Authors: Declan Conner
Deadly Journey (28 page)
I didn’t need reminding. If the
prison-smoke signals in Texas were anything to go by, I knew it would only be a
matter of time before they discovered who I was and what I was in jail for, no
mistake.
Surfer left the cell, returning a few
minutes later. He threw a T-shirt at me.
‘Here, you owe me again. One of our guys
has loaned it to you, so you owe him a favour as well as me. When you get some
money from the consul, you can pay the guards to bring some treats for both of
us.’
The trading-favours-for-a-favour rule was
becoming tedious.
‘Does this favours thing ever end?’
‘No, it’s like holding a cash card. It’s
always best to stay in credit. You never know when you’ll need to cash in a
good turn. Anyway, best work your way to the gate. Word’s come from the guard you
have a visitor. Me and the guys will walk you down.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Don’t know.’
Bad News
My gaze remained
constant on the door of the interview room. I prayed for Mary to walk through
the door. However, just who was here to visit me remained a mystery. The guards
had shrugged their shoulders at my questions on the walk along the corridor. Ten
minutes of chewing my lip and I’d still not worked out how to greet her, or how
she would react to my appearance. The leg irons and cuffs left a hug out of the
equation. Dishevelled, with two days of facial hair growth, I cupped my hand at
my face and exhaled, reeling at the foul odour of my breath as I inhaled
through my nose.
At the sound of footsteps outside in the
corridor, I quivered inside. The steps had sounded like a woman’s heels.
Placing my hands palms down on the table, I took a deep breath and breathed
slowly. The metal door creaked on its hinges as it opened.
Lifting my hands off the table and placing
them between my knees, I shook my head. A woman, maybe in her fifties strolled
into the room and dropped her brown-leather briefcase onto the table. Pulling
out a chair, she sat down opposite me. Short, curly hair with a blue rinse
framed a squashed upturned nose; together with small bulging eyes, it gave her
the appearance of a Pug dog. She unclasped her case and took out a file.
‘I’m Jayne Roberts. I’m your consular
representative, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Do you have any news from my wife? Is the
FBI getting me out of here?’
She took a pair of glasses from her case,
adjusted them on her nose, and thumbed through the file. The expression on her
face as she looked in my direction gave me the idea she couldn’t have turned
her nose up any more if she were dealing with a child molester.
‘No, I haven’t contacted your wife, but if
you give me her email address and telephone number, I’ll speak with her.’ She
had delivered her answer curtly, in an officious manner, which took me by
surprise.
‘What about the FBI?’
‘The FBI confirmed your citizenship this
morning. I can’t get involved in the legal issues. All I can do is to explain
your rights as an American citizen incarcerated in Mexico and contact your
relatives.’
She handed me a typed list of names.
‘All these are public defenders who speak
English. I took the liberty of emailing them all in view of the short time
before your case will go in front of a judge. The Mexican authorities are
complaining about the cost of phone calls, so I’ve narrowed it down to who is
available locally. No choice, I’m afraid. It’s the last one on the list. Seeing
as how there is only one, we exchanged emails and she’ll be here in twenty
minutes.’
‘Thanks, but can’t my department or the FBI
send someone from the United States?’
‘You’re perfectly entitled to hire your own
attorney. Anyhow, first things first. Here, sign for the loan. It’s on your own
surety. Complete your bank details for the authority and we can transfer the
money to our account.’
She dipped into her case, handed me a form.
‘Two- hundred bucks? Is that all you could
come up with?’
‘For now, yes. Of course it’s in Mexican
denominations. I’d advise you to keep it hidden.’
Signing the form with a flourish, I almost
ripped the paper. She handed me the money across the table and with some
difficulty, I slipped it into my side pocket.
‘So what are these rights?’
She pushed her back into the chair and
seemed to relax with a smile.
‘Well, you already know that you have a
right to an English-speaking public defender. If a prosecutor interviews you,
you have a right to a translator, which they have to provide if requested. All
we can do as your consul is to make representation to the authorities if you
are mistreated and that’s it, I’m afraid. We can’t interfere in their legal
system. Good luck.’
She took off her glasses, placed them in
her briefcase, snapped it shut, and rose from her chair. ‘Here’s my card.’
‘Wait, there has to be more. For God’s
sake, I’m a DEA agent, wrongly accused of murder and trafficking. Can’t you get
me transferred to a single cell? If word gets out in here about who I am, I’m
as good as dead.’
‘Try to stay calm, Mr Rawlings. I’ve
already spoken with the warden and they’re looking into that possibility at the
request of the FBI. He assures me that the prison respects confidentiality and
none of the inmates will know of your background.’
