Ascension Day

32

Rodriguez thought he was doing fine. Until the woman on the left of the two men that made up the Board of Pardons panel started to speak.

Mid-forties, severe, hair in a small beehive, black-rimmed almond-shaped glasses which she perched on the front of her hairdo or end of her nose, peering unwaveringly at Rodriguez and Larry Durrant.

The questioning from the two men, one bearded in his mid-fifties, the other a clean-cut late thirties, had been mostly perfunctory, filling in the details: When did you become more strictly religious, Mr Durrant? Five years into your term… any particular reason for the timing? Soon after your mother dying. Did you feel that might have been a factor, then? A catalyst for something that was already there, you say… is that how you’d like it termed in our report? Okay. And your correspondence degree in literature? How long did that take? Three years. That’s a long haul and a lot of application. Very commendable.

Larry answered most of the questions directly at first, but at that point Rodriguez took over more, as it became obvious that Larry was uncomfortable expanding too much about his personal achievements; private and guarded to a fault, even when his life depended on it.

Rodriguez had been nervous about speaking on behalf of Larry at first, especially with what was at stake: Larry’s very life riding on how he handled things. But with Jac obviously not able to be there, what other choice was there? And faced with that Hobson’s choice, he’d egged himself on: ‘You can do it… can do it! Pacing up and down anxiously in his cell repeating set pieces and lines, and the same too in the waiting room for the six minutes that felt like a lifetime before they were called in; except then there was just pacing, the words seemed to have suddenly evaporated from his brain.

The amenable attitudes of the two men eased his nerves a fraction, the words starting to come back again, but Mrs Beehive worried him; that cool, unflinching stare each time he caught her eye. The only saving grace was that she hadn’t spoken yet, and so Rodriguez was able to focus more on the two men.

Rodriguez waxed lyrical about Durrant’s literary expertise and character in general and, as he’d done before with Jac, he’d brought with him a few books and prison magazines to illustrate Larry’s writing and editing skills. A couple of approving nods from the BOP panel, but as Rodriguez used much the same line he had with Jac then, ‘As you can see, he’s a long way from the Larry Durrant he was when he first came to Libreville eleven years ago,’ he couldn’t help thinking about the absent lawyer.

Bateson had hauled himself and Larry into the TV room straight after breakfast, and he should have guessed from the gathering there, mostly his and Larry’s clique along with Shavell and a handful of his die-hards — few prisoners without strong allegiances either way — that it wasn’t for a run-of-the-mill Presidential or State Governor announcement, or a re-run of the last Saints game.

The item about Jac was first up as the bulletin shifted from national to local news. A wry smile from Bateson as Rodriguez looked around, a more open leer from Shavell, and the same numbed shock on Larry’s face that hit Rodriguez in that instant, though with an added tinge of warped acceptance — as if Larry had seen so much, was so tired of it all with death now close, that nothing would really surprise him any more.

But the little show quickly backfired on Bateson as the news item fully unfolded. ‘…police were apparently close to apprehending Mr McElroy late last night in the Mid-City area, but in the end that bid failed…’ BC on his feet, punching the air with one fist: ‘Go, Jac… Go!’ ‘…and so he remains at large, with the police appealing to the public for fresh sightings and information on Mr McElroy, with the accompanying warning that he should not be approached directly.’ As Rodriguez got to his feet, joining the chorus of two or three that had quickly joined BC, Bateson, red-faced, hastily wound everything up, barking along with two other guards for them to clear the room.

‘And heavy contributions to the prison magazine too, I see?’

Rodriguez brought his attention back to the bearded man, though the question was aimed equally at himself and Larry, who was nodding. The panel had been introduced at the outset of the meeting, but Rodriguez had promptly forgotten their names. They’d simply become Bearded-man, Clean-cut and Beehive.

‘Yes… in fourteen of the sixteen editions, I believe,’ Rodriguez said, doing the quick calculation: started four years ago, quarterly, only two editions that Larry hadn’t contributed to. ‘He’s been one of the strongest voices and role-models for black inmates at Libreville.’

