Prisoners of the Williwaw

by Ed Griffin

  "I like how you look with glasses on." She reached across the table and touched his hands.

  For a minute he lost himself in her shining eyes, then he stood up and raised her up with himself. He moved around the table and took her in his arms. Their lips touched, separated, touched again and stayed together. They kissed gently, lovingly. He searched for her. He felt Adak in her, green tundra, beautiful lakes and the wild wind.

  "Latisha," he said.

  "Oh, Frank," she said and then she smiled. "Listen to the two of us. We sound like a soap opera."

  He put his finger over her mouth. "Shh." He kissed her again.

  His wounded leg hurt him and he shifted his weight to his other foot. She noticed and said, "Frank, sit down. No, lie down on the bed."

  He stretched out and she lay down next to him. They turned toward each other and gazed deeply into each other's eyes.

  The wind howled, the rain pelted the windows. They made love and then fell asleep in each other's arms.

  Chapter 31

  Gilmore checked his appearance in his office mirror. Should he wear a tie for his interview with John Graham, the assistant director of the Bureau of Prisons? No, the man had been on Adak for two days and had surely seen that no one dressed formally. On the other hand, a tie would mark him as someone special. Graham would subconsciously place him in a higher category than ordinary criminal, indeed in a higher category than prison boss.

  Yes, a tie was the way to go, especially since Big Jim reported to him that Graham always wore a tie. As long as he didn't pick a tie or blazer that was better than Graham's.

  Gilmore chose a polyester tie and a blue blazer from his gear. It was vital to create a strong impression on Graham and make sure that the reduced sentence Congressman Murphy had promised him came through. If he couldn't get off Adak one way, he'd get off another.

  He got in his car and drove up to the Bering Building where Graham was conducting interviews. Alexander Duban, the owner of the factory, and Graham had helicoptered in from a Coast Guard ship at the end of October as promised and had been inspecting the factory and the various facilities of Downtown. Gilmore had met with Duban the first day and learned of his big plans for Adak - another factory and a mini-mall.

  Gilmore parked in front of the building. Big Jim stood out front, smoking, waiting for Graham to finish here and go elsewhere. Gilmore smiled. Graham had hired Big Jim as his spy, but Gilmore had made a further deal with Big Jim to report everything Graham did.

  At precisely one minute to 3 PM, Gilmore knocked on the office Graham was using, Villa's office.

  "Come in," Graham called out.

  Gilmore entered and looked around. This was the office of the president of Adak? Dirt streaked the only window, looking out, not to the majesty of Mount Moffett as his window did, but to the Marine Barracks across the street. Stacks of papers and government forms littered the floor. The press-board desk looked as if it had been on Adak since the war with the Japanese. While Graham sat in an old captain's chair, the chair for the interviewee was a battered auditorium chair.

  If he won the general election, things would be different.

  "Sit down, Gilmore."

  Graham took a pencil from Villa's pencil cup and began to tap on the edge of the desk. He was a small man with a rat-like face. He wore an expensive patterned tie and Gilmore knew he had made the right decision about his own tie.

  "Alexander Duban's pretty happy with the output of his factory," Graham said. "He thinks you're responsible for that."

  Gilmore smiled easily. "Thanks."

  Graham swiveled his chair and faced sideways to his desk. He continued to tap the pencil on the edge. "Congressman Murphy called me about you."

  Gilmore tried for the proper expectant, but subservient look. He felt it best to say nothing and let Graham take the lead.

  "He was pleased with the resolution you got passed, calling for more inmates. Your request for more inmates caused a dust-up in the Bureau, but we worked it out. The director was afraid of closing prisons, losing jobs, but we've subcontracted some prison guards to the Coast Guard and we've set up a new Adak Administrative division in our office to deal with this place."

  Gilmore glanced around at the stacks of government forms and imagined what the office would look like in a few years. If he won the election, he would hire an office staff. There was a lot to learn from Graham. More employees meant more power.

