Prisoners of the Williwaw

by Ed Griffin

  Joe tapped the dashboard. "Oil gauge is stuck." Sandwiches…and cars…were a way into his heart.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes and passed the earthquake-damaged, split-level slab of concrete that used to be Runway B. The road swung to the right and climbed a hill, steeper than Bering Hill. They crested the hill and saw Larson in the middle of the road trying to free his jeep from a big pothole. Joe braked, turned off the key and jumped out of the van. "Be careful, Joe," she shouted after him.

  They were right near the little clump of trees the Navy had planted fifty years before, the only trees on Adak. The sign, which was about a man's height, said, "You are now entering…and leaving… the Adak National Forest." The sign stood taller than most of the trees.

  She squirmed over to Joe's seat and got out of the van. Larson ran through the trees and Joe was right behind him. What would happen if he caught him?

  She entered the clump of trees in pursuit - there were only a few dozen trees in the whole forest. The trunks were gnarled and twisted like a giant had shoved them down every time they tried to grow.

  Suddenly off to her left, behind a little ridge, she saw Larson heading for the road. Joe ran after him, twenty paces behind. He had his gun drawn. "Joe," she called out, but either he didn't hear her or he ignored her.

  Larson got to his jeep, reached inside, hesitated a second, then when Joe was right behind him, he turned and swung a tire iron with massive force. Joe took the blow on his shoulder and slumped to the ground.

  Maggie pushed a few little trees out of her way and ran toward the two men. She saw Larson take Joe's gun and then struggle to lift his jeep out of the hole. Every muscle on his huge shoulders and neck strained. Just as she arrived, he succeeded, got in the jeep, spun it around and headed for Downtown.

  Maggie bent down to help Joe up, but he stood up on his own, his face intent on the departing jeep. "I'm gonna get that bastard." He ignored her help, almost pushing her aside. "Come on," he ordered.

  She tried to get in the van through his door as quickly as she could. Behind her she felt his impatience. Again he struggled to start the van, but this time he wasn't the artist with the recalcitrant machine; he was the short-tempered mechanic, cursing his machine.

  "Would you like another sandwich, Joe?"

  "No. I'm gonna get that guy."

  How could she ever stop him, wake him up, tell him that real police use their heads?

  Dark clouds full of rain hung over the island. The mist intensified and Joe had to stop twice to clear the windshield. They had lost sight of Larson. As they neared the Sea Otter Joe suddenly accelerated again and turned sharply into the parking lot of the club. Larson's jeep was in the parking lot and Larson himself was approaching it, coming from the club. Joe slammed on the brakes, turned off the key, jumped out of the van, and ran toward him. "Stay there," he shouted back at her.

  Maggie saw Joe push Larson against the jeep and search him. She was glad to see Joe take his own gun back. But suddenly she noticed another man creeping along the edge of the next car. A scene from one of her father's western movies flashed into her head: the sheriff arresting the bad guy in front of the saloon while another bad guy crept up alongside the building.

  Maggie pushed at the horn of the old van. Nothing happened. She tried to roll down the window on her side, but it wouldn't move. She hit at the horn again and again, pushing as hard as she could. The other man had a short stick like a policeman's club in his hand. He was crouching down, getting ready to spring at Joe from the back.

  She pulled herself into Joe's seat and opened the door, but it was too late. The other man hit Joe on the back of the head and then Larson turned and hit Joe with a blow to the stomach, one to the head, then another to the stomach. He grabbed Joe's gun again.

  Maggie jumped down from the van. "Stop, you!" she shouted.

  Larson and the other man looked up and saw Maggie coming toward them. She recognized the other man as one of Gilmore's men, a man who had worked at the factory once or twice. Larson pulled his leg back and kicked Joe hard in the chest. Then he and the other man got in the jeep and took off.

  Maggie lifted Joe's head out of the mud. At first he did not respond, but then he opened his eyes.

  "Are you all right, Joe?"

  He didn't answer, but got up, an angry look on his face. When he was standing, he turned toward the van. She pulled on him to stop. "Larson. I'm gonna get him."

