Simple Intent (8 page)

She smiled. “You cared, Mr. Banning. You got here because you cared what happened to the guy without the means for proper representation. You got here because everyone knew you deserved it. You got here because you were good and you were honest, and everyone knows that what you give is what you get.”

“Yeah.” Banning stood. “That’s right. That’s it exactly, Helen. What you give is what you get. The universal truth of man’s existence. The ultimate karmic experience. So what happened? Here I am becoming the system, succumbing to all I had rallied against for so long, contaminating my mind with the pollutants of a material world.” 

He walked over to the window then looked back at Helen. “This isn’t just a mid-life crisis, is it?”

She shook her head. “Afraid not.”

He stared out the window then walked back to his desk and picked up the divorce papers.

Harry James Scott had been holding his own at the meeting for almost an hour. When Reilly burst through the door, all sweaty and apologetic, Harry was ready to kick him off the case. But in seconds, Reilly had the rap stars laughing. Harry sat down. 

Keeping the press away from this story was going to be very difficult. Philadelphia loved their bad boy rappers when they brought money and fame to the city but tended to slap them publicly when they brought shame and disgrace. Seems Mikey-Mike and his sidekick were more than just close friends—and someone had the video tape. This could seriously hamper CD sales. Reilly found a great deal of humor in the predicament, especially when he heard the part about the cleaning woman and the king snake. “Speaking of sex—”

“Yo mans! What you talking about? We was doing some rolfing, see? It wasn’t no sex, homes.” Mikey-Mike adjusted his formidable girth over his diamond-studded belt.

“Yeah, man. It’s like this European thing for your proper ‘linement of the physical body, see?’ Mini-Mike added.

“Oh yeah, right. Hey did you hear about those lawyers, Tom and Joe? They’re talking one day and Joe says, ‘Last night I took the new intern out. We had dinner then I took her home and we had sex. Man, I'm glad we did cause she is a lot better than my wife.’” 

The rappers laughed and punched each other in the arm. 

Reilly continued, “The next day Tom says to Joe, ‘You know what? Last night I took the new intern out. We had dinner then we went to my house and we had sex. I disagree with you, man. Your wife is a lot better.’”

Mini-Mike burst out laughing. 

Mikey-Mike joined him. “You are one funny motherfucker, white-boy. You got any good black jokes, some I can tell my friends? Hey, Money? What do you think?”

Maurice “Money” Jones turned around, phones on each ear. He said, “Let me call you right back,” into one of them, then clicked off both calls with his thumbs. “Good thinking, Mikey. Let the public see you as the funny guy you are. That might be just the thing... considering the circumstances.” 

He tipped his chin to Reilly. “Call my office, we’ll work out the details.” He looked at Harry. “Back to what you were saying, I agree. Get a dollar amount on that videotape and get it back. Whatever it takes.” 

Money turned to Mikey-Mike and Mini-Mike, who were holding hands underneath the table. “C’mon, boys. I’m going to find you some lady friends.”

In the break room, Deluca read Reilly’s list posted above the water dispenser. “Top Ten Things to Never Say in a Law Office.” Number ten: Can I see your briefs?

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Sailor said.

Deluca turned to the voice. How had he missed this babe? And she was coming on to him. Oh, yeah.

He took a step back. She stepped into the space, extending her hand. “Sailor Jane Beaumont. Although I believe we have already met, Mr. Deluca.” 

“Really?’ He racked his brain. Come on Eddie, you’re losing it. “So, where does the name ‘Sailor’ come from?” 

“My Dad. He loves the sea. It’s very symbolic, don’t you think?”

Symbolic? “Oh, absolutely. It’s also very wet.” 

Sailor was trying to decide whether to slap him or laugh in his face, when he snapped his fingers and said, “Oh, right—the elevator. You’re the intern.” He grinned. “So, do you want to have dinner sometime?”

Ray waited his turn for the phone. He played by their rules. He’d seen his advisor, slipped the CO a few bills, and even traded some real cigarettes to Mama “Frederico” Bell to buy ten minutes. As an added measure, Ray promised to write Plump Daddy’s parole board a letter in exchange for protection. He was straight-up. He was next.

