled again. “So what kind of legal rabbit have you yanked outta your hat for me? The Koran? How’d you say it?”
“The specifics don’t concern you. Basically, the motion argues your lab report was suspect because they only tested a small sample of the whole cocaine bag. The commonwealth could only prove—beyond a reasonable doubt—a tiny portion was actually dope. Who can say about the remainder? It wasn’t analyzed, just weighed. The jury should’ve only been allowed to consider a penny-ante drug deal and not stick you with the entire ounce.”
“Damn, there you go. Now we’re cookin’ with gas!”
“Today, the judge is very likely to grant you bond pending the final hearing on your motion. I expect you’ll be turned loose well before lunch. I have this on excellent authority. Mom is waiting to post your bail with money I’ve provided her, but she doesn’t want you living there. We’ve made arrangements for an apartment above the flower shop. Rent’s paid for six months.”
“No walking ’round money, Mason? You probably know this, being a trained, professional lawyer, but the state really doesn’t give you a new suit and a crisp hundred when they’re done with you.”
“It’s negotiable,” Mason said.
“I don’t come cheap.”
“I’ll toss in a hundred bucks and the new suit,” Mason said sarcastically. “As a bonus, you can keep my jeans and sweater.”
“Let me guess—all I have to do is change my testimony. Sing a new tune?”
“All you have to do is tell the damn truth, Gates. We’ll have you sign a statement and video you reading it.”
Gates gathered his face. “Yeah. Hmmm. And the moment the ink’s dry and you have the statement, you bastards revoke my bond and my motion is dismissed and off I go to pull the rest of my forty-four years. You must think I’m a total dumb-ass.”
“Yeah, I do think you’re a total dumb-ass, but that’s not the issue. You need to evaluate what the other side’s offering you. Compare your options. They can’t save you a single second or pay you one thin dime. There’s no reward for being spiteful, other than how great you must feel about yourself.”
“They’re gonna write the governor and try for a pardon.”
“Oh, I’d count on the governor—a politician, mind you—releasing a dope dealer early. You’re right: you’ve got better odds selecting that plan. Yeah, my bad. Hell, Gates, my trial’s not till February, and we both realize you’re stuck at least that long.”
Gates appeared frustrated. “It’s worth servin’ my whole sentence if it means you’ll have to suffer and squirm and get a taste of what you and everybody else has put me through. Fuck it.”
“I doubt the judge would grant bond unless he felt your motion had a strong probability of success.”
“You’re trying to scam me, Mason. Play me for a fool. Look at you standing there with your dick all shriveled up like a bait minnow.” Gates snorted. “Well, I’m not fallin’ for your bullshit. My testimony changes only if I’m set free and stay free and I have it guaranteed and you drop fifty thousand cash on me. Otherwise, you and Mr. Stallings can settle this.”
“I predict you will make bond, I predict the judge will take your motion seriously and strong-arm your court-appointed lawyer and the attorney general’s office into a compromise. Moreover, I predict that if you look in the freezer at your new digs, you’ll discover five thousand in cash. I’ll see to it you receive fifteen more.” The radio was popping and cracking and a wispy snatch of an announcer’s voice came and went.
“Compromise?” Gates asked.
“I believe the judge will indicate he feels your motion is sound and he plans to grant you a new trial, and he’ll note it would be a significant waste of effort and resources to appeal his decision to the Supreme Court or incur the expense of another trial when the dispute concerns the last few crumbs of a forty-four-year sentence. He’ll encourage both sides to allow you to serve the remainder of your time by enrolling in the day-reporting center. Basically you’ll stop by a couple times a week and attend some classes and piss in a cup. A four-to six-month program. He’ll push for that resolution, and I have a friend in the AG’s office who’ll be sympathetic as well.”
“How do I know you won’t cut my throat?” Gates asked. He was closer to the edge of the toilet, his hands together and churning, busy, excited, a ball of worms. “I want it in writing.”
