Never Look Away (6 page)

"Nothing's going to happen to you or to me," I said. "What's that on your wrist?"

She left her spoon in the bowl and pulled her sleeve down. "It's nothing," she said.

"It looks like a bandage."

"I just nicked myself," she said.

"Let me see."

"There's nothing to see," she said. But I had reached across the table, taken hold of her hand, and pushed the sleeve up myself. The bandage was about an inch wide and went completely around her wrist.

"Jesus, Jan, what did you do?"

She yanked her arm away. "Let go of me!" she said, loud enough to make the people at the other tables, and Gina by the front door, glance our way.

"Fine," I said quietly, taking my hand back. Keeping my voice low, I said, "Just tell me what happened."

"I was cutting some vegetables for Ethan and the knife slipped," she said. "Simple as that."

I could see injuring your finger while cutting up carrots, but how did a knife jump up and get your wrist?

"Just drop it," Jan said. "It's not ... what it looks like. I swear, it was totally an accident."

"Jesus, Jan," I said, shaking my head. "These days, lately, I don't know ... I'm worried sick about you."

"You don't have to be concerned," she said curtly and studied her soup.

"But I am." I swallowed. "I love you."

Twice she started to speak and then stopped. Finally, she said, "I think, sometimes, it would be easier for you if you didn't have both of us to worry about. If it was just you and Ethan."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Jan didn't say anything.

I was frantic with concern, but there was anger, too, creeping into my voice. "Jan, answer me honestly here. What kind of thoughts are going through your head lately? Are you having--I don't know how to put this--self-destructive thoughts?"

She kept looking at the soup, even though she wasn't eating it. "I don't know."

I had this feeling that we had reached a moment. One of those moments in your life when you feel the ground moving beneath you. Like when someone calls and says a loved one has been rushed to the hospital. When you get called in by the boss and told they won't be needing you anymore. Or you're in a doctor's office, and he's looking at your chart, and he says you should sit down.

You're finding out something that's going to make everything that happens from here on different from everything that has gone before.

My wife is ill
, I thought.
Something's happened to her. Something's come undone. Something's wrong with the circuitry
.

"You don't know," I said. "So you
might
be thinking about hurting yourself in some way."

Her eyes seemed to nod.

"How long have you been having thoughts like this?"

Jan's lips went out, then in, as she considered the question. "A week or so. These thoughts come in, and I don't know why they're there, and I can't seem to get rid of them. But I feel I'm this huge burden to you."

"That's ridiculous. You're everything to me."

"I know I'm a drag on you, like an anchor."

"That's crazy." I immediately regretted my choice of word. "Look, if you've been feeling this way a week or so ... what's brought this on? Has something happened? Something you haven't told me about?"

"No, nothing," she said unconvincingly.

"Has something happened at work?" After seeing Leanne going at it with Lyall, I wondered whether she was dragging Jan down somehow. "Is it Leanne? Is she making your life hell, too?"

"She's ... she's always been hard to deal with, but I've learned to cope," Jan said. "I can't really explain it. I just started feeling this way. Feeling that I'm a burden, that I have no purpose."

"That's ridiculous," I said. "You know what I think? I think maybe you need to talk to--"

"I don't want to hear this," Jan said.

"But if you just talked--"

"What, so they could put me away? Lock me up in some loony bin?"

"For God's sake, Jan. Now you're just being paranoid." And again, I managed to pick a word I really should have avoided.

"Paranoid? Is that what you think I am?"

I sensed Gina approaching.

"That's what you'd like, isn't it?" Jan said, her voice rising again. "To be rid of me for good."

Gina stopped, and we both looked at her.

"I'm sorry," Gina said. "I was just going to--" she pointed at the soup bowls, "take those away, if you were finished."

I nodded, and Gina removed them.

To Jan, I said, "Maybe we should go home and--"

But Jan was already pushing back her chair.

