Reversible Errors (11 page)

Walking along, it was the usual jailhouse scene-dark faces, bad smells, the insults and sexual taunts hurled toward their backs. In some cells, the men had strung clotheslines, further dividing the minimal space. Often photos were taped to the bars-family, or girlie shots sliced from magazines. During the lockdown, the men lounged, or slept, played radios, called out to one another, frequently in gang codes. An officer in drab, a big black man, had come to escort them when they moved through the last gate to the tiers and was plainly irritated to have been bothered. He rapped his stick twice on the bars to indicate they had reached Collinss cell, and sauntered off, running his baton against the bars just to let the boys know he was around.

"Which one of you is Collins?" Larry asked the two men in there. One was on the pot and the other was playing cards, through the bars, with the inmate next door.

"Yo, man, can't I get no privacy or nothin." Seated on the stainless steel fixture, Collins pointed at Muriel, but went about his business in defiance of the intrusion.

They strolled away briefly. When they returned, Collins was just pulling up the zipper on his orange jumpsuit.

"You narco or what?" Collins asked when Larry flipped his shield. Collins Farwell was medium color, with light eyes and a perfectly cropped sponge of African hair. As advertised, he was large and handsome. His eyes were nearly orange and as luminescent as a cats, and he was clearly aware of his good looks. Peering at Muriel, Collins adjusted the jumpsuit on his shoulders to make sure the fit was just so.

"Homicide," Larry said.

"I ain fuckin kill't nobody. That's not my act, man. Must be some other nigger you come for. Ain no killer. I'm a lover." Collins sang a few bars from Otis Redding to prove the point, providing considerable amusement in several of the cages stacked on the floors above and below him. With that, Collins turned and dropped the zipper on his jumpsuit, and strolled back toward the potty. He looked directly at Muriel, expecting her to scurry, and she held her ground for a minute.

"Whatta you think?" Larry asked, when they were on the way back down.

"Damn good-looking," Muriel answered. He resembled her mother's favorite, Harry Belafonte.

"I'll see if we can get his mug shot in a frame for you. Are we wasting our time?"

She asked what Larry thought.

"I think he's the average jailhouse piece of shit," Larry said. "But I got an hour if you do."

After feed time, when Collins was back in general population, they could bring him down to an interview room without fanfare. In the administrative office, Larry asked the officer on duty to arrange that, saying only that they had to question Farwell concerning a murder. Half the staff in here was jumped-in to a gang, or otherwise affiliated, and word would trail back quickly if they thought Collins was cooperating. The duty officer took Larry and Muriel to a small interview room, a trapezoid of cheap plasterboard, scuffed with heel marks several inches up the wall. They sat in plastic swivel chairs, which, like the small table between them, was fixed to the floor with heavy hex bolts.

"So how's Talmadge?" Larry1s eyes angled away promptly, as if he regretted the remark once it was out. Lots of people were mentioning Talmadge to her now. A photo, taken at a fund-raiser, had appeared in the paper last week. Still, this wasn't a discussion she was having with Larry.

"You know, Larry, I never figured you as jealous."

"That's informational," he protested. "You know. Like the weather report. Like how's your health and your family?"

"Uh-huh." "And?"

"Come on, Larry. I'm seeing the man. We have a nice time."

"And you're not seeing me."

"Larry, I don't recall ever 'seeing' you very often. As far as I can tell, you never thought about me when you weren't horny."

"So what's wrong with that?" Larry asked. She nearly went for it, before she realized he was having her. "I'll send flowers every day now and billets-doux."

'Billets-doux.' Larry could always surprise you. She just looked at him.

"I'm giving you space," Larry said. "I thought you wanted space."

"I want space, Larry." When she closed her eyes, her lashes seemed to catch in her makeup. Somehow Larry, who lived on his instincts, knew something was up. Two nights ago, as Talmadge was leaving her place, he had pressed her head to his chest and said, 'Maybe we should start thinking about making this permanent.' She had recognized all along this was where they were headed, but a palsy had shaken her anyhow. In her own way she had been working hard since then not to think of what he had said, meaning at bottom she'd thought of nothing else.

