With his usual rolled-up sleeves and tie undone, Hubie paced as he spoke. “You’re correct. We’ve attempted to convince the jury that some person or persons other than you committed the crime. We’ve implied, but not proved, that the main witnesses against you could very well have been involved in Frankie’s murder.”
He stopped pacing, “And as you say, it’s true, the testimony of our witnesses was a plus for our side. We countered or negated much of what was presented against you. We did all that, and well.”
In a voice that conveyed the gravity of their situation, “Under most conditions I would feel we have an excellent chance of an acquittal. That is, if it wasn’t for the unholy triumvirate of Corrie, Mai, and Jake. In my opinion, their testimony has been extremely damaging. They’ve painted a credible picture of your intense hatred toward Frankie Grimaldi. Of your insane jealousy over a lesbian relationship you thought she was trying to form with your wife. It leads to the logical conclusion you wanted her dead and planned and carried out her murder.
In addition, they’ve covered their tracks well. Dillon hasn’t been able to find a shred of provable evidence of their complicity in the murder or scandal in their relationship.”
He gave Bret a concerned look, “There’s no other way for me to put it. The fabricated tale they’ve told is going to make it difficult for a jury to find you innocent. Having you testify may be our only chance.”
Bret pleaded, “Now that I’ve seen what cross-examinations are like, I know I’m not tough enough to withstand one.”
Hubie said, “Look, we can prepare you. Yes, their cross will be rough, but your testimony may uncover a weakness in one of their accounts. Their stories are so intricately interwoven, a flaw in one would point to flaws in the others. It could be enough for a not guilty verdict.”
“Can I think about it?” Bret asked.
“Of course. Sleep on it. We’ll talk again in the morning. If you agree to testify, I’ll delay things until we can whip you into shape. Once you’re ready, I’ll put you on the stand.”
Bret had another of his many sleepless nights since he had become a guest of the Brooklyn State Jail. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell his story and let the truth be known. It was that he felt he would crumble under cross-examination by one of the prosecution’s many cagey attorneys. He had seen witnesses break during questioning, and each time he was certain he would have done the same. If he broke, his entire testimony would become suspect. He and his legal team were walking on a high wire, and there was no safety net.
The following morning before the trail began, Hubie and Bret were sitting at their courtroom table. He didn’t want to broach the subject of the previous afternoon’s discussion and pretended to be preoccupied. He waited for his uncle to take the initiative.
After a time, Hubie said, “Did you think about what we talked about yesterday? About testifying?”
Meeting Hubie’s gaze, Bret said, “Yes . . . and no. I can’t do it.”
Sensing his uncle’s disappointment with the decision not to testify, he explained no matter how prepared, he would not be able to handle the attack that would come from the other side. He ended with, “I don’t want to be responsible for losing the case.”
“I can work with it, Bret,” Hubie said as he put an arm around Bret’s shoulder. “I’m your attorney, but I’m also your uncle, and there are times when you need me to be an uncle. This is one of those times. I understand how you feel and support your decision. And I’m really proud of the way you’ve held up during this wretched affair.” Moisture in his eyes, Hubie returned to his legal papers.
Bret was aware his refusal to take the stand might result in his conviction, but there was no doubt in his mind he would be unable to bear the weight of the cross.
The lawyers presented their closing arguments. The defense was first, and Hubie’s partner gave an eloquent attestation of Bret’s innocence. She was followed by the prosecution lawyer who handled most of their case. He did a credible job of attempting to convince the jury there was no doubt of premeditated murder. It was the jury’s job to decide which was the correct version of the cause of Frankie’s death.
After four days of deliberation, the jury informed the court it had reached a verdict. Neither the defense nor prosecution could glean anything from the time it took for a decision. To Bret, they were the worst days of his life. Time passes slow when you are hoping every minute that goes by without a verdict means you are more likely to be found innocent. Bret’s existence consisted of pacing his cell, learning to smoke cigarettes, and living with a constant pain in his stomach. Sleep was filled with nightmares.
