Simple Intent (6 page)

Berger pulled onto Stallion Lane, raised his tinted windows and turned off the engine. Parked under the big elm across from a simple green and white Cape Cod, he pulled out a worn notebook and a pen.

A blue mud-splattered minivan shared the driveway with a sleek silver Miata. The bright floral cushions on the porch rockers looked brand new, and a small purple bicycle he’d never seen before leaned against the porch railing. As a trained professional, Berger noticed these things. What he failed to notice was the mailbox where ‘Berger’ was now painted over with ‘Johnson’. It didn’t matter. To him, this would always be his home.

He jotted a few notes, thinking for a moment she would come out to the car the way she used to and tap on the window and blow him kisses, mouthing the words ‘I love you’. He blinked and the image was gone, replaced by a snarling monster, one that called him a fuck-up and a loser, one that sent divorce papers to his motel room and shipped his clothes COD. The same monster that had moved out in the dark of the night, took away the baby he’d hardly held and moved in with a man who used to call him Pal. 

The blinds in a room on the second floor twisted shut and Berger started the engine. “I’ve got my eye on you, Bitch.” 

He pulled away from the curb, angling toward a racing squirrel then smiled at the satisfying pop. Berger drove his killing machine too fast across town, gliding through stop signs, straddling the dotted line. 

He rolled up the cracked concrete driveway of a tiny 1950s ranch, revved his engine before killing it, then snatched up the pharmacy bag and coffee cup from the console and slammed the door of the Impala. 

Berger heard the toss and slap of rolled papers hitting pavement, as the paperboy made his way down the street. The kid did a shitty job. Most times the thing landed nearer to the mailbox than the front door. Berger walked to the end of the driveway, poured the remaining dregs of convenience store coffee on his neighbor’s roses and waited for the little twerp. 

The boy approached on a bike that seemed too small, tossing papers left and right. Walkman blaring: he didn't stand a chance when Berger stepped out armed with a full trashcan. 

“Hey! Watch it. You almost dented my trash can.” Berger laughed. 

“Asshole!” The boy brushed himself off, gathered his papers and flipped Berger the finger as he rode away.

Berger said, “Damn kids. No respect.”

It took a key, a foot and a shoulder to force the stubborn front door open and when it closed behind him, his tough guy demeanor dissolved. Standing there, among all the things she’d left behind, he could hear her: “If you don’t do something, you’re gonna end up just like them. Just like those losers.” 

She was right. He dropped his keys on the coffee table and sank into the worn corduroy couch, rubbing his finger where the ring used to be. 

“I’m one of the good guys,” he whispered, opening the pharmacy bag. “I’m one of the good guys," he repeated, swallowing the pills. “I am one of the good guys!” he shouted then began to cry.

Hours later, as the sun strained through the vinyl-backed curtains, Berger woke. In the bathroom he stripped, adding his clothes to the pile of laundry on the floor, then stood in the shower for a very long time. 

Detective Hiram Berger scrubbed his bloated body with a sliver of soap and made a mental list of all the things he needed to do today.

Ray Bentley dropped an armload of folders on the table in the Graterford SCI Law Library. He sorted the stacks and was just about to sit down when he heard the scuffling start.

“Ooof! Fucker!”

A disagreement that may have stopped at a few unkind words, or maybe even a shove on the outside, could escalate into a full-blown fight, or even homicide, behind prison walls. Ray hesitated for a minute, not wanting to get involved, but when they smashed into the books and broke two shelves, he got up. 

“Hey! That’s enough!”

The two men scuffled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, hands slapping, mouths going.

“Watch it!”

“You dumb fuck!”

“That’s mine!” The bigger guy on top rolled onto the squirming smaller guy.

Ray yelled again, and when they didn’t stop, he smacked the big guy in the head with a book. 

“Take it outside! This is not the time or place!” 

They actually looked sorry as Ray picked up the books and papers. They fell off each other, and the smaller one started to giggle. The big guy looked at him, then drew back his fist and smashed his little buddy’s teeth in, saying, “That was my book, Squirrel. Next time you ask before you touch it.”

