“If there is no further discussion, I’d like to put this proposal to a vote,” Bigelow said and waited for a response. Seeing none, he handed a document over to a clerk. “Please signify by voice vote as the roll is called.”
Marty had already endured one tie vote on his proposal, and he wasn’t sure he’d swayed anyone to his side in today’s discussion. With the president of the Senate abstaining from being a tie breaker, Marty’s gut was in a knot. He hoped Frank was faring better with the government of California. It was going to be a day Maalox and Tums wouldn’t touch.
* * *
The roll call of states in the Senate had come to the latter part of the alphabet as the final names were called.
“Senator Bartlett, Wyoming,” Bigelow said.
“Nay.”
“Senator Houser, Wyoming.”
“Yea.”
“That completes the roll,” Bigelow said. “Anyone we missed?”
No one responded. Bigelow consulted his voting results.
“It appears that we again have a tie vote,” Bigelow said.
“Mr. President?” Marty said, standing.
“The Chair recognizes Senator Dimino.”
“Rather than go into another floor discussion and a likely identical tie vote, and since the chair has chosen to abstain from the tie break, with the permission of the Senate, I’d like to propose something highly unusual to settle this deadlock.”
“And what might that be, Senator?”
“Since many of these distinguished senators are concerned about the rights of the inmates in this matter, why not let the inmates decide?”
“You would be willing to place the fate of your bill in the hands of the very element that it intends to affect?
“Yes, sir, I would.”
“This is most irregular, senator. Give us a moment,” Bigelow said and turned to the others seated near him.
Muffled discussion in the chamber filled the air as the vice-president consulted with others on his level. After several moments, he returned to the his seat and attempted to quiet the chamber.
“Order, please. Order.”
The talking and chamber noises subsided.
“Senator Dimino,” Bigelow said, “if you can obtain a majority vote for your proposal from among the present inmate population of your state of California, which this experiment will initially involve, I’ll be the first to consider it a mandate for its passage by this body.” Bigelow raised a hand and appealed to the entire Senate. “We need a motion.”
“I move that I, Martin Dimino, obtain a vote on Senate Bill S4148 from the entire affected
inmate population at present in the state of California. And, further agree, that the result of that vote decide the future of this bill.”
“Seconds?” Bigelow asked.
Senator Kate Nelson of California stood.
“Second,” she said and looked at Marty, “… proudly.”
Bigelow stood.
“By general voice vote, all those in favor of this curious, but very American experiment, signify by saying ‘aye.’"
The vast majority of the Senate responded with resounding "ayes."
“Opposed?”
A few voices responded with "nays."
“So be it,” Bigelow said. “The motion is carried. Good luck, Senator Dimino. I sense you’re going to need it.”
Marty leaned over to Kate.
“Why does the vice-president refuse to break the tie?”
“His brother was murdered by a man who is serving a life sentence in Florence, Colorado’s Supermax. He feels that any vote from him might be considered biased.”
Chapter 26
It had been five days since the Coast Guard had returned Frank and Charly to the terra firma of southern California. Frank had intended to stay on his boat at the San Diego marina, but now found himself accepting Marty’s forceful offer to continue on at his beach house.
The boat’s insurer had flown out to see the grounded Esperanza and returned with no solution for getting the nine ton vessel out of the shallow lagoon and back to sea without incurring more expense than the sloop was worth. They decided to pay Frank for the boat’s total loss. The amount was a good deal less than Frank had paid for the boat, not to mention the extra radio and navigation equipment he’d purchased that would now spend the rest of its silent days stranded in a solitary location a hundred miles away. Frank mourned the loss, but knew life often handed you lemons. Making lemonade wasn’t going to improve his mood about the bad luck.
On a cheerier note, the newly-found coffee appliances at the beach house were working in concert to grind and brew Frank the best cup of java he’d ever drunk. He had scarcely touched his morning lips to his steaming cup when his cell rang.
“Detective Dugan,” Frank said, placing his piping hot cup on the kitchen counter.
“Hey, partner,” Judd Kemp said. “Got some interesting news for you.”
“Interesting, as in the Chinese curse, ‘May you live in interesting times?’”
“Much better than that. The boss just got a call from Marty in DC. He wants you to poll the state prisons for candidates who qualify to road test your island idea. On the department payroll.”
“SDPD’s willing to pay me while I’m hopping around to all these lock-ups trying to convince hard-ass cons they will love life in the palms?”
“The chief thinks this is far more important that collaring repeat offenders a few at a time. You’re going to put thousands of them where we don’t have to recycle them ever again.”
“Why me? I have unsolved cases on my docket.”
“We’ll take over your workload. Don’t worry about it. Did Marty tell you the latest?”
“About getting a majority vote from the lifers?”
“You do know about this.”
“Again, why me?”
“You’re the man who got Marty elected, sport. You’re the poster boy for this island project. Who better? Besides, you’re a big celebrity. The cons in the joint will love to chat with you.”
“Especially the ones I put there.”
