The Simple Truth (14 page)

Michael stopped tapping and said nervously,
“Actually, they don’t know I’m here.”

“What?”

“I haven’t actually shown anyone your appeal, Mr. Harms. I … I wanted to be sure, you know, that it was all aboveboard.”

“You’re the only one that’s seen it?”

“For now, but like I said — ”

Rufus looked at Michael’s briefcase.
“You didn’t bring my letter with you, did you?”

Michael followed his gaze to the briefcase.
“Well, I wanted to ask you some questions about it. You see — ”

“Lord help us,”
Rufus said so violently that the guard braced himself to pounce.

“Did they take your briefcase when you come in? Because two of the men I wrote about are at this prison. One of them is in charge of the whole damn place.”

“They’re here?”
Michael went pale. He had confirmed that the men named in the appeal were in the Army back in the seventies. He knew the current whereabouts of two of them, but he hadn’t bothered to locate the others. He froze, suddenly realizing that he had just made a potentially fatal mistake.

“Did they take your damn briefcase?”

Michael stammered,
“Just — just for a couple of minutes. But I put the documents in a sealed envelope, and it’s still sealed.”

“You done killed us both,”
Rufus screamed. Like a hot geyser, he exploded upward, flipping the heavy table over as though it were made of balsa wood. Michael leaped out of the way and slid across the floor. The guard blew his whistle and grabbed Rufus from behind in a choke hold. Michael watched as the giant prisoner, shackled as he was, flipped the two-hundred-pound guard off like a bothersome gnat. A half dozen other guards poured into the room and went at the man, swinging their batons. Rufus kept tossing them off like a moose against a pack of wolves, for a good five minutes, until he finally went down. They dragged him from the room, first screaming and then gagging as a baton was wedged against his throat. Right before Rufus disappeared, he stared at Michael, horror and betrayal in his eyes.

* * *

After an exhausting struggle that had continued all the way down the hallway, the guards managed to strap Rufus to a gurney.

“Get him to the infirmary,”
somebody screamed.
“I think he’s going into convulsions.”

Even with the shackles and thick leather restraints on, Rufus wildly gyrated, the gurney rocking back and forth. He kept screaming until someone stuffed a cloth into his mouth.

“Hurry up, dammit,”
the same man said.

The group burst through the double doors and into the infirmary.

“Good God!”
The physician on duty pointed to a clear space.
“Over here, men.”

They swung the gurney around and slid it into the empty spot. As the doctor approached, one of Rufus’s thrashing feet almost clipped him in the gut.

“Take that out of his mouth,”
the doctor said, pointing at the handkerchief balled up in Rufus’s mouth. The prisoner’s face was turning a deep purple.

One of the guards looked at him warily.
“You better take care, Doc, he’s gone nuts. If he can reach you, he’ll hurt you. He already took out three of my men. Crazy SOB.”
The guard looked menacingly at Rufus. As soon as the cloth was pulled from his mouth, Rufus’s screams filled the room.

“Get a monitor on him,”
the doctor said to one of the attending nurses. Seconds after they managed to attach the sensors to Rufus, the doctor was closely watching the erratic rise and fall of Rufus’s blood pressure and pulse. He looked at one of the nurses.
“Get an IV over here.”
To another nurse he said,
“An amp of lidocaine, stat, before he goes into cardiac arrest or has a stroke.”

Both guards and medical personnel crowded around the gurney.

“Can’t your men get out of here?”
the doctor yelled into the ear of one of the guards.

The man shook his head.
“He’s strong enough to maybe break those restraints, and if he does and we’re not here, then he could kill everybody in this room within a minute. Believe me, he could.”

The doctor eyed the portable IV stand as it was placed next to the gurney. The other nurse raced up with the amp of lidocaine. The doctor nodded at the guards.
“We’re going to need your help to hold him down. We need a good vein to get the IV started, and from the looks of things we’re only going to get one shot at it.”

The men gathered around Rufus, holding him down. Even with their combined weight, it was barely enough.