FOUR

I didn't sleep much that night. I tried to talk to Jan on the way home, and before we went to bed, but she wasn't interested in having any further conversations with me, particularly when I brought up the topic of her seeking some kind of professional help.

So I was pretty weary the following morning, walking with my head hanging so low on my way into the
Standard
building that I didn't even notice the man blocking my path until I was nearly standing on his toes.

He was a big guy, and he seemed ready to burst out of his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Over six feet tall, he had a shaved head and there was a tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar, but not enough for me to tell what it was. I put his age at around thirty, and the way he carried himself suggested that he was not to be messed with. He wore the suit as comfortably as Obama sporting bling.

"Mr. Harwood?" he said, an edge to his voice.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Sebastian would be honored if you would join him over coffee. He'd like a moment to have a word with you. He's waiting down at the park. I'd be happy to drive you."

"Elmont Sebastian?" I said. I'd been trying for weeks to get an interview with the president of Star Spangled Corrections. He didn't return calls.

"Yes," the man said. "By the way, my name is Welland. I'm Mr. Sebastian's driver."

"Sure," I said. "What the hell."

Welland led me around the corner and opened the door of a black Lincoln limo for me. I got into the back, settled into a gray leather seat, and waited while he got in behind the wheel. If this car had a glass partition, it wasn't in position, so I asked Welland, "Have you worked long for Mr. Sebastian?"

"Just three months," he said, pulling out into traffic.

"And what were you doing before that?"

"I was incarcerated," Welland said without hesitation.

"Oh," I said. "For very long?"

"Seven years, three months, and two days," Welland said. "I served my time at one of Mr. Sebastian's facilities near Atlanta."

"Well," I said as Welland steered the car in the direction of downtown.

"I'm a product of the excellent rehabilitation programs Star Spangled facilities offer," he said. "When my sentence ended, Mr. Sebastian took a chance on me, gave me this job, and I think it says a lot about the stock he puts in second chances."

"Do you mind my asking what you were serving time for?"

"I stabbed a man in the neck," Welland said, glancing into the mirror.

I swallowed. "Did he live?" I asked.

"For a while," Welland said, making a left.

He stopped the car by the park that sits just below the falls the town takes its name from. Welland came around, opened the door, and pointed me in the direction of a picnic table near the river's edge. A distinguished-looking, silver-haired man in his sixties was seated on the bench with his back to the table, tossing popcorn to some ducks. When he spotted me and rose from the bench, I could see he was as tall as Welland, although more slender. He smiled broadly and extended a large sweaty hand.

I made a conscious effort not to wipe my hand on my pants.

"Mr. Harwood, thank you so much for coming. It's a pleasure to be able to speak to you at last."

"I've been available, Mr. Sebastian," I said. "You're the one who's been hard to get hold of."

He laughed. "Please, call me Elmont. May I call you David?"

"Of course," I said.

"I love feeding the ducks," he said. "I love watching them gobble it down."

"Yeah," I said.

"When I was a boy, I had a summer job working on a farm," he said, tossing more kernels, watching the ducks lunge forward and fight over them. "I grew to love God's creatures back then."

He turned and pointed to the table, where a couple of take-out coffees sat in a box filled with creams, sugars, and wooden sticks. "I didn't know what you took in yours, so it's black. Help yourself to what you need."

He turned himself around and tucked his legs under the table as I took a seat opposite him. I didn't reach for a coffee, but did go into my pocket for a notepad and pen. "I've left several messages for you."

Sebastian glanced across the park lawn at Welland, who was standing guard by the limo. "What do you think of him?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Model citizen."

Another laugh. "Isn't he, though? I'm very proud of him."

"Why did you pay for Stan Reeves's trip to Florence?" I asked. "Is that standard policy? To reward people in advance who'll be voting on your plans?"

"That's good." He nodded. "You get right to it. I appreciate that. I like directness. I'm not one to pussyfoot around."

"If you can find another way to say it, you can put off answering my question even longer."