  "No, Joe, wait till you have help."

  "Lemme go."

  Maggie hung on. Suddenly he turned and pushed her, sending her sprawling into the mud. She got right back up and grabbed his parka to stop him. He pulled her hand off his parka and shoved her hard, away from himself. She fell backward and landed on a stone, which dug into her back.

  The pain was intense, but worse than the pain was the realization that - just as her friend, Carla, had warned her - his violence had turned on her.

  She tried to get up. He was still heading for the van. "Wait, Joe," she cried.

  But he kept on.

  Suddenly she got angry. Her tears dried and she struggled to her feet. Why did he push her down? She was always trying to help him. I've been going at this all wrong. It's time to let my own anger out and tell him off. God knows I've tried every other way to help him.

  She started after him. "Just you wait up, Joe," she said, but her pudgy legs could not take long steps.

  He spun around to face her. "I'm gonna get Larson" he shouted, his jaw set, his fist clenched.

  She walked up to him and raised her arm and pushed him in the chest. "You had no right to hit me!" she said. She dropped her right hand back, then put her whole body into a slap to his face.

  She pushed past him and pulled herself up into the van through the driver's side. She began to sob.

  He stood outside the door to the van, looking over at the low, wet clouds that now covered Mt. Moffett. His face was grim and unmoving. She saw the mark of her hand still on his face. He stood there until the rain that had been threatening came in torrents.

  He climbed into the van and looked at her, but said nothing. When he turned the key, the engine sputtered and died. A second time, and the van chugged and coughed itself to life. She sobbed quietly in her seat and Joe drove back down the main road, toward Bering Hill. The wind blew harder and the rain hammered into the windshield. Joe stuck his head out the window to see and inched along between the potholes.

  At the barracks Joe stopped the van. He looked over at her and said, "I'm sorry."

  She looked back at him and put her hand on his arm. "Never again, Joe, never again."

  Tears came to his eyes. "Never again," he repeated.

  He opened the door. Frank stood in the entranceway of the Marine Barracks smoking a cigarette. "Did you get him, Joe?"

  "No. Larson's still on the loose."

  Chapter 27

  Insert the instructions into the plastic bag, place cushioning protectors on each end of the stereo, slide it into the box, put the instructions on top of the stereo, close the box and tape it. Over and over. A low-priced ghetto blaster.

  Frank did it now without thinking. Despite being the 'president' of Adak, he worked in shipping, a department Blanche Carvinere inspected frequently. "If you people are anything like my husband, I'm gonna watch you like a hawk."

  It gave him time to think. Instructions into the plastic bag. Put the right cushion on. Everything was unraveling. On Sunday, Joe had failed to arrest Larson. Here it was Tuesday and the man still roamed free. Put the left cushion on, then inch the stereo into the box. He had tried to talk to Judy about everything falling apart, but she had TV, or rather the lack of it, on her mind. "I'm missing all my shows, Frank. We could pick up satellite right now, if we had a set and the dish. I'll bet a lot of people want TV."

  His relationship with Judy was another thing that was unraveling.

  Put the instructions in, close the box and tape it. On Monday night after work he tried to hold a council
meeting. "Curfew until we find Larson." The motion failed. "$5,000 reward for Larson's arrest." The motion passed, but no one had any idea where to get $5,000. "Let's put guards at Doc's clinic and the food store, because he's surely gonna go there." The motion passed, but nobody signed up as guard.

  The council passed motions off into irrelevancy. They used democracy as a game, not as a means to solve problems. Democracy, his ideal, had ground to a halt. What Frank did, in a practical way, was to get Joe to watch the clinic and the store.

  Put the box on the pile. Fifty boxes in a skid. Shrink-wrap the whole thing. That was progress, that was work. Fifty boxes on a skid.

  Another set of instructions. Right cushion, left cushion. The big unraveling lay ahead, absolute chaos, an explosion of their world - the introduction of three hundred more convicts. At any moment he expected a fax from the Bureau of Prisons, responding to the council resolution requesting more inmates.