“They’ll love you just the same. They know they’re bad boys. Somebody had to bust ’em. But this time you’ll be offering to set them free.”
“I don’t even know where to begin …”
“Pelican Bay,” Judd said.
“The northernmost point in the state.”
“It’s where the baddest baddies live. Marty wants only the worst offenders polled. Guys who only get the stretch their legs an hour or two a day.”
“When?” Frank asked and managed to work in a swig of his coffee.
“You go day after tomorrow. More good news. Corillo’s going with you.”
“The rookie?”
“Chief wants him to learn from you. And he wants him to watch your back in tight quarters. The guy’s built like that Super Bowl linebacker on the Ravens.”
“Ray Lewis?”
“Yeah, him, only taller.”
“I’m going to need drawings. Projected renderings of the island as it’ll look when we renovate it,” Frank said. “Can you get me a decent graphic artist today?”
“We’ll get you a direct descendant of Rembrandt, if we have to.”
* * *
The tower overseeing the 275-acre Pelican Bay Supermax correctional complex rose more than twenty-five feet above coil after coil of razor wire atop sturdy, electrified anchor chain fences, ten feet high. Pelican Bay and the word “escape” seldom, if ever, combined in the planning thoughts among its thousand-plus residents, or news stories. Since its creation in 1989, no one had ever left its safekeeping unauthorized, a comfort to the population of Crescent City, a few miles south.
Frank and Alex Corillo met with Warden James Griswold in his office and discussed their wish to assemble the inmates and hold a forum in the prison gym or cafeteria. Frank showed the warden the pictures he’d brought in a manila envelope that Alex had carried in. The possibility of sp
eaking to a large group of tough long-timers in one spot got dismissed out of hand by the warden, citing the obvious dangers. That made Frank’s job nearly impossible. Doing a dog-and-pony show for every max prisoner in the Security Housing Unit was going to take too much time, not to mention, wear Frank to the bone. The warden suggested a solution.
“We have recently installed a cable television system for the SHU, which we control,” Griswold said. “We could put you on a closed circuit airing of your proposal, which will reach every inmate in the unit.”
“I like the idea,” Frank said, “but I first want to talk in person to the known leaders in the SHU, maybe two or three, at your suggestion. One at a time, of course.”
“Can do, detective,” the warden said and pressed a button on his desk phone.
* * *
Frank knew that the facility was separated into two main sections. One half housed Level IV inmates known as the “general population,” and included those who had possibilities of rehabilitation and perhaps release someday, while in the other half, an “X” shape configuration on barren ground, named the Security Housing Unit, held the “worst-of-the-worst” prisoners. It was this building that Frank and Alex needed to visit and pitch their alternative life option. Frank was well aware that a handful of gang leaders inside regarded everyone as untrustworthy opportunists with ulterior angles. Cops, especially, topped their scammers watch list. It would be the confidence of these men that Frank needed to turn his way. By comparison, putting panty hose on an ostrich would be a snap.
After initial processing, a young guard, who looked like he was born in a workout gym, escorted Frank and Alex into the center hub that connected the four lengthy arms of the X-shaped facility. From there, they followed a long corridor containing six pods of eight cells, eight-by-ten-foot, windowless concrete boxes, lighted only by fluorescent fixtures.
It was here that Frank needed to sit face-to-face with some of the hardest criminals to ever populate a rap sheet, men who killed people for an askance look. But Frank was certain that the key to obtaining a winning vote on the proposal was to sell these kingpins the deal. He wondered where those Canarsee Indians, who sold Manhattan Island to the Dutch, were now when he needed them.
The escort guard introduced Frank and Alex to the officer who monitored and controlled the pod’s every activity and cell door.
“I need to speak with a couple of your most-respected inmate leaders,” Frank said. “The scariest ones.”
“The warden said you were a sensible man,” the officer said. “I watched you in the news, detective. You never struck me as being crazy.”
“Sometimes you have to grab the devil by the tail.”
“Good luck with that.”
The officer pointed to one of his monitors showing a man reclining on his bunk, reading a magazine.
“That’s Buck Canton,” the officer said. “Killed seven people in their mansion in Bel Air.”
“Why?” Frank asked.
“Because they were home.”
“I’ll take him,” Frank said. “Who else ya got?”
“Over here is Daniel Crawford,” the officer said, indicating a different screen. The man on camera was shaving. “Robbed twenty-seven banks before he had his Nixon mask pulled off by a teller.”
“A bank robber is in here?”
“He murdered the grabby teller.”
“I like him too.”
“He’s a good choice. Runs all the blacks in the unit and most of everyone else, even though he’s gotten religion and preaches every Sunday on our cable circuit. He makes sure all in his congregation fear two things: God and Dan Crawford.”
“Let me test out those two,” Frank said. “If I need more, I’ll stop back.”
The officer leaned over to the escort guard.
“I’m going to open Canton’s cell first. Be at his door with these visitors when I open him up. Signal when you get to Crawford’s.”
