The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  It was Tuesday, which meant his shift ended at noon. He’d have the afternoon to think. This was a dilemma that needed a solution. Whatever was going on had him on the brink of falling into a massive cesspool with no way to escape.

  No shaved head or big fucking tattoo, or any other affectation, would be effective without his plan being backed by money, and lots of it.

  This was not good. Not good at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE DIGITS ON the monitor screen switched to 12:08. Starks scowled at his replacement for being late and ignored the inmate’s hand gesture as he passed him. He hurried to the phones, relieved to see one of the six instruments mounted to the wall was available. He gave his pin number to the operator, who placed the collect call to Michael Parker’s cell phone. With each unanswered ring, Starks’s breathing quickened. Parker’s voicemail picked up. He convinced the operator that his attorney would accept a voicemail message and left word that he’d call back the next day around the same time. Starks went to his cell and gathered what he’d need for a shower after hitting the gym.

  Several members of the Los Hermanos gang, minus their leader, clustered in one corner of the exercise room. Two of them were on a mat, demonstrating impressive wrestling moves. A few of them nodded at Starks.

  Starks found a clear space and began to push his body and mind. Fifty push-ups (What am I going to do about Jeffrey?). One hundred sit-ups (I need to get my thoughts in order before I talk to Parker). After forty-five minutes of weight training mingled with a number of interludes where, under his breath, he cursed everyone, he still wasn’t sure how to eliminate the Jeffrey situation once and for all. It was all so damn complicated. And painful.

  Dripping sweat, he made his way to the showers. Lukewarm water sprayed his back as he kept a watchful eye on the few inmates in there. A level of relief washed over him: He no longer feared being attacked in this room. It wasn’t that it couldn’t happen to him—it had, and still could, if someone had the balls to take the risk. But inmates believed he had a secret weapon, which he did: the prepped child-size knitting needle was close enough for him to grab and use, if the need arose.

  A crash to his left caused Starks to snap his head around. An inmate he’d seen in the yard but had never spoken to picked himself up from the floor, leaving the plastic trashcan he’d knocked over where it was as he backed out of the shower room.

  It was obvious: The man was afraid to be this near him so decided to shower later. Starks laughed with satisfaction.

  Still laughing, he faced the showerhead. A sudden surge in pressure sent water into his nostrils and mouth. He choked. Gulping air, he placed a hand against the tiled wall. Tears started unexpectedly. He let them stream as he caught his breath.

  Kyle hadn’t been able to catch his breath. How long was his five-year-old son conscious under water? Was he terrified when no one jumped in to rescue him? Did he know he was going to die? Did his small heart stop beating before his lungs could fill with water?

  This wasn’t the first time Starks tortured himself with such questions. He tried not to visit these horrific thoughts but they crept up on him when he least expected it.

  Kyle’s mother, Cathy, had been gorgeous when they’d met. Not like now, after her own grief had wreaked havoc with her looks. What a stupid mistake he’d made. The woman was calculating. He’d told her, just as he always had told any woman he got involved with, that he would never leave his wife. She’d said she understood. As soon as Cathy told him she was pregnant with his child—and he’d known this was deliberate on her part—the more-than-generous monthly deposits to her account began. She’d threatened to tell Kayla if he didn’t marry her. He’d threatened to cut her money off.

  Five years later, she’d called him on his office phone and told him his son was dead.

  God, he was sorry. Sorry Kyle died so young. Sorry he saw him only when he lied to Kayla about business trips out of town. Sorry he didn’t give the boy the life his half-brothers and half-sister had. Sorry he wasn’t the father his secreted son deserved.

  He’d never be sorry enough. How could he be?

  He shut the water off, dried himself, dressed then went to his cell.

  Jackson lay on his bunk reading. Without looking up he said, “Enter the dragon.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “I’d say it must be that time of the month again but you’re like this more often than not lately.”

  Starks chose not to respond. He folded his dirty clothes and placed them neatly in the cardboard box used for that purpose then hoisted himself onto his bunk, pushing away every thought from his mind but the upcoming conversation with Parker. He pondered what order or orders he should give his attorney.

  He’d think of something.

  CHAPTER 8

  AT SEVEN THE next morning, five COs crowded into Starks’s cell, which was already too small for two people. The first guard in the procession barked, “Frederick Starks.”

  Starks kept doing his lunges. “How can I help you?”

  The first guard looked back at the others and said, “Get a load of this guy. Wants to know how he can help us.” The COs snickered.

  The name label stitched to the shirt of the guard doing the talking read Woodson. “You’re coming with us,” he told Starks.

  “What’s the problem?” Starks asked. “And why five of you? One of you asking me nicely would be enough.”

  Woodson snorted. “And, he’s a comedian.”

  Jackson got up from his chair and asked, “What’s this about?”

  Woodson said, “Your name Starks?”

  “No.”

  “Then mind your fucking business.”

  Starks stood with his arms crossed. “I’m not going anywhere until I know what this is about and where you’re taking me.”

  Woodson placed his right hand on his Taser. “You can go on your own two feet or we can carry your drooling, twitching body outta here.”