  Slide the stereo in, put the instructions in, tape the box, start a new skid. 49 more to go.

  Even his campaign to get re-elected was in trouble. "Get on top of it, Frank," Doc kept saying. "Manage it." But he had added a ten percent tax on wages to meet the cost of fuel oil for the winter. That was in addition to the five percent tax for schools and the five and five formula to pay for roads and plumbing. This last tax Gilmore accused Frank of levying, even though it was Gilmore's suggestion in council. The total tax rate was now twenty-five percent and Frank knew it still wasn't enough. He would have to hit everyone with at least another ten percent and he had to do it soon.

  "You tax after the election, Frank," Doc said, "Not before."

  Instructions, cushions, tape, 48 more to go. The buzzer sounded. Five o'clock.

  Outside, Gilmore stood at the plant gate, campaigning, handing out buttons, free smokes and coupons good at the Sea Otter. Frank walked by him. He could feel the tension between them like two positively charged electrodes coming near each other.

  "Campaign button?" Gilmore asked, holding one out to him, an ironic grin on his face.

  He refused the button. "You're late for work, Gilmore. Job starts at 7 AM."

  Nowhere. He got nowhere with Gilmore, and Gilmore got nowhere with him. The two of them just spit electrons at each other.

  Frank stopped at the clinic for a few minutes to chat with Doc, but he was busy. He started his walk to Bering Hill to be with Judy, but he wanted to check the fax machine in his office before he went home. Heavy, rolling clouds covered Adak, with occasional intense showers. In between the showers, shafts of sunlight broke through. A day of changes, a day you just couldn't figure out.

  At the Bering Building, he climbed the stairs to his second floor office. As he approached his office he saw Latisha through the open door studying a form, the boxes from the IRS open at her feet. She and Maggie had been coming to his office regularly to 'put it in shape,' as Maggie said.

  Latisha wore the same sweatshirt and jeans she'd worn at work, but somehow she looked sexier now. Why was his mind playing tricks on him like this? Every time he saw her outside the factory, she seemed incredibly sexy. All those years in prison he knew how to look at women - not at all - and now he had lost control.

  He paused for a second outside the door, enjoying the look of her. Her sweatshirt swirled with reds, greens and yellows. Black hair, thin figure, sweatshirt revealing two perfect bumps, jeans tight around a rear end he wanted to hold.

  "Oh, Jesus," he muttered to himself and went into his office. "Hi Latisha. You beat me here. What're you working on?"

  "An 831 slash J."

  He stood next to her. The wonderful herbal smell. The shining black hair. Let go, his mind said. Take her hand and . . .

  "What does an 831 slash J do? I can't wait to find out."

  She laughed. "I don't know, but you were supposed to fax one to the government every week."

  Frank smiled and picked two faxes off the machine. One was a ruling about how many plugs had to be in federal offices and what kind of plugs they had to be. The other was the fax he had been dreading.

  Mr. Frank Villa

  Adak Island Prison

  Dear Mr. Villa:

  Pursuant to the agreement establishing Adak Island Prison, federal officials have the right to visit Adak at least four (4) times in a year (Paragraph 6, sub. 9). We will be exercising that right around the end of October.

  Our arrival will be accomplished with military support to prevent any incident.

  If conditions do not meet with Bureau approval, the Bureau retains the right to close the prison. ( Paragraph 9, sub 1)

  Mr. Alexander Duban, the head of Pocket Products Inc., has insisted on coming with us to visit his factory on Adak. We have warned Mr. Duban of the possible dangers, but he is insistent. Please do all you can to ensure his safety. Without Mr. Duban, as you well know, there would be no prison on Adak.

  It is in your interest to see that his visit is successful.

  Again pursuant to our agreement (Paragraph 9, sub. 2 "the population of Adak Island Prison will be gradually increased until such time as the Federal Government judges it to be sufficient"), and based on your council resolution #6, requesting more inmates, we are readying a new group of convicts from several state and federal facilities, including the federal facilities at Atlanta, Beaumont, Leavenworth, Lompoc and Florence. In the spirit of cooperation, we would like to negotiate the details of their arrival.