Outgoing calls from the prison were always collect and charged an enormous rate. The surcharge would put a damper on a rich man’s income. No wonder their mamas told them, “Don’t you call me from prison, boy!” They had to pay the rent.

The cons watched whom they called and what they said. With a restricted list for each inmate, the guards listened in and could cut you off at anytime. Ray had only five numbers on his list. Two were for his attorney. He tried the first. After a series of rings, the tone was replaced by a computerized voice stating the number had been changed, and for a mere ninety cents he would be automatically connected to the new number. Ray stayed on the line. When the call went through, he had to wait for the collect call acceptance, and finally got a human voice. She sounded real pretty, too.

Reilly walked the Mikes and Money to the elevator and said good-bye with a complicated hand slap, snap-clap combination that impressed Missy. She watched from her seat behind the reception desk thinking, it’s going to quiet around here when he goes back to school. 

Reilly caught the look and smiled. He was about to say something clever, something like, Hey there beautiful, where have you been all my life? Or something poetic like, the sunbeam on the north shore whispers your name. Or something smart... when the phone rang and Missy answered it saying, “Montgomery, DeLuca, Banning and Scott. How may I direct your call?” 

“What did you say? Where’s Denise? I’m looking for Mr. Herring. He’s my attorney.”

“I am sorry, sir. Mr. Herring is indisposed. Would you like to speak with Mr. Banning?”

“Mr. Banning? Who the hell is that? No, I need to speak to Mr. Herring—about my case. He’s my attorney.”

“Sir, Mr. Herring is unavailable to speak to anyone.”

“What? Is he in a meeting? You tell him Ray Bentley’s on the phone. That son of bitch hasn’t come to see me in three months!” 

“Sir,” Missy lowered her voice, “Mr. Herring won’t be coming to see anyone. He is deceased. Montgomery, DeLuca, Banning and Scott took over the offices of Herring and Son. All the casework’s been transferred here. I can connect you to Mr. Banning’s office. He’s in charge of Herring’s cases.”

“Deceased?’ Ray said.

This might have been funny if Ray wasn’t calling from Graterford Prison. This might have been humorous if Ray Bentley wasn’t serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. Ray rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “He’s dead? My attorney died and no one said a goddamn thing? What about Denise? Is she there?”

“No, she’s gone, too.”

“What? She died, too?”

“No sir. I believe Miss Brody is alive and well.”

Ray pulled the phone from his ear. He was tempted to smash it back onto the hook and call it a day. Motherfuckers! 

Mama Bell looked at her watch, and folded her huge arms over her broad flat chest. Ray exhaled loudly, brought the phone back to his ear.

Missy said, “Sir? Sir? Shall I transfer you now?”

“Yeah, sure. Transfer me.”

Reilly heard the whole thing. He watched Missy send the call to Helen at Banning’s office and checked his watch. It was late. They might talk to the guy, but they wouldn’t request the files, not until Monday. If then… The law moved at a sloth’s pace.

Reilly said, “Poor guy. His attorney died and no one told him?”

“Worse than that, the guy’s calling from prison.”

Reilly’s curiosity peaked, “What did you say his name was?”

Missy smiled. “I didn’t.”

“Come on, Missy.” Reilly flashed her a grin and reached for her hand.

Missy looked at his hand on hers. She smiled back and leaned forward whispering, “Ray Bentley.” When the phone rang she tipped her head toward the elevator and told him, “The Herring files are in the basement. Good luck.”

FROM the safety of the glass bubble, the COs controlled everything in the tiers—cell doors, telephones, lights, electricity, gas, water, even TV channels. During training exercises, they were taught to use the bubble as headquarters in the event of a prison outbreak. There had been a few all-out riots and some hairy times at Graterford in the past decade, and even though they were paid well, the deputies weren’t heroes. When they were on the tiers they left their weapons locked up, the only armed officer was the sharp shooter in the perch. 

Most nights were quiet in Ray’s block. These were the lifers. They knew the drill. Do your time the easy way. 

Deputy Munsing leaned back in the rolling chair, his feet braced on the generator panel. “Now this is my kind of girl, likes to hunt and fish, says she don’t mind baiting her own hook.”

