by Logan Ryles
Reed spat into the dirt without taking his eyes off of Milk. “This is prison, Stiller. It’s a pretty dark, messed up place.”
“Right. But it’s like . . . you’re not accepting it. You’re here, man. You’re in prison. Own it. Stop making it so hard on yourself.”
“I’m not staying.”
Stiller shot him a sideways look. “Say what?”
Reed folded his arms. “One way or another, I’m not wasting away behind these walls.”
“Dude.” Stiller lifted his eyes heavenward as if he were employing supernatural assistance. “This is what I’m talking about. You’re in denial or something. I’m not judging, but it’s not real, man. This prison is. Do you understand me? You’re in prison.”
Reed watched Milk saunter across the yard, pretending to ignore the ex-Marine that was glaring daggers at him.
“Just tell me why. Explain why you’re the exception. Why you’re not going to stay here even when the government is gearing up to take your life.”
Reed wrapped his fingers around the chain link and spoke through gritted teeth. “Because I did the right thing. The men I killed were murderers, thieves, rapists, and pure scum. I gunned them down because they deserved it. I went to Iraq to prosecute justice, and the government didn’t bat an eye at the body count until white men started falling. And you know what? To hell with them. But I’m going to keep fighting this thing until I get out. Until I get the justice I deserve.”
Stiller stared at him through tired, exhausted eyes, and shook his head. “You’re not a prosecutor, Reed. Let alone a judge and jury.”
“You’re right. I’m not. Not like the people who put me here. I’m the kind of prosecutor nobody wants to admit that everyone needs.”
Silence hung between them, their eyes still locked. With every passing moment, that silence felt heavier. More pronounced.
“Number 4371! Fall out!”
The voice boomed from across the yard, breaking the tension between them. Stiller shot Reed another exhausted look then shuffled off toward the fence line, leaving Reed to march across the yard toward the CO.
“Come on, con. Your attorney’s here.”
The CO led Reed down a hallway, through the cellblock, and into a small and windowless room on the third level. A table sat in the middle, with metal chairs on either side while a flickering yellow light buzzed from overhead, washing the room in a pale and uneven glow.
“Sit. He’ll be here shortly.”
The guard snapped handcuffs around Reed’s wrists, then left him alone. A chill washed through him. The bite of winter cut straight through the block walls, coating the prison in frosty discomfort. Reed could only imagine what his cell would feel like in the summer months.
The door groaned on its hinges, and a tall man in a black, form-fitting Army uniform stepped in. He wore round glasses and the kind of detached, disinterested expression of a man who was already done with his day. The attorney set his briefcase on the table, then sat down without a word. He opened the case and shuffled through a stack of papers, spending a full five minutes scanning the file before he looked up.
My God. He hasn’t even reviewed my case yet.
“You’re Reed Montgomery?”
Reed nodded once, interlacing his fingers and laying his hands on the table.
The attorney returned to the papers and proceeded to read again, then folded and shoved them back into the briefcase. “I’m Lieutenant Graves, your appeals council.”
“What happened to Lieutenant O’Hara?”
“She was reassigned. I’ll be representing you for now.”
“For now?”
Graves pushed the glasses up his nose. “The appeals process will be lengthy. It’s possible I may be reassigned, as well. Don’t worry. We’ll find somebody to replace me.”
Reed sighed and sat back in the chair. “Okay. So what happens next then?”
“Right. Well, first we’ll file a motion of appeals on your sentence, then—”
“Wait. File a motion? You mean the motion hasn’t been filed yet?”
Graves tilted his head, staring at the wall as though he’d just been asked to solve a trigonometry problem. Then he dug through the case again, shuffling through the papers. Half of them spilled onto the floor, and he didn’t bother to pick them up.
“Um, no. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? Lieutenant, this is my life you’re playing with.”