Ray dialed an extension he knew all too well, and in a few minutes a guard, a janitor and a nurse arrived.

It was a typical morning at Graterford, until a skinny black guy with a head like a bobble doll showed up. 

DeShawn “Stash” Neely sat across the table from Ray and said, “This new fish told me, if the cop beats you when you was signing that bullshit paper he wrote up, then you can get a new trial. That right? I mean, how do I get my justice, dawg?”

Ray wondered who the new fish was and why he was giving legal advice. “There are laws against coercing a confession, Stash. But proving it is another thing. You need witnesses who’ll talk, other cases against the same cop, and I gotta warn you, the CO’s won’t like you going after one of their own. Even if you get through all that, it’ll take time. A long time.”

“Time I got, and as far as the CO’s, I be ass out anyway. It’s justice I want, lawdawg. I want him to go down! Dicks never should have left me alone with him! They all knew what that motherfucker was gonna do. Shit! Berger done fucked me up, couldn’t piss for a goddamn week, and my mind, it still don’t work right. Gotta take all these meds now. Shee-it.” 

Berger? Ray looked up from his pad, pencil in mid-air. “Detective Hiram Berger? Of the Twenty-First?” 

“There another one?”

Ray shook his head.

“Better not be, cuz one of those motherfucker’s enough, know what I mean?”

Ray knew what he meant.

Stash said, “Fuckin’ Berger beat me half-stupid with the phone book. The business section. When I finally came to, I was in lockup and going down hard.” 

He looked in Ray’s eyes, “That was eleven years ago. I been all up and down the state, supposed to be for my own good. That’s bullshit! Had me doing diesel therapy, that’s all.” He leaned in. “When I came to Graterford last year, they hemmed me up in PC, then some bum rap landed me in the J-cat wing. They finally figured I wasn’t supposed to be there, so they put me back in the mainline. Now, from what this fish said, I think maybe I got something comin’.” He spread his arms and leaned back. “So, here I am, whatever you need, dawg, you just ask Stash. I can get you tailors, the real smokes, bro.” He looked around. “Or you want some more books?”

Ray stared at Stash Neely and saw more than books and cigarettes. He saw a loophole—one to approach cautiously.

Ray said, “Look Stash, I don’t know you or your people. But if I get involved in this, shit’s gonna roll, you understand? I’m telling you now, you better be straight up with me.” 

Stash bobbed his head and smiled, revealing one gold tooth that seemed out of place alongside its yellow neighbors. “It ain’t no thing. Stash be a righteous con, lawdawg.” 

Ray picked up his pencil. “All right, start from the beginning and go nice and slow. Don’t leave anything out.”

At Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott, plans for the interns were underway. Len Banning pulled files from a box labeled ‘Pro Bono’. He remembered his early years, homeless advocacy, prisoners’ civil rights. The poor, the crazy and the forgotten. Now he was too busy nursing martinis on the nineteenth hole and totaling his Swiss accounts to care much about the indigent. But the work was good PR for the firm and hell, it was state-mandated. He finished separating the folders into three stacks, then adjusted his cufflinks and pressed the intercom.

“Helen, what time’s the meeting?”

“You’re in A at eleven, Mr. Banning. I took the liberty of ordering from La Famiglia. They’ll be here at one.” 

“Very good. One more thing?”

“Sir?”

“Have you heard from Tiffany?”

“No, Mr. Banning. Would you like me to call Spa Royale?”

“No. I’m sure she just forgot to call. I’ll catch up with her at home. Thanks, Helen.”

“Anytime.”

Banning leaned back in his chair, ran his hands over his face. Tiffany, Tiffany, what the hell are you doing this time? Better yet, who? 

They had been married in Bermuda on the beach at sunset. That was her idea. God, the younger generation could be so cliché. Len Banning had begun a pattern of running away from the hard things, and now he was stuck with the easy thing—a beautiful young wife with a wandering ass and a six thousand dollar chest. He missed his kids. He missed going home to a real house, with furniture you could really sit on. He hated to admit it, but money wasn’t everything. 

