by Nesly Clerge
“Aside from the potential threat from Bo and his gang, I’m hesitant because I think you’re not ready to—”
Starks sat up stiffly. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m ready?”
“What I was going to say is that I don’t think you’re ready for a cellmate.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I’d already started to adjust before I got put into the SHU. I need something to do. I need to be more active and engaged. And I want visitation and phone rights again. I’m ready to see family and friends.”
“There’s also the other issue: you tried to kill yourself.”
“We talked about that. I’m not ever going to do that again, for the reason I gave you.” Starks paused. “You want to know why I tried?”
“I do.”
“The isolation and silence torment me worse than facing anything or anyone out there.” He gestured toward the door behind him. “Doc, I realize there’s risk out there. It’s prison, for Christ’s sake. No one is exempt. But out there I have a chance to avoid it, deter it, or defend myself against it. Isolation is the guaranteed winner every time, and I can’t even put up a fight.”
Demory chewed on the end of his pen as he kept his gaze on Starks. “Your argument’s logical. I’ll get back to you. Let’s talk. You know what to do.”
Starks got as comfortable as he could in the chair. “I lied to Kayla about the real amount of my salary.”
Demory looked at him with raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you made a habit of lying to her. Especially about money.”
“It was a necessity. I lied about my salary so I could save for a house. Kayla wanted a home of our own; so did I. I took away her checkbook and gave her an allowance she could use for herself and the baby. I paid everything else. Her allowance was more than she’d ever had before, and she knew that if she wanted her own home, she had to go along with the arrangement. It took about a year before I had what I considered enough money. The first house we bought was practically a mansion. Life was good.”
“Did your romantic life improve as well?”
“I told you I’m not the romantic type. But if you mean sex, it did get better, once we had our own place. It’s a little off-putting to have your baby next to you and relatives just upstairs, if you know what I mean.”
Demory nodded and smiled. “That can spoil a mood.”
“Yeah. But something else spoiled it even more. The second year we were in the house, the two owners of Focus Designs had a falling-out. I and the other staff members couldn’t make out the words, but we could hear them shouting at each other in the conference room. That was on a Monday. By the end of the day, we were advised the company was filing for bankruptcy, and not the restructuring kind. Everyone was out of a job. The doors were locked the following week.”
“What did you do?”
Starks laughed. “You mean after I panicked?” Demory nodded. “I started looking for other jobs, but none of them paid as well. And to add to that, we learned Kayla was pregnant again, with Nathan. It was a complicated pregnancy. She had to be careful. Couldn’t exert herself.”
“What happened about a job?”
“Jobs. Plural. Day and night shifts, but none of them paid enough to cover everything… mortgage, household bills, all the medical bills for Kayla. I wasn’t about to get on that fucking merry-go-round again. And this is where what I told you in our first session comes in, about the twenty thousand I borrowed from family and friends.” Starks grinned. “I took over the goddamned company that closed.
“The money wasn’t enough to cover everything; I’d thought the extra needed funds would come in from the old accounts receivable. That didn’t happen. But I was familiar enough with the accounts and contracts to feel confident I could succeed, and I changed the name to Tendum Enterprises, to try to improve goodwill.”
“Was Kayla pleased or proud that you went into business for yourself?”
“She was against it, at first. Afraid I didn’t know enough to take it on, but I knew I had it in me, so went for it. The first few years were hell. I wasn’t able to pay my bills on time. Got eviction notices several times. Sometimes I had to ask employees to wait to deposit their paychecks. It was a small staff, thank God, but still.”
“Was Kayla supportive?”
Starks rested his elbows on his knees and flexed his fingers. “I didn’t tell her. She knew something was going on, though, when I got to a point that I couldn’t pay our mortgage or our bills. I lied and told her I’d had to use the money to cover business expenses. But I wasn’t able to pay them on time either. Told her it was temporary.” He looked up. “Doc, I’d go downstairs in the middle of the night and pace. Did that nearly every night. I felt like such a failure. But I wasn’t going to give up. I just kept borrowing money from whomever I could, to maintain the business. Thank God people believed in me.”
“What about your personal bills?”
“Mortgage modification carried us for a while. It was slow, but money did start coming in. I worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, to get out of that sinkhole. Then one remarkable day, the business was in the black. There wasn’t much extra after the bills were paid, but I made payroll from then on, and was able to pay my personal bills. Nathan was three and Kaitlin had just been born when the business became profitable and grew from there.”
“So your time and energy was focused on the business while Kayla took care of the house and children. Did this affect your marriage?”
Starks pressed his lips into a tight line. “That was when I began to suspect Kayla was cheating on me.”
“What made you suspicious?”