The lieutenant’s blue eyes flashed, blazing into a sudden glare. “You’d do well not to use that tone with me, Reed. I’m the only friend you’ve got. It’s a lengthy process, okay? If we do well, we should have you in court within eighteen to twenty-four months, then we—”
“Two years? Are you kidding me?”
Once more, the perplexed frown washed over Graves’s serious features. “I’m not kidding. It’s not a joke.”
Reed lowered his face into his hands and rubbed his thumbs into his temples. Another headache, an all-too-familiar plague, settled into the base of his skull.
“Don’t worry, Reed.” Graves scooped the pages off the floor and began to cram them back into the briefcase. “I’ll file that appeal right away. We’ll get this thing moving again. One of the Supreme Court judges is getting old. With luck, by the time we make it that far, we’ll have an anti-capital punishment justice on the Court. That could be a game changer.”
Reed clenched his fingers around the edge of the table. “Wait. You’re already planning a Supreme Court appeal?”
Graves snapped the case shut and smiled a tight, awkward smile. “Well, Reed. The reality is, the judges between here and the Supreme Court aren’t very lenient. We’ll do what we can, of course, but we have to be realistic. I’ll see in you in a few weeks, okay?”
Graves shuffled to the door and let himself out.
Reed’s heart hammered in his chest, and the room shrank around him, becoming at once stuffier than it was moments before. The flickering yellow light went out, and he laid his head on folded arms.
They’ve abandoned me. The government has abandoned me to this idiot. They’re going through the motions now. It’s already over.
The floor felt unstable beneath his feet, as though the entire prison were swaying beneath him.
The door opened again. Reed waited for the hand of the CO to close around his shoulder, to pull him up and away from the table and back to the narrow cell he now called home. Back under the watchful eyes of Milk and his minions. At this rate, Reed would never make it to the appeals court. Milk’s henchmen would mob him long before.
“Isn’t he a gem?”
Reed sat up with a jolt at the familiar soft voice. The short man stood on the other side of the table. This time he wasn’t wearing the white coveralls of a prisoner, but a brown pinstripe suit and a beige tie, complete with a pocket square poking out of the breast pocket. His close-cropped hair was gelled and combed to one side, glistening over his bright eyes.
“You!” Reed snapped. “Who the hell are you?”
The man slid into the opposite chair as Reed looked out for the guard, but the door was closed and the room quiet.
“I’m here to see if you’ve given thought to my proposal.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” Reed said.
“No, I’m not. Do you want to be?”
Reed heard his own breath hissing between his lips. Each inhale tasted dry, and each exhale sour. The blood pumping through his neck surged toward his brain, clarifying the moment and driving back the confusion and questions. It didn’t matter who this man was. It didn’t matter what he wanted. The answer to his simple question was just as simple.
“No,” Reed said. “I don’t want to be a prisoner.”
“What is it that you want to be, Reed?”
Reed ran his tongue over dry lips then clenched his fists. “The hand of overdue karma.”
The man’s smile kindled a fire of dark flames in his eyes. “Now that’s something I can help with.�
��
Six
“You have twenty-four hours. His name is Paul Choc.”
From outside his cell on the second-floor landing, Reed surveyed the block. Small knots of prisoners stood scattered around the first and second floors, talking in low whispers and swapping various paraphernalia: candy, magazines, stamps.
The guards at the main entrance paced a short path back and forth in front of the door, tapping their nightsticks against their thighs while surveying the prisoners the way a man might survey week-old leftovers in the fridge. Every few minutes, one of them would yell, correcting some minor infraction. Other than the murmur of voices and occasional shouts, the block was relatively quiet—a welcome break in a busy afternoon.
Twenty-four hours. I’ve already blown three.
Back in his cell, Reed held his hand under the sink faucet, cupping a swallow of water in his worn palms. It tasted crisp and bitter, laden with chlorine and God knew what else.
“Stiller. . . . You know a guy named Choc?”
His cellmate sat on the bunk, legs crossed under him as he flipped through an outdated magazine and shook his head without looking up.