‘Yeah, right. Can’t the FBI or DEA do
anything to get me out of here?’
‘The only thing I’ve heard of the
authorities ever doing is to arrange for your sentence to be carried out in the
United States if you’re proven guilty. Really, you need to speak to your lawyer
about such matters. The FBI representative I spoke with says it’s on file for
them to visit you shortly, so perhaps they’ll be able to help. Now, unless you
have any complaints regarding your treatment, I have to take my leave. I’ll
stay on top of the situation regarding a single-cell accommodation.’
She turned on her heel and knocked on the
door. Mouth open, I stared, watching the door open and then close. I wasn’t
sure what I had expected from the consul, but the interview hadn’t gone the way
I’d hoped. In my naivety, I guess I’d half-expected the American authorities
would have pre-arranged bail for me, so that I could have walked out of the
prison gates with Ms. Roberts. The least I hoped for was for them to hold me in
a plush hotel under house arrest, where Mary and the kids would be waiting
until the authorities could sort out the mess and get the charges dropped.
Drumming my fingers on the desk, I waited
for my lawyer. A spider in the corner of the ceiling busied itself spinning a
web. After putting the last secretion of silk in place to complete the
intricate design, the spider scurried off to hide and await its unsuspecting
prey. I couldn’t help but think I was heading for my own entanglement with the
web of evidence against me and with Otego waiting in the background to devour
me. All I could hope was that my lawyer would rescue me from my plight.
The door opened and in walked a young
woman. Anorexic thin, the heavy case she carried looked as though one more
piece of paper added to the contents would snap her arm. Walking lopsided to
the desk, she dropped her briefcase to the floor and held out her sinewy
fingers. I shook her hand lightly for fear of causing her damage. She sat and
looked me in the eyes. Another twenty pounds and she would have looked
attractive. With her long black hair shrouding her gaunt features, the young
woman had amazing dark brown eyes and pouting lips.
‘Miss Lopez. You can call me Angelica. I’m
your lawyer.’
‘Yes, I know.’
She bent over and took a file from her
case. ‘I have the details of the charges and a summary of the evidence against
you. Do you intend to plead guilty?’
I wasn’t sure if that’s where a lawyer
should start. ‘No, I’m innocent.’
She let out a sigh as if she’d heard it all
before and looked at her wristwatch. ‘The evidence is pretty damning. Why don’t
you summarize the events and we’ll see if we can counter the evidence. But
please be brief. I have a heavy caseload.’
‘To hell with your caseload, lady, I need
you to get me out of here.’
Her face flushed. ‘I can understand that,
but I need your statement and time is of the essence. I’m due in court in two
hours. So please begin.’
‘Are you due in court for my hearing?’
‘No, that’s tomorrow. You won’t be
attending. The prosecution will put forth their case and we’ll put forth your
rebuttal. From the evidence presented, the judge will decide if it’s to go to
trial. So the sooner you tell me your story, the better.’
‘Is that how it’s done here? Surely I’ll
get my say in person?’
‘Sorry, things are done differently here.
You’ll get to attend during any trial only if you are needed to speak. As I
said, I’ll be putting forth your side of things. Now please, I really don’t
have time to waste.’
Angelica shuffled on her chair, her
agitation clear from the expression on her face. She sat back in her chair and
covered her mouth with her hand as I gave her a shortened summary of what had
happened. When I finished, she shook her head.
‘Do they know about the bodies at the barn?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t tell them anything
other than that I wouldn’t speak without advice from a lawyer. Besides, he
didn’t want to know about my kidnapping and escape.’
‘This Leandra woman, the one who is a
witness to the events at the barn and who killed one of your assailants, where
do we find her?’
‘I honestly don’t know. I can tell you
where I last saw her, but she’ll be out of the country by now.’
‘No matter. For now, we have to concentrate
on the charges at hand. The incident at the barn complicates an already
complicated situation. We’re going to have to get the judge to get the
prosecution to widen their investigation.’
‘So do you think the judge will release me?’
‘Not on the forensic evidence. It looks as
though you’ve terminated the alleged culprits, so it’s going to be a mess. Have
the US authorities interviewed you yet?’
‘No, but they will, according to the consul.
She just didn’t say when.’
‘Under the circumstances, I don’t want you
talking to them until I’ve had a chance to work out how to play the strategy in
your case. In any event, I’ll want to be present.’
‘Are you thinking it will go to trial?’
‘My honest opinion
–
yes.’
‘Let’s say it all goes wrong and I’m found
guilty. What am I looking at?’
