Inside (2 page)

Rosenburg’s chair raked the carpet as he shoved himself away from the table. “How long were you in?”

Simeon had read her shock and repugnance; Peyton could tell. His lips maintained that mocking grin, but this time he looked at Frank when he answered. “Nearly six years.”

“What happened to Mr. Bennett was…unfortunate,” Wallace said. “But, thanks to evidence that surfaced well after his conviction, he was exonerated.”

Exonerated.
For a moment, that word held no meaning for Peyton. Simeon Bennett had become a regular ex-con to her—probably because he seemed every bit as hardened as the men in her prison. Before Wallace’s explanation could reverse that image, she had to walk herself through the definition.
He didn’t do it.
Of course. He wouldn’t be sitting here, working for the CDCR if he’d
murdered
someone. But
six years?
For a crime he didn’t commit? She couldn’t believe he’d be willing to put himself back in such a vulnerable position. To make his pretense credible, they wouldn’t be able to show him any favoritism or give him time off. Going undercover in Pelican Bay would be very close to going inside for real.

“If you think that convinces me you’re ideal for this job, you’re wrong,” Peyton told him.

He had to speak over Wallace in order to respond. “And why is that, Chief Deputy?”

“Something so tragic…it has to have made…changes in who you are.”

A muscle flexed in his cheek. “Which would make me damaged goods. Is that what you’re saying?”

She looked at the warden, Frank, even Joe, for support, but got avid curiosity instead. “It could.”

Simeon’s jaw jutted forward. “I assure you I’ve passed all my psych evals…with flying colors.”

Wallace handed them each a manila envelope. “You’ll find Mr. Bennett’s résumé inside. Given the unusual nature of his background, I assumed you’d have some questions. We want you to feel completely comfortable with what we’ve got planned—well, as comfortable as
any of us can feel under the circumstances. But rest assured that we’ve done our homework. We’re calling this Operation Inside, and we expect it to be a success.”

“We…”
Peyton repeated.

“The
department.
”

His emphasis was intended to make a point: it wouldn’t be too beneficial to piss off her employer. But she couldn’t justify worrying more about her career than a man’s
life.

Peyton shifted her gaze to Simeon’s knuckles.
Love. Hate.
Which emotion dominated the other? Did he even know from one minute to the next? “Where’d you do the time?”

“In the federal system.”

He could’ve elaborated but, once again, didn’t. Was it because he didn’t want her poking around in his past, checking up on him? If so, that defensiveness bothered Peyton. A man who’d spent six years in prison for murder could have a lot of dark secrets, despite being exonerated and despite having worked in the private sector for some time.

“How long have you been out?” the warden asked.

The contempt Simeon wore like an army jacket grew more apparent. He didn’t like talking about this, didn’t like being questioned. “Ten years.”

“And you’ve been with Department 6 ever since?”

“I became a cop, then moved to the private sector, but I’ve been with Department 6 for most of that time.”

“So you went in at…what?” Peyton asked.

His eyebrows slid up. “Eighteen.”

That was young. Peyton could only imagine how such an experience had affected him. “Your family must’ve been heartsick.”

He wasn’t fooled by the sympathy in her voice. He
knew she was digging for additional information, maybe even some assurances and explanations. But he refused to accommodate her. “Yeah, they were pretty broken up about it.”

This man already had her guessing at what was going on behind the mask of his G.I. Joe face. She prayed that the giant chip on his shoulder, if not his background, would motivate Warden Fischer to rethink his willingness to go along with the department’s plan. But without bothering to open his manila folder, Fischer stood and extended his hand to Wallace.

“We’ll do all we can to keep him safe. When will he go in?”

Shit.
Peyton ground her teeth in frustration. Fischer was going for it.

“We were hoping he could arrive just after the other transfers next Tuesday,” Wallace said as they clasped hands. “During a busy afternoon like that he shouldn’t stand out.”

It was Friday now, which meant this investigation would begin in four days…. And, as far as Peyton was concerned, such a handsome man would always stand out.