Reed watched him for a moment, then slouched against the wall, forcing himself to appear casual. “Paul Choc. I think he’s housed here. Was a buddy of mine.”
Stiller grunted, then flipped the magazine around. “Dude, check out the jugs on this one.”
The magazine was dirty and worn with smudged fingerprints on every page.
Reed lifted an eyebrow. “Still . . . that’s a cooking magazine.”
Stiller laughed. “Right? Who knew cooks could be this hot.”
Reed wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. “So about my friend. I’d like to find him.”
“I don’t know a Choc. But most guys here have nicknames. What’s he look like?”
I asked the same thing.
“He has a tattoo on his left forearm. An eagle with burning wings.”
The magazine crackled as Stiller twisted the dry pages into a tight roll and shoved it under his shirt, scratching his back with short strokes of his skinny arms. “Blazer. I’ve seen him.”
Reed’s heart rate quickened, and he tried to remain calm, still leaning against the wall. “Yeah? Where at?”
Stiller cocked his head and ran his index finger under his lip, picking at a chunk of food stuck in his back teeth. “Hmm . . . I don’t know, man. It’s been a while. Think maybe he got out. Or maybe they moved him to another block.”
“Did he have any friends? Anyone he talked to?”
“Friends . . . hmm. I mean, I guess he hung out with the other chicos. But again, it’s been a while.”
“Chicos?”
“Yeah, man. The Latinos.”
“Choc is Latino?”
Shit. Why did I say that?
Stiller shot him a confused frown. “I thought this guy was your friend. Of course he was Hispanic.”
Reed attempted a casual shrug. “I mean, yeah, I guess I just don’t think about that kind of thing.”
Stiller’s frown intensified. “You good, man? This isn’t about yesterday, is it? You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and—”
Reed waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Still. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He stepped back out of the cell and scanned the crowd of inmates. Most were white or black. Milk and his crew slouched in one corner, talking in low voices while staring at each other through half-closed eyes—doped up on something, it seemed. Another pass of the packed cellblock, and Reed settled on the small group of prisoners sitting on the floor in one corner, playing cards with a worn out deck. The men were slightly shorter than the rest, with olive skin and thick, dark hair.
Gotcha.
Stiller lay still on his bunk, his chest rising and falling in a smooth rhythm, and Reed slipped up beside him, running his hand along the side of the bunk and feeling between the bed frame and the mattress. Two more passes, and he felt the soft edge of something that wasn’t cloth or metal. Watching Stiller for any sign of a disturbance in his breathing, Reed gently lifted the mattress and pulled at the edge of the object. A moment later he produced a small envelope from beneath the sheet, and a quick survey of its contents produced two dozen stamps, a five-dollar bill, and a couple baseball cards. Reed dumped everything into his pocket, then returned the envelope.
The Latinos looked up as Reed approached, surveying him through narrow, suspicious eyes. Trying to remain relaxed and slumping his shoulders, Reed walked slowly toward their small crowd. There were six guys, all fit and trim, with a definite aura of confidence about them. Even the smallest sat with a straight back and a bold, unwelcoming glare.
“You guys got room for one more?”
The dealer leaned against the wall, his knees propped up at chest level as he shuffled the cards. His brown fingers moved like lightning, cutting the deck twice before shuffling again. “Move along, man. We don’t want nothing to do with your drama.”
Pretending to be surprised, Reed frowned and looked behind him as if he were trailing some invisible baggage. He tilted his head back and nodded. “Oh, you mean that shit in the shower bay. Yeah, that wasn’t my choice, man. You know how it is. . . . Gotta stick up for yourself.”
“Yeah, well stick up for yourself someplace else. Table’s full.”
Reed dug the stamps out of his pocket, then tapped the roll against his leg, rubbing his thumb over the glossy surface of the American flag. “You sure?”
The small crowd exchanged glances, then one of them grunted, “Let him play, Rigo. We can take his loot.”