Banning stood behind his desk, picked up the glamorous photo of Tiffany Number Three, all mink and lipstick. He kissed the glass, then dropped it in the wastebasket. He pulled the elastic from his ponytail and shook out his famous curls. 

Down the hall in Conference Room A, the credenza overflowed with bagels, Danish pastry, coffee, juice and tall bottles of Evian. Helen entered pushing a cart of files. 

Reilly and Sailor sat at one end of the long table, sipping coffee. They were weary, yet trying hard not to let it show. This was the life they wanted; hard work was part of the drill. Put in six or seven years, kick some serious butt and make partner. With a nice-sized starting salary and loads of comps, they could pay off school loans, buy their dream cars and vacations abroad. Sleep was highly overrated. 

“Morning, morning.” Banning entered the room, hair flowing around his shoulders, eyes sparkling. He set his briefcase on the floor, pulled out a chair and sat down as if he were one of them.

Helen looked up from sorting supplies and saw Banning’s boyish grin and un-tethered hair. On her way out she paused to whisper in his ear, “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Helen,” Banning said, as the door clicked shut. 

He scooted in his chair then pulled a pen from his pocket. “Okay, gang. Let’s get to work.” He passed out the case files. It was shaping up to be a wonderful morning.

Ray Bentley was having a fine morning himself. Yes sir, the weather report was looking good at Graterford. Intermittent showers of hope mixed with a slight chance of luck. Having just read the file of his new pal, DeShawn Lincoln Neely, he felt he might have a chance re-opening the case of Raymond Moses Bentley. 

Now all Ray had to do was arrange a call to his long absent outside counsel. He’d need more than luck and hope, so he headed back to his cell to stock up on stamps and cigarettes.

In the suburbs, Berger put the finishing touches on his newly waxed car. He waved to the mail carrier then heaved three boxes of Goodwill donations into his trunk. Running back inside for his checkbook and sunglasses, he decided to rearrange the bedroom furniture. 

The house smelled of lemon and pine. The furniture gleamed. Vacuum tracks were visible on the carpet. The sound of the dishwasher competed with the rumbling of the washing machine. Bags of trash stood on the back porch waiting for the next pick-up day. Shiny white counter tops in the organized kitchen displayed a dog-shaped cookie jar, a photograph of a smiling woman cuddling a white terrier and an overflowing tray of prescription drug bottles: Ativan, Noroton, Librium, Tegretol, Depakote, Lithium, all with the lids ajar, all half-empty.

PARIS KENDRICK entered Spa Royale and signed in at the reception desk. The name above hers had been red-lined, but Paris could still read, “Tiffany Banning.” She smiled under her hat and dark glasses. Of course this was where she’d come. This was where everyone came.

Paris walked through the marble entry to one of several waiting areas. This one was a Chinese theme, deep red walls, black lanterns and rice paper screens, low tables and silk meditation cushions. The perfect balance of chi made you sigh as you entered. Paris helped herself to a cup of green tea and turned off her cell phone. 

A few moments later, a perfect twenty-year-old brunette in a starched lab coat appeared beside the rice paper screen. 

“Miss K.?”

Paris followed the girl to the room at the end of the hall. There would be no massage today, no vichy shower sea kelp scrub. Today, Dr. Simone would inject Botox into Paris Kendrick’s forehead, collagen around her lips and eyes, and transfer fat into her cheeks. It was a dance against time, a ploy some women used to remind them of the glory of youth. Paris wasn’t stupid. She knew she would never see thirty again, no matter what she did to her skin. But she was a vain woman, and working on her outward appearance was so much less painful than an hour on the analyst’s couch. 

She imagined if she looked young and carefree, life would reciprocate. She missed that feeling of endless possibility, perpetual hope. She needed to believe something good was on the horizon.

Gina stopped wiping the counter top and leaned into Deluca’s face. “What are you saying Eddie? You know this has nothing to do with my kid.” She looked at him harder. “Jesus. Don’t tell me. Lou’s got something on you, too?”