Currents of Sin

by Arleen Alleman

  Mick told me that GAO had a project under way that included a study of these conditions. He said the agency would soon issue a report revealing that federal officials did not adequately study the effect of long-term segregation, the ultimate cost, and the extent to which incarceration achieves stated purposes. In other words, the report will present the auditors’ conclusions on what taxpayers get for the $78,000 annual expenditure on each supermax resident.

  I understood that these are very bad men—mass murderers, terrorists, and violent gang members—but I couldn’t help but wonder if the environment wouldn’t drive any sane person over the edge.

  Then I read journalists’ articles describing the conditions at the prison and learned that some inmates do go insane from their experience. I’ve little sympathy for the crimes these men committed that landed them in maximum security. However, I couldn’t help being troubled by accounts of prisoners spending years in isolation constantly wailing, screaming, banging on their cell walls, and exhibiting totally antisocial behavior—even throwing their feces at guards. Psychologists point to a fundamental loss of basic social skills among the men, especially those who suffered from mental illness to begin with.

  The extreme isolation also leads to suicides, stabbings, and self-mutilation of all kinds. Some inmates even swallow razor blades to try to end the torment. It was surprising to read one law professor’s comment that the conditions at supermax are worse than those at Guantanamo Bay prison.

  Life imprisonment in this fashion—nearly total isolation—is nearly unfathomable, especially for young inmates. Perhaps those awaiting their death sentence are the lucky ones. On the other hand, Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, and Terry Nichols, a participant in the Oklahoma City bombing, will remain at the prison for the rest of their lives.

  Supermax has six levels of security, and Paul’s incarceration wasn’t as tight as for the worst offenders. Still, his murders and attempted murders, belligerent behavior, and disregard for prison rules landed him in the nation’s most secure prison.

  76

  Among other research, I studied the rules of visitation and dressed appropriately and conservatively in black slacks, a white linen shirt, and a gray jacket, with enclosed low-heeled shoes. Still, I hoped I would not encounter any other prisoners or any form of masculine harassment. I don’t respond well to that sort of thing.

  I walked through the front door with all the confidence I could muster, which wasn’t a lot. A loud jarring buzz announced my presence. Just inside the entry, I stood for a minute to get my bearings. Listening to the eerie quiet, I wondered seriously if I’d made another mistake. I wasn’t sure what I expected to get from Paul, but I wanted something akin to closure for all of us, especially Sid.

  I was unsure what I should do since there was no one around. But in less than a minute, a door on the sidewall opened with a metallic click. A smiling man I judged to be in his forties wearing a crew cut and a crisp dark blue uniform strode over to me with his hand held out in front of him.

  “Hello, Ms. Farthing. I’m Corrections Officer Dan Potter. I’ll be your escort today.” Oddly, he favored me with an excited boyish grin. “It’s nice to meet you. My wife really enjoyed your books, and she was excited to hear that I was going to be seeing you. Um, she made me bring a book and asked if you would sign it.” Clearly embarrassed, he also clearly did not want to disappoint the missus.

  “Oh, how nice. Thank you, and tell your wife thank you for me as well. Of course I’ll gladly sign her book.”

  “Thanks, she’ll be thrilled. I’ll bring it with me when we’re done here.”

  Then he was all business. “I trust you are aware of our rules and the situation with the prisoners—namely, Mr. Denezza.”

  “Yes, I think I’m well prepared.”

  “Then I’ll take you back to a visitation room if you’ll follow me.”

  He turned and went back through the door. I followed close behind.

  “Thank you again,” I said to his back.

  The heavy metal door clanged shut behind us. The sound echoing down the corridor was disconcerting. I scurried to keep up with the amiable and quick officer. After nearly two months, my back and side still ached when I moved too fast. We hurried past sliding metal doors lining both sides of the wide tiled corridor. Glancing up, I spied cameras near the ceiling, reminding me of the Vegas casinos.

  Soon, we entered through another grating metallic door and arrived at a tiny room just big enough for a four-foot-long counter and a chair. A thick sheet of Plexiglas extended to the ceiling, revealing an identical miniature room on the other side.

  Through the Looking-Glass popped into mind. I hoped this encounter would not be as bizarre as Lewis Carroll’s unhinged tale.

  Officer Potter explained that another CO would bring Paul into the room on the other side of the glass to sit across from me, and the guard would stay close by during my visit.

  “When you’re finished, I’ll come back to escort you out.” He grinned at me and left.

  I sat down, suddenly feeling cold. My legs were quivering despite the warm slacks. Surprised at my own nervous reaction, I considered the fact that Paul Denezza had been a negative fixture in my life for a number of years, and his crimes caused physical and emotional trauma for me and people I love. I’d seen him from a short distance, and although I felt as if I knew the asshole, we’d never had a conversation. I’d prepared my questions, but I didn’t know what to expect from him, much less in this environment.

  Before I could further second-guess myself on how I would proceed with the interview, the door in the mirror-image room opened. Paul shuffled in followed by a tall heavyset guard, who naturally was not armed. Although his size might be intimidating, I’d read too many horror stories about inmates fashioning sharp objects into weapons and attacking the COs and one another.