It felt as if she were looking down into the Grand Canyon. Somehow her first marriage, which was rarely even a topic of reflection, was in the dangerous distance below. She had married at nineteen, when the dumb things people did were legion, and when she believed she was getting a prize. Rod had been her high-school English teacher, caustic and bright and still unmarried at the age of forty-two -it had not even occurred to her to wonder why. The summer after she graduated, she ran into him on a corner and flirted boldly, having discovered in those years that sexual forwardness did wonders for a girl whose looks didn't stop traffic. She'd pursued him, begged him to join her for lunch, to go to movies, always on the sly. Her parents were horrified when she announced their wedding. But she worked and finished college in five years, taught in the public schools, and went to law school at night.

In time, of course, Rod's charm had worn thin. Well, that was not really true. He remained one of the most devastatingly funny humans she'd known -the wise-guy drunk at the end of the bar who got off the best lines in English comedies. But he was, in a phrase, a human being who'd never become. He was a brilliant boy, bound hand and foot by his own unhappiness, and he knew it, often claiming that his fundamental problem in life was that you couldn't hold a Stoli, a cigarette, and the TV remote with only two hands. He was probably gay, but too cowardly to face it. Certainly his interest in sex with her had not seemed to last much beyond their engagement. By the third year of their marriage, his sexual disinterest had led her to other men. Rod knew and did not seem to care. In fact, he went to pieces whenever she mentioned divorce. He could not face his mother with that. She was a severe, bloodless, upper-class type, whom he should have told to fuck off ages ago. Instead, he allowed her to judge. Until the day he died. The cause was a coronary, which the early deaths of his father and grandfather had long presaged. Despite all the warnings, Rod never exercised and went to the doctor only to mock him, but for Muriel, the loss had been unexpectedly monumental, not only of Rod himself but of the glory he was to her when she was nineteen.

Having married a man old enough to be your father, you look back and say, I had issues. Yet in retrospect, her core motive still felt identifiable and familiar: she had just wanted to get somewhere with her life. Rod, feckless and drunk, and Talmadge, a force for the eons, had less in common than a rock and a plant. And the fifteen years since she'd first married was a literal lifetime. But the omen of how mistaken, how invisible she could be to herself in these things continued to haunt her. With Larry, however, she was determined to appear resolute.

"I can't believe Talmadge is such a big deal to you ," she said.

"I don't know," he answered. "It looks like I'm on the loose." He was getting divorced, he said, and seemed to mean it this time. Nancy and he had gone to a lawyer together, a woman who'd first tried to talk them into sticking it out. There were no problems with property. The only issue was his boys. Nancy was too attached to leave them and had actually proposed getting custody, but Larry had eighty-sixed that. For the time being, they were stalemated, but figured to settle eventually. They both wanted out.

"It's sad," said Larry. He seemed to mean that, too. He didn't bother looking at her. To his credit, Larry had no appetite for cheap sympathy.

Outside they heard the jailhouse music of jangling chains. A guard knocked once and steered Collins Farwell into the room, shackled from the waist, and bound hand and foot. The officer placed Collins at an adjoining table and padlocked his ankle chain to a black hasp bolted on the floor.

"Wanna time-cut, man," said Collins, as soon as the officer was out the door.

"Whoa," said Larry. "Take a few steps back there, bud. Maybe we ought to say howdy."

"I said I want a time-cut," answered Collins. Off the tiers, his accent was noticeably whiter. He addressed Muriel, apparently realizing that it was the P
. A
. who'd make the decisions.

"How much dope did you have when they busted you?" she asked.