  “Fine,” Starks said. “Give me a few minutes to get myself together.”

  “Sorry, princess,” Woodson said, “you got ten seconds.”

  Starks slipped on his shirt, with the prepped knitting needle tucked into the hem. “Ready when you are.” He swung his head around and said, “No worries, Jackson. I’ll be back.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Jackson replied.

  Skullars Bailey was on his bunk in the first cell on the right side of the entrance to Cell Block D. He made eye-contact with Starks. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question, a question to which Starks could only shrug and shake his head.

  Heads turned to watch Starks and his five escorts as they proceeded down one corridor after another. On the surface, Starks appeared calm, confident. Inside was another matter.

  The path they followed didn’t give any clues to where they were taking him, until they made one particular turn that led to the Incidents Investigative Council room. Why hadn’t Roberts warned him? No money, no service?

  Damn Jeffrey. Was this the first Domino to fall and take out the rest, until there was nothing left to keep him safe in this godforsaken place? Only one thing stopped Starks from panicking: the guards hadn’t put shackles on him.

  Tony Spencer, head investigator, was seated at the long table in his usual spot at the center. Starks noted that the last time he’d been invited to this kind of party there had been five men at the table. This time there were three, and the other two were new faces. Nameplates were provided, another difference from the other time—correction, times—Starks reminded himself. The man to Spencer’s right was John Bentley. To his left was James Kratz. Each man had the same size stack of papers in front of him.

  Spencer motioned for Starks to sit in the chair directly across from him and a yard back from the table. Two of the five guards took positions at the door. Spencer glared at Starks over his wire-frame glasses. “Making a statement, are we? Why didn’t you just put a heart with Killer written inside on your forehead or put the blue teardrops
on your cheeks?”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “You’re not a dragon, either, despite your erroneous estimation of yourself,” Spencer said.

  “What’s this about?” Starks rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, waiting, wondering if the proverbial other shoe was about to drop.

  “We have good—better than good—reason to believe you were directly involved in the Jones and Lawson deaths.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m innocent,” Starks said.

  Bentley cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t be at Sands if you were innocent. The only thing that stopped you from killing Ozy Hessinger was the police pulling you off him. If you went after your wife’s lover, why wouldn’t you go after someone who attacked you here?”

  “Hessinger was a matter of self-defense,” Starks replied. “He pulled a knife on me.”

  Bentley tapped his finger on the stack of papers. “No mention of a knife in the police report.”

  “It’s in the trial transcription.” Starks smiled at the man. “By the way, I like your name. That’s the car I drive.”

  Bentley curled his upper lip. “Drove, Starks. Only thing you’re driving in here is time.” He picked up his pen and tapped it on the table. “Boen Jones. Mike Lawson. Start talking.”

  “What happened to them has nothing to do with me.” Starks slouched in the chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him.

  “Both men attacked you.” Bentley pointed his pen at Starks. “And you want us to believe you had nothing to do with their deaths?”

  Starks gave him a half-smile. “I’d like to say I have people in here who like me enough to take revenge on my behalf, but that’s not the case. Those two had enemies. Lots of them. Are you interviewing them as well?”

  Spencer broke in. “You’re here to answer questions, not ask them.”

  “I’m here,” Starks said, “because you’re making assumptions.”

  Up to this point, Kratz had been a silent observer but now sat forward in his chair. “How would you explain the death of the two inmates who attacked you?”

  “What makes you think they’re the only two who attacked me since I got here?”

  “You didn’t report any other attacks,” Kratz said.

  “If you’re paying any attention at all to what it’s like in here, you know why I wouldn’t.” Some of the tension in Starks’s body eased. He was certain now that this was nothing more than a baited fishhook. “Look,” he said, “I had nothing to do with what happened to Jones and Lawson. That’s all I can tell you about that.”

  Spencer slammed his palm against the tabletop. “We know you did it, Starks. We have an informant willing to testify against you for both deaths. It’s better for you if you confess willingly.”

  “Better for me? Right. Either you’re setting me up or someone else is. I’m not taking the fall for this. I’m letting my attorney know what you’re doing. I know my rights.”

  The sound of chair legs scraping across flooring drew everyone’s attention to Spencer, who was on his feet, red-faced, leaning forward with his fists pressed against the table. “All you’ve done is create chaos since the day you stepped foot into this prison. Two deaths.” He pointed a finger at Starks. “I know you’re involved. Don’t talk to me about your rights.” He smoothed his tie, pulled his chair into place, and resumed his seat.

  “Yeah,” Starks said, “six months. Two of them spent in a coma, with extra hospital time needed for recovery and physical therapy, thanks to the two inmates you’re so concerned about. Really doing a great job, fellas.”

  Spencer shook his head. “We know you have some kind of special weapon.”

  The knitting needle, usually weightless in Starks’s shirt hem, weighed heavy in his imagination. “You can’t be serious. This entire,” he waved a hand toward them, “procedure, for lack of a better word—though, sham comes to mind—is ridiculous. If I’m not being charged with anything, I’d like to go. I haven’t had breakfast and I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Maybe we’re not charging you with anything right now,” Spencer said, “but you’ll eventually be caught. Count on it.”