If found not guilty, Bret would leave the Superior Court Building a free man. If convicted, he’d remain in the Brooklyn jail until he was sentenced and sent to the MacDougall-Walker Correctional Institute in Suffield.
Hubie was standing with him as the jury announced its verdict. The next thing he remembered was leaving in the barred van that brought him. The jury found him guilty and recommended life without parole. When the verdict was delivered, Bret heard screaming and moaning before he passed out.
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year...
Suffield, Connecticut: It didn’t matter that the sentencing hearing was to be held in two months. Life without parole was a fait accompli, and the hearing wouldn’t change Bret’s fate. Hubie began the appeals process, but Bret knew to any sane person he seemed guilty as hell.
Until the official sentencing, he was to remain in the solitary confinement ward of the Brooklyn Jail. His cell was one of three in the solitary ward. It was in better condition than his previous one because its sole uses were for those in Bret’s situation or when the jail was overcrowded.
A suicide watch was instituted. Humorous because he hadn’t thought of suicide until they brought it up. He was denied shoestrings and a belt, ate on paper plates with pressed paper spoons, and wore a breathing monitor. The most odious of the precautions was a corrections officer stationed by his cell at all times. He had no privacy. One hour of solitary recreation in the yard was allowed each afternoon. The officer at his cell accompanied and remained with him during that time. As he exercised, his cell was searched for dangerous items.
Special attention was paid during meals. Were they worried he might jam the paper spoon into his heart? The precautions would not prevent him from killing himself if he wanted to. He’d find a way. But Bret was not in the mood to leave this world. There was hope his defense team would uncover new evidence to prove his innocence and the guilt of those he was convinced committed the crime.
March was behaving like a lion when his penalty was made official. As the verdict was a foregone conclusion, there was little media interest. Reporters who attended the proceedings seemed anxious to jump into their next assignments. Bret had become old news.
No matter how many movies you’ve seen, you can’t appreciate what a scary place prison is for someone like Bret who had lived a sheltered life. MacDougall-Walker’s size was overwhelming. As he was escorted from building to building via the open central area, he had to strain to see the fortified stone walls that formed the rectangular footprint of the facility. A huge open area contained basketball courts, bodybuilding spaces, and two large multi-use fields. Chalked lines on the latter indicated they were used for baseball and soccer. It was chilly, and most of the inmates he saw were in groups or in sheltered areas trying to keep warm.
Processing took hours. Most humiliating was the full body search for contraband. No orifice went unchecked. After processing, two corrections officers, a female at his side and a male following, were assigned to give him a tour of the prison before taking him to his cell. The officers wore dark blue uniforms and toted batons and stun devices. Bret carried a canvas sack that contained a change of clothes, bed linen, a blanket, towels, and toiletries. He was wearing the prison regulation two-piece light gray uniform, but had been told one of the perks for good
conduct was the ability to wear civilian clothes.
The male, whose nameplate said Officer Grayson, was slight and had a narrow face like a rodent. The stocky, muscled and meaner looking female with skin the color of ebony was Corporal Murkum. She would be considered hot to someone attracted to female wrestlers. When the two came for him, Murkum told him that most corrections officers hated inmates with life without parole sentences. They were referred to as non-paroles and were potential discipline problems because they had nothing to lose.
On the other hand, she and a few of the corrections officers preferred a wait and see attitude. If a non-parole followed the rules, they tended to cut him slack. Not much, but some. Enough to make it worthwhile. They were going to be together a long time, and cooperation was good for everyone.
The officers took turns reviewing prison amenities. There were medical and dental clinics, a large gymnasium used during bad weather, and vocational opportunities. The latter included cabinet making, automotive repair, and culinary arts.
Grayson said, “We’ll let you take classes, but it’s mainly to keep you occupied. With your sentence it’s really a waste of your time and ours. You’ll never be able to put what you learn to use.” The sarcastic tone revealed he wasn’t one of the slack cutters.
