The Innocent

by Vincent Zandri

  “Val,” I said, grabbing her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

  Looking down at the floor of the station wagon she started to cry. She reached behind the seat and picked up a copy of the morning’s Times Union. She laid the newspaper in my lap, headline staring at me.

  APD Officer Found Hanged!

  I folded the newspaper in half and slammed it against the dash of the wagon. The impact was like a blast from a.45 and just as shocking. Val jumped and emptied her lungs of oxygen. I let the paper fall to the floor, sat back in the seat, and drew a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “So am I.”

  I took her in my arms and held her, and she held me.

  “Do you really believe Mike could have killed himself, Keeper?”

  “What I think is that Pelton could have made it look like a suicide.”

  Now that we had calmed down, I was holding Val’s hand and giving her the play-by-play behind the Vasquez-Pelton drug operation. I relayed exactly what Cassandra had told me just hours before, without altering a single detail of her story.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Mike turned the evidence I found at the gravel pit over to Pelton. But he must have done it out of desperation, for the promise of money.”

  “In turn,” Val said, “Pelton may have considered him a security risk. I mean, the last thing Pelton needed was for Mike to get drunk and shoot his mouth off.”

  “Wouldn’t take much to make Mike look suicidal. I know how you felt about him, Val, but we both know he was a hopeless boozer, and we both know that the department had continually passed him by, right? Attica was a long time ago but the scars stay with you forever and there’s no way in hell they were about to let him forget about his breakdown.”

  “But my God, Keeper,” Val said, squeezing my hand hard, “that was so long ago.”

  “So long ago but not long enough. When you saw what we saw during those four days, twenty-five years may as well be twenty-five seconds.” I stopped there, but I wanted to go on. I wanted to tell Val that you never forgot the smell of the dirt or the look of the rain when it fell in sheets into puddles filled with the blood from a man who’s been castrated, or a man who’s had his skull pounded in with an iron bar. It never leaves you, I wanted to tell her. There wasn’t a single day at Green Haven that I didn’t think about it. I never pretended for even a second that Attica couldn’t happen again, because it would. And when it did, it was going to be worse, and more officers and inmates and civilians were going to die, but they wouldn’t die easily. I wanted to tell her all this. But I let it go.

  Val pulled her hand away and used the other to rub the feeling back into it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I drew in a deep breath.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “It’s just that those feelings are so ingrained and I never talk to people about Attica, except to myself.”

  For a minute or two we said nothing. Then I said, “I just can’t help but think that Pelton had Mike killed.”

  “To Wash Pelton,” Val said, “Mike’s failings must have seemed like an opportunity.”

  Below the article about Mike’s suicide was a smaller headline.

  Warden and Cop-Killer’s Girlfriend, Fugitives!

  Planted below the headline was the face of the pastor whose car I’d stolen. A small caption beneath it read, “I asked them to place their trust and forgiveness in the Lord.” Below that, another headline advertised,

  Day Number Five for Corrections Officer Mastriano!

  I folded the paper in half once more and this time slid it into the space between the armrest and the bucket seat.

  I said, “The three stills I found in Vasquez’s cell on Monday afternoon were lifted off a home video Pelton took of him and Cassandra having sex. She claims that Marty Schillinger, of all people, is in the same video.”

  “Let me get this straight, boss,” Val said, her eyes nearly popping out of her skull. “Not only has Pelton been running a major drug ring inside our own prison, but he and Schillinger have been making pornographic films with Vasquez’s girlfriend?”

  “By the looks of things, Vasquez and Pelton forced her into it. Vasquez didn’t like it, but claimed he wasn’t bargaining with Pelton from a position of power, which was probably an accurate assessment.”

  “Tell me something, Keeper,” Val said. “Why should a man like Vasquez make such a difference in Cassandra Wolf ‘s life? I mean, how did he hold so much power over her?”

  “She was there the night that rookie cop took two slugs to the back of the head. She ran from the scene and called the cops. She turned her own boyfriend in, and for all these years he’s held it over her head, made her feel like an accomplice and a traitor.”

  “And you believe her?” Val said. “You think a little guilt trip is enough to make a girl stay with a man who kills and runs drugs, even when he’s in prison?”

  I thought about Cassandra lying on the floor of my grandfather’s cabin, her chest rising and sinking with steady, even breaths, and I pictured her eyes and the tattoo on her neck that appeared to pulse when she swallowed. It was true, I had no idea who she really was, what she had done, or what she was capable of doing. I could have told Val about the overcoat man and about what Cassandra did to him for me, for my life. But then I thought better of it. Knowing I was that vulnerable would not sit well with Val. It would only make her more concerned, more nervous. On the other hand, maybe Val’s concern was something I just wanted to believe in.

  “Listen,” I said in as soft a voice as I could summon. “I believe Cassandra is telling the truth.”

  “But don’t you think you’re forgetting one thing, Keeper?” Val said, taking my hand once more. “Maybe it’s not your heart that’s speaking to you at all. Maybe it’s your conscience. Maybe you feel you have no choice but to believe that Cassandra is telling the truth.”

  From the front seat of Val’s station wagon we could see the mountains and the lush green valley to our right and the empty Champlain road to our left.

