Against the Wind (43 page)

“Let’s let bygones be bygones. Is that possible?”

“Are you shitting me?” Where does he get the
cojones
to even put that to me? For that I’m missing much-needed sleep, entwined in the bosom of my amour? “That’s too easy, Johnnie. It implies it’s over and it isn’t; not for me, not for them.” Pissant son of a bitch—now that his back’s up against the wall he wants to be buddy-buddy with me again, like nothing’s happened. He can’t have his cake and eat it, too. Not with this puppy.

He slumps in his chair. “Can’t anyone give me a break?” he asks.

“You’re talking to the wrong person,” I tell him. “You ought to know that.”

“I thought I’d give it a try.” He throws it up lamely, waiting for me to block it back in his face.

“Give it a rest is what you ought to give it.”

“Yeh. Okay. What the hey, I had to take the shot.”

He looks like shit. No sleep, no shave, no shower. He pours coffee for both of us. I’ve been down that road, using Taster’s Choice in lieu of amphetamines; he’ll have need of those, too, before this is over.

His secretary buzzes him on the squawk box.

“Warden Gates is on his way up, sir.”

“Send him in as soon as he arrives.”

“And the governor telephoned from his car. He’ll be here in less than five minutes.”

That gets my attention. I sit up, sip my java. At least I look presentable, although I don’t feel it. I stood under the cold shower for five minutes and I’m still tired. Mary Lou took a sick day, she’ll take Claudia to the park, until I can catch up with them. It’s the first time my two women’ll be together alone. I hope it works.

Robertson freshens his coffee, scarfs half a Winchell’s jelly-filled in one bite. Bad stuff—if you’ve got to eat that crap you should stick to the plains or powders.

I feel like I’ve been set up. This is no accident, the governor and the warden coming while I’m here. The three of them have some load to drop on me. It makes me nervous.

“Why don’t I come back after you and the brass have finished your business?” I suggest, rising out of my chair. “I’ll take a walk around the block.”

“Better you should stick around,” Robertson says. “We might have something of interest to you.”

Like what? My guys are dead, killed in the first wave of casualties, he wants to see my reaction face-to-face? Or conversely: they’re the ringleaders, when this is over (and it will be over, one way or the other) they’ll be summarily executed?

Why have I been singled out for this appearance before the royal court? There are eight hundred men inside that lockup, where are their lawyers? Why do I have to be signally honored for this bullshit?

I cram a jelly-filled into my mouth, refill my cup.

Robertson’s secretary ushers Gates in without announcing him. “No one else except the governor,” Robertson instructs her.

The warden pours himself some coffee without asking. He’s beat, but he’s taken the time to clean up. He wants to look presentable, show the world he’s not a gorilla. He’s going to be facing reporters for days; the national papers and networks have already sent out correspondents and film crews. Those that aren’t hanging out by the statehouse steps are camped out in front of the prison. I watched the start of the “Today” show this morning, the riot was the first news item out of the box.

“’Morning, Mr. Alexander,” the warden says, cordially enough, considering the circumstances, “thanks for coming.” He extends his hand. We shake. His hand is dry; he’s under control. That’s comforting to know.

“What’s the deal?” I ask Robertson, irritated. “If you’re cooking something up I’d like to know. I don’t feed at the public trough, I am not compelled to be here.”

“We might have need of your special skills,” Robertson says. “Nothing devious, believe me.”

A premonition envelops me. I sink back in my chair. Whenever someone says ‘believe me’ or ‘trust me’ I immediately look over my shoulder, although I can’t see what harm can come from talking to them. Yet.

The door opens. The governor comes in, accompanied by one aide, a blonde-on-blonde woman, severe in look and dress, but attractive. You never see a politician with an unattractive woman unless it’s his wife. Although I’m sure he’s been up all night like the others, he appears to be completely fresh. He’s dressed in a polo shirt, khakis, and the requisite cowboy boots, for all the world looking like he’s on his way to his son’s soccer game.

We’ve known each other over the years. I even campaigned for him once, in a no-sweat half-assed way. As politicians go, he’s not a bad guy.

The aide fades into the corner. Her eyes never leave his excellency.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Alexander.”

