I scribbled down the name of the hospital I was born in and my family had frequented through the years. Stabler Memorial, in Greenville, Alabama, was a twenty-minute drive from Pine Apple if you needed a flu shot, but an eight-minute drive if you needed anything else and had a vehicle with sirens and a light bar. I slid the information to Mr. Crowder.
“What else?” he asked.
“I need to know Richard Sanders’ status.”
“That I can’t help you with.”
I didn’t think so.
“You’ve got a lot of things up against you, Miss Doe,” he said.
I cracked a bunch of knuckles and tried to get in his line of vision, which wasn’t going to happen without wings.
“Pretrial drags on, as you’re finding out first hand, not to mention what a high profile case yours is.”
I felt like standing and waving. Over here!
He flipped through my file, then looked back to the calendar. “Let’s start with the basics,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Davis Way. D, A, V, I, S, W, A, Y.”
He sniffed. “Have you come up with any way for us to verify it?”
“I’ve given out my personal information a million times, Mr. Crowder, and I’ll be happy to do it again.”
He stared at the calendar. “Unless you have something new, we can move on.”
My shoulders slumped a little more. If that were possible.
“Okay, moving on. Is there anything you need that you don’t have?”
That was a loaded question, but I knew what he meant. “I could use some things from the commissary, Mr. Crowder, and something that fits better.” Three of me could have fit into my prison jumpsuit. “But what I need more than anything is a lawyer.”
“Now there again, I can’t help you with that.”
And for some reason, he locked his gaze on the opposite wall, zeroing in on a framed eight-by-ten of the Governor. For the rest of our conversation he looked to his boss for reinforcement.
“We can assume,” he said to the Governor, “that the District Attorney is dragging his feet on assigning someone until the formal charges are made on the homicide issue.”
“Homicide?” I jumped up. “Has Mr. Sanders died?”
“I didn’t say that,” Mr. Crowder said to the Governor, “and have a seat.”
I sat, using the chair arms to lower myself.
“What I was saying, like the rest of the justice system, there aren’t enough people to go around.” He proceeded to clear his lungs in a way that made me glad I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Under normal circumstances, I’d have offered him a tissue, or a bucket, but these were anything but normal circumstances.
“Don’t be in any hurry,” he choked out. “As soon as they charge you on the homicide issue, you’ll be moved down the hill.”
The hill housed the petty criminals—Class C felonies and better. The ax murderers were below. I’d seen the small collection of maximum-security buildings while walking the yard, and never imagined myself there. How could things have gotten this far? And where would it go from here if Mr. Sanders had died? Chatter within the prison walls was just as ambiguous as my new counselor. Inmates continuously sneered and leered both “Bang, bang, Bianca! Shot him dead!” which would indicate Mr. Sanders hadn’t survived the shooting, and with equal airtime, my fellow inmates hissed things like, “Boss man’s coming after you, Bianca,” which would indicate he had lived. I didn’t acknowledge either; I kept to my corner.
“Miss Doe?”
I tried to breathe.
“I’ll make a call on an attorney for you,” he said, “because at least you can get started on this other business.” He was apparently familiar with the long list of charges against me, although he was still talking to the Governor. He let out a whistle. “Until then,” he pushed another piece of paper my way, “you can put up to three names on your visitor list and tell me what you need from the commissary. I’ll see what I can do.” He tore his gaze off the photo to look at his watch.
I’d already given at least fifty mental miles of pacing the perimeter of the yard to what names I would put on my visitor list. The other zillion miles of pacing, I tried to figure out why Bianca would want to kill her husband. I wrote down one name and pushed the paper toward him.
“That’s it?”
I nodded.
“And what can I help you with from the commissary?”
“I need a bar of soap,” I said. Why the prison passed out toothbrushes, toothpaste, and shampoo, but made you purchase a bar of soap was beyond me. “And some writing paper, envelopes, something to write with, and stamps.”
He scratched his bald head, displacing the long strands plastered from ear to ear. Realizing this, he began patting. His fingernails were dirty.
“Have you not made any friends?” he asked. “It would seem some of the other women would help you with these things.”
“I know better than to make friends in here, Mr. Crowder.”
“So you’ve been incarcerated before?”
I slapped my head. “No! I’m a former police officer!”
Sure you are, his face said. “You know,” he glanced at his watch again, “it would help so much if you’d give us your name. Really, Miss Doe, how much worse can it be? Are you concerned about extradition to another state?”
I pressed my lips together tightly and begged the sudden tears to stay in my head.
“Think about it, Miss Doe. Unless you’re facing homicide charges somewhere else, you’d be so much better off just telling us.”
“My name is Davis Way.” I reeled off my Social. I opened my mouth to spout off more, but he held his hands up in a halt motion.