  Gilmore didn't want the discussion to wander from sentence reduction. "I'm trying to live up to the promises I made."

  Graham eyed him. "And so are we, Gilmore. I know what you're talking about. We're considering it."

  Considering it. That wasn't very much. But he might as well play this line out. Reduction of sentence looked like a better option than escape. Certainly safer.

  "I see you're running for president," Graham said, tapping his pencil and eyeing him sideways.

  Big Jim had told him that Graham was very interested in the campaign. Here Gilmore was on familiar ground - leadership. He'd had this kind of discussion before with 'the Man' in prison. The text of the discussion would be about democracy and working together, but the sub-text would be, "Gilmore if you keep things quiet, we don't give a damn what you do. You leave us alone, we'll leave you alone."

  He guessed that the Bureau of Prisons would find Villa a pain in the ass. Not going along with Duban's need for more workers. Demanding things. Arguing. If he, Gilmore, could portray that smooth prison relationship, maybe the Bureau could help him get elected. Maybe they would include some steaks in the next food shipment, marked Attention James Gilmore. Maybe some Thanksgiving care packages for him to pass out.

  Gilmore shifted in the folding chair, trying to find a position that said 'equality.' He tried sideways, he tried crossing his legs. Nothing worked. What could a man do with an auditorium chair? He'd have to depend on his words and his presence. "Yes, I have a good chance of winning this election," he said. "Add up the opposition votes in the primary and it comes within a few votes of beating Villa."

  "What are the issues?"

  "Basically a dispute about how this place should be run. My idea is that we're dealing with a wild bunch of - well, animals." He glanced quickly at Graham, who was nodding in agreement. Parrot The Man's thoughts back to him to get what you want. "I think we have to be brutally tough. It's the way I've made the factory work. If a guy don't show up for work, well, he's liable to find himself clocked, if you know what I mean."

  "And Villa thinks?"

  For a disturbing moment, Gilmore realized that his ideas of running Adak were exactly like those of the prison authorities. How many guards had he heard say exactly what he had said, "They're animals and should be treated like that."?

  But back to the issue at hand. How to portray Villa in a bad light, without overstating the case? "Villa thinks he's dealing with educated, middle class people. That's why we've had trouble with law and order here."

  "What would you do?"

  "Hire not one cop, but a police force. Ask the Bureau for training."

  "Hire somebody like Larson?"

  Someone had told him about Larson. Best to cut his losses. "I made a mistake there. Britt makes a good cop. A few lights burned out up top, but a good man."

  "Three guys tried to escape - did you organize that?"

  An aggressive reply needed. "Mr. Graham, would I walk up to the prison gate and say, 'Open up, I'm coming through.' And then open fire. Would I?"

  Graham tapped his pencil and said nothing for a minute. Finally he turned directly to Gilmore. "Good luck in your campaign."

  "I could use some help."

  "Couldn't we all?" Graham looked at his watch. "I've got another appointment, Gilmore. Good luck."

  As Gilmore left, he held the door for Judy Villa. She always looked like a straight mama and not much fun, but he felt a momentary sadness for Villa losing his woman. There was another woman waiting in the hall. It was Big Jim's wife. She must have had enough o
f his 'fuckin' and fuckin.'

  He walked down the hall toward the door, his shoulders slouched. He had failed to get his sentence reduced or to get some help in his campaign. As he walked down the stairs toward the entrance, the door opened and Latisha walked in. She pulled off her parka hood and shook the rain off herself. He looked at her in admiration. God, what a woman she was, thin, exciting, alive and very black. The brothers would whistle and say she was a 'slimmy.'

  "Latisha, what's you be doin' here?" He had to get black dialect out of his head. He didn't talk that way and neither did she. But what did it hurt to remind her who she was?

  "Gil, I'm… I'm going to see Graham. I'm leaving when the new cons come."