“What the fuck you reading, Munch?’ Scruggs moved the camera joystick, checking out the upper tier.

Munchy rolled across the smooth floor, dropped the magazine on the desktop. “There you go, buddy. Think you can find Mrs. Scruggs in there?”

Scruggs glanced at the magazine cover, “Backdoor Babes? Jesus Christ, Munch. Where the fuck do you buy trash like that? What was that one you had last week? My Neighbor’s Nuthole? Why don’t you get out in the real world, find yourself a real woman?”

“Them are real women!”

“Yeah, right.” Scruggs flipped open the magazine, pointed to a thick brunette in a red teddy. “Look at her, Munch. She’s probably forty-five, married to an English teacher and living fat in the suburbs of Chicago.”

“She ain’t that fat.”

“She ain’t a twenty-two year old virgin who enjoys holding hands and watching college football, either. I mean, did you ever really look at these pictures, Munch?’ He turned the page. “Like this girl—”

“Yeah, she’s real pretty.”

“Don’t look at her. Look around her. The picture frames on the mantle are turned around. What’s she hiding? The fireplace looks fake, or has never been used. See the hospital stamp on her blanket? The only way she would have that is if someone had been sent home wrapped in it. And who do you think took this picture? Her pimp? Or her boyfr—”

“Okay, okay. Geez, you gotta be a cop all the time? I was just looking at her fuckin’ tits. Shit.” Munchy stood, tucked his shirt tighter into his cinched-up pants. “I’m gonna do the count. Be back in fifteen.”

Scruggs dropped the magazine into the trashcan when Munchy left the bubble. He twisted open his thermos of Mocha Delight and ran a camera check on the prison’s exterior.

On the way up the stairs, Munchy muttered, “Find yourself a real woman. Get out in the real world. Fuckin’ Scruggs.” He glanced in the small windows of the cells, counted heads on makeshift pillows, flailing arms, thrashing legs or lumps under sheets. The metal clipboard was cool to his touch, the paper logbook soft and worn. As he approached the last cell on the upper tier, Munchy paused and looked around. Scruggs sipped from a plastic thermos lid in the bubble below. Rifleman stood in the crow’s nest. Nothing moved in either direction. But, something was off. He listened, heard a few deep sighs, a meaty cough and some snoring. Everything sounded normal for midnight in Graterford, but something was wrong. The hairs went up on James P. Munsing’s arms. 

He stepped up to the nearest cell door and checked his sheet; Bentley and Ahzir. Their beds were empty, sheets neatly folded down. The cons sat cross-legged in the dark on the hard cold floor. 

“What the fuck?’ Munchy was about to rap on the door and tell those assholes to get on their trays, when he was struck by the absolute stillness. Had he been an enlightened man, he might have been able to truly feel the moment, to be as uninhibited as the two souls who had left the bodies of Ray and Shazad. Instead, Munchy registered fear. He felt overwhelmed. His breath grew loud. He heard nothing but the awful sounds of himself—rushing blood, pumping heart, and panting breath. Munchy took three steps backward until he bumped the railing with his ass, then bolted for the stairs.

“What is it?” Rifleman’s voice broke the silence, crackling through the two-way. 

Munchy spoke into the mic on his left shoulder, “Uh, nothing. I gotta take a dump.” 

“10-4.”

Scruggs broke in, laughing. “Didn’t your Mama tell you not to wait till the last minute, Munch?” 

Munchy didn’t reply. He was halfway to the bathroom and wasn’t planning on coming out anytime soon.

Neither the locked door or thick cement block walls, nor the armed guards or yards of barbed wire could contain their souls. Ray flew over buildings and landed lightly in trees. He felt the breeze on his back and smelled freshly mown grass. He smiled. A voice called to him and he floated down from the tree and stood with his long arms wide open. He saw no one. The voice grew louder. Still there was no one. Ray looked down. In a small bed at his feet, Tara lay curled on her side, a baby in her arms. He bent to touch her and a teardrop coursed down his cheek, splattered the bed and washed them away. Ray blinked. He was back in the cell, his bones cold and stiff.