“Give me the name of an immediate family member who can verify your identity,” he said, “in person. Show up with a birth certificate and baby pictures, and I’ll call them in.” After several minutes of complete silence, while silent tears made tracks down my face as he memorized the pattern on the Governor’s tie, he tapped his pen and said, “I didn’t think so.”
He pushed back from his desk and pulled open the middle drawer. He passed me two pieces of paper and one stamped envelope. “This is all I can do. You’ll have to purchase more, or get with a fellow inmate and work something out.”
I reached for them, and found my voice. “Thank you, Mr. Crowder.”
“Good luck, Doe. I’ll see you next week.”
I hoped not.
* * *
I had one shot. It took me until lights out, huddled in my corner, to write the letter. I wanted, more than anything, to use my resources to contact my sister, but that would do more harm than good. If I did not devote a good portion of my waking hours imagining my father’s recovery—the crisp, pale sheets on my parent’s bed, a Robert Parker thriller on the nightstand, the afternoon sun streaming through the plantation shutters and cutting lines across the foot of the bed—I would no longer be able to breathe. I would not divert attention from his healing by turning the spotlight on myself. Besides, I could just hear my mother now: “Of course she’s in jail. Where else would she be when he really needs her? No, Meredith, don’t you lift a finger. She got herself in there, let her get herself out.”
Of my small Bellissimo crew, I felt certain at least one of them knew exactly where I was and exactly why, and they wanted things this way. Contacting the wrong one could spell conviction for me. And George. How do you address a letter to a man using an alias who lived in a nameless cab? I didn’t have an attorney to contact, so that left me with one rotten option.
Eddie, Mel, and Bea,
I swear to you, all three, on all that is holy and unholy, if you do not respond to this letter immediately I will make the rest of your lives a living, breathing hell. I need out of this prison, and I need out NOW, and if one of you doesn’t get to Biloxi and get me out, your chicken-fried chicken-liver Thursdays are OVER. I will burn that place to the ground with the three of you chained to the fryer. Breathe a word of thi
s to my family, and you’ll be so sorry.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Bring a lawyer,
Davis
I had no way to erase it, and less than a quarter of an inch of ink showing through the rubbery prison pen casing, so I used the rest of that sheet of paper to draft the letter that I sealed and turned in at mail call.
Eddie,
You only know the second half of how to win the money. I know the first.
Another thing I know is that you only received a cut, and if you’ll help me, not only will I forgive and forget about the money from the past, I will let you walk away with every penny of what you win. There’s about a one-week window on this, so you’d better not spend a whole lot of time thinking about it. To get the money, Eddie, you’re going to have to get me out of jail. I’m in prison, in Biloxi, and I need an attorney who can get me bonded out. Call that guy in Montgomery who gets you out of your DUIs and get him to give you the name of the best criminal defense attorney in the state of Mississippi.
I desperately need to know about my father, Eddie.
And for God’s sake, put a twenty in my prison account. They’ve got me in as Jane Doe, Block B, Harrison County Women’s Correction. Get a lawyer who can get me bonded, get a bondsman, and do it NOW.
You’ve been waiting on your big break all your life, Eddie, and this is it. A million dollars to do with what you want. All you have to do is get me out of here.
Don’t write me back about any of this. They can’t read what I write to you, but if you write me back, the prison system will read it first. Don’t write, just show up. Don’t mention any of this to anyone in my family or the deal is OFF, and bring food, anything, four loaded cheeseburgers, whatever, when you show up.
You’ll no longer owe me, Eddie. Instead, I’ll owe you.
Davis
I sat back and waited. To pass the time, I played video poker in my head. On the third morning after sending it, I held my breath every time a guard’s footstep fell outside my cell, thinking they were coming to tell me I’d been bonded out.
On day seven, my increasing panic turned to despair. I’d mailed the letter to his parents’ house, knowing Eddie was here in Biloxi, but also knowing his nosy mother would get in touch with him to tell him he had a letter from a prison in Mississippi to be opened by him only, and as nosy as he was, he’d hustle home and read it. Enough time had passed for all of that to happen, yet it hadn’t. In the seven days since I’d mailed the letter, I’d had one slice of stale bread, and no more than two ounces of murky water that had floaties.
On day eleven, my worst fears were realized. “Jane Doe” was one of the first names announced at mail call. Eddie wrote me back to tell me to kiss his ass, but in fact, it was even worse than that. The letter was from his mother, and it wasn’t the original. It was a copy.
To whom it may concern, because I don’t really believe it’s you, Davis, but if it is, I couldn’t care less about whatever kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’d try to drag my son into it. Haven’t you done enough? I would think, with all your family is going through, that you’d be thinking about something else other than the money you SAY Eddie owes you. You were married. It was his money too. Get over it. If you think getting him to steal for you is the right way to get yourself out of trouble, then you have bigger problems than we ever imagined.