“No problem. We frequently get singles,” Fischer said.

Frank stood and rested his hands on his utility belt. “What will his story be?”

Wallace responded. “His central file will indicate that he was convicted of killing his stepfather. The closer we stick to the truth, the more convincing it’ll be.”

“The
truth?
” Peyton echoed.

Although she and Wallace had gotten along on every other visit, today his lips pursed whenever she spoke. “That’s what he went in for originally.”

A shiver crawled up her spine. Not only had Bennett been convicted of murder, he’d been convicted of killing someone very close to him. That made her uncomfortable, whether the jury had been mistaken or not. There had to have been a reason he was convicted in the first place.

When Simeon’s piercing blue eyes lingered on Peyton yet again, she sensed that he understood the revulsion she was feeling—that he expected it and resented it at the same time.

“Who really killed your stepfather?” she asked.

When he merely smiled, Wallace filled in the blank. “His uncle. He’s being held at Solano State in California, awaiting trial. He also has a mother in L.A., where he was raised, who might’ve put her brother up to it. There’s some circumstantial evidence to suggest it, but no real proof, so she’s never been charged. The only other member of the family is a younger sister who is now a divorced mother of two, if that helps. Any other information you might need, Chief Deputy?”

Yes—a lot. If his mother had persuaded her brother to kill her husband, how was it that
Simeon
had gone to prison? Wouldn’t his mother have come forward to stop it? Did she just let it happen? Or had she and her brother framed him? Question after question sped through Peyton’s mind. But she saw no point in pursuing the answers. Warden Fischer was going to do this with or without her agreement. Why make their mutual boss any angrier? She’d heard the sarcasm in Wallace’s response. “No,” she said.

“We’ll be ready for him on Tuesday, then.” The warden motioned toward the door as if he expected Wallace to leave before him, but Wallace didn’t budge.

“One more thing.”

At his somber tone, everyone perked up.

“Bennett’s true identity and everything else about Operation Inside is top secret.
Everything.
Do you understand?”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Fischer assured him. “When we get back to the prison, I’ll make sure every member of my staff understands the sensitivity of the situation and their responsibility regarding it.”

“No.” Wallace shook his head. “You won’t tell your staff. The only people who can know are the ones in this room.”

Fischer scratched his sagging jowls. He seemed to be catching on to what Peyton had understood all along. “You’re saying we can’t even tell the C.O.s working in gen pop?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Then…how will they protect him?”

Parting his jacket, Wallace hooked his thumbs inside his belt as if posing for
GQ.
He wanted to be director of the CDCR someday. He’d never actually voiced that aspiration, not to Peyton, but it was obvious from the way he tried to impress those above him and how unyielding he could be to those below. “They won’t do more for him than they would for any other inmate,” he said.

“But—” At last the warden started to argue, only to be overruled.

“Treating him differently, pulling him aside to ask how things are going, showing him respect the others aren’t entitled to—that’s what will get him killed. One knowing look could be enough.”

The warden buttoned his coat. “The way you’ve got it set up doesn’t provide much support.”

As Peyton had already mentioned….

“It’s our only choice,” Wallace said. “We can’t risk a leak.”

“I promise you, my staff is completely trustworthy,” Fischer insisted.

Wallace’s wedding band wasn’t nearly as impressive as the heavy gold and diamond ring he’d bought to celebrate his recent promotion. Once again, Peyton noticed it as he lifted his hand to gain everyone’s attention before the warden could add anything else. “There are 1,400 employees at this prison. I’m not accusing anyone, but we all know that drugs, messages, weapons come in and out. For that to occur as frequently as it does, some of your staff have to be acting as facilitators. One word of warning to the Hells Fury and…well, I don’t have to tell you how fast the truth would spread and what could happen as a result.”

A frown creased Fischer’s heavily lined face. “So this investigation will include convicts and employees alike?”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Releasing his belt, Wallace closed his briefcase. Then he and Simeon Bennett walked out.