“It was eleven at night when I heard a text message come in on her phone. She was sound asleep. I got up, went to where her phone was on her side of the bed. Someone with a number I didn’t recognize had wished her good night. I went downstairs to look at our account call log online. That’s when I saw that she’d been texting this person on a regular basis. I wrote down the number and called it the next day. A man answered. When I asked him what was going on, he said nothing; that he and Kayla just talked. When I asked what about, he said about our marriage problems. Said I wasn’t paying enough attention to my wife the way I should. I was too shocked to say more to him than to leave my wife alone.”
“Did you speak with Kayla about this?”
Starks nodded. “She said nothing was going on; that he was a co-worker and a good listener. Said she felt more comfortable talking to a stranger than with someone who knew us. I told her I was sorry about all the time spent on the business but that I was doing it for us—for her and our children—so we could have a better life. She said she understood.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Yes. She reassured me that… God, I was such a fool.”
“That was the end of her interaction, and yours, with the man?”
“I didn’t communicate with him again, but I told her that married people shouldn’t have friends of the opposite sex, especially not ones they tell such personal things to. She got angry and said I wasn’t around to talk to about what was going on with her. I got angry and told her that guy was pretending he cared, was waiting for the perfect moment to get into her pants.”
“What’d she say?”
“Said she’d stop talking with him. I asked her to be patient with me; that one day my time would free up and we’d both be happy with the result of my efforts. I did check the call log a week later. His number wasn’t there. And things did get better between us.”
“How does it feel to talk about that time?”
Starks focused his eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t feel as angry as when we’ve talked about the past before. So, I guess it feels okay.”
“It’s never good to dwell on the past, but it can be cathartic to talk about it. The more you tell it like a story the more new perspectives can come from it. A new perspective can help you let go of the past, because you see what happened, and the person o
r people involved, and even yourself, differently.” Demory put his pen down. “That’s all for this week.”
“What about the transfer, Doc?”
Demory smiled. “I’m going to approve it. You should be back in general population within the week.”
Starks whooped. “Thanks, Doc. There’s more I want to say, but, thank you. You won’t regret it.”
“I hope like hell you’re right.”
CHAPTER 49
THE CELL DOOR slammed behind the guards.
Starks took several moments to figure out how to hide the shank he’d made under the lining of his left shoe without being observed by whoever was monitoring the surveillance cameras.
He needed to stay armed from now on. Any moment now, he’d be moved to a cell in one of the general population blocks. Demory had always done what he said he would. No reason to doubt him this time.
The moment arrived the afternoon of the third day, about an hour after his dinner tray was pushed through the slot.
One guard, not two, came to get him. The pat-down was quick and free of rude comments from CO Simmons. As anticipated, Starks’s shoes weren’t checked. No ankle restraints this time, just handcuffs. Along the way, he decided he needed to at least seem like a tough guy then questioned whether that was necessary: inmates had decided he was one of the crazy ones.
Starks struggled to calm his breathing when he entered the cell block; he had to appear in control, self-assured. The guard in the security booth was watching him. He nodded at the guard, who turned away.
Simmons stopped at a cell at the center of the block. The metal barred door was open.
At the far end of the new cell were two metal bunk beds bolted to the wall at the sides and heads. The mattresses were only slightly thicker than the one he’d had in solitary. But at least there was the standard long, couple-inches wide window centered on the far wall.
A metal shelf was bolted to the wall next to the head of each bed. Two metal desks, each with a hard plastic chair were positioned against the opposite wall. The same model of steel toilet and sink combo were near the entrance, with a small mirror bolted to the wall above the sink.
Limited as it was, Starks felt relief about finally being freer to walk around in the block or to go outside to the prison yard, when it was allowed, and for longer than an hour. He’d have to remember to be in his cell for the count. He’d forgotten about that routine.
The top bunk was already taken. The bottom bunk was unmade, but a folded blanket and a pillow had been placed at the end of the bed.
His new cellmate was reading in bed, and looked up when the two men entered the cell.
Simmons removed the handcuffs and said, “Someone will get your clothes and stuff to you before dinnertime.” His walkie-talkie crackled. He listened then left.
The cellmate sat up, dangled his legs over the edge of the bed. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head, nodded, and said in a gravely voice, “Mike Lawson.”
“Starks.” He wanted to act confident, cocky even, knowing it might be a risk but one worth taking. Better than acting as scared as he felt. He had nothing to put away yet that would occupy his attention and nothing to look at other than Lawson. He walked to the unused chair and sat in it, stretching his legs out in front of him. Wanting to appear calm and relaxed, he linked his hands behind his head and stared at the opposite wall.
“They call me Weasel.” Muscles rippled everywhere when the man leaped and landed like a cat on the concrete floor. The overhead fluorescent light highlighted a long, pale scar on his left cheek. Lawson was stocky and a few inches shorter than Starks.
Starks looked away for a moment then focused his eyes on the man, who was being more pleasant than anticipated. He steeled himself to follow his plan. “Why do they call you that?”
