Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  She realized she was still standing there, staring out the large window at the nightscape and sparkling lights of the Pacific Ocean below her. Looking at it but not seeing it. She reached down to plug in her BlackBerry on the desk to her left—and froze. Lying beside the charger was something that should not have been there.

  An oddly shaped brass key.

  34

  MacNally lay on his cot the rest of the night but did not sleep. His rectum felt like it was on fire, and his groin and legs ached. He understood what it must feel like for a woman to be forcibly penetrated.

  Carl and Kurt smiled at him when they got up to go to breakfast. They gave him a pat on the shoulder as they left the cell.

  Carl winked at him. “Good job last night.”

  “Nice ride,” Kurt said. “Maybe tonight we’ll try something different.”

  MacNally didn’t know what the appropriate response should be. Incite them, stand up for himself—or take it and not say anything that might antagonize them? He chose the latter. He needed guidance, someone who could tell him how to avoid being a lop. He had no interest in being a predator, but there had to be a middle ground...some way he could be left alone to serve out his time in peace.

  Forty-five years. Time? More like a lifetime.

  The way things were now, he would not last a year, let alone forty-five. He would seek out Voorhees. At least he had been straight with him once. Maybe he would be again.

  “WE SHOULDN’T BE TALKIN’ OUT here in the open,” Voorhees said. “Go to the ladder room.” He gave MacNally instructions on how to get there, told him he would leave the door unlocked, and that he should wait ten minutes before joining him.

  Once inside the room, which did, in fact, contain ladders, MacNally presented his predicament as a hypothetical situation.

  “Hypothetically,” Voorhees said, “Let me tell you how this goes down. It’s our job to protect inmates that’ve been assaulted or prayed on. So if we weren’t talking about a hypothetical situation here, I’d lock you up in protective custody. And that, well, may not be such a good deal for you. So keep one thing in mind: if all you do is run to me, then you’re gonna be turned out.”

  “Turned out?”

  “Word’s gonna get out—if it hasn’t already—that you’re a lop, a whore, a prison punk that’s the lowest piece of shit. You’ll be sodomized and traded like a fucking sex slave.”

  MacNally started to speak, but Voorhees held up a hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Do the protective custody thing and we can send you to another prison where they don’t know you.” Voorhees shook his head. “Won’t matter. What happens in one makes its way to another. Cons have ways of communicating. Coded messages in letters home to girlfriends. Classified ads in known magazines where cons send messages to each other.”

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “First, you’re taking a huge risk even talking to me. Something like this can catch you in the ass big time. No pun intended.”

  “Too late. I’m here.”

  “Look, MacNally. I’m at the Big L for an eight-hour shift. The other sixteen hours, you’re on your own. See what I’m saying? I can’t protect you.”

  “I’m not asking you to protect me. I’m asking—I don’t know what I’m asking. I don’t know how to survive. I’m not like these guys here. I robbed a couple banks, yeah, but I...I’m different. I was doing it to survive, for my son. This may not come out right, but I’m not a bad person, I was just an average family guy who had no—”

  “Then you gotta figure out what you gotta do in here, to survive. Some ways, bein’ in here ain’t much different from being out in the real world. Society’s got laws on the outside. In here, we got laws, too. Not just the laws of the prison, but con law. A code. You’ll figure it out. Maybe someone here’ll give you some guidance. Just be careful. They give you something, they’re gonna want something back in return.”

  “Anyone ever get killed here? I mean, rape’s one thing. But...”

  “It ain’t an everyday thing, but does it happen? Hell yeah. Look at what we got here, MacNally. Murderers, sex deviants, rapists, child molesters, kidnappers, drug addicts, armed robbers, mobsters, bikers. Bad shit’s gonna happen when you put crap like that under one roof. All trying to prove how tough they are, who’s got the most power. The biggest dick. That’s why they’re here. They do bad shit, and if they cause problems at other prisons, they send ’em to us. So. Murder in the Big L?” He chuckled. “Bet on it.”

  “I’m just trying to make sense of it all, figure out how I can find my place.”

  Voorhees laughed, a rough, uneven smoker’s rasp. “Boil everything down, it’s about power. And fear. And anger. Keep those three things in mind, and you may get some kinda understanding of what these assholes are after.”

  MacNally nodded.

  Voorhees lowered his voice. “I can’t be your friend, MacNally. People’d find out, they’d think you’re either my snitch or I’m fucking you. And it ain’t good for me because I’d look weak to my colleagues.” MacNally started to object, but Voorhees stopped him. “Ain’t important for you to understand. Just telling you like it is.” He shrugged. “Now, you want to feed me stuff, things cons are planning, maybe we can work something out. Shift around your living arrangements. Wouldn’t be hard. We could communicate through kites—”

  “Is that what this whole thing’s been about?”

  “What whole thing?”

  “You people know what Wharton and Gormack are. You see a skinny guy like me and you think, We can use him. Put him in with those animals, they’ll fuck him over. Literally. And then if he doesn’t like it, he’ll come crawling to us because he can’t take that kind of abuse. So you turn me into a snitch.”

  “Hey,” Voorhees said. “Those are your words. I’m just offering you an out. That’s what you want, ain’t it?”