  “Then I’m free to leave.”

  “You leave when we say you can.” Spencer signaled the two guards. “Get him out of here.”

  Starks stood, nodded at the three men and made his way to the door.

  Bentley called to Starks, who turned around. “We’re coming after you, Starks. We’re not giving up until we have you.”

  Starks stopped himself from telling them not to hold their breath, or better yet, to stick their heads up their asses and do just that. Less than two weeks ago he would have had the confidence to make that sort of cocky comment. But things had changed. The arrangements and people he’d relied on had been in order then. Now he wasn’t sure what was what anymore. His plan wasn’t moving forward as smoothly as he’d anticipated.

  It was a case of the weakest damn link in the chain:

  Jeffrey.

  CHAPTER 9

  STARKS HAD TO call Michael Parker exactly at noon. It wasn’t that Parker wouldn’t wait for his call if he was a few minutes late, but that he wanted to get the call done and behind him. He finished putting copies of the local newspapers into chronological order then glanced at the clock placed high on the back wall. It was five after eleven.

  Since he’d left Spencer’s office, each time Starks glanced at the clock, which had been often, his anxiety escalated. He was worried about Spencer, and that maybe someone from Hector Sanchez’s gang had squealed on him. But that didn’t seem likely, because telling on Starks would be the same as telling on Sanchez. That would be a bad mark against the gang leader. Sanchez’s followers knew the rules, especially when your leader is called The Razor, a label Sanchez had earned and didn’t hesitate to reinforce, including when he felt a need to discipline those under him.

  Spencer had nothing concrete on him or he’d already be in the Secure Housing Unit, again, being abused by guards with personality disorders and fed the inedible nutraloaf—a true sin against man—for God only knew how long. Aside from the deliberate physical discomfort of those cells and the mental torture of extended isolation, any time spent in the SHU was the worst thing that could happen now.

  Starks busied himself by reorganizing books and materials he’d already put into order that morning, glancing more and more frequently at the clock. At 11:45, he couldn’t stand waiting any longer. It was imperative he get to the phones early. Other inmates might be waiting to make calls, which was usually the case. He exited the library, traveling down the corridors just fast enough to indicate he had a destination in mind and wasn’t to be interrupted.

  The digital clock above the phones read 11:57. Three minutes.

  All the phones were in use, and there were lines behind the callers. One line had only two inmates waiting their turn. It was his best chance.

  Starks stood behind the second guy in line and said, “I need to get ahead of you.”

  The man turned, sneered at Starks then faced forward again.

  Starks said, “I’ll give you four cartons of cigarettes, if you’ll get behind me.”

  The inmate started to say something, but stopped when his gaze landed on the dragon tattoo. He raised his eyes to meet Starks’s. “Works for me.”

  “I can’t get to the commissary until after my work shift is over later this afternoon, but I’m good for it. Ask around.”

  “I know who you are.” The inmate took his place behind Starks.

  Starks told him, “Meet me by the weights in the exercise room at five.” The man nodded.

  The inmate now in front of Starks had paid attention. “If you offer the same deal to me, I’ll take it.”

  “Good. Same place and time.”

  Starks reached to tap the back of the inmate using the phone, but the man hung up and walked away.

  The collect call was placed. Parker answered on the first ring. “I wasn’t sure when I�
�d hear from you again,” he said, “considering how our last meeting affected you. How are you?”

  “I don’t have much time, so I’ll get to the point. We need to do something about Jeffrey.”

  “Please be more specific.”

  “I want him out of the company. I don’t want that traitor benefitting from my hard work one second longer than it takes to get rid of him.”

  “Not possible.”

  Starks gripped the phone. “Not what I want to hear, Parker.”

  “Look, Starks, you’re no longer able to call the shots.” Silence hung for a few moments between the two men. “About the company, I mean. The board of directors removed you after the attack on Hessinger. You signed your ownership over to your mother.”

  “And Jeffrey signed off on her being a silent partner in my absence.”

  “You know the arrangement. She has only forty percent of the shares. Jeffrey’s the majority shareholder now.”

  “He’s a fucking viper. I’d bet my life he and Kayla are in this together. I have to get control away from him.”

  “And give control to whom?” When no answer came, Parker cleared his throat. “I understand why you feel that way, especially now, but we don’t have proof of a conspiracy. If there is one, it’ll surface sooner than later. And we’ll deal with it. If it happens that way.

  “Speaking of Kayla, her lawyer contacted me yesterday afternoon about the divorce. I should say her primary lawyer was who called me. She has a team of lawyers lined up.”

  “Handle it.”

  “It’s not that simple. Discoveries are in order and have been formally requested. You and I need to meet soon to discuss your assets and properties.”

  Starks pressed the phone hard against his ear, ignoring the discomfort. “Listen, that whore is entitled to what she gets now and not a fucking penny more. You hear me, Parker?”