Justice

by Faye Kellerman

  Slowly I made my way to the dining-room table. Out of habit, I asked him if I could get him something to drink.

  "Someone with manners." Again he smiled. His teeth were white and capped. "I like that. No, I don't want anything to drink, thank you. Sit down."

  I sat.

  "So you know who I am, huh?"

  I nodded.

  "You been expecting me? Christopher must have spooked you good. The kid has more sense than I thought."

  I was silent.

  "So I don't have to introduce myself, do I?"

  I shook my head no.

  "Christopher told you all about me?"

  "I guess."

  "You guess? What do you mean, you guess? It's a yes or no question."

  "He ..." I swallowed hard. "He told me a little about you."

  "Like what?"

  My head was ringing. "Like ..." I cleared my throat. "He told me you adopted him after his mother died. He told me that you took him in when he had nowhere else to go."

  "Yeah, only the good stuff, right?" He laughed again. "He also tell you I was a son of a bitch?"

  Again I shook my head no.

  "Nothin' like that, huh?"

  "Only that you shouldn't... be messed with. He really loves you a lot."

  "You're a terrible liar."

  I shut up, waiting for the bomb to drop. But he seemed unhurried calm and relaxed. Of course, he had all the power. Why shouldn't he take his time?

  He examined his knuckles. "Tell you one thing, little girl. Christopher means the world to me. This whole business about this dead girl... what was her name?"

  "Cheryl Diggs."

  "Yeah, Cheryl Diggs. I know my son. Christopher didn't do nothin' to her."

  I nodded.

  "Not that Christopher doesn't have some growing up to do. But why would he bother wasting a whore? It's stupid and pointless, and Christopher isn't stupid or pointless. I'm not saying this Diggs de- 256

  served to die. But it ain't Christopher's fault if the little whore took some bum chances. So I'm not shedding tears for her, you know what I'm saying?"

  I nodded.

  "Some cop had something against the name Donatti; next thing I knew, my son was arrested, booked, and arraigned. Pissed me off, but I coulda lived with it. That's why I got my lawyers on retainers. You wanna know what really pissed me off?"

  I waited, didn't dare move.

  He said, "What really pissed me off was what Christopher did for you. Taking all this heat and time just to bury a couple of pictures of you spreadin' your legs. You know what that means, girlie? It means I don't like you much."

  I felt sweat dripping off my forehead. He beckoned me closer with a crooked finger. I moved in until I was inches away from his face. I expected to be overwhelmed with the smell of garlic or cigar smoke. Instead, he was perfumed with good cologne. He waved his finger in my face.

  "You owe me, Teresa. You took my son from me. That means you got a debt to pay."

  I was starting to feel dizzy. Sparks of light pinpricked my brain and I made a big push to breathe deeply. If he noticed my distress, he wasn't worried about it. He was back to studying his hands. His nails were short and clean. No pinkie ring.

  I waited, too frightened to speak.

  Softly he said, "But I'm a decent man, Teresa. Despite what you heard about me, I'm a fair person. You owe me. But I'm willing to let bygones be bygones, for Christopher's sake. Because I really do love my son."

  I licked my lips and waited for him to continue.

  "I want Christopher happy," he said. "And that isn't going to be easy, girlie. Because he's going to a shithole. As pens go, Piedmont ain't all that rotten. But it isn't the best place for him. There aren't enough blood brothers and way too many niggers. I wanted to transfer him back east, but he didn't want it. Kids. Try to do them favors ..."

  His eyes went back to my face.

  "Christopher's a very strong boy. Resilient is the fancy word for him. He'll do okay wherever he is. But that don't mean I don't want the best for him. You should too if you love him."

  I felt my eyes well up with tears. I managed to stave them off. "Yes, of course."

  His eyes took on a menacing squint. "My sonny loves you very 257

  much, Teresa. Too much in my opinion, but I can't control his heart. So you know what he's doing? He's doing time for you. Least we can do ... both of us... is try to make his time at Piedmont as good as possible. You with me?"

  "I'll do anything you want."

  He seemed to be examining my face. Apparently I met with his approval because he gave a slight nod.

  "Glad to hear you say that. Because I've arranged something for him... for you and him. Just the two of you. You understand what I'm saying?"

  I didn't and my face must have reflected my confusion.

  "Time alone with him, Teresa. I expect you to be nice to him, girlie. Real. .. real... nice."

  The light bulb went on, but I didn't respond.

  "You do understand me, don't you?"

  "I think so."

  He threw back his head in frustration, a mannerism I'd seen in Chris. "You think so? Do I gotta spell it out for you?"

  Quickly I shook my head no.

  "Good. So we understand what's expected?"

  I nodded.

  Donatti smiled. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

  Again I shook my head no.