  “Let me get this straight, Keeper,” Val went on. “Pelton was having sex with Vasquez’s girlfriend and getting it all on tape.”

  “Like I already told you, Pelton was the sugar daddy for the drug operation, and now everyone is trying to blackmail him for more money, or so it appears.”

  “So then Pelton’s been trying to pin this thing on you from the start, to try and save himself when news of the operation goes public.”

  “I’m going to beat Pelton out of the gate,” I insisted. “But first you have to do me another favor.” I lit a cigarette and blew the initial hit of smoke out the open window.

  Val nodded.

  “I want you to call Tony Angelino for me. Tell him I want to hire his Guinea Pigs.”

  “His what?”

  “I’ll explain another time,” I said, taking another hit on the cigarette. “I want them to retrieve the videotape of Pelton and Cassandra, and the three hundred grand.”

  Val smiled.

  “Location,” she said, pulling out a pen and a cocktail napkin that said T.G.I. Friday’s on it out of her blazer pocket. She triggered the ballpoint and, at the same time, spread the cocktail napkin on her thigh for something to write on.

  “It’s at a post office in Olancha, California. It’s a big cardboard box, like the kind televisions come in, and it’s addressed to Cassandra. Inside the box are three baby dolls. You know, oversized plastic dolls for little girls who like to play mommy.”

  “I remember, boss,” Val said.

  “Inside one of those dolls is a videocassette. Inside all three dolls is the three hundred grand. All in big, unmarked bills. Tell him there’s a hundred grand in it for him and his Guinea Pigs. All he has to do is get to it.”

  “Maybe Tony’s got an L.A. contingent who can have it in hand by tonight,” Val said.

  “If I know Tone,” I said, “that’s the case exactly. Just have him
send the entire package overnight express to me at the Ironville post office.”

  “What name do they use?”

  “Use my grandfather’s name,” I said.

  Val wrote fast.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “My grandfather’s name was Pasquale,” I said, taking a quick drag on my cigarette. “Pasquale Marconi.”

  “There’s just one thing that bothers me,” Val revealed.

  “What is it?”

  “Can you trust Tony?”

  “As much as I can trust you.”

  Val smiled.

  “What next?” she said.

  “Then I want you and Tony to arrange a meeting.”

  “With?”

  “Schillinger and Pelton,” I said. “I want them both at the cabin tomorrow night at nine o’clock sharp. Tell them I’m aware of the truth now-the drug deal, the blackmail. Tell them I want to work it all out, that I know I made a mistake by running. Make it sound like they set me up real good and now I realize there’s no getting out of it without doing things their way. Ask them for their complete assurance, complete protection, and secrecy. No cops. Make sure you tell Pelton that all I want is my job back and that I know I made a mistake not working with him in the first place. Tell him I looked tired, haggard, scared, defeated. Really pour it on.”

  Val looked out the window for a second or two. Then she looked at me and said, “What’s Pelton got to gain by coming all the way up here, Keeper? You’re already taking the rap. I mean, Pelton and Schillinger, they’re on easy street.”

  “I’ll have the magic videotape by then,” I said. “They refuse to come up here, I’m going to deliver it directly to Chris Collins at Channel 13 news.”

  “What if they still don’t go for it? Couldn’t they just claim the film was made for private viewing?”

  “Then I’ll have no choice but to bring Cassandra in on my own terms, throw us both on the mercy of the court, if there ever was such a thing. That way, she’ll have her chance to testify not only about what she witnessed inside the hotel room in Athens yesterday afternoon, but about the entire drug operation. A jury will either believe her or they won’t. But one thing is for sure, a trial will make a big stink for everyone involved with Pelton, including Schillinger and Jake Warren, our illustrious senatorial hopeful.”

  “So a little road trip may be worth it to them,” Val surmised.

  “It’s important that I meet them on my own terms, on my own playing field.”

  “I get it. Your turn to join the blackmail squad.”

  “Time to clear my name of this thing, once and for all.”

  Val smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. It was a sly, corner-of-the-mouth kind of smile that made me want to melt into the bucket seat.

  “I’ll need detailed directions to the cabin,” she said.

  “Tell Tony to be in his office tomorrow evening at five o’clock,” I said. “That’s when I’ll call him with the directions. In turn, he can relay them to Pelton and Schillinger.”

  “You could just cut to the chase, give me the information right now.” She balanced the ballpoint pen above the T.G.I. Friday’s napkin as if to exaggerate her point.

  “The less you know the better,” I said. “A lot can happen between now and tomorrow night.”

  As if on cue, Val and I glanced at the headline reporting Mike Norman’s apparent suicide.

  “If they can get to Mike,” I said, “they can get to you and Tony. So take care of yourself. I need you.” I flicked the spent cigarette out onto the parking lot. Sparks flew up when the butt hit the pavement.

  Val returned the pen and paper to her pocket, took my hand and squeezed it. She moved in closer and I breathed in her sweet smell and looked into her eyes.

  “You’ll be happy I wanted it this way,” I said.

  “Especially if they torture me, boss,” Val said, coming even closer, but not yet touching.