As they walked a lengthy cellblock, Grayson said, this time with ominous implication, “Your cellmate is Sammy Tompkins. The con he was bunked with got discharged.” He tapped Bret’s shoulder with his baton causing Bret to turn. His wide smile allowed a whiff of untreated gum disease to escape from his mouth. “You’re going to just love him,” he said, placing emphasis on love.
Murkum chimed, “Stop messing with him, Charlie. He’s going to find out about Sammy soon enough.
Bret sensed the officers didn’t like each other, and he knew Grayson was taunting him about life in prison. He tried to resist asking, but couldn’t, “How so?”
“Well,” Grayson was eager to answer, “How should I put it? Sammy’s a horny guy. Always on the prowl. Outside it’s women, but when they ain’t around, it’s men. Get my meaning? Lot’s of the inmates are like that. Normal in the streets. In here, they’re queer.” He snickered at the rhyme. “I think I heard someone call it . . . let’s see if I can remember . . . ah, something like incarceration homosexuals. Yeah, something like that.” The rodent face continued, “He’s in his seventh year of a fifteen-year sentence with earliest possible parole at ten. That means you’ll probably get to live with him for at least the next three years.” He uttered a laugh more irritating than fingers scratching a blackboard.
Murkum interrupted, “He was part of the gang that pulled off the big bank heist in Hartford several years back. Maybe you heard of it? Got away with three-and-a-half million in cash. Most people figure they had inside help, but they couldn’t prove it. At least that’s what my old man says.”
Grayson said, “Your old man always says that. Everything’s a conspiracy with him.”
Murkum stopped and turned a nasty eye to Grayson who bumped into Bret who had stopped with Murkum. “Watch what you say about my man.”
Grayson flinched as if expecting a punch or slap. “Sorr-ry,” he said.
Satisfied, Murkum continued walking. Soft wheezing noises began to emanate from her chest. She coughed, cleared her throat, and inhaled. “Got to stop smoking before it kills me.”
“Me, too,” rodent face agreed.
Murkum continued the conversation about Bret’s cellmate, “Anyway, Sammy was the only one they caught. Rumor is they’re holding his cut of the money for him for not ratting. More than half a million. If he gets out of here after serving only ten years . . . which I hope he doesn’t, but you never know with Parole Boards and prison overcrowding . . . it comes to a cool fifty thousand a year just for hanging around in this place. Not bad for a scumbag who didn’t make it beyond the sixth grade.”
Listening to the story of Sammy Tompkins was unsettling. Bret had expected to encounter difficult and dangerous situations in prison but hadn’t considered the first might be the man he was assigned to bunk with.
Grayson continued the tale. “When Sammy came here, he was a skinny punk. You know, the type you meet on the outside, you automatically beat the shit outta.” He said it as if he could do it. “After a while, he began to pump iron. You won’t believe what he’s done with his body. Could enter a Mr. America contest.”
Murkum again, “He also hooked up with the Skinheads. Nobody messes with them.” She took a moment to catch her cigarette smoke-tinged breath. “That was a good thing for Sammy. He was always forcing himself on the younger inmates . . . you know . . . like you. And he was always getting his ass kicked. Now, with his new and stronger body and his pals, no one picks on him. He usually gets what he wants sooner or later.”
“Unless he decides to try his charms on the wrong Hispanic kid. They’re likely to cut him,” added Grayson.
“Normally,” Murkum said, “The Skinheads want nothin to do with Sammy’s type, but I’m thinking he promised them some of the money he’s expecting when he gets out. Worth every penny, seeing what they do for him.”
Wondering what danger he was being placed in, Bret asked, “Think he’ll bother me in, you know, that way?”
Both officers had to stop walking as their guffaws and bellows filled the corridor. When he regained his composure, Grayson said, “After what we told you, what do you think?”
The group arrived at the assigned cell. It was mid-afternoon and doors were open to allow inmates access to the recreation room, library, and snack-bar at the end of the block. Lights were off, hiding the back of the cell in shadow. At first glance it appeared empty. Bret’s eyes adjusted, and he saw someone leaning against a wall.