Peyton heard their car start while she, Fischer, Rosenburg and Perry stood staring at one another. Finally the warden asked Rosenburg and Perry to excuse them for a moment, and the two men went out to wait in the van.

Bracing for a tirade, Peyton leaned against the door she’d shut on the heels of Rosenburg. She thought her boss was about to chew her out for being uncooperative during the meeting. He generally didn’t hesitate to let her know if he disapproved of her behavior. Because they were so different in their philosophies, that happened more often than she would’ve liked. But this time he surprised her.

“You don’t like the idea of this investigation, do you, Peyton?”

She’d already made that clear. “No, sir.”

“You don’t think Bennett can handle it?”

“I’m not sure anyone can. You know what it’ll be like if he’s labeled a snitch. The Hells Fury won’t demand proof. Suspicion will be enough. I’m afraid we’ll have blood on our hands before the week is out.”

He sat on the edge of the table. “One way or another, it’s going to turn into a can of worms,” he admitted. “But…if he
could
break the stranglehold of the Hells Fury, everyone will be better off.”

She couldn’t deny that. Measuring her words so she could speak the truth without undermining her integrity, she said, “It would be nice to put a stop to Detric Whitehead and his organization, yes.”

“We have no choice except to comply. You understand that, don’t you?”

After being in heels all day, her feet were beginning to hurt, but she resisted the urge to sit down. She didn’t want to appear tired or weak. She worked in a prison, had to prove herself every single day. “And why is that, sir?”

“You heard Wallace. He presented his plan as if we had some input, but we didn’t. The decision was made before he ever asked us to meet him here. Even the governor is set on it.”

Securing the flap of Wallace’s manila envelope, she bit back the accusation that he could’ve tried harder to refuse. “So…what do you suggest we do?”

“We go along with the damn investigation, as agreed. But there’s no need for two of us to spearhead this thing. I’ve given it my blessing. Now I want you to run with it.”

Apprehension clawed at Peyton’s stomach. Why would he turn such a sensitive investigation over to her? “Would you mind clarifying that, sir?”

“I’ve got more than I can handle on my plate already. You’ll take over from here.”

Irritated by a strand of hair that’d fallen from the knot at her nape, she tucked it behind her ear. “Which means…what, exactly? I’ll be the liaison?”

“That’s right. You’ll meet with Bennett whenever it’s safe to do so, and you’ll relay his progress to Wallace. This is your baby. All of it.” But
she
was the one who had a problem with the operation. And she’d just strained her relationship with Wallace, to say nothing of alienating Bennett. Why would—?

And then it dawned on her. Warden Fischer was purposely distancing himself. He was as nervous about this investigation as she was and didn’t want to be anywhere nearby if it blew up in their faces.

Now she understood why he’d invited her to attend such a clandestine meeting, even though she was far from the patsy Joseph Perry was. She was his “fall guy.” He could pacify the Department of Corrections by acquiescing to their wishes, and sidestep the blame if it all went to hell.

“Do I have any choice?” she asked.

He smoothed down his sparse white hair. “Not unless you’d prefer to tender your resignation.”

Peyton drew a steadying breath. As tempting as that sounded at the moment, she’d invested sixteen years in her career. She wasn’t about to throw it all away without a fight. Especially when there was a chance, albeit a small one, that Bennett could come through and make them both heroes.

She imagined the pale blue eyes of the man who’d sat across the conference table from her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen irises that exact shade of blue, certainly none that so closely resembled shards of ice…. “No, sir.”

Fischer smiled. “Glad to hear it. Good luck to you and Bennett,” he said, and left her standing in the conference room.

Dropping her head in her hands, Peyton cursed Fischer and his reluctance to take responsibility for what had just happened.

Was Bennett as good as Wallace thought?

She hoped so—because if he went down, so did she.

W
allace had provided a one-page background sketch on Simeon Bennett, nothing more. Peyton understood the need for secrecy, the danger of putting too much in writing, but this supposed “bio” revealed nothing they hadn’t been told. It was a formality, a pretense, and that made her uncomfortable. She spent five days a week with some of the most cunning liars, thieves and murderers in California. She knew when she was being played, and that was what the meeting at the library had felt like.