“It wasn’t presented to me on a voluntary basis, sir.”

“Thanks anyway.” He looks at Robertson and Gates. “Have you been filled in at all?”

“All I know is what I read in the papers,” I tell him.

“We were waiting for you,” Robertson tells the governor.

The governor nods, as if that was the right course. A show of not dodging the buck.

“We’ve been talking all night,” he says. “Would you pour me a cup, Elaine?” he digresses momentarily to ask his aide. “Extra sugar this morning,” he smiles. Always on; you never know when a photographer might pop out of the ficus. “I need the energy.” He turns back to me.

“Excuse me. We were talking—my colleagues here and others, anyone who’s affected. All the way to Washington. Which is a lot of people. It’s the warden’s prison, he’s in charge, but this whole thing’s gotten crazy now.” He turns to the warden.

“It’s out of my control,” Gates finishes for him. He’s up-front about it, but it’s got to be killing him. The man’s in his fifties, with a lifetime spent in the prison system, coming up from the ranks to the number-one job, and he’s lost control; the one absolute no-no. He’s out of a job, no matter how this is resolved he’ll be gone before the year’s out.

“The prison’s completely sealed,” the governor says, picking it up—we don’t have all day for chit-chat, he has to get to the point: the point of what I’m doing here talking with him while the prison burns. “Anyone that could get out, has. The rest are trapped inside.”

I nod, sip my coffee. I’m keeping my own counsel, it’s their show.

“They took eleven hostages,” he continues. “Eight guards, all male, and three female clerical workers.” He pauses, knowing what I’m thinking, what anyone would be thinking. “We think they’re all right, that they haven’t been harmed … or molested. We’re not sure, we’re not sure of anything, but to the best of our knowledge we don’t think so. Of course, that’s old information.”

In situations like this, any information older than fifteen minutes is old information. While we’re talking here, eating greasy doughnuts and drinking coffee, a dozen people could be getting whacked.

“I gathered as much,” I say, cautiously. “From watching the news this morning. And the radio driving in.”

“It’s already a full-blown disaster,” he exclaims, for the first time showing some honest feeling. “I’ve been thinking about those women. They’re clerks, for Godsakes, they’re not trained to handle this. At least if it was lady guards … these women, they’ve got to be hysterical. And you know where that can lead.”

To panic, chaos, and destruction. Like the baby crying in church—you’ll do anything to shut it up.

“Anyway,” he goes on, “there’s a new development now. Their leadership, we don’t know who it is, they’ve set up a council, they contacted me through the warden here about—what?—an hour and a half, two hours ago.”

Gates nods confirmation.

“They’re prepared to talk,” the governor tells me. “They want to start a negotiation.”

“That’s a step,” I say. That’s good; as long as people are talking, they usually aren’t killing.

“The thing is, they don’t want to negotiate with anyone officially connected,” he says. “They don’t trust the system, which, let’s face it, given who they are and where they are, I can’t blame them.”

He looks over at Gates, at Robertson, back to me.

“The governor and I talked about this,” Robertson tells me, picking up the ball. “Earlier this morning. He’s signed off on it—with my disagreement, I must add.” He stares hard at me. “My strong disagreement. But it’s his decision to make and under the circumstances we don’t have much of a choice.”

The governor looks at me like I’m supposed to know what Robertson’s talking about. I look at Robertson. I don’t know exactly what’s coming, but this was a set-up from the get-go.

“The inmates have asked that you represent us,” the governor says coolly. “They want you to negotiate for … well, us. The authorities. We agree …” here he stares at Robertson, a look stating ‘we’re all on the same page here, boyo, and don’t you forget it,’ “that you’re the right man for the job. Basically, Mr. Alexander, we’re authorizing you to negotiate a settlement; we’re asking you to take charge. To run the prison until this is over. Because we can’t.” He throws up his hands in frustration and surrender. “We’ve lost control. You’re the only one they’ve agreed to talk to.”

“Why me?” The words are out of my mouth before I even realize it.

“They figure you as a stand-up guy,” Robertson says. The way he puts it, it isn’t a compliment. “They think they can trust you.” He pauses. “So do we,” he adds grudgingly, looking at the governor.

“Do I have to?” I ask.