  Best wishes,

  Mr. John Graham

  Assistant Director

  JG/sg

  Frank dropped his hands to his side. So - it was true. Every federal facility named was a maximum security or at least had a max on the grounds. The worst was ADX Florence, Colorado. A super max. Incorrigibles. They held some sort of record for the number of years - not days or months - of total lockdown. All prisoners in their cells twenty-three hours a day.

  How could a man not go raving insane locked up like that? Frank knew that cons had very creative ways of staying in touch with one another, but keeping a man locked up like that - surely that was going to leave scars that he would have to deal with.

  These were the people the Feds were sending to Adak as colonists. How could he build a society with men like these? Where had they learned compromise? Negotiation?

  Damn Gilmore and his critical mass. Critical, all right.

  Latisha stood beside him. "Bad news, Frank?"

  "The Feds are sending cons from maximum security prisons, at least I think they are. The worst is Florence Prison."

  "Oh, Frank. No."

  "Yes."

  The paper in his hand felt like it weighed a ton.

  "Let's go for coffee and talk," she said.

  They went downstairs to the cafeteria, got two cups of coffee and stopped at the cash register to pay Sam. "You know, Villa, my daughter woke up in the middle of the night, screaming for her mother. What are you doing about catching Larson? I think my solution was best - shoot the fucker on sight."

  "He's got to eat, Sam. I got Joe Britt watching the food store."

  "Shit, Villa, that animal can take food from anybody he wants. Gimme four bucks for the coffee."

  "Price is up."

  "So are the taxes. Find Larson, Villa. You don't get him soon, I'm gonna get him."

  Endless pressure. Of course, Sam was right about Larson being able to get food anywhere he wanted. Even the thing he, Frank, had spent so much time on - his police system –wasn't working.

  Latisha led him to an isolated table. She sat opposite him, where the sun, which had found a crack in the clouds, reflected off the table next to them and lit her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and her lively eyes. He looked down to stir his coffee, then stared at her again. Power, he could feel power coming into his soul. Strangely it came from her beauty. How could that be?

  Jeannie Dickinson came out of the kitchen and when she saw Latisha, she ran up to her and hugged her.

  "How's it going?" Latisha asked.

  The gir
l started to cry and Frank felt the power inside him turn to anger. The words, Get Larson, seared themselves into his mind as if he had been branded with them.

  Latisha patted the girl's back. Despite the girl's white/Asian face next to Latisha's ebony skin, Latisha looked like the girl's mother.

  Jeannie stayed in her arms for several minutes. Frank sipped his coffee. This was peace - to sit with a woman hugging her daughter. How he longed for the simple, domestic life.

  "I gotta help my dad," Jeannie said finally. She left and took some plates into the kitchen.

  "I love that little girl," Latisha said. She spooned some sugar into her coffee and stirred it, her head down concentrating on her coffee cup. Then she suddenly looked up at him in a way he had never seen before. She was woman, she was counselor, she was mother as if her experience of motherhood with Jeannie carried over. "I've been thinking, Frank. You've got to take charge of this place. You can't let it defeat you."

  Here was the discussion he'd wanted to have with Judy since he got here. "Take charge?"

  "I'm not sure, but it's about still being in prison. I think it's very hard for you guys to stop being in prison. I mean, you're the leader of this island. Take charge."

  He repeated her words like a mantra. "Take charge."

  She placed her hand on his and left it there. An electric thrill shivered through him. He was someplace back in his childhood in a magic land where a beautiful woman had just spoken to him. But he was also a man and a woman's touch had traveled through his veins and reached his inner self.

  "Take charge," he repeated.

  She pressed her hand down on his. "Take charge of the council, of Larson, of Doc, of the election, of the next three hundred, of…." She hesitated, then said, "…of Gilmore."

  He looked into her eyes. He felt the warmth of her hand on top of his. In his mind he added another take charge: Take charge of your feelings.