“Afraid not. Listen. I’m telling you how this will happen for you if you don’t screw me. No one is stupid enough to write it down. But you’re protected because we want you to disappear. It makes no sense to double-cross you and have you raising hell and whining to the press and returning to Stallings ready to recite your lie again. My goal is to completely put this to rest.”
“Once I change, I’m history,” Gates said. “My testimony’s dead meat after I switch to your side. A moron could see that.”
“True, but do you think I want the headache? I’m anxious to tie this off, not have another round with you and Stallings and whoever else.” Mason stepped forward and the movement startled his brother, causing him to separate his hands and stand up from the toilet. Mason reached past him and began collecting his clothes, dressing. “Think of it this way, Gates: even if I do swindle you, you’re no worse off than you were in terms of how long you have to pull, and you’ll be twenty thousand richer and the beneficiary of this nice sabbatical.”
“You cocksuckers are as rotten as maggots on roadkill. Funny you couldn’t make this possible ten years ago.”
“My lawyer, Pat Sharpe, will meet you at nine forty-five, before Bass, Minter and Stallings have their shot at you. I’ve told Pat we anticipate you’re prepared to offer a different version of events, but he has no idea your act of conscience is being purchased, so don’t spill the beans and cause complications. I’ll give you the balance of the money as soon as you recant and we have it on film.” Mason pulled his sweater on. His head stuck at the neck opening, then popped through. “Today’s the day, Gates. This will come unglued if you don’t cooperate right now.”
“I want fifty.”
“Twenty’s the market price. Take the cash and be sprung from jail, or lie and leave empty-handed. We’re finished negotiating. Pat will be at your new address. Key’s with Marilyn at the register.”
“Apologize,” Gates demanded.
“Apologize?” Mason repeated, incredulous. “To you? For what? You…” He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t resist the rage, and he grabbed Gates by the throat with both hands and drove him against the wall, but Gates was ready, fought back, clamped down on Mason’s wrists and tried to kick him in the groin. Mason twisted and blocked the blow with his shin, and he slammed Gates’s head hard as he could into the wall and Gates let loose of his wrist and swung roundhouse, hitting Mason solid on the jaw, and the deputy came busting in and wrapped Mason around the waist
and wrestled the two men apart. They stood there panting and glaring at each other, on fire with hate. Above the commode, an unframed cardboard landscape had been jarred crooked.
“Your choice, Gates,” Mason said as the jailer was removing his brother from the john.
“Should’ve said you were sorry,” Gates snarled. “Given me my due.”
“I lost my temper,” Mason admitted to Custis upon returning to their office, Sheila’s radio in his hand, the cord unwound and dragging on the floor. “I promised myself I’d kiss his ass for Grace’s sake, and I couldn’t do it. It’s probably irretrievable now. Totally my fault—we knew what was coming, and I let everyone down.”
“Can’t blame yourself,” Custis said. “We’re lucky I didn’t go off on him, and I was only in the cell a few minutes.”
They sat together and marked time, Mason sipping coffee. There was no sunrise to speak of, only a waxing, uniform gray light that blended in with the mountains and rendered the town sluggish and lackluster, and around nine the sky began to spit snow and plump raindrops, causing Sheila to scurry from the parking lot on the balls of her feet and shake off her umbrella underneath the awning. By nine thirty, Mason and Custis didn’t even bother with small talk. Custis took several phone calls and Sheila brought the mail, and at ten fifteen there was still no report from Sharpe. Mason and Custis debated whether Gates had actually made bond, and Custis suggested maybe they should check with Pat’s office or try his cell, and they spun their wheels and agonized, Custis twice leaving for the upstairs toilet, mumbling “my stomach” over his shoulder. Mason finally lay back his chair and closed his eyes, a pen-and-ink illustration from a childhood magic primer hogging his thoughts, a sketch of a playing card balanced on its teeny edge, a well-drawn finger coaxing it erect, the king of clubs paralyzed by thin air.