Inside

21

Eleven guard towers surrounded the maximum-security facility erected on land carved out of the surrounding forest. Shifting, Virgil tried to take in as much as he could while the two officers who’d picked him up at Peyton’s house—Nance and Parquet—turned into the main entrance. Pelican Bay sprawled over two hundred and seventy-five acres, ten miles south of the Oregon border. If it wasn’t for the three fences that established the perimeter, two topped with razor wire, the middle one electrified, the white two-story concrete buildings would’ve looked as innocuous as an industrial park.

Another of the many ironies he’d noted since coming here, Virgil thought. Half the men living at this “industrial park” were lifers, which gave them little to lose. And thanks to the overcrowding in California prisons, as many as three hundred inmates were, at times, supervised by only two guards.

Surviving here wasn’t going to be easy, even if he managed to keep his purpose a secret….

“Big mother, isn’t it?” Dangling one hand over the wheel, Nance paused in the parking lot of the administration building located out front, turning around to gauge Virgil’s reaction.

Virgil didn’t answer, but he arched his eyebrows, awed in spite of himself.

“It’s a freakin’ city,” Parquet chimed in from the passenger seat. “Has its own fire department, water treatment facility, boiler plants and electrical generators. It even has a full medical department with hundreds of medical staff, and an education department with teachers and a school district superintendent.”

Nance gave the car some gas. “No wonder it takes one hundred and eighty million dollars a year just to keep it running.”

“With that kind of cash outlay, conditions here must be pretty good, right?” Virgil said.

Nance and Parquet both chuckled at his sarcasm. From the outside, the institution seemed clean and quiet, but it was a bit too sterile. Pelican Bay’s reputation, one of efficient brutality, was well-known. But there was no time for the police officers to respond to his remark. They’d reached the vehicle sallyport, which was surrounded by carefully groomed gardens.

More irony….

Lowering his window, Nance showed the proper paperwork and signed in.

Twenty-three if he was a day, the chubby, baby-faced sallyport officer squatted to positively identify everyone and get a better look at Virgil. “Heard this guy was comin’ in. You like to cause trouble, huh, buddy?”

Virgil didn’t dignify his question with a response. Obviously this guy was another “HACK”—horse’s ass carrying keys—like so many of the C.O.s he’d met over the years. Since the job didn’t require much more than a high school diploma, C.O.s weren’t always the brightest individuals society had to offer. Pelican Bay C.O.s had often been accused of being racist and cruel. They denied that, of course. And in recent years administration had worked hard to clean up the image. But Virgil had a difficult time believing those rumors were completely unfounded. Where there’s smoke…

Nance answered. “Trouble of the worst kind.”

“He’d better watch himself,” the guy said. “This is the end of the line for guys like him. We don’t put up with any shit.”

Officer Nance had been teasing—Virgil could tell by his tone—but the young man in the green uniform was dead serious. He sounded eager for the opportunity to conquer, to punish, and that tempted Virgil to prove the guy wasn’t half as strong, mentally or physically, as he pretended to be.

But a response like that didn’t make sense. Virgil was on the other side for a change. On the same side as this officer. Not that it sat well with him. There were moments, a lot of them, when he didn’t want to join forces with the law. He’d spent too many years hating those who’d oppressed him. Maybe the cons he’d associated with in prison weren’t pillars of the community, but they had a code and they adhered to it. That was something.

“You don’t have anything to say?” the guard prompted.

Eat shit and die came to