What was the CDCR trying to pull? She’d never dreamed she’d have to worry about the people on
her
side of the law, especially those in the chain of command above her.

A soft knock sounded at her office door.

Peyton slid the sheet of paper she’d been reading back into the envelope, then stuck it under some files on her desk. “Come in.”

Shelley, her administrative assistant, poked her curly brown head into the room. “I’m heading home. Is there anything you’d like me to do before I go?”

Peyton glanced at the clock. Four-thirty already? She was so busy the days flew by. Maybe that was why
she didn’t have much of a love life—in addition to the fact that she refused to date anyone who worked at the prison, which ruled out most of the men in Crescent City. “No, thank you. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Shelley paused. “Uh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?” Peyton asked.

“You’ve got ‘the crease of concern.’”

To keep her hands occupied, Peyton straightened her stapler, pen holder, calendar. “The crease of concern?”

“Yep.” She pointed to her own forehead. “Right there. You get it whenever you’re worried. What’s wrong?”

Peyton smiled to clear away that crease. Regardless of how she felt about what the department was doing, she wouldn’t risk Bennett’s life by letting on that something unusual was afoot. “Just another inmate in gen pop claiming to be suicidal.”

“What does his psych report say?”

“That he’s a malingerer.”

“A what?”

“Faking it,” Peyton clarified.

Stepping into the room, Shelley crossed her arms over her large breasts, which strained against a dress that was far too tight, and leaned against the wall. “What’s he in for?”

Briefly allowing herself to be distracted by the business she’d been dealing with before Warden Fischer’s little meeting eight miles away, Peyton took a sip of the coffee that’d nearly grown cold on her desk. “Molesting three boys.”

“Then he’s in the hat, isn’t he?”

In the hat
meant he was marked to be beaten or killed by other inmates. Rapists, molesters and child murderers weren’t well liked, even in prison. “I’m not so sure
that’s the only reason he’s saying he wants to exit the land of the living,” she said.

Bracelet jangling as she walked, Shelley approached the chairs on the other side of Peyton’s desk. “Come on, you know how many of these guys try to get themselves into the Psychiatric Services Unit. But with only one hundred and twenty-eight beds, you can’t send them all there. I’d put him back in gen pop.”

“Without a second thought?”

She adjusted her dress, which had started to ride up. “Why not?”

“What if he really goes through with it? What if he hangs himself in his cell? Would you want to be responsible for that?”

“No.” Straightening, she hitched up her giant handbag. “That’s why
you
get paid the big bucks.”

Big bucks? Peyton made $120,000 year, but money didn’t help her sleep at night. She’d been so idealistic when she’d chosen this profession, so certain she’d be able to make a difference. But, more often than not, there wasn’t a good answer to the dilemmas she faced. She couldn’t put this guy, Victor Durego, in the SHU. The SHU was reserved for behavioral problems; keeping inmates in total isolation cost taxpayers an exorbitant amount of money. If Victor had no mental disorder, she couldn’t keep him in the PSU, either. It didn’t make sense to waste the valuable time of the mental health professionals who worked there or take up a slot that was legitimately needed by someone else. For a week or two, she could move him into the Transitional Housing Unit, where they put the gangbangers who decided to debrief, but returning Victor to general population would leave him vulnerable to what had made him claim he
was suicidal in the first place—probably another inmate who’d threatened him.

“There’s always the other philosophy,” Shelley said.

Peyton pushed the coffee to one side so she wouldn’t be tempted by it. “What philosophy?”

“That a guy who molests children deserves whatever he gets.”

She knew Shelley wasn’t alone in her ambivalence toward Victor’s safety. But Peyton believed it was humanity that separated the caregivers from the inmates. If the caregivers appointed themselves judge, jury and executioner, they were no better than the people they imprisoned. “As far as I know, physical injury wasn’t part of his sentence. And we don’t have the right to embellish it.”