Rufus looked back at them, so enraged, so terrified, he could barely keep his senses. Just like the night when Ruth Ann Mosley had perished. They ripped his shirtsleeve up, exposing his sinewy forearm, the veins strong and pronounced. He shut his eyes and then opened them again as he saw the shiny needle coming his way. He shut his eyes one more time. When he opened them he was no longer in the infirmary at Fort Jackson. He was in the stockade in South Carolina a quarter of a century ago. The door burst open and a group of men walked in like they owned the place, like they owned him. There was only one he didn’t know by sight. He had expected to see the batons come out, to feel the sharp thrusts into his ribs, against his buttocks and forearms. It had become a morning and evening ritual. As he absorbed the blows in silence, his mind would recite a Bible prayer, his spiritual side carrying him past the physical torture.

Instead, a gun was placed against his head. He was told to kneel down on the floor and to close his eyes. That’s when it happened. He remembered the surprise, the shock he had felt as he stared up at the grinning, triumphant group. The smiles vanished when, a few minutes later, Harms rose, threw off the men as though they were weightless, burst through his cell door, bowled over the guard on duty and was out of the stockade, running wild.

Rufus blinked again and he was back in the infirmary, looking at the faces, the bodies bearing down on him. He saw the needle coming closer to his forearm. He was looking up, the only person doing that. That’s when he saw the second needle puncture the IV bag, the fluid from the hypodermic flowing into the lidocaine solution.

Vic Tremaine had carried out his task calmly and efficiently, as though he were watering flowers instead of committing murder. He didn’t even look at his victim. Rufus jerked his head back around and eyed the IV needle held by the doctor. It was just about to puncture his skin, discharging into his body whatever poison Tremaine had chosen to kill him with. They had taken half his life already. He was not about to let them take the rest, not yet.

Rufus timed it as best as he could.

“Shit!”
the doctor yelled, as Rufus ripped free from the restraint, grabbed his hand and whipped it across his body. The IV stand came tumbling down; the IV bag hit the floor and burst. A furious Tremaine took the opportunity to quickly leave the infirmary. Rufus’s chest suddenly tightened, and his breathing became constricted. When the doctor managed to stagger up, he looked at Rufus. So still was the prisoner that the doctor had to check the monitor to make sure he was still alive. As he stared at vital signs that had dropped to dangerously low levels, he said,
“Nobody can take this many extremes. He could be going into shock.”
He turned to a nurse.
“Get a medevac helicopter up here.”
He looked at the head guard.
“We’re not equipped to handle this kind of situation. We’ll stabilize him and then fly him to the hospital in Roanoke. But we need to move fast. I assume you’re sending a guard with him.”

The guard rubbed his bruised jaw and looked at the docile Rufus.
“I’d send a whole platoon if they could fit in the damn chopper.”

Escorted by an armed guard, Michael Fiske walked unsteadily down the hallway. Waiting at the end of the corridor was the uniformed officer who had questioned him earlier. Michael could see that he was holding two pieces of paper.

“Mr. Fiske, I didn’t identify myself when we first met. My name is Colonel Frank Rayfield. I’m the commanding officer here.”

Michael licked his lips. Frank Rayfield was one of the men Rufus had named in his appeal. The name had meant nothing to Michael at the time. Inside this prison, it meant that he was going to die. Who could have imagined that two of the men Rufus had accused of, essentially, murder in his appeal would be here of all places? But now that he thought about it, this would be a perfect place for them to keep close watch on Rufus Harms.

Focusing on Rayfield once more, Michael wondered where they would dump his body. As he had done as a child, he suddenly found himself wishing that his big brother would appear to help him. He looked on dully as Rayfield handed him the papers and motioned the guard to leave. As Michael clutched the papers, Rayfield looked apologetic.

“I’m afraid my men were a little overzealous,”
said Ray-field.
“We don’t usually photocopy documents in a sealed envelope.”
Actually, Rayfield had opened the envelope and photocopied its contents himself. None of his men had seen the documents.

Michael looked down at the papers.
“I don’t understand. The envelope was still sealed.”

“The envelope is a very common one. They just put it back in a new one and sealed it.”

Michael inwardly cursed himself for missing something that obvious.