The governor takes a breath.

“We’re not going to force you.”

I swish my coffee in my cup. It tastes like graphite.

“What’s the alternative?” I ask. “If I pass?”

“We haven’t thought beyond this,” Robertson says. “We don’t … hell, Will, we’re playing everything by ear here.”

“What guarantees do I have?” I ask. I’m thinking as fast as I can.

“About your safety? Honest answer? None that we can give you. They’re running the show,” he says.

I shake my head.

“From you,” I say.

“Whatever,” he says, looking to the governor, who nods. “You’re the boss.”

“The boss.” Uh huh. “In other words,” I say, “I negotiate, you’ll endorse, right? Officially, on paper?”

John and his eminence look at each other.

“Well …” the governor says. He doesn’t want to play all his hole cards. Unfortunately for him, he has to.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s correct. The terms will have to be run by me for approval, but yes.”

I look at him. “I’ve got to think about this,” I say.

“For how long?” he asks, a bit more anxiously than he’d like to.

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to think about it.”

“WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE YOU?”

“I was requested. Kind of like when the queen wants to see you. You can turn it down but it’s considered bad form.”

She doesn’t see the humor.

“But why you? You’re a civilian.”

“That’s the point. They—the guys inside—don’t trust anyone in authority … which is one area, at least, in which we are kindred spirits.”

“This is a little more serious than a bumper sticker, Will.”

We’re in a coffee shop across the street, Mary Lou and I. Claudia’s been dumped at a friend’s, so far none the wiser. Mary Lou’s upset, more than I am. She’s got a much stronger grasp on reality than I do.

“You’re fodder,” she says.

“Maybe. But what am I supposed to do?”

“Tell them you won’t do it. It’s their dirty work—let them clean up their own mess.”

“They would prefer to,” I tell her. “Asking me to do this was not something that went down easy, I can assure you.”

“You
want
to do this,” she says.

“No.”

“Come on, Will, this is no time to play games. It’s a macho ego trip, admit it.”

“Well …” Come on, man, this is the woman you love. Be straight.

“There’s ego involved, yes.”

“Ego gets people killed.”

“I’m not going to get killed.” Keep saying that, pal, it sounds good.

“Do you have a guarantee?” she asks. “Something in writing? You’re a lawyer, you know it has to be on paper.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll show it to the inmates. ‘You can’t kill me, I have a letter from my mother.’”

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have a choice, Mary Lou.”

“I guess you don’t,” she says. She’s fighting to keep the tears back. “Anyone else would; but you don’t.”

Outside, she gives me a hug.

“I’ll be watching for you on the news,” she says.

“I’ll be the one wearing the carnation in my lapel,” I say.

“Be careful, sweetheart,” she implores. “And come back.”

“
HERE’S THE PROGRAM,”
I tell them, staring the governor square in his puss. “I’m not going to be your stooge. You’re not going to send me in there to do what you can’t and then cut my legs from under me once you’re back in control again. If I do this—and I emphasize
if
—we establish how far I can go, right now in this room, and the rest is at my discretion. And I want it in writing—from you.”

“Will …” Robertson moves in quickly.

“Sayonara, baby. Thanks for breakfast.”

In less than an hour, the paperwork, duly signed by the governor and witnessed by two of their secretaries and Susan, is safely reposing in the locked safe of my office.

THEY MEET ME
at the front gate. Four of them, wearing various styles of masks. They look like Middle Eastern terrorists: the only facial features that show are their eyes, which are sunk back into their skulls with fatigue, fear, and rage.

I’m alone with them in no-man’s land, between the two sets of gates. One of them frisks me thoroughly. I steel myself to be as calm and still as possible; two hundred people are watching this live, and millions will be seeing it on the nightly news. The teaser runs through my head: ‘Gonzo lawyer stripped and searched; film at eleven.’ Hyperbole—I’m fully clothed, and my gonzo days, if there ever were any, are behind me. At least in my own mind.

It’s late in the day. To the west the sun is dying behind the hills. After I left Robertson’s office I went home to pack a small overnight bag, and to tell Claudia what was happening. She was worried, of course, but she had that wonderful faith kids have in their parents, that they’re invincible, especially when they’re doing the right thing.