“I’m just saying…. You can’t see into the future. What he did landed him in prison. Now that he’s here, all you can do is make the call and hope for the best.”

Shelley was right on that count. Peyton had made many such “calls.” Some turned out as she’d hoped. Others didn’t. Which was why the responsibility weighed so heavily.

“I should get going,” her assistant said. “Good luck with it.”

“Thanks.” Peyton waved. Then the door closed, leaving her alone with Victor’s file, a stack of others on which she had to make some decision or other and the manila envelope on Simeon Bennett.

Removing Simeon’s bio, she read it again. Then she got on her computer and searched the internet for “Department 6, Los Angeles.”

A webpage came up. It provided only general in
formation, as she’d expected, but there was a contact number.

If she pretended to know Simeon and asked for him by name, maybe she could figure out if he at least worked where he said he did….

A man answered on the second ring. “Department 6.”

Peyton curled the nails of her free hand into her palm. She was using her cell phone so her name would’ve appeared on caller ID, but that beat letting him know she was calling from a prison. “Is Simeon Bennett there?”

“Who?”

“Simeon Bennett. B-E-N-N-E-T-T. I met him at a club last weekend. I have an ex-boyfriend who…who’s scaring me.” She drew a deep breath in an effort to make the lie more convincing. “Simeon said he worked for a private security company that could protect me. He said I should call him at this number if my ex kept harassing me.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of a Simeon Bennett,” the man responded.

And yet he was supposed to have worked there for most of the past ten years?

“Would you like to speak to someone else? Protection is definitely a service we offer.”

“No. Thanks, anyway,” she said, and hung up.

Just as she’d thought. Bennett didn’t work for Department 6. So what
had
he been doing? And what about the rest of his résumé? Was any of it true? Had she even been given his real name?

She got up and crossed to the credenza, where she picked up the last photograph ever taken of her and her father. At four years old, she stood hugging his leg
outside their middle-class home in Citrus Heights, a suburb of Sacramento. Shortly after a neighbor snapped that picture, he’d gone to prison for embezzling the money to pay for her mother’s cancer treatments. Because of him, Grace had survived an additional quarter of a century, but after serving five years, with only three weeks left on his sentence, he was stabbed—and died in minutes.

Her father was the reason she’d gone into corrections. Knowing him and the reality of his story convinced Peyton to look at convicts as individuals with unique backgrounds, situations and desires, just like other human beings. Sometimes mitigating circumstances led a man to do the unthinkable. It wasn’t fair to make snap judgments or lump them all together. Now that she was reaching positions with enough authority to make significant changes, she wouldn’t allow Fischer, or the department, to set her up for failure by sending her into some dangerous investigation without all the facts. She’d worked too hard to get where she was.

So how would she learn exactly what they had planned? Although she’d seen the prisoner number on Bennett’s arm, she’d been so shocked by what it signified that she hadn’t thought to memorize it. She could recall only the first four digits. Otherwise, she might’ve been able to use that to obtain further information.

Maybe she wouldn’t need it. Wallace hadn’t done much to cover his tracks. He was so used to being in charge, so arrogant and sure no one at the prison would bother to check on anything he said, he hadn’t even invented a fictional company for Bennett’s previous employer. Or chosen an organization that wasn’t as easy to locate.

Setting her father’s picture back in its place, she
grabbed her purse and flung her jacket over her shoulder. She’d figure out who Bennett really was, or she wouldn’t let him into the prison on Tuesday. Maybe her determination would end her career, but she’d go down swinging.

In the notes Wallace had given him on Operation Black Widow, Crescent City had been called “California’s Siberia” by one defense attorney. Now that he’d seen it for himself, Virgil had to agree. Nearly four hundred miles from both San Francisco and Sacramento, and eight hundred miles from Los Angeles, it was only accessible via narrow, winding roads clogged with RVs, or a small airstrip with very few flights. Dense forests of giant, old-growth redwoods hemmed it in on one side—silent, massive and pungent. An angry, churning Pacific Ocean stretched to eternity on the other.