Another thoughtful nod from Bearded-Man, one more quick note on his pad, Clean-cut following suit. But Beehive just kept staring at him imperiously, and finally she spoke:

‘This new-found literary expertise is all very well, but I’m more concerned with how it has been put to use.’ She puckered her mouth as if she’d encountered a sour taste as she turned the pages in the magazine before her, then held the position with one finger. She looked up again. ‘Mr Durrant’s article in issue nine of Libre-View.’

Rodriguez looked helplessly at the two magazines he’d brought along. Issue nine wasn’t one of them. ‘Right,’ he said, a faint flush rising as his mind desperately scrambled for which article that might have been.

‘In this edition he comments on the execution of Mary-Beth Fuller in Texas, and questions the Texas Governor’s stance in not offering her a last minute reprieve, because, and I quote, “Mary-Beth Fuller was clearly mad, yet the Eighth Amendment of the Constitution is equally clear in prohibiting execution of the insane…” ’ Beehive looked up sharply above her glasses, her eyes shifting more directly to Durrant this time. ‘You go on to say, Mr Durrant, that this is a subject uncomfortably close to home because of your own, and again I quote, “Poor state of mind and memory at the time of your arrest for the murder of Jessica Roche, which gave rise to your own good counsel questioning your own culpability”.’ This time Beehive hadn’t looked down for the quote, she’d just held the same steady stare, now alternating evenly between Durrant and Rodriguez.

‘Yeah, I wrote that,’ Larry said flatly, matter-of-factly. ‘But I’m somewhat lost as to what exac-’

‘I’m sure Mr Durrant wouldn’t for a minute dream of detaching himself from that article,’ Rodriguez cut in quickly, sensing Larry’s belligerent tone heading for a confrontation. ‘Just because it might now suit him to do so. He’s understandably proud of everything he’s written. But at the same time, it’s only an opinion.’

‘Yes, Mr Rodriguez.’ Beehive exhaled heavily, as if mustering patience to deal with an errant schoolchild. ‘But what concerns me about that opinion is the dilemma it now presents to this board. Two of the strongest factors we have to consider in recommending pardon is firstly that prisoners fully repent their crime, and secondly, and in hand with that, that they fully accept the judgement of the courts, justice system and our governor — upon whose mercy they now throw themselves. Yet here we have a prisoner who questions their very guilt — so how can we even get to the stage of acceptance and repentance?’ Beehive shrugged. ‘And on top is also questioning the judgement of our fair governor before he’s even considered the issue.’

Durrant blinked slowly, a faint smile creasing his lips — acceptance or challenge, Rodriguez wasn’t sure.

‘I can see that,’ Rodriguez said, eager to speak before Larry opened his mouth and possibly dug them in deeper. ‘But I’m sure that…’ Though as Rodriguez said it, he had no idea what he was sure of. His mouth was suddenly dry, his throat tight as Beehive stared at him curiously, expectantly. ‘I…I’m sure that’s not how Mr Durrant meant it.’ All he could think of quickly.

The stare stayed steadily, evenly on Rodriguez, one eyebrow now raised imperiously, doubtingly, and it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was floundering, desperately treading water. A few basic legalese phrases strung together from first-year law books combined with some fast talk from the streets and being on the radio — who was he kidding? She’d probably ridden roughshod over some of the toughest lawyers in the state. But this might be Larry’s very last chance; he couldn’t just give up at the first obstacle. ‘I can see how it might look,’ he said, injecting more conviction. ‘But that article’s just one of many that Larry Durrant’s written in Libre-View. Diversion, thought Rodriguez. If he couldn’t win on one front, shift to another. ‘If we look at some others… this one here for instance in issue eleven that I’ve brought along, we see that-’

‘Mr Rodriguez!’ Beehive cut in sharply with a tired sigh. She wasn’t about to be suckered in. ‘Mr Durrant’s literary expertise and comments in other areas are not in question. I brought up this particular article because it presents specific problems to this board in its recommendation for clemency.’

‘I understand.’ Rodriguez nodded, suitably humbled. A light buzzing now in his head, feeling slightly dizzy, disorientated. Where else to head, what else to try? And as that owlish, unwavering gaze cut through him, his cheeks burning and the room starting to sway uncertainly around him, he wished that he was anywhere than here at this moment.

‘And so until such time as those issues are answered, if they can be, then I don’t see the point in-’

Beehive broke off sharply and looked past Rodriguez’ shoulder as the door opened behind them. ‘…Yes?’