  She walked up the stairs past him.

  * * *

  Latisha walked down the narrow hallway to wait for Graham. Big Jim's wife, Monica, waited there as well. She had seen Monica at Gilmore's party and at the factory, but she had only spoken to her briefly. She was a big-boned woman, late thirties, tall, brown hair, a smooth, attractive face and a shy manner.

  "Hi," Latisha said.

  "Hi." She gave a little nervous laugh. "I guess we're here for the same reason." "Going back?"

  "Yes. It just hasn't worked out with me and Big Jim. I thought we could be, you know, a couple again. You, too?"

  "Yes. Gilmore's in another world."

  Monica pointed to Frank's office, where Graham was. "Judy Villa's in there now."

  Latisha shook her head. How sad it was that all these families were breaking up. She remembered Frank talking about visiting day in the prison. "It's the saddest day in prison. You see a man with his family. The kids sit on his knee, they show him their drawings, his wife hugs him and then the guards come along and snatch the man away from the very people that could help him - his family.

  "I'm sorry you're leaving," Latisha said.

  "It wasn't the whoring around. Jim's always done that. It's about welding."

  "Welding?"

  "Yeah, see my father was a welder and he taught me how. I guess he wanted a son, but all he had was me. Anyway I got into welding and a lot of nights when Big Jim was playing football and he didn't come home, I'd go to our big garage and weld. Mostly art pieces. Look at my hands."

  Latisha took the woman's hands. They were rough and cracked and a scar sliced across her left hand. "What's the problem with welding?"

  "I wanted to start welding here, on Adak, after my shift in the factory. Art pieces again, but also some work for Frank's mechanics. Big Jim said no. He said a football star's wife is supposed to be feminine and it ain't feminine to weld."

  Latisha let out an exasperated breath of air.

  "Hell with him," Monica said with tears in her eyes. "I'm going home."

  Graham's door opened and Judy Villa walked out. She didn't say anything as she passed. Monica went in and Latisha stared quietly out the window at the buildings of Downtown. What a lot of work there was to do here. Monica needed consciousness raising, Big Jim needed sensitivity training, Joe needed to curb his anger, Skeeter O'Donnell needed AA, dozens of men and women needed skill training, families needed day care. Education, health care, housing, government - every system needed help.

  A sudden squall smashed rain into the window opposite her and then the rain stopped, just as suddenly. She put her hands behind her and leaned against the wall. All her life she'd been a passenger, going to the schools her parents suggested, following Gilmore wherever he went, eventually finding a nice safe job with Sears. She'd never done what she told Frank to do - take charge. Adak presented a chance to create something new, a chance to get in the driver's seat. She could make a difference in the lives of these inmates and their spouses, people society had neglected.

  She heard dishes bang in the cafeteria below her. Jeannie. Staying here would make her a big sister to this wonderful girl, who now had no mother.

  She walked down the hall to think. Get real. You're not a trained counselor, you're not a trained anything, except a trained buyer for medical supplies. Staying here intensifies the conflict between Gilmore and Villa. And with Larson on the loose, you're not safe here.

  And Jeannie has a father.

  Monica came out of the office and she went in. She sat down on the auditorium chair. Graham looked at her and tapped his pencil. She asked him to transport her back to the mainland. On the wall opposite her, Frank had hung a sketch of Williwaw, the same picture as on his medallion. The puffy cheeked god, hiding behind a mountain, ready to blow down on Adak.

  She made all the arrangements with Graham and then glanced up at the sketch again. The devil wind was laughing at her.

  * * *

  Frank felt strange to be interviewed in his own office. Graham had saved him for last, the day after everyone else, just a few hours before the Coast Guard helicopter was to pick him and Alexander Duban up. Graham, short in stature with a narrow face, looked tired, Frank thought. Three days of interviews, tours of inspection, and - looking over his shoulder - had worn the man out.