Rayfield broke into a chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”
Michael demanded.

“This is the fifth time Rufus Harms has named me in some cockamamie lawsuit, Mr. Fiske. What else am I supposed to do but laugh?”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s never gone as high as the United States Supreme Court before — that’s who you’re with, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“Okay. But if you are, then your presence here is a little unusual.”

“That’s my business.”

“And my business is running this prison in a precise, military way,”
Rayfield snapped back. But then his voice softened.
“I don’t blame you, though. Harms is slick. Looks like he conned his old military lawyer to help him this time, and Sam Rider should know better.”

“You’re saying Rufus Harms makes a practice of filing frivolous lawsuits?”

“You think that’s unusual for prisoners? Too much time on their hands. Anyway, last year he accused the president of the United States, the Secretary of Defense and yours truly of conspiring to frame him for a murder he committed, and which was witnessed by at least a half dozen people.”

“Really?”
Michael looked skeptical.

“Yes, really. It was finally dismissed, but it cost a few thousand bucks in government attorney time to get it done. I know the courts are open to everybody, Mr. Fiske. But a nuisance suit is a nuisance suit and, quite frankly, I’m getting tired of them.”

“But he said in his petition — ”

“Right, I read it. Two years ago, he claimed it was Agent Orange suffered in combat that caused him to do it. And you know what? Rufus Harms was never exposed to Agent Orange, because he was never in combat. He spent most of his two-year Army career in the stockade for insubordination, among other things. It’s no secret — look it up yourself if you want. That is, if you haven’t already done so.”
He gazed at Michael, who was looking down.
“Now take your little papers, go back to Washington and let it work its way through the system. It’ll get dismissed like all the others. Some innocent people are going to get embarrassed as hell, but that’s the American way. I guess it’s why I fought for this country: to sustain all those freedoms. Even when they’re abused.”

“You’re just going to let me go?”

“You’re not a prisoner here. I’ve got a lot of real inmates to worry about, including one that just beat the crap out of three of my guards. You’re going to have to answer some questions that one of my men will be here shortly to ask you. It will relate to what happened in the visitors’ room. We need it for our incident report.”

“But that means it will go into the official record. My being here, everything.”

“That’s right, it will. It was your choice to come here, not mine. You have to live with the consequences.”

“I know. But I wasn’t counting on any of this.”

“Well, life is full of little surprises.”

“Look, do you really have to file anything?”

“Your presence here is a matter of official record anyway, Mr. Fiske, regardless of what happened in that visitors’ room. You are in the visitation book with an assigned badge number.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought that all the way through.”

“I guess not. I take it you’re not really experienced in military matters?”
While Michael stood there looking miserable, Rayfield thought for a moment.
“Look, we need to fill out the report, but other things being equal, I may not officially file it. Maybe your presence here at the prison gets expunged too.”

Michael breathed a sigh of relief.
“Could you do that?”

“Maybe. You’re a lawyer. What about a
quid pro quo
?”

“What do you mean?”

“I throw away the report and you throw away that appeal.”
He paused as he stared at the young man.
“It would save the government another lawyer bill. I mean, God bless anybody’s rights to seek their day in court, but this is getting a little old.”

Michael looked away.
“I’ll have to think about that. It has some technical deficiencies anyway. Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right. I’m not looking to mess up your career. We’ll just forget this ever happened. And hopefully I won’t be reading about this case in the papers. If I do, then maybe your being down here has to come out too. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Rayfield turned on his heel and walked off, leaving behind a visibly distressed Michael Fiske.

* * *

Rayfield went directly to his office. Rufus’s suspicions had been well founded; a listening device designed to blend in with the wood grain had been planted on the underside of the table in the visitors’room. Rayfield listened once more to the conversation between Michael and Rufus. Some of it had been disrupted by Michael tapping his pen. The radio had obliterated all of Rufus’s earlier conversation with Rider. Rufus was no idiot. But Rayfield had heard and read enough to know that potentially they had a big problem. And his conversation with Michael had not solved the dilemma, at least not permanently. He picked up the phone and placed a call. In concise sentences Rayfield recounted the events to the party at the other end.