‘I apologize profusely for the late intrusion. Darrell Ayliss, attorney at law.’

All eyes in the room were fixed on the man — late forties, overweight, oiled-down black hair greying at the sides, horn-rimmed glasses, a cream suit as if he’d just returned from Havana — as he stepped forward and handed cards to each of the BOP panel, then nodded briefly towards Durrant and Rodriguez.

‘Because of the unfortunate turn of events with Mr McElroy, I was not informed of the situation until late in the day by my old colleague Michael Coultaine — who, as you are all probably aware, handled the original trial and appeal for Mr Durrant — and I got here as soon as I could.’ Ayliss adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and pushed a tight smile to all present. ‘Now you were saying, Mrs…?’

‘Elleridge. Gloria Elleridge.’

‘Mrs Elleridge. Your reputation precedes you. Heard much about your good work on the board.’ Ayliss’s pronounced southern accent had a smooth, lilting sing-song edge. The compliment raised a faint blush from Beehive. ‘Now you just go right ahead.’

Someone else in on it? Carmen Malastra should have realized that from the outset: to prevent skimming, all employees, including the manager, were searched going in and out of his casinos, and were allowed no more than fifty bucks in their pockets. And Malastra regularly changed the security guards, in case they might get involved. So that meant to get any significant cash out of the Bay-Tree regularly, Jouliern would have needed a courier.

The search for George Jouliern’s likely money courier had gone well at first. From the video library of the Bay-Tree Casino floor, Malastra built up a strong picture of who Jouliern had met with during the eighteen months to two years the scam had been running.

Jouliern was a popular man. Very popular. Very sociable. A greeting for everyone, a few gracious words spoken before he’d touch their arm, smile and move on. But it was the occasions when more than a few words were spoken that drew Malastra’s interest, or when a look of concern might cross Jouliern’s face. Perhaps it might be someone he’d just sit next to nonchalantly, hardly paying them any attention; except that it would have to happen on a regular basis, and there’d be that moment when an envelope or small package would be passed between them, even if half-concealed beneath a table or left under a jacket draped over a bar-stool.

Malastra followed every inch of Jouliern’s movements over that period, fast-forwarding, stopping, leaning closer to the screen when something caught his interest, zooming in, tracing one finger over Jouliern and the face next to him in the frame, wondering ‘Could it be you?’ But the problem was there were too many faces, too many that Jouliern met with regularly and shared more than a few words with. Malastra had started off with forty or more possible suspects, but after days at the computer was finding it hard to narrow down beyond eighteen; no regular tell-tale envelopes passed from Jouliern that would immediately lift one of them from the pack.

Malastra became convinced that he wasn’t going to be able to find Jouliern’s courier, it was going to remain a mystery. He decided to pay a personal visit to the Bay-Tree Casino floor, in case there was something he’d overlooked.

The new manager there, Tony Caccia, greeted him with a wide smile. ‘Mr Malastra. So nice to see you here.’

‘Yeah,’ Malastra said curtly. He visited rarely, and usually went straight to the upstairs office without visiting the casino floor. He promptly turned his back on Caccia and went round the casino checking the angles of the video cameras, the manager following uncertainly from four paces behind. Having done a full circuit of the room, he turned back to Caccia. ‘Any blind spots on the video cams that you’re aware of?’

‘No, don’t think so. Why?’

Malastra looked at him sharply. ‘If you’re going to continue working for me, the first thing to get clear is never answer my questions with a question. Only Jewish businessmen and wily old Italians like myself do that. It’s fucking annoying. Okay?’

‘Okay. Sorry.’

Then only two days later, when he’d all but given up on it, Malastra saw the news item on Jac McElroy, lawyer to Larry Durrant, Jessica Roche’s murderer of twelve years ago. But what piqued Malastra’s interest was the victim’s name, Gerald Strelloff. It rang a bell, and minutes later he found it on his computer. Strelloff had worked as a barman at the Bay-Tree at the time of the scam, and the ex-girlfriend named in the news bulletin as part of the love triangle that led to the murder, Alaysha Reyner, still worked at one of his clubs, Pinkies.