Not that it’s any of your business, but we haven’t heard a word from our son in months. One more thing, whoever you are, don’t write me back. You know what they say—you make your bed, you lie in it.
Bea Crawford
I should have sent the first letter.
The people in charge read the letter a hundred times before I did, and the District Attorney read between the lines and decided “financial gain” was the motive he’d been seeking, and what a stretch, with Bea’s letter his only evidence.
Well, that, and they knew I’d fired a weapon on the night in question.
I knew the system well enough to know that bringing formal charges against me meant my future held a lot more of the same. I would sit here and rot in pretrial status while the steam built up on their airtight case of greed, a smoking gun, and an obsession with Richard Sanders that led to me impersonating his wife, then shooting him. They’d assign me the sorriest lawyer they could find, someone who couldn’t get his own mother out of a speeding ticket, and in a year when this thing finally went to trial, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell against a jury of my peers.
Three days after receiving Bea’s letter, I was charged with the attempted homicide of Richard Sanders, plus a laundry list of other charges. The worst was Bea’s snipe about what my family was going through. The only ray of light was that Richard Sanders must be alive.
* * *
Interestingly enough, Mississippi doesn’t require your physical presence to accuse you of taking a kill shot at an unarmed pillar of the community. I was heavily escorted to a room on the second floor of the prison’s administrative building and shoved into a metal chair with a video camera and television in front of me. The camera was on a tripod and the television was on a rolly cart. Attempted homicide charges against Jane Doe were handed down via video conferencing.
I kept one eye on the television, watching the pre-hearing activities inside the courtroom, while one of my captors barked instructions and threats. I made cooperating gestures and noises. From what I could see inside the courtroom, the judge, already on the bench, along with the bailiff, suits, and court clerks, looked bored. They were having coffee, private conversations, and passing around yawns. Someone must have been interested, though, because intermittent strobes of light bounced around the room and off their faces. Soon enough, there was order in the court, and my director gave the three-finger countdown.
“My name is Davis Way!” I shouted. “Help me, Judge!”
The video camera light went from green to red, and the guard with his finger on the trigger looked at me in disgust. “Did we not just go over this? No bullshit.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and rocked back and forth.
“Do you think you can keep it together?” he asked.
I nodded with my whole body. At least I had my name out there. Surely it would be repeated a thousand times today. Surely someone somewhere would start digging.
The camera guard gave me a threatening look, and three others pulled out stun guns. The electronics whirred to life again, the judge’s long face filling the screen.
“No more outbursts,” he warned.
I shook my head vigorously, agreeing. I was stunned enough.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady.”
Again, I agreed.
“Answer yes or no only to the following question,” he warned. “Do you have an attorney?”
“No.”
The judge complained to his audience at length about chicken-shit corporate crackpots who would never know a career-making pro bono if it walked up and bit them, he then turned his attention back to me. “You will be assigned a public defender forthwith,” he said.
The charges against me were read. I was given the option of postponing my response until some poor soul was roped into representing me. I declined.
“Not guilty.”
“Held without bail.”
The screen went dead.
* * *
The next day they transported me down the hill to live with the ax murderers. I was processed and shoved into a two-bunk cell with a convicted felon.
As it turned out, my new roommate liked me even less than my old roommates. She eyed me for two seconds, then yelled, “You!” Her steel gaze turned to the guards. “No way! Get her out!” She came at me swinging, and she must have connected, because I woke up in the infirmary again, completely confused, with a needle in my arm.
I’d immediately recognized the face of the girl who’d put me here, as it had happened, but couldn’t place her before I saw stars. Sometime
during my infirmary respite, my subconscious put a name to the irate face. Heidi Dupree, the Casino Marketing assistant who, along with her brother, had been cleaning out room safes. And she could’ve been my ticket out of there, because she could verify my identity enough to make someone listen, except for the fact that I never saw her again. That and she hated my guts.
Rising on an elbow, I counted eight empty beds in the room I was becoming increasingly familiar with.
“Morning.” The only other patient, a tremendously pregnant prisoner, greeted me.
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Nope,” she said. She was peeling an orange, the citrus scent bursting through the small room. It was the first edible thing I’d been close to in weeks, and had one of my ankles not been shackled to the metal frame of the bed, I’d have pounced on the pregnant woman and confiscated it.
“Doe! Nice of you to join us.” A jolly prison physician suddenly filled the room, interrupting my plans to drag the bed with me to hijack the fruit. “I was coming in to give you some wake up juice, and you saved me the trouble. And the state a thousand dollars.” He chuckled at this, and dropped the syringe he’d been holding into the pocket of his white coat. He appeared to be well past retirement age, grossly overweight, sweating profusely, and looked like he helped himself to treats from the prison pharmacy cabinet about every ten minutes.
Double Whammy (A Davis Way Crime Caper) Page 22