‘We have a long way to go before we need to
consider a sentence.’
‘Yeah, but what’s the worst case scenario?’
‘Worst case
–
seventy
years.’
The Paper Trail
With my
restraints removed, a guard ushered me out into the prison yard. Surfer sat to
one side of the gate, his back to the wall.
‘How’d it go, bud?’
‘What?’
‘Your visitor?’
‘That, oh yeah. Consul and my lawyer,
that’s all.’
‘You don’t look pleased.’
‘You got that right. I’m far from ecstatic.
I was hoping for family.’
He sprang to his feet and dusted his jeans
with his hands and then we walked the yard together. ‘Wife or girlfriend?’
‘Wife, but maybe it’s too early to expect
her to be here.’
‘No worries. I’m sure she’ll turn up to
visit. My girlfriend should here in the next few days to bring me some money.’
We arrived at the stairway and Surfer
stopped.
‘My head’s burning, man.’
‘You sick?’
‘Nah, I just know I’ve seen you somewhere
before and it’s driving me crazy.’
‘I doubt our paths have crossed.’
A hope clung to me that he’d drop the
subject. If he’d seen the news report and my mug shot, I prayed that my beard
growth gave me some disguise.
‘I don’t know, man. It’ll come to me.’
He turned and continued walking up the
stairway.
‘What happens here at dark?’ I asked, in an
attempt to take his mind off the subject.
‘Lockdown.’
‘I thought the guards left the prisoners to
run the block?’
‘Well, yeah, to a point. They come in as
soon as the light drops and we have to be in our cells. Then first thing in the
morning, the guards come in and open up and we go down to the yard for two
rolls of stale bread and water. The next thing we see of them is lunchtime when
they dish out the food.’
‘I thought they didn’t provide food and you
had to buy your own?’
‘They provide subsistence foods, usually
rice, beans and some shit that’s supposed to be chicken. If you want a decent
diet, you have to pay the guards to do your shopping and they’ll add twenty
percent to your check. If you need drugs, see me.’
I raised an eyebrow at his last comment as
we entered the cell. The other inmates were already inside, lying on their
bunks. Thankfully, Surfer struck up a conversation with one of them and I
climbed onto my bunk. Whoever had had the bunk before me had removed his
pictures from the wall, leaving lumps of Blue-Tack dotted around. The inmate in
the top bunk next to me was writing a letter.
‘You got a sheet of plain paper to spare?’
I asked.
‘Sure, take two.’
He handed over two blank pieces of copier
paper. As a child, Dad had taught me how to fashion paper patterns by folding
the paper and tearing out shapes, so I thought I’d try it to pass the time. If
nothing else, I thought the distraction would take my mind away from my grave
situation.
No amount of picking at the folds of the
paper could get the thought out my head that seventy years stuck in this, or
any other hell hole as an ex-law enforcement officer, meant death would stalk
me every second of every day. That’s was a high price to pay for someone who’s
innocent and who would die before the end of the sentence.
The light faded. Figures slouched past the
cell door, like the March of the Zombies. No one spoke. It was as if the
prisoners were pre-programmed to return to their cells. Five minutes and then
heavy booted footsteps followed along the gantry. Four steps and then the clang
of a cell door closing in an unholy rhythm that grew ever closer. A guard
appeared at our door, took a cursory glance inside, and then slammed the door
shut before he moved on.
The light flickered on in the cell and
conversation resumed. I re-started teasing and tearing at the folds in the
paper. Carefully unfolding the paper, I held it up to admire my handiwork. It
wasn’t exactly a photograph, but the paper-chain figures of the representation
of Mary and me and the kids brought on a smile.
I leaned over and took a blob of Blue-Tack
off the wall, rolling out small balls between my thumb and finger. As I pressed
the paper chain to the wall, a voice called out.
‘What the hell you doing up there? It’s
snowing down here.’ Surfer’s face appeared over the mattress, and he flicked
paper from his hair. ‘Man, that’s cool. Wife and kids?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You miss them?’
‘Sure do.’
‘Listen, I know it’s hard, and it always
digs at you, but try and be strong. You’re gonna have to learn to deal with the
pain. You know kids can visit and if they’re old enough they can write letters?’
‘I don’t think I’d want them to see me in
here. You got kids?’
Surfer roared with laughter. ‘Probably, but
not sure how many.’ His eyes glazed and he turned away. ‘Seriously, I have a
daughter. She’s three years old
–
name’s Jenny.’
His head disappeared and I heard him settle
onto his mattress. As I lay there staring at the paper chain, I must have lived
my life with them over a dozen times. I couldn’t help but feel guilt at all the
things I should have said and done with them, but hadn’t.