Sammy Tompkins was wearing skimpy briefs, the kind worn in bodybuilding contests. The man took two steps forward and remained immobile with his massive arms folded across his chest. The move caused him to be fully viewed, and by the beads of sweat on his forehead and arms, he had a recent workout. His sneer warned, fuck with me at your peril.
Murkum and Grayson had not exaggerated. Sammy Tompkins had a world-class bodybuilder’s physique. The informative custodial pair had neglected to mention Sammy had shaved all his hair, and, with the exceptions of his face, neck, and hands, his five foot nine inch frame was covered with tattoos.
If he lets the hair on his head grow, the man can walk around in a shirt and tie and look normal until he wants you to see what he’s hiding, Bret thought.
On Sammy’s body were devil’s horns, hearts with knives piercing them, dragons, and fierce birds. Love in large font was visible on the inner aspect of one wrist, and its twin, Hate, was on the other. The expected Death Before Dishonor was emblazoned on his right forearm with each word a different color. The most significant tattoo was the Nazi SS double lightning symbols on the left side of his neck above his collarbone. It meant he was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, referred to as Skinheads at MacDougal-Walker.
Murkum turned to Bret and said, “Inmates who claim to be artists do the tattoos. They get paid a few packs of cigarettes for each one. Your admission sheet said you don’t have any. My guess is you’ll have a few before long. Everyone gets them.”
Don’t bet on it.
Sammy had a large, hawk nose and deep lines around his mouth that gave him a look of perpetual anger. Like those of a bird of prey, his dark eyes darted from one to the other of the three standing before him. They fixed upon Bret, and the sneer became a leer. Sensing danger, Bret knew Sammy Tompkins was going to make his life wretched.
Pointing to his briefs, Murkum ordered, “All right Sammy, put something over that. You know the rules.”
Sammy looked at Murkum and appeared about to hiss before he reached to his cot and grabbed a pair of white boxer shorts with a yellow stain in front. He put them over the workout briefs and as he did, let out a thunderous fart.
“Good one,” mocked an unfazed Murkum, “What do you do for an encore, crap in your skivvie
s?” She gave a short chuckle and said in a low voice to Bret, “I’m no prude. You been here long as I have, you seen everything. I gotta let him know I’m the boss, or he’ll try to walk all over me.”
Bret had been surprised by Murkum’s non-confrontational demeanor toward him, as if she wanted them to be friends. In spite of her talk about taking a wait and see attitude, he wondered why. He understood when, as she was leaving, she said in the same low voice, “Don’t forget what I said about following the rules. So far, I been nice to you. You be nice to me, and we get along. Otherwise, you won’t see my good side no more.”
Grayson gave the new tenant a rough shove into the cell.
As he stood a few feet in the small room, Sammy approached and eyed him from head to foot. “What’d the cunt say to you?”
Not wanting to begin their relationship on bad footing, Bret told the truth, “Just said to make sure I obey the rules and not get into trouble.”
Sammy gave a “Huh. With menace in his eyes, he said, “You’ll do.” He went to his bed and sat, “Yeah, you’ll do.”
The cell was smaller than expected. Rectangular in shape, it was designed to house two men without cramping the occupants. A stainless steel uncovered toilet and adjacent stainless steel sink were located in the back. A metal partition jutted from the wall between the toilet and sink. If you were sitting on the john, the partition came to shoulder height and covered half your leg. Bret concluded architects who design prisons have a lot to learn about privacy. Other than the plumbing fixtures, everything was painted battleship gray.
Extending from the longer walls on both sides were two rectangular metal bed-slabs. Judging by their size they were installed when inmates were shorter than the current batch. Fastened to the walls, they stood a few feet above the floor. Metal legs supported the outer corners, and each held a thin mattress and pillow.
Murkowski and Grayson had said there were two architectural layouts of cells. One had bunk beds, and the other, the design assigned to Bret, had separate cots on each side. Some inmates were afraid of heights and couldn’t sleep in an upper bunk which resulted in the different arrangements.
To Sleep... Perchance to Die Page 19