Elmont Sebastian chuckled and pried off one of the coffee lids and poured in three creams. "As it turns out, this is exactly why I was hoping to meet with you. To deal with that question. I brought you here to show you something."

He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope that had his name written on it. The flap was tucked in, not glued. He pulled it back, withdrew a check, and handed it to me.

Was this how Elmont Sebastian operated? He cut reporters checks to back off?

I took it in my hand and saw that it was not made out to me, but to him. And it was written on the personal account of Stan Reeves, in the amount of $4,763.09. The date in the upper right corner was two days ago.

"I know you think you were onto something where Councilor Reeves is concerned," he said. "That he accepted a free side trip to Italy from me, but nothing could be further from the truth. I had already rented a couple of rooms in Florence, expecting to entertain friends, but they had to cancel at the last minute, so I said to Mr. Reeves, while we were still in England, that he was welcome to take the extra room. And he was pleased to do so, but he made it very clear to me that he was not able to accept any gifts or gratuities. That would put him in an untenable position, and of course I understood completely. But the reservation was all paid for, so we made arrangements that he would settle up with me upon his return. And there's the check that proves it."

"Well," I said, handing it back, "I'll be damned."

Elmont Sebastian smiled, revealing an uneven top row of teeth. "I would have felt terrible had you gone ahead with a story that impugned the reputation of Mr. Reeves. And myself, for that matter, but I am used to having my name besmirched by the press. But to see Mr. Reeves harmed--it would have been my fault entirely."

"Isn't it great that that's all cleared up," I said.

He returned the check to its envelope and slipped it back into his coat. "David, I'm very concerned you may not appreciate what my company is trying to do. I get the sense from your stories you think there's something inherently evil about a private prison."

A for-profit prison," I said.

"I'm not denying it," Sebastian said, taking a sip of coffee. "Profit is not a dirty word, you know. Nothing immoral with rewarding people financially for a job well done. And when it turns out to be a job that serves the community, that makes this country a better place to live, well, what's wrong with that, exactly?"

"I'm not on a one-man crusade, Mr. Sebastian." He looked hurt, my not calling him by his first name. "But there are a lot of people around here who don't want your prison coming to Promise Falls. For a whole host of reasons, not the least of which is that you're taking what has traditionally been a government responsibility and turning it into a way to make money. The more criminals that get sentenced, the better your bottom line. Every convict sent to your facility is like another sale."

He smiled at me as though I were a child. "How do you feel about funeral home directors, David? Is what they do wrong? They make money out of death. But they're providing a service, and they're entitled to make money doing that. Same for estate lawyers, the florists you call to send flowers to loved ones, the man who cuts the lawn at the cemetery. What I do is, David, is make America a better place. The good citizens of this country are entitled to feel safe when they go to bed at night, and they're entitled to feel that way knowing they're getting the best bang for their tax dollar. That's what I do, with all the facilities I run across a great many of these wonderful United States of America. I help people sleep at night, and I help keep their taxes down."

"And all you get out of it is, if last year is any indication, a $1.3 billion payoff."

He shook his head in mock sadness. "Do you work for free at the
Standard?"
he asked.

"Your company's actively involved in trying to see minimum sentences raised across the board. You're telling me your only motive there is to make Americans sleep safe at night?"

Sebastian glanced at his watch. I thought it might be a Rolex, but the truth was, I'd never seen a real Rolex. But it looked expensive.

"I really must be going," he said. "Would you like me to make a copy of the check for the purposes of your story?"

"That won't be necessary," I said.

"Well then, I guess I'll be off." Sebastian rose from the bench and started walking across the grass back to his limo. He brought his take-out cup with him, but even though he walked right past an open waste bin, he handed it to Welland to dispose of. Welland opened the door for him, closed it, got rid of the cup, and before getting into the driver's seat he looked at me. He made his hand into a little gun, grinned, and took a shot at me.

The limo drove off. It was looking very much like they weren't going to be giving me a lift back to the paper.