  Dressed in khaki pants and shirt, Paul wore leg-irons, handcuffs, and a connecting chain around his middle. He sat down in the chair, and I noted that the guard did not bother to attach the chain to the metal loops on the counter that were clearly intended for that purpose. I guessed he did not think Paul presented much of a danger.

  Once a decent-looking man of Italian heritage with thick black hair and a stocky, muscular build, I wasn’t sure Sid would recognize the man she fell in love with years ago. The prison garb hung loosely on his scrawny frame, and tufts of gray hair shot out from his head at odd angles around a bald pate. His dark eyes darted around the tiny room before finding the clear partition and me on the other side.

  He sat down and squinted through the glass. His face was so deeply lined and gaunt that for a moment I wondered if this was the right inmate. Then he leaned forward and smirked.

  “Darcy Farthing, welcome to my world.” He scoffed at me derisively as if our roles were reversed. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  “You agreed to meet with me, Paul. I explained in the paperwork why I wanted to see you.”

  “Ha, I’d agree to see Lucifer just to break the monotony. You can’t imagine what it’s like …”

  “I have a little knowledge. And frankly, I’m not sure I totally agree with, um, the way the inmates are kept here.”

  “You don’t totally agree? That’s such a relief.” He gave me a look intended to be menacing, but it was hard to pull off in his deteriorated condition. “What the hell do you want?”

  “You know I became a writer, and now I sell freelance articles to different publications. I investigate and report on elements of stories that might otherwise not make the news.”

  He leaned closer to the partition, and his mouth and eyes revealed a deep rage. He hissed at me. “I read your books about me, you bitch. Who do you think you …” He stopped midsentence and glanced to the side. Hearing his hostile tone, the guard had taken a step closer to him. Paul sat silently, glaring at me.

  “I’m flatter
ed you read them, Paul. Recently, though, there’s been a lot happening at your old hotel related to prostitution and human trafficking. I told you I want to get your take on that. We know you remained a player with Nate Mirabelle and his security people. Do you know about the recent arrests and indictments?”

  I wasn’t sure how much information would reach him if it wasn’t coming from his Vegas crew any longer. He didn’t answer, and his eyes moved around the small space, suddenly looking unfocused. I waited, and finally, he returned from wherever his mind had wandered. He peered at me intensely, then nodded. I assumed that meant he knew about the arrests.

  “Okay, Paul, I want to tell you a story about a girl. You remember who Don Freeburg and Charlie Scott are, right?”

  He didn’t respond. His attempt to maintain an unconcerned demeanor was transparent.

  “I’m sure you do since they were instrumental in saving Sid’s life on the ship. They are good guys, and they also tried to help a girl named Pamela, who was involved with a gang in downtown Vegas. Then your buddy Nate kidnapped her, along with other girls who were working on the streets. He kept them imprisoned at Athens Olympia and forced them into prostitution-slavery. I figure you orchestrated that human trafficking operation.”

  As I explained, he kept his eyes on me and began to squint as if he was now listening intently. Soon, however, he became agitated and began tapping his manacled fists on the top of the counter. The guard who was standing behind him came to attention again.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” He shook his head vigorously. “I’m getting ready for my trial and haven’t talked to anyone at the hotel in a long time.”

  He looked and sounded relatively normal, but as soon as he stopped talking, the vacant glazed look returned, and he seemed to check out of the conversation. What is wrong with him?

  “I want to tell you about Sid too.”

  That got his attention. He raised a finger in a twirling gesture, indicating I should continue.

  “Well, you know the car crash you ordered almost succeeded in killing us both. As you can see, I’m fine, but Sid is paralyzed. Do you understand, Paul? You paralyzed her. She’ll probably never walk again.”

  He leaned back and again tried to appear nonchalant. “Don’t know anything about that either.”

  “Really? Because who else has a vendetta against her? You’re about to go on trial for your second attempt on her life.”

  It was my turn to lean closer to the partition. I hissed at him. “You’ve hurt me and the people I care about for the last time. They’re going to get you for the car wreck too. You know, Paul, third time’s a charm?”

  He stared into space. “How is Sidney? Is she happy?”

  What the hell? Is he playing a game with me? “Paul, I just told you she’s paralyzed from the car wreck, and it was no accident. I believe you ordered it using that teenage boy on the skateboard. He was probably a homeless kid too. You’re lucky he wasn’t killed.”

  “What? What boy?” He chewed the inside of his cheek and sat quietly, studying me. Then he adopted a belligerent sneer. I realized he was all about faking emotions and accompanying facial expressions. It made me wonder what he was really feeling, if anything.

  “Tell me about the girls and what happened at the hotel,” he said.

  “I just explained all that.” I glanced at the guard, but he just shrugged and folded his arms.

  Paul glared and waited for me to continue. This was very odd, but I retold the story, speaking slowly and trying for a patient attitude.

  When I finished, he pounded the table with his fist, eliciting another response from his keeper, who began to move forward. I waved him off.

  “That is a horrible thing,” Paul said, “using children that way.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. His eyes were moist, and I realized it was possible he knew nothing about Nate’s trafficking operation. Either that or he’d forgotten about it. Maybe he didn’t know how they orchestrated the crash, but he had to have ordered it. They wouldn’t care about Sid or me if it wasn’t for his vendetta. It was totally clear that something was wrong with his mind.

  He asked, “So you found the girl you were looking for at the hotel?”

  “Again, yes, along with the others. Nate Mirabelle was running a human trafficking for prostitution ring there. Didn’t you know about that?”

  His anger and frustration were apparent, and I wondered if I should cut the interview short and get the hell away from him. Before I could act on the thought, he leaned closer to the partition and lowered his voice.

  “Tell me about Sidney.”

  This was getting ridiculous. “I told you about the crash and her injuries. What else do you want to know?”

  “All of it, please.”

  After I repeated the details of the attack by car and skateboard and explained how Sid was recovering, something happened with his demeanor and emotions. His eyes softened, and his bottom lip began to quiver. I wondered if he could possibly be sorry for orchestrating the attack. He’d tried to kill her two other times in the past, so why would he feel remorse now? Yet his eyes were filling with tears.

  A very obvious possibility hooked itself into my brain. Could it be that he doesn’t remember ordering the menacing calls or the crash? Then like a chameleon, his eyes cleared, and a look of pure fury replaced the sad expression.

  “You know my trial is coming up soon, and I need to concentrate on that. There’s no point in denying to you that I’ve maintained my network at the hotel. But now they’ve been compromised, and I can’t trust any of them. I haven’t heard from anyone there in weeks. I guess now I know why.”

  Is he angry that Mirabelle kept him in the dark about what his people were doing? I could imagine that they took advantage of his being in prison, feeding him only information they wanted him to hear. Surely, they would have noticed his deteriorating mental condition.

  “Darcy, do you think Sidney will agree to see me?” His tone had turned pathetic. Talking with him was beyond bewildering. It was straight down the rabbit hole.

  “Paul, you tried to kill her several times and almost succeeded in killing both of us this time. Why on earth would she want to see you?”

  He looked down at the table and shook his head. When his eyes came back to mine, tears were rolling down his craggy face. Obviously, his emotions were riding a roller coaster.

  “I loved her once, you know.”

  “Okay, we’re done.” I waved to the guard, and he immediately stepped forward to escort Paul back to his cell.

  I was unnerved by his words and the shape he was in. I saw how miserable and pathetic he really was. I also knew very well how evil he was, but the mental deterioration was unexpected.

  “I would never hurt children, and I wouldn’t be involved in human trafficking,” he said as I pushed myself out of the chair. “I’ve done some bad things, but not that.”

  I nodded my head to indicate I believed him. I knew he was responsible for all the other crimes but couldn’t help wondering whether he had any clear recollection of why he wanted Sid to suffer. From the start, he was abusive and dismissive of her. Later, he turned homicidal. He’d brought so much misery into all our lives. How could he cry and say he loved her? I couldn’t wait to get as far away from him as possible.

  77

  While I was with Mick in DC, Rachael and the baby arrived in Vegas. Her stay with Brooks and Sid seemed to be going well. With her help caring for Sid, Brooks felt he could return to work part-time. Judging from my talks with Sid, she was improving slowly and was scheduled to begin rehab right about now if her leg bones were sufficiently healed.

  The day after I visited Paul, I flew there as well before returning to DC. I was looking forward to spending a few days with all of them and couldn’t wait to see Rachael and Anna. When I turned into the driveway, however, unwanted e
motions sprang to the surface as the situation I was facing loomed only moments away.

  My ex-husband was there with our daughter and granddaughter, and Sid was there too, only incapacitated. We are an extended family, there is no denying that, but how I wished Mick was with me. There wasn’t any reason for me to feel uncomfortable, but under the circumstances, some residual anxiety was resurfacing.

  Brooks, Rachael, and I were not a happy family unit when she was a baby—far from it. When we found one another again five years ago, she came to worship Brooks and could see nothing but good in him. With his encouragement, she wanted us to reconcile and to be a family again.

  For a short time, I had my own doubts and might have succumbed to Brooks’s advances if it hadn’t been for Mick. At first, Rachael had difficulty accepting the finality of our tragic history. With time and maturity, she came to embrace our separate parental roles. Now, she understands the value of having so many people who love her.

  I tried to shrug off the ancient and needless uneasiness. As I was climbing out of the car, the garage door opened, and Rachael stepped out with Anna on her hip. I went to her and wrapped my arms around them, holding Rachael as close as possible with the baby between us.

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  I stepped back to get a good look at her. The first thing people mention upon meeting us is how similar we look. It is a little disconcerting, but I noticed that as I age, the similarity is diminishing.

  “You look wonderful, Rachael.”

  “So do you. I can’t believe we’re all here together … well, except for Mick. I’ve missed all of you so much.”

  I reached for the adorable nineteen-month-old girl, and she leaned toward me with her pudgy arms outstretched. She waggled her fingers. Surely she didn’t remember me from ten months ago.