  "So here's the deal, Teresa. Christopher's being transferred in a week. Give him a month or two to settle in. When he does, I'll send someone by here to drive you to Piedmont. He'll call you a couple days before. Give you time to work around your parents. You don't tell them nothing. This is between you and me!"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Now I got some very important advice for you. So listen up."

  I waited.

  Donatti said, "I'm gonna try to get you in as a paralegal. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. Either way, you're a natural beauty and that's a big problem. When you go to the hole, you wear an old-lady dark, loose dress with long sleeves and a high neck. Nothin' bare showing, little girl, not even your feet. Wear some old slippers with socks or something. They won't let you in if your shoes got laces. Are we together so far?"

  I nodded.

  "Good. No makeup, no perfume, and braid your hair up. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes plastered on the ground. If I get you 258 Justice 255

  credentials, you show them at the desk, then some guard'll take you through to my sonny. Now it's true I'm calling the shots. But in real terms, you're gonna be at the mercy of some guard I bribed. Which means he's got the principles of a turnip. If he happens to get it in his mind to hit on you, if he backs you into a corner, just let him do whatever the hell he wants. I'll make him sorry later. But that won't help you in the short run, will it?"

  Slowly, I shook my head.

  "Remember, you're going to a place that houses nothing but cutthroat son of a bitches who haven't been with a woman in a very long time. You make a wrong turn, Teresa, you're gonna be history." Donatti moved in close. "You think you can handle that?"

  I whispered a yes.

  "Look at me when you talk."

  I managed to meet Donatti's eyes. "I can handle it." My eyes remained on his, locked in ocular combat. "I can handle it, sir, and I will handle it. This is not a punishment for me. It is a privilege."

  Donatti pursed his lips as he continued to stare at me. "Good answer. You really love my sonny, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "That's too bad. Because he's marrying someone else."

  "I know."

  "Pity," he said without emotion. "But that's life. Sometimes it's good. And sometimes it sucks. Like I told you, my man'll call a couple days in advance. Expect it."

  He stood and so did I. But he motioned me back down. "I can see myself to the door. I'm not as old as I look." He said. "Off the record, Teresa. You think he did it?"

  I shook my head no.

  "Why not?"

&
nbsp; I looked down, then back at his eyes, remembering how he liked eye contact when I talked. Just like Chris. It made me wonder. In actuality, how dissimilar were father and son? "He didn't do it... because the murder was too messy."

  Donatti stared at me. "That's a reason?"

  "It's a good one if you know Chris."

  "You saying I don't know my own son?"

  I shook my head no. "I'm just... Christopher is very neat, that's all."

  Slowly he nodded. "You got a good eye, little girl." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "You're a tough one. Tough, but you don't know 259

  it. It makes you appealing. That and your face. You got one hell of a face on you. Goddamn edible. You want to keep it that way, you be good to my boy. No complaints, you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "You won't hear from me again directly unless something goes wrong. Make sure it don't happen."

  He closed the door. I felt an unimaginable relief as if I had suddenly found shelter from a blistering rainstorm. I prayed the refuge wasn't temporary.

  Time passed quickly, time dragged its heels. An overcast June and July suddenly burst into a smog-choked, sweltering August. It seemed as though the call would never come. Then when it did everything happened too quickly. I made hasty arrangements with a voice on the phone line. Two days later, nine a.m. sharp, I was picked up by two men in dark suits. Neither spoke as they flanked me, both gently guiding me with a soft hold on my elbows. I was led to an air-conditioned midnight-blue Lincoln with smoked-glass windows, ushered into the back with its plush leather seats. I was offered water or soft drinks, which I declined, before I was whisked away.

  I dressed just as Donatti had told me. If my escort's face was a mirror reflecting my sex appeal, I was in good shape. He lowered his shades for a millisecond, then slipped them back on. His attitude said I was a stick of wood. Most of the time I kept My eyes on my lap. But I did manage an occasional glance out the window.

  The prison was about a three-hour drive away. A medium-security correctional facility, Piedmont was built about twenty-five years ago. It was located one hundred and fifty miles northeast of Los Angeles, erected inside an isolated pocket of hell-hot desert and water-starved scrub. The ride was long and monotonous endless miles of blacktop passing through Joshua trees, gnarled oaks, and chaparral, which eventually gave way to tumbleweeds and pincushions of cacti. In another time, I might have fallen asleep, lulled by the breeze of the car's air-

  conditioning, rocked by the Lincoln's suspension. But I was too nervous to doze.

  As the hours passed, I grew hotter and hotter. My backseat companion must have noticed me wiping my damp forehead. Without a word, he turned up the blower. It cooled my skin but did little to relieve the internal heat. He reached under the seat, pulled out a small cooler, and handed me a can of Coke. Someone must have instructed him to take good care of me. I took a couple of sips, then elected to cool off my hot cheeks with chilled aluminum.