Then Malastra recalled that Nel-M had phoned him when he’d first latched on to Jouliern’s scam to apologize for Raoul Ferrer’s hit. A coincidence, maybe, but it left Malastra with an uneasy feeling.

Maybe that’s how Jouliern had done it? Instead of handing to the courier directly, he’d used the barman, Gerry Strelloff. Countless conversations between them every week, and numerous papers and envelopes with till receipts and stock re-order lists passed between them — the ideal cover.

But then Strelloff would also have been searched in and out of the casino, so would have needed someone else to pass on to. Malastra got back to his computer and started searching for the person Strelloff might have used.

Over the following forty-eight hours, Lieutenant Jerome Derminget’s department fielded over twenty possible sightings of Jac McElroy. Seventy percent of them could be discounted straightaway, and of the remaining thirty percent they followed up, only one sounded like it might be bona fide: an elderly farm cooperative worker from a small settlement out by the Great River Road.

If McElroy had got a lift at the Morrison Interchange, as they suspected, then the timing of the sighting coincided with when he might have been dropped off in that area.

But the man didn’t phone in with the sighting until the next morning when he first saw a news report, and by then, understandably, McElroy had long gone from the area. Though what most worried Derminget was that McElroy seemed to have disappeared from every other area. From the other suspected sightings, a couple of close-but-no-cigars, the rest had been a mile off the mark.

Broughlan had been screaming for results, yet with each passing hour the chances of finding McElroy were looking slimmer. After twenty-four hours with no more firm sightings, despite McElroy’s face appearing on every local news bulletin and in the newspapers, the first real concerns began to fester at the Eight District station house. After forty-eight hours still with nothing, it was all but official: Jac McElroy had disappeared from the face of the earth. Had without doubt left the State, if not the country.

‘He was incredible. Fuckin’ awesome. The Zoro of how to cream the BOP with a few swift strokes.’ Rodriguez mimed two elaborate sword strokes with one hand.

Rodriguez was holding court in the prison canteen the morning after the BOP hearing, and had the attention of everyone at his long table, with some heads also turned from the tables each side. ‘First thing is he gets her to repeat her beef, which o’ course straight-off gets her more shaky of her ground. Then, like he was doing her a favour, he cuts in halfway and says he knows and respects the point she’s makin’ and is glad she’s raised it. “Only someone as astute as yourself, Mrs Elleridge, would pick up on the worrying sub-text of Mr Durrant’s articles in the way you have”.

‘He’s laying on the compliments like thick treacle to soften her up, and she’s blushin’ and so open to anything by now that she might as well have her panties down by her ankles. So then he gives her the first test jab, sayin’ that he’s sure that’s not what Larry Durrant meant by that article. “What makes you say that?” she quizzes, knees twitchin’ now, worried that she might have made a big mistake leaving herself so open. But it’s too late; with a little teasin’ smile, he rams home wit’ the “Fuck you”, says that if she noticed in the article, Durrant uses the third person throughout: he sites Texas statutes regarding Mary-Beth Fuller, and his own lawyer with culpability doubts in his own case. At no time does he express those opinions as his own.

‘She starts splutterin’…. “That as may be…” realizin’ now that she’s gettin’ fucked, but not sure how to stop it — and he rams home with the final killer stroke.’ Rodriguez did another sword swipe in the air to accompany his hip thrust. ‘“And that’s supported too by what, from his files, Mr McElroy was faced with when he first saw Larry Durrant.” “What was that?” she asks, wide open again — this girl jus’ wouldn’ learn.’ Rodriguez smiled crookedly and shook his head. ‘ “The fact that at that point Durrant said he wanted to die — didn’t want a plea made on his behalf”.

‘Mr Smooth-southern-ass then looks at the panel long and hard, and says: “Now you can’t get more accepting of guilt than that. You see, it’s not Larry Durrant himself who’s questioned his guilt or felt that his life might be worth pleading for — it’s his lawyers: Mr Coultaine, Mr McElroy, and now myself. And if we’ve been wrong in doing that, then I humbly apologize”.’ Rodriguez was in his element playing to his audience, laying on a thick southern accent for Ayliss and switching to high and squeaky for beehive Elleridge. Rodriguez punched a fist skyward as he finished. ‘Fuckin’ ace!’