Lawson chuckled. “Because I can weasel out of damn near anything, especially when it comes to the guards.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re a snitch. Maybe you’re a lying, cheating bastard.”
“What the fuck’s up with you?”
“I’ll tell you what’s not up with you. I want the top bunk.”
“Forget it. I was here before you.”
“You must not know who I am.” Starks stomped to the bed. He grabbed the pillow and blanket from the top bunk and threw them on the floor.
Lawson reached for Starks, who grabbed his cellmate’s collar with both hands then shoved him against the wall.
With a grim smile, he said, “Come on, Weasel. Challenge me. The only thing I’ve had to toss around for a long time was a basketball.” He pushed Lawson again; made his eyes wild and said in a low voice, “Challenge me. Please.”
Lawson raised his hands and said, “I know who you are. You want the top bunk, it’s yours.” He moved his possessions from the upper bed tray to the lower one.
Starks tossed his bedding onto the upper bunk.
“Listen,” Lawson said, “We’re gonna be cellmates. We can’t be fighting like this.”
Starks leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “I can see that.”
“In case you’re interested, I’m in here for manslaughter.”
Starks didn’t respond. He climbed onto his bed, removed his shoes and placed them where he could easily reach them.
Lawson talked fast and nearly non-stop about his family, his past, and his trial, with no input from Starks. On the one hand, Starks enjoyed listening to someone other than the voices in his head doing the talking—it was a welcome change. On the other hand, he needed to keep his charade up.
After another hour, according to Lawson’s desk clock, Starks said, “Not that your life story isn’t riveting, but it’s time for you to shut the fuck up.”
“Sure thing. But there’s one last thing I want to say: Bo deserved what you gave him. So did that guy who was doing your wife.”
Starks stayed silent, kept it to himself that hearing someone finally say he was in the right was like finding water in the desert.
He would drop the tough-guy act with Lawson: Lawson understood.
His eyes stayed open most of the night. As soon as possible, he had to deal with the fears that kept him awake: Sleep was vital if he was to keep his mind and body strong.
The last thing he wanted to dwell on was negative thoughts about his cellmate. However, one thought had nagged him as his cellmate had prattled on: He seemed too smooth a talker.
Starks turned his eyes to the narrow strip of window. A northerly wind blew a cloud across the sky, revealing the nearly full moon.
He thought about how easy it is to feel exposed.
CHAPTER 50
SIX O’CLOCK. THE lights went on and the barred doors opened.
Lawson yawned then said, “You want first dibs on the john?”
“It’s all yours.” Starks had used the toilet and washed his face while Lawson was still asleep.
They went to the chow hall together. Starks sat at the very end of a bench at one of the tables not claimed by a gang; his cellmate sat across from him. Bo and some of his entourage came in and sat three tables away, sometimes glaring at Starks and sometimes snickering at him.
The standard count of four guards walked the perimeter.
Behind Starks, an inmate said, “They put the CEO with the Weasel. That fucking guy’d betray his own mother.”
“Know what you get when you put a Weasel and a CEO together?”
“I dunno. What?”
“How should I know? But you can bet it’s slippery.” All at the table laughed.
Lawson said, “Ignore them. There’s not a whole half a brain between them.”
Starks kept his head down as he pushed at the muck on the tray. “Need a spoon for these so-called eggs.”
“One day you need a spoon, the next day you need a drill.”
A shadow fell over Starks. He turned his head and peered into light eyes bulging at him from pale skin.
“That’s my place. Move your ass, punk.”
“Do
esn’t have your name on it.” Starks turned back to his tray.
“You in the mood to have your ass whupped or something?”
“No, but you seem to be.”
The inmate slammed his tray down on top of Starks’s. Starks grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. The inmate attempted a headlock.
Lawson swung his tray, hit the intruder in the face; food ran down the inmate’s scrubs.
The inmate lunged for Lawson, who jumped on him. They fell to the floor, fists connecting to faces and torsos.
Two guards pulled them apart. The other two guards meandered their way to the table.
“What’s going on here?” a guard asked.
Another said, “Lawson jumped this one,” he jerked his thumb toward the inmate whose face dripped oatmeal and eggs.
Starks looked at Lawson, who indicated with a subtle head shake to keep quiet. No one spoke up; the code of silence held firm.
“Well, Lawson, maybe more time in SHU will straighten you out.”
Lawson grinned at Starks before two of the guards took him away.
Starks dumped his and Lawson’s trays then returned to his cell.
His new cellmate had acted on his behalf when it wasn’t even his fight. The man could have cleared himself by saying who’d started it.
It would be—what, a comfort?—to develop a real friendship in here.
The rest of that day and the next, Starks ate alone. If anyone shared his table, they sat a yard or more away from him. A few minor scuffles happened when new inmates tried to sit at tables spoken for by others.
Starks heard comments as some passed near him, all pretty much the same: “Crazy motherfucker.”