But it wasn’t just the physical isolation that made this part of the California coast different from the hot sun and toes-in-the-sand party beaches down south. It was the climate. Foggy and chilly, with trees shaped by the wind, this tiny dot on the map seemed every bit as lonely as a barren field of ice. The only major difference was the lush beauty.

There shouldn’t be a prison here, he decided. Especially a supermax as notorious for harsh discipline, even abuse, as Pelican Bay. It was too much of a contradiction.

Chief Deputy Warden Peyton Adams was also too much of a contradiction. He pictured her blond hair pulled into a knot at her nape, the wide brown eyes that’d stared out at him with such quick perception, the satiny skin that made her look too young to hold the authority she did, the lines of her suit, which was practical
yet stylish. Had he met her anywhere else, he would’ve guessed she worked behind the makeup counter at Neiman Marcus or sold upscale women’s clothing.

Hiding ruthless power behind such a pretty face seemed the ultimate lie.

But he’d been told that lie before, hadn’t he? By his own mother….

“So what do you think?” Wallace piped up as he drove them from Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, a sight Simeon had wanted to see, to a restaurant for dinner.

Virgil didn’t care for Wallace. Smug, cocky and shallow, he wasn’t particularly likable. There were moments when, without provocation, Simeon had to fight the impulse to break his jaw, and that upset him as much as everything else going on in his life. He hadn’t always struggled with authority. The resentment that simmered just below his skin was a product of the years he’d spent in prison dealing with corrections officers who’d been created from the same mold, and was no doubt influenced by The Crew, the gang he’d had to clique up with to survive. “About what?”

“The meeting.”

He adjusted the hat and glasses Wallace had provided for their trip to the state park, in case they were spotted by an off-duty corrections officer who might later recognize him. “It went more or less as I expected.” Except for the beautiful chief deputy warden who’d been so unfriendly to their plan. Like the stunning vistas that appeared without warning, she’d come as a complete surprise. He couldn’t imagine someone like her working at a prison.

“So you can handle it?”

“Do I have any choice?”

Wallace shifted beneath his stare. “No, I guess you don’t.”

The old-fashioned business signs they passed, like the one in front of the local gift shop, made Virgil feel as if they’d detoured onto the set of
Happy Days.
But that sign and others similar to it were merely one facet of this place, holdouts from an earlier era. Overall, Crescent City had become a mixed bag. Heads bent against the constant drizzle, rednecks mingled with artisans. Old, weather-beaten buildings soldiered on amid the typical fast-food joints seen everywhere else in the country. And, at the harbor in the small bay—the only calm in a restless sea—fishing boats bobbed next to shiny new recreational craft.

He took in every detail as if he hadn’t seen anything like it in years. Because, other than on the long drive from Sacramento this morning, he hadn’t. He’d read all the books, leaflets, newsletters and pamphlets he could lay his hands on when he was inside, but experiencing a place like this made a real and very different impact. He especially enjoyed the salt-laden air and the smell of the loamy earth and towering trees.

While Wallace parked at Raliberto’s Tacos on M Street, Virgil wished he could’ve visited Crescent City back when it was teeming with lumberjacks and salmon fishermen. It would have felt innocent then. But, according to Wallace, who’d picked him up at the airport in Sacramento, it was only because of Pelican Bay that Crescent City had survived. In the early ’80s, the salmon fishing had died and thirteen of the seventeen sawmills went out of operation. The prison, which opened in ’89, supplied much-needed jobs. Now nearly half the town’s population resided behind bars and most of the other half worked in a capacity related to that.

“You as hungry as I am?” Wallace continued to strive for camaraderie.

“Hungry enough.” Virgil yanked on the heavy jacket intended to hide his build and got out. “You staying all weekend?”

“I haven’t decided.” The car chirped as he locked it and came around the front. “Is that necessary?”

“If you think it’s your presence that’s keeping me here, you’re delusional.”