Peretti was the first to show his support by slapping the flat of one hand against the table with a ‘Yeah, yeah,’ which set off more table-slapping along with some ‘Wuh-wuh’ frat-boy monkey chants, Rodriguez taking a quick bow before he caught the quizzical glare from Elden on guard duty at the far end.

But as Rodriguez sat back down, the clamour as quickly dying, he knew that it was mainly bravado to fire everyone up, kid them, and himself, that there was still strong hope left. Drag them away from the reality: only eight days left now for Larry, and little hope.

‘Okay. Give me the low-down.’ Roche wheezed heavily into the phone, the panic of the past forty-eight hours and the nervous anticipation waiting for Nel-M’s call back weighing like a rock in his chest. ‘What have you been able to find out about him?’

‘Darrell Christopher Ayliss. One of Mike Coultaine’s old colleagues from way back. One of the best criminal lawyers in Mississippi at the time. We’re talking almost twenty years back to seven years ago, late-nineties — before he went to Mexico.’

‘Mexico?’

‘Yeah, that’s where he hi-tailed it to after his divorce. Messy business. On top of the half, his wife wanted a big chunk of his new partnership. He said, Fuck it, in that case there is no partnership. Headed to Puerto Vallarta and started selling real estate and handling some conveyance for Americans buying there. He sent her maintenance, though not what she was claiming, plus presents and money for their daughter Christmas and birthdays. She apparently pursued him for the extra money for a while, then gave up the ghost when she moved to Oregon a few years back.’

‘Is that why maybe he feels it’s safe to come back here now?’

‘Maybe. But if that’s the case, it was a sudden decision. Like the minute that Coultaine got on the phone and said he needed help, Ayliss was on the next plane. Because from what I can find out, up until now he’s been in Mexico.’

Roche chewed the information over for a moment, his breath falling more steadily. ‘So he owes Coultaine a favour or two, or they’re close enough for that?’

‘Uh-huh. Ayliss was with Bowyer and Turnbull in Jackson before, then did a two-year stint with Payne, Beaton and Sawyer. That’s where he and Coultaine first met — and when Ayliss went back to Jackson to start up a partnership, they kept in contact. And obviously they have since, too.’

‘One of the best criminal lawyers at the time, you say?’

‘From what I hear. Of those in the early nineties tipped to be the next F. Lee Bailey, Ayliss was a prime contender.’ From Roche’s more troubled breathing at the other end, that obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Nel-M forced a tentative chuckle. ‘But after eight years selling condos in Mexico, he’s probably as rusty as shit.’

Silence, just the steady rise and fall of Roche’s laboured breathing. He wasn’t in the mood to be humoured.

‘And the psychiatrist?’ Roche asked after a moment. ‘Have you been able to find out if it’s game-on again with him?’

‘Bateson says, yeah, apparently so.’

‘When?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

Roche exhaled tiredly. ‘All that palaver with McElroy just to gain three days. Back where we started, and by the looks of it with a stronger lawyer to boot.’

Nel-M had half expected the taunt with it being his plan, but he was damned if he was going to apologize for it. Despite everything once again slipping sideways, it had without doubt been their best plan yet. ‘Three days delay. That might be all we need at this stage. And the second session planned is for some reason two days later; before with McElroy it was scheduled straight the day after. So another day delay there too. You know, ticking away, ticking away.’

‘You want to convince yourself so that you feel better about it, fine. But don’t expect me to buy into it. If this psychiatrist cracks Durrant, whether it’s a day or just an hour before his execution, we’re screwed.’

Nel-M felt like reaching down the phone and squeezing the last feeble breaths out of Roche, but he had a point. ‘Not exactly much we’re gonna be able to do about it. As we’ve just seen, we get rid of the psychiatrist, they’ll just get another one in.’

Nel-M could sense from Roche’s breathing becoming heavier, more troubled, that this was the hardest part for him. Letting go. A lifetime of controlling, manipulating with his grubby little paws, it was completely alien to him admitting that, for once, he couldn’t push and mould things exactly how and where he wanted.

‘We might just have to ride this one out,’ Nel-M added after a moment. ‘And, of course, pray.’

But Roche was hardly listening, his thoughts cannoning frantically in rhythm with his fractured breathing. ‘There must be something we can do… something?’