  “You are one pleasant administrative assistant,” I said, my lips only inches from hers, nearly touching, but somehow better than touching.

  “Pleasant,” she said, “is my middle name.” And then I laid one on her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I GOT OUT OF the car, closed the door behind me, and leaned inside the open window.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Val asked. How she was able to maintain a happy face was a testament not only to her strength, but to her blind faith in me.

  “I am now,” I said. “But you and Tony’s Guinea Pigs have to come through for me. Otherwise this thing is shot to hell, and I go straight to jail, do not pass go, do not clear my name, do not save my reputation or my life.”

  Val pressed her lips together.

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements right now. But I have to know you’re going to be all right.” She went to turn over the ignition, but I reached inside the car and took her arm.

  “Val,” I said, “do you know what they’ll do to a warden inside an iron house?”

  She nodded and placed her hand on my hand.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, boss man,” she said. “Not about me or Tony or those Guinea Pigs.”

  I squeezed Val’s forearm gently. When I let go, she turned over the ignition and smiled again. But I knew the smile was forced. The big eight-cylinder on the Town & Country revved for a few quick seconds, then settled down to a gentle purr. Val put her hands on the steering wheel. She looked small sitting behind the big black wheel, almost fragile. But deep down, I knew she wasn’t anything like that.

  “One hundred thousand bucks,” she said. “Sounds very reasonable.”

  “Tony has to come through,” I said, leaning away from the window. “Tomorrow morning. Ironville post office. Attention Pasquale Marconi.” I thought about Cassandra’s testimony. I had to believe she’d told me the truth. I had to believe in the power of instinct.

  “It’ll be there,” Val insisted, switching the automatic transmission into reverse.

  I stood away from the car so she could back out. Then she pulled out onto the Champlain road and left me in the observation area, more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

  It was all I could do to wait until Val’s car was out of sight before I doubled over, went down on my knees, and heaved. The acid from the bile in my stomach burned the insides of my chest, my throat. The bile soured my mouth, made tears run down my face. That was my excuse for the tears, anyway. The salty tears ran between my lips and combined with the sour taste in my mouth. I left a clear brown puddle on the black lot. My body felt like it had been ripped inside out. I closed my eyes, winced from the burning pain.

  I saw Mike Norman’s face. Tommy Walsh sat in Mike’s dark office in Albany. I saw Mike downing shot after shot of ginger brandy out of his I LOVE MY JOB! mug. Walsh was holding a Glock to Mike’s head, ordering him to drink up. Then, when the time was right, Tommy unbuckled Mike’s belt, slid it out from under the loops, wrapped it around Mike’s neck and ran it back through the buckle. He strapped the belt to one of the overhead steam pipes that rose up the wall and ran across the ceiling. Tommy lifted Mike up. Mike’s emaciated body was like lifting a baby for a muscle-man like Tommy. He stood Mike up on his swivel chair with that belt wrapped around his neck, and just walked away.

  Out of desperation, Mike maybe managed to balance himself for a second or two on the swivel chair. He was sober suddenly, and he must have tried to shout, but no words would come. He tried to go for the 9 mm. usually kept in his leather shoulder holster. But in his position, a move like that would mean certain death. And besides, his piece would have been long gone. With his fingers he tried to make a space between the belt and the flesh of his neck, but the belt was too tight and he was too drunk. Sober, but drunk. He’d leave claw marks where the belt was. And as the windpipe in his throat closed up, he reached out for Tommy as if his killer could also be his savior. But Tommy was already gone out into the night, and Mike realized that he was already as good as dead and t
hat the life he had left was merely a formality. That’s when Mike lost his balance on the swivel chair. That’s when he fell away, and there was no one in the office to hear the distinct, sharp crack of his neck.

  Mike’s death appeared to be suicide.

  But it also could have been murder.

  To me, it didn’t matter what anyone called it. It was murder no matter how you looked at it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  IN A STATE OF mild shock, I drove back to the cabin. I’m not sure where my feelings had gone, but one thing was certain: I wasn’t feeling much of anything anymore. Suddenly, after having collapsed in the observation parking lot, it seemed like someone had peeled off my skin and scraped away the nerve endings. At the same time, I had to believe that I was over the hump and that Val, Tony, and Cassandra were working with me now as one big happy family. Even the Guinea Pigs were on my side. In any event, I had to keep in control, clear my head, stay positive.

  I got back to the cabin at around ten o’clock that Friday morning, just four days after Vasquez had escaped from Green Haven Prison, just one day after his murder. I turned the car around in the drive and backed it into the carport, beside the woodpile. I got out and opened the trunk. Then I took the cabin key out from behind the old black mailbox and unlocked the side door. But when I went inside to find Cassandra, she wasn’t there.

  I looked in the kitchen, the two bedrooms, and the closet-size bathroom. I pulled back the shower curtain, looked inside the empty shower. I looked behind all the doors, inside the closets, under the bed.

  No sign of her anywhere.

  The sensation of being trapped somewhere between feeling and not feeling suddenly disappeared as fast as it had hit me. Now I couldn’t help but give in to the wave of dread that swept through my veins like a three-stage lethal injection.