  “Sounds like something that can get me killed.”

  “Play it real careful, might get you a ticket outta here.”

  “Out, as in released?”

  Voorhees frowned. “Transferred. Maybe to a place that’s a little more to your liking.”

  MacNally chewed on that.

  “If you want a shot at this, you gotta be smart about it. Keep your ears open, your eyes open. Learn prison life, who’s who. If you’re gonna do this, you gotta know what you’re talking about, you gotta know that what you’re seeing is what you think it is. We can’t move on a guy for some bullshit thing. Because you give us shit, you get shit from us in return. And that for sure will get you killed.”

  “Sounds like a long-term proposition. I don’t have long term. I’ve gotta end this now.”

  Voorhees shrugged a shoulder. “Fine. Bottom line, then. You don’t wanna be fucked like that again, stand up for yourself. Today, before your rep is permanently thrown under the truck.”

  MacNally nodded.

  Voorhees leaned in closer. “The cons, they talk. I hear shit when we shake guys down, pressure ’em. You want advice, you want a taste of con law, here it goes. Every inmate has three choices.” He counted them off his thick fingers. “He can fight—meaning make the guy pay who gets in his face. Hard—so he doesn’t even think again about hurting you.”

  Second finger went up. “He can hit the fence—escape.” Third finger. “Or he can submit and get fucked. Now, I gave you a fourth choice, help us out. Doesn’t look like it’s gonna solve your problem. So you’re left with three. But I didn’t tell you any of that. I find out you repeated it, and I hear you said it came from me, you and me will undergo some thump therapy in a dark cell. You get me?”

  MacNally had an idea: he’d be beaten.

  “I were you,” Voorhees said with a tug on his belt, “I’d grow a set of balls. Fast. As in five minutes after you walk outta here.”

  MacNally shifted his feet. Now? Take care of this now?

  “Don’t let yourself be a victim. Even if it doesn’t work out, you’
ll feel better about yourself in the morning. Just be careful—guys make alliances, they look out for each other. You may think you’re taking on one guy, but suddenly you’re lookin’ at three.”

  MacNally tried not to let the building anxiety register on his face. He squared his shoulders, nodded confidently, and said, “Okay.”

  “You’re gonna need a weapon. A shank—a homemade knife. Be smart about it. And be efficient. Show no mercy, because they ain’t gonna show you any.”

  Voorhees grabbed the doorknob. “Wait ten minutes, then get outta here.”

  He left MacNally alone with his thoughts. That wasn’t the type of advice he’d been hoping for. Actually, he didn’t know what he was expecting. He was looking for a solution. Voorhees had no doubt gone the extra mile, probably with some risk, to give him an honest view of his situation.

  But as he was now learning, the only true solutions to his problem—this one and those that would undoubtedly surface in the future—could not be found by talking to, or relying on, others.

  The answers had to come from within.

  35

  Vail whipped out her Glock and threw it up in front of her, her forearms taut and her pupils dilated, taking in everything and anything. She swung the weapon left and right, looking at the room, her eyes scanning systematically from right to left. Clear.

  Vail moved into the angled bathroom, grabbed the pocket door to the water closet and shoved it hard to the right, more forcefully than she should’ve because it bounced with a deep thud and started to close. She toed it back and, with her Glock in her right hand, grabbed the tall shower curtain and swung it to the side. Nothing—no one—in the bathtub.

  She swung back around, then pulled her BlackBerry with her left hand and dialed Dixon. “Get back to the room. Someone’s been here. The offender.”

  It was noisy in the background. Vail remembered she was in a bar.

  “How do you know?” Dixon shouted into the phone.

  “He left something. A key.”

  “Did you clear the place?”

  Vail’s eyes kept scouring the room. The bed. She hadn’t checked under the bed. “Working on it.”

  “Be right there. Hang tight.”

  Vail shoved the BlackBerry into her holster, then knelt down to inspect the king mattress. It was a platform bed, so no way could anyone be underneath it.

  She moved to the closet and pulled open the door. Just her clothing.

  Fuck. How did he find out where I was staying? She walked back toward the desk. Not impossible. But this asshole’s smart.

  She wiped a layer of sweat from her face with a sleeve, and after one more glance around the room, double-locked the door and then settled into the web-backed office chair. She reholstered her weapon. Looked at the key. It was the same wide, unusual shape as most of the others they had found. He wants me to know, without a doubt, that he’s been in my room. Power. Definitely fucking with my head. Anything missing?

  As she turned away to check her suitcase, she noticed something on the Hyatt pad beside the phone. A typed note, in large caps.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID IN NY

  A new wave of perspiration pimpled her forehead, scalp, and chest. New York. Not just New York. What I did in New York. How could he know about New York? There are only three people who know about that. Me, my confidential informant, and my former partner.

  Vail hadn’t seen either one in years. Six or seven. Last she knew, Mike Hartman was still a special agent somewhere on the east coast. She thought it was New Jersey, but she wasn’t sure.

  How is he connected to this? How’s he connected to the offender?

  The informant...Eugenia Zachry... She had thought of her from time to time over the years, but had never initiated contact. Once she left the woman’s life, it was better to maintain distance.