  Three hours later, we were in the county of Piedmont. There were no residents or businesses to speak of the county was the prison. There were lots of posted warning signs along the roads. The unsuspecting should beware, though I couldn't imagine anyone traveling these sinkhole roads unless they had business with the prison. Indeed, the only vehicles we'd passed in the last hour had been a blue prison bus with metal-grate windows and black-and-white sheriff cars.

  The Lincoln signaled right, exiting on a well-worn turnoff to the prison. The road was two lanes a streak of pitted asphalt. On either side was an endless bleak horizon.

  The sun was close to its high point, the outside heat pouring through the darkened windows. Despite valiant efforts from the Lincoln's cooling system, the desert proved victorious. The inside temperature had turned tepid. My dark clothing was ringed with moisture despite liberal applications of morning antiperspirant.

  Off in the distance, I could make out a speck of gray. As we drove farther, the speck grew and grew, eventually materializing into a concrete, impenetrable mountain jungled by vines of laser-hot barbed wire. If I looked up and squinted, I could make out the turrets of the guards' towers rising into the sun's glare. My head was pounding, I felt sick to my stomach.

  We parked as close as we could to the entrance. As soon as the car door opened, I was smothered by a relentless, broiling heat. I was helped out of the car, but I felt light-headed. I must have stumbled because both men tightened their grip on my elbows. Slowly, I was led to the prison.

  Once inside, I was aware of the drop in temperature but that was all I was able to take in. Sweating and shaky, I didn't notice much because my eyes had been bleached by the hot, outdoor light. Once they did adjust, I kept them focused on the floor tile. I have some fuzzy recollection of showing some papers, of signing into a logbook. Then I was handed over to a female prison official dressed in khakis, a gun riding her hip. She took me in back, into a supply closet, and 262

  closed the door, leaving both of us in pitch darkness. Then she turned on a dim, bare light bulb.

  My eyes hadn't left my feet.

  She frisked me thoroughly over my clothes. Then she reached up onto a high supply shelf and pulled down a suit of prison blues and a pair of paper slippers and told me to change my clothes. I wasn't looking at her face, but I know she was watching me as I disrobed. Then she frisked me again, examining every crevice I had. But that was as bad as it got. Satisfied, she told me I could get dressed, then to put my hands behind my back. When I did, she handcuffed me. The cuffs were loose. I could have wiggled out of them, but I said nothing. She clutched my arm and opened the door to the supply room.

  She poked her head outside. Another guard this one male was standing watch. The two of them sandwiched me just like Donatti's men. Same walk, different uniforms. They told me to keep my head down. I obeyed without question.

  They led me down a series of poorly lit corridors that stank of urine and grime. Eyes on my feet, I had no idea where I was going. My sense of direction was scrambled. I was vaguely aware of solid-steel meat-locker-type doors on either side of me. I could hear things in the background angry shouts, screams, curses in several languages, and even laughter.

  Abruptly, we stopped in front of one of the doors. The female guard took out a ring of keys and opened it. The portal was as thick as a bank vault's. Suddenly I was pushed inside. My handcuffs were removed and I was instructed to wait. The door slammed shut and I was encased in semidarkness. I was happy to be alone. But I was also terrified of being left alone.

  For a brief moment, I was seized with panic. The shakes came on in waves. I forced myself to relax, managed to block off an anxiety attack. I couldn't even fathom what Chris must have gone through the first couple of days ... the fear and depression ... the singular lack of freedom.

  This was it for him for at least five years.

  I grabbed my body as if it were a life preserver and looked around. A hermetically sealed padded cell, except there was a beam of light from a small, single-grated dormer window above. The pen couldn't have been larger than six by eight. But at least I could stand. That was good because I was too scared to sit.

  I strained to hear something ... anything. But all I could make out was the sound of my own breathing. To keep from going crazy, I started counting mentally. Three hundred and fifty-two beats later, the 263

  door reopened. The same guards escorted someone else in blues. But unlike me, this body was taller than either of the officials.

  They told him to face the wall, which he did. One of the guards whispered something in his ear. He nodded, then his handcuffs were taken off his wrists and he placed his hands atop his head. The guards told him to hold the position until the door closed. When it did, he dropped his arms to his sides and turned around.

  Chris.

  At least I thought it was him.

  I had known a lanky teenager. What I now saw was a developed man. His upper body was fuller, his biceps pronounced under his short sleeves. His hands had somehow enlarge
d in two months. They were big, his smooth musician's knuckles roughened by some sort of manual labor. His thick golden hair had been nearly shorn to the scalp, leaving only peach fuzz. His cheeks and chin had been obliterated by a reddish-blond lawn.

  I found the strength to look at his eyes. They were as unreadable as ever. I took comfort in that familiarity. Anything I could grab. He massaged his wrists.

  "Are you all right?" he asked me.