The escort guard gestured for Frank and Alex to follow him into the austere corridor.
* * *
Buck Canton, easily six-foot-five, stood when his door slid open and glared at the trio outside his cell.
“It’s too early for my shower,” Canton said.
“These men have come from San Diego to talk to you,” the guard said.
“I didn’t lose anything in San Diego,” Canton said. “They look like cops.”
“We are cops, Mr. Canton,” Frank said. “Want to discuss a great opportunity for you.”
“Gonna sell me swamp land in Florida?” Canton said and laughed, his foul breath assaulting Frank’s nostrils.
“How about we have a sit and discuss it?”
“I had to fire my decorator, but I reckon we can make do with what’s here.”
Canton took a seat on his stainless steel toilet and pointed Frank to his bunk. Frank sat on the edge of the rectangular shelf that passed for a bed, while Alex and the guard stood at the open door.
“There’s a good chance you can spend your days free on a tropical island.”
“If you came all this way to bullshit me, you can cart your blue ass outa here and head back south.”
“This is not bullshit. Instead of being in this concrete casket you could be in a hammock on a sandy beach watching the sunset and chewing on fresh coconut.”
Canton rolled his eyes and smiled.
“What? I get to go there for a week, then turn my body over to an organ harvester?”
“You can stay there as long as you live. Other inmates will opt to go with you. You can govern yourselves, fish in the Pacific, hunt game, grow crops, swim in the ocean, and never, ever see or hear a guard.”
Canton laughed.
“What’s the catch? Gotta be a catch.”
“There is one. You can’t ever leave the island and come back here.”
“Hell, Ace, I can’t ever leave here.”
“Well, I brought along drawings of what we intend to build.”
Frank took the manila envelope from Alex and removed the color sketches of the fully-operational island. Canton looked over the drawings and shook his head.
“This is unbelievable. But I smell a rat,” Canton said.
“What have you got to lose, Buck?” Frank asked. “You happy here? You like being in this cell twenty-three hours every day? The closest thing you get to freedom is an hour or two a day out there on the dog run. What’s the matter? You afraid of being free?”
“I ain’t afraid of shit.”
“Then you’ll be in favor of this idea when it comes to a vote?”
“Maybe. I don’t know …”
“This whole idea is going to be broadcast to the entire population of this unit today, but I need a leader for it to go forward. A man with guts and respect among the inmates. That leader is you. The warden himself endorsed you as the top gun in this facility.”
“Old man Griswold said that?” Canton asked.
Frank appealed to Alex.
“What did the warden say, Alex?”
“Exactly the words you just said,” Alex said.
“Give it some serious thought, Buck,” Frank said. “You’re not an animal. You deserve a decent way to live your life. A life in freedom.”
Frank stepped over to Canton and extended his hand. Buck rose and shook with Frank.
“They better not want any of my organs on this island,” Canton said.
“I can assure you of that,” Frank said. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be talking to you.”
Frank, Alex, and the guard stepped into the middle of the corridor as the guard pressed a button on his shoulder microphone.
“We’re clear of 119,” the guard said low.
The door to Buck Canton’s cell slid closed. The far-away look in Canton’s eyes lingered in Frank’s mind as they proceeded through the corridor. It reminded him of the longing eyes of animals at a rescue kennel.
* * *
Dan Crawford’s cell was an exact duplicate of Canton
’s. Frank stepped inside the cell when the door fully opened. Crawford, a black man of about thirty, rose the nearly seven feet from his bunk and stared down at his visitor.
“I’m Frank Dugan,” Frank said.
“I know who you are,” Crawford said. “We have TV now.”
“I’m here to offer you a way to live out your life on a beautiful Pacific island.”
Frank extended the pack of pictures.
“You could start a sweet little church there,” Frank said as Crawford pored over the pictures.
“I have a television ministry here.”
“The one I propose lets you see your congregation, speak directly to them, bless them by your presence in person.”
“You have no idea how much I’ve prayed for something like this.”
“Really? That’s an incredible coincidence that here we are discussing the exact same thing.”
“What we’re discussing is that both you and me are full of the devil’s deceiving shit.”
Frank dropped his head.
Crawford said, “My people hand me lies every time I encounter them, and yet they profess that they love the Lord, that they are truly saved, and believe unquestionably in God the Father. Then they lie their asses off when it’s to their advantage, when it’s convenient. And now you come here with this line of crap. Why would I believe anything you say, when I don’t believe most of what my own people say?”
“It’s about faith,” Frank said. “Isn’t that what you sell, preacher? ‘Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.’”
“Hebrews 11. I’m impressed, detective.”
“All I’m asking for is a fair look at what you’re proposing.”
“And why, of all the cons in this maximum security prison, would you be laying this on me?”
“This whole idea is going to be broadcast to the entire population of this unit today, but I need a leader for it to go forward. A man with guts and respect among the inmates. That leader is you. The warden himself endorsed you as the top gun in this facility.”
“I’m sure,” Crawford said, smiling.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 12