The dealer motioned to the floor. “Ante is five flags. You won’t last long.”
Reed dumped five stamps onto the floor and accepted a hand of cards. They played without a sound, shuffling bets back and forth as the dealer flipped cards onto the bare floor. Reed’s first hand was a bust, and he dumped more stamps onto the ground as new cards circulated the group.
“I’m Reed,” he said.
Rigo snorted. “Nobody cares, man.”
A round of betting passed through the circle. Two cards landed face-up. A couple players folded, and Reed dropped the five-dollar bill in the circle, resulting in raised eyebrows from the other players. The dealer flipped another two cards, and Reed dropped his to the floor. Low curses punctuated the snorts of disgust as Reed shoveled the pot into his lap and sorted through the assortment of stamps, coins, and cigarettes.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. Short dude, eagle tattoo. Goes by Blazer.”
The circle fell deathly silent. Reed resisted the urge to look up as he finished sorting the loot, then dumped five fresh stamps into the middle of the floor.
Rigo began to hand out cards, slower this time, while staring at Reed. “This ain’t the lost-and-found, man. If you’re looking for a friend, you can look elsewhere.”
More cards hit the floor. Reed tossed fresh collateral into the pile, barely looking at his cards as he bet. The first flop passed, then the second. Once again, Reed scooped the pile into his lap. Fresh curses and glares rippled through the group, and one man stood up and tossed his cards onto the floor before shuffling off.
“I think you know him.” Reed pushed a cigarette into his mouth and chewed the filter, rolling the smoke between his teeth.
“Is that right?”
“Yep. I think you know him, and I think you know where he is. So, what’s the big secret?”
The dealing stopped, and another round of sharp, suspicious glares circulated.
The dealer shoved the cards into a tight stack and leaned forward, glaring at Reed. “Who the hell are you, man?”
Without looking up, Reed continued chewing on the smoke while sorting through his pile of winnings. “I’m just a guy who’d rather serve his time with a friend around. Don’t see what the big issue is.”
Rigo leaned back. “Blazer is nobody’s friend. If you knew him, you know th
at.”
Reed shrugged and checked his cards. His hand was weaker this time, which was good; a third straight win wouldn’t earn him any charity from his fellow players. “Of course not. But I still know him. I was just curious. He stay in this block?”
The final flop hit the floor, and the man to Reed’s right scooped up the pile of winnings. A black snake tattoo rippled along his neck as he began sorting the captured loot between his knees.
“If he did, he wouldn’t put up with your white ass sitting here.” Snake spoke through dry lips, dropping stamps into the pot before accepting new cards from the dealer.
“So nothing’s changed?” Reed forced a laugh, trying to make it sound both strained and nervous.
I can work this angle.
Rigo tilted his head, and a slow smile spread across his tight lips. “Oh, I see. You scared, aren’t you? You’re making sure he’s not around.”
Reed shrugged. “It wouldn’t break my heart if he were in another cellblock.”
An alarm rang out, blasting through the block like the screech of a tornado siren. Wood clanked on metal as guards slammed their nightsticks into the bars of the lower cells.
“All right, you cons. Let’s go! Back into the cells!”
Rigo scooped up the cards with a practiced flip of his fingers, shoving them back into a stack. Reed dumped his winnings into his pockets, standing up and lingering at the edge of the circle.
The playing cards clicked and hissed under Rigo’s practiced fingers, and he stared across the room at the guards. “Did I see a baseball card in that pile?”
Reed flipped out the card and passed it to him. It disappeared amid the playing cards, then into the pocket of Rigo’s dirty coveralls.
“All right, man. You can sleep easy tonight. Blazer is housed in E Block. They moved him over there after a fight with some of the guys here.”
Reed nodded and extended his hand. “Thanks. Good to know.”
Rigo glared down at the extended hand, then spat on the floor next to Reed’s feet. “Get back to your cell, man. And don’t come down here no more. We don’t want any of your white-ass drama.”