The light went out and I closed my eyes,
hoping for sleep. It wasn’t just the angst of my situation that prevented me
from sleeping; the stench in the cell overpowered my senses. I buried my face
in the mattress, but the odour of years of sweat
–
from
which there was no respite
–
made me want to vomit.
Nine hours later, after a night filled with
tossing and turning, I stared at the ceiling sensing night turn to day. The
sound of what I assumed was one of the guards rapping his nightstick on the
cell-door bars, before throwing open a door, cut through the silence. Rat-a-
tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. Banging and clattering followed, with a rumble of
conversations.
‘Come on, get ready to hustle, or you’ll be
left with crumbs. Grab a tin mug.’ Surfer said.
My cell buddies were already standing in
line at the cell door when the guard arrived and opened it before moving on. I
jumped off the top bunk and followed. The sound of the guard’s nightstick was
lost in the throng of footsteps outside. For a dog-eat-dog society, I was
surprised by how everyone lined up at the breadbaskets. I stooped and picked up
two rolls, then peeled off to join Surfer in the water line. Surfer hadn’t
exaggerated when he said the bread was stale. One bite told me anyone with
dentures would be struggling.
‘Why didn’t you see the consul yesterday?’
I asked.
‘No need, I know the ropes.’
‘What about a lawyer?’
‘Today, hopefully. But I don’t rate my
chances too high this time. I’m gonna try pleading ignorance.’
‘Ignorance? I thought you only got two
choices.’
‘Ignorance, innocent, it’s all the same.
All I can say is someone must have stashed the dope in my truck when I was at a
rest stop on a sleepover. I’m not worried about doing time, I’m more worried if
the MS-13 crew in here find out I owe them money for the consignment.’
‘So you hadn’t paid them?’
‘No, me and my big mouth talked them into
giving me the stash on account. What did your lawyer say about your chances?’
I began to wish I’d not started the
subject. ‘It’s too early to tell.’
‘Yeah, these things take time.’
I filled my mug with water and walked over
to a wall in the yard. We both sat on our haunches, our backs to the wall. It
sounded as though we both needed to watch each other’s backs, but for now,
everything in front of me seemed like a threat. The only thing I knew was that
Surfer might be the enemy on the outside, but having seen him handle himself,
my time in there was going to call for keeping my enemies close.
The other cell buddies joined us in
conversation. All I could do was laugh and shake my head in the right places.
Still, at times their anecdotes were amusing and passed the time.
A new intake arrived through the gate. Two
men with Cobra tattoos were greeted with high fives from their compatriots.
‘You don’t say much,’ Skunk said, aptly
named and in need of some serious deodorant.
‘Nothing much to say. You’re doing all the
talking that needs to be done.’
‘When we get back to the cell, you know
it’s your turn to slop out the piss bucket?’ Skunk said and gave me a grin.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re the new kid.’
My stomach was already struggling with my
breakfast. I wasn’t optimistic about its not erupting when I emptied the
bucket.
‘Anyway, what’s your name? We can’t keep
calling you new kid.’
Tension pulled at my chest. I searched for
a name. ‘Razor.’
‘Razor, how come?’
‘Because I cut throats,’ I said and drew a
finger across my throat.
It felt stupid to come out with a street
name, but I figured impressions were everything. Everyone in our crowd seemed
to “Big” themselves as part of the survival mentality and now I’d joined them.
A scuffle broke out in the yard, a welcome
distraction. I jumped to my feet. A group of Cobras were facing off against a
group of the Perez crew. One of the Cobra gang stabbed the index fingers of
both hands in the air gang style and danced around on his toes. I couldn’t hear
what he was saying, but some of the Perez crew were holding back one of their
men. His face was bright red and contorted in anger. Skunk slunk off in their
direction.
Surfer tugged at my wrist. ‘Stay out if it.
Skunk will report back.’
Big Guy stepped into the fray, exchanging
words with the Cobras. They walked away from the unlikely peacemaker, strutting
and grinning. Skunk returned and I dropped back to my haunches.
‘What was it about?’ Surfer asked.
‘Perez is dead, and a Cobra was mocking one
of the Perez crew.’
‘Did they say who killed him?’ I asked.
‘Some American kidnap victim shot him
during his escape.’
Damn it, I thought, if Stony’s parting
words weren’t coming back to haunt me. I dropped and sat on my hands, hoping
nobody would see them tremble. A spell in solitary was becoming more
attractive.
Surfer shot me a quizzical look and stroked
his chin.