Collins rubbed his face, where the kinky stubble of several days had gone unshaved, probably a fashion statement. Within the jail, Collins couldn't be questioned without fresh Miranda warnings, which had not been administered. In the tortured logic of the law, therefore, nothing he said here could be used against him. Muriel explained, but Collins had been around the block often enough to understand that on his own. He was just taking a moment to ponder tactics.

"Had half a pound, man," he said, finally, "till the narcos took their pinch. Six zones now. Left just enough so it's still an X." Collins laughed as he contemplated the depravity of the police. They'd sel
l t
wo ounces on the street or blow it themselves. He was still headed for life without parole.

"How about you tell us what you've got?" Muriel asked.

"How 'bout you tell me what my time-cut is, and stop acting like I'm some dumb jailhouse nigger just gone fall out for the po-lice."

Larry rose. He stretched briefly, but as things developed, that was a ruse so he could circle behind Collins. Once there, he grabbed the chain locked to the floor and jerked the links until they tightened in the young man's groin, snapping him back. Muriel cast Larry a warning look, but he knew how far to go. He placed a hand on Collins's shoulder from behind.

"You have way too much attitude, my friend," Larry told him. "Now, you don't have to talk to us. You really don't. We can go away and you can do life. But if you want out from under, then you better start behaving yourself. Because I don't see a line of prosecutors outside the door waiting to cut you a better deal."

When Larry released the chain, Collins peered back at him with an insolent look, then turned his stare on Muriel. Almost against his will, he was appealing to her. Even Cojlins wasn't certain how big a badass he actually was. She waved to Larry and they went out the door, waiting to speak until the deputy had stepped back in to watch his prisoner.

"I hate haggling with dope peddlers," said Larry. "They're always so much better at it than me."

Muriel laughed out loud. Larry could put in on himself. That was one thing Talmadge would never learn. Larry was still wearing his coat, a mid-length black leather jacket, and whispering with him in the close confines of the jail, she felt the animal heat that always radiated from his sheer bulk.

"I don't know if this afterbirth's trying to get something for nothing," he said, "or if he has the keys to the kingdom."

"Well, there's only one way to find out," she said. "This isn't window-shopping. He has to put what he's got on the table. Once he spills, we see if it proves. If he hands us a killer and testifies, then maybe Narcotics will reduce it to less than six ounces and let him go for ten to twelve years. But I can't promise him anything on my own."

Larry nodded. It was a plan. Muriel grabbed his thick arm before he could turn back.

"But maybe you should let me do the talking. I think you already nailed down the bad-cop part."

When they re-entered, Muriel explained the ground rules. With time to himself, Collins's tone had grown slightly more agreeable, but he still shook his head.

"Didn't tell nobody I'd testify, man. I'm gonna be inside some time, now. Isn't that so? No matter what I say, I'm inside, right?"

Muriel nodded.

"That's hard time if I testify. G
. O. S
," he said, referring to the Gangster Outlaws, "they don't wait to see you go state twice."

"Look," said Muriel, "you're not our dream date either. A Triple X who's talking to get out from under life doesn't sell to a jury like a nun. But if you won't get behind what you're gonna tell us, it's worth nothing."

"Can't testify," said Collins. "Put me on the lie box, man, okay," he said, "but no way I can get up there. I'm strictly a c
. I
." Confidential informant.

They went at it a few more minutes, but Muriel was willing to pass on his testimony. She still had the feeling that Collins would clean up okay, but a case that required a Triple X as a witness wasn't worth bringing in the first place. Ultimately, she offered to try to sell a time- cut in the office, but only if Collins's information led to a conviction. And they'd have to hear what he had to offer right now.

"And what if you-all trick on me, man? Arrest this dude and fade me? Where am I then?" Collins's eyes, a light umber shade, fell on Larry, as he inquired about getting swindled.

"I thought your uncle told you I was okay," Larry said.

"My uncle, man," said Collins and laughed at the idea of Erno. "What is it he knows? Put lipstick on a pig, man, it's still a pig."