  Graham took a pencil from the pencil cup. Frank gazed at his pencil supply in amazement - they were almost all gone. Graham turned his chair sideways toward the wall and tapped the pencil on the edge of the desk.

  A minute, two minutes, nothing. Hell with it, Frank thought. I'm gonna start the interview. "Listen, Mr. Graham, no way we can handle three hundred more at the end of November. In fact three hundred at one time is too much next March. We just can't absorb that many at once. How about a hundred men and their families at one time?"

  Graham turned back to face him. He started to say something, but then stopped and tapped his pencil some more. Finally he said, "Your wife's leaving, Inmate Villa, do you know that?"

  Frank felt the energy leave him. He was Inmate Villa again. And he had failed at his marriage. "I know," he said, filled with a sense of shame and failure.

  Graham pointed with his pencil to a paper on the desk. "Here. Statistics. Nine inmates dead, two women and one child dead, dozens injured. A killer running loose. What the hell you been doing, Inmate Villa?"

  Oh yes, the unspoken rules were clear. Be guilty. Be wrong. You're evil and I'm good. Listen to the words of wisdom. Assume the position.

  Nuts.

  Rudy used to tell him to learn from the politicians. "Answer the questions you want to answer, Frank, and no matter what the question, answer it with the information you want to get across."

  Graham stared at him, tapping his pencil. "How do you explain these statistics?"

  "The Bureau wants us to succeed, right?"

  "Of course, of course, but…"

  "And you want us to work democratically, not by a series of coups?"

  "Yes, yes. Don't interrupt, Inmate Villa. There's tremendous pressure on the Bureau right now. The public demands longer sentences, but they won't let us spend any money."

  "So you're cleaning out some of your maximum security places including Florence, Colorado and dumping them on Adak."

  Graham's voice went up. "Absolutely not. Many of those places have medium and minimum prisons attached to them. We're sending you prisoners from all levels of security."

  "But mostly maximum."

  Graham tapped the pencil so hard it broke in half. He threw the two pieces in the garbage.

  "Inmate Villa, you have no right to question the Bureau. Who comes here - that's our decision. Now what about this Larson?"

  "We're doing the best we can."

  "Not good enough."

  If this were a boxing match, Graham would have him on the ropes here. Time to change the subject. "I need paint."

  Graham took another pencil and tapped it hard. "Paint?"

  "Colors. Paint. Bright stuff. This place is incredibly dull. Could you go easy with the tapping?"

  Graham looked at him as if he had never heard such a bold challenge to authority. He threw the pencil on the desk. "Seems to me those pencils were government surplus, but… If you want paint, you'll have to pay for it."

&nb
sp; Villa got up from the subservient auditorium chair and walked a few paces toward the window. Graham picked up the pencil again.

  "We need more money for fuel oil."

  Graham slammed the pencil on the edge of the desk and cracked it. "No, Inmate Villa. Absolutely not. You know the agreement. Sit down."

  "Are you going to let women and children freeze?"

  "You agreed to this venture, Inmate Villa. You signed a waiver freeing us from all responsibility. The press will be allowed back on this island in March. We've kept them off for six months, as you requested, but they'll have a field day when they return. They'll report that you're going back on your promise to pay your own way. They'll have stories about dead eagles, about an innocent woman being murdered, about a woman committing suicide."

  "And about the Bureau shipping us three hundred of their worst."

  Graham threw the pieces of pencil in the wastebasket. "Coming to this island certainly hasn't helped you, Inmate Villa. Your prison report says you get along with the administration. For your information we have an intensive course going on right now at Florence Prison and other places. It's called Your Future on Adak."

  Frank repressed the desire to comment. The course sounded like a video promoting a retirement village. Dare he threaten the Bureau with standing on the runway to prevent the three hundred from landing? He and Doc had talked about it. Doc said they'd land anyway, "unless of course you put Hanna out there, in which case they'll think they're in the Amazon."