  Vail sat there staring at the note. Think, Karen. What should I do about this? Bring it to the office. Show it to Burden—no. I can’t. Tell Roxx? How can I do that? She’s a friend...but...shit.

  How does this asshole know about it?

  Minutes passed as she tried to clear her head and think this through. Just then there was a rapid series of knocks on the door.

  Roxxann.

  Vail’s heart jumped a beat as she looked at the note.

  “Karen. Open up!”

  36

  MacNally looked around the ladder room. He wondered if Voorhees had chosen this place for a particular reason. Or was he reading into it?

  He doubted inmates were permitted to be in here unsupervised. If caught, he could not disclose that Voorhees had suggested they meet for a counseling session. Per the officer’s orders, he had a few minutes before he could leave, so he set out to locate something he could use as a weapon.

  There was nothing overtly obvious—no knives, no ice picks or awls, hammers—no tools of any sort, for that matter.

  MacNally crouched down, then pressed his stomach flat against the floor and brought his eyes from the furthest left wall across to the— Wait... In the corner, something thin, oblong, and brown. He knelt in front of a tall, wooden ladder, reached under the bottom rung, and wiggled his fingers. He caught the item with a fingernail and flicked it toward him.

  A rusted 3/8-inch bolt, roughly five or six inches in length.

  It wasn’t sharp, but it definitely could serve as a weapon. He shoved it into his pocket, then gave one more look around the room. There were no other devices, utensils or hardware he could find. The bolt would have to do.

  MacNally pulled the door open and walked out, then headed for A-Cellhouse to find Gormack and Wharton. He did not have to go far: both were in the yard having a smoke.

  MacNally walked into the hot sunshine, then stopped. He needed to think this through. He had never attacked anyone—had never even had a bar fight—but he had seen a few. His observations told him that the victor wasn’t always the best brawler, but the one who hit hard and fast, aggressively, and unrelenting... The man who was possessed and who did not stop until forcibly yanked away.

  He reached into his pocket and felt the ribbed threads of the thick screw, then approached his adversaries. Gormack was the bigger threat: the one to neutralize first.

  MacNally took five steps—and stopped. Two men were approaching his targets. They laughed and started jawing at one another. The odds were no longer in MacNally’s favor. Despite the need to act fast, it would be foolish to force his hand. Acting prematurely could—likely would—get him killed—in which case, his damaged reputation would be moot. As problematic as being labeled a lop would be, he had to exercise restraint. At this point, an hour or two’s delay would not matter—and might, in fact, be time well spent.

  He had to channel his anger and use it effectively. Given what he had been through the first night in his new cell, summoning up his rage was not difficult. If there was any doubt that he could raise a weapon and drive it through another man’s skin, it vanished each time he flashed on what his cellmates had done to him. The anal soreness would likely not subside for weeks.

  But the emotional scar would remain long after his torn rectal skin had healed.

  37

  “Be right there,” Vail called to Dixon. She grabbed a couple tissues from the bathroom vanity, wrapped up the note, and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

  When she pulled open the door, Dixon was standing there, her blonde hair disheveled and concern evident in fisted hands that were wrapped around her SIG Sauer handgun. She glanced around and behind Vail, into the room.

  “Everything okay?”

  Vail stepped aside. “It’s clear. He’s—he’s gone. Key’s on the desk.”

  Dixon squinted at Vail, then moved into the room. Convinced all was okay, she holstered her sidearm, then walked over to the far end of the room and placed both hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ. He was in our room.”

  “Yeah, Roxx, I know that.”

  “That’s it?” she said, her eyes scanning the room. “Nothing else—jus
t a key?”

  The key and an incriminating note that relates to information he somehow got about my past. “What do you think it means?” Vail asked, skirting Dixon’s question. She hated lying to her friend. Omission of information was as much of a lie as answering her with a fictional response. But it didn’t feel quite as dirty.

  “I think it’s pretty goddamn obvious, don’t you?” Dixon looked around the room, moving things aside with her shoe. “Did you call Rex Jackson? What did Burden say?”

  Vail jutted her chin back. Shit. I’ve totally blown this. Where the fuck is my head? I know where it is. Where it was.

  “No, I—I didn’t,” she stammered. She pulled out her BlackBerry and started punching numbers. “It kind of rattled me. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It took me fifteen minutes to get here. You just sat here the whole time? What the hell were you doing?”

  “I don’t know, Roxx. I— It—” Burden answered. “Yeah, Burden, listen. I’ve got a situation here.” A situation? She mentally slapped herself. “I got back to my room, and I found—there’s a brass key on the desk. Just like the ones we found before.”

  “In your hotel room? The scumbag was in your room?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. He— It’s all clear. Roxxann’s here now. You want to get Jackson over here? Dust the place?”

  “I’ll call him. Meantime, get out of there, wait in the hall.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Of course. What the hell’s wrong with me?

  Vail hung up and shoved the phone in her pocket. “He wants us to—”

  “Get out of here. What you should’ve done,” she said, walking toward the door. “Get your head screwed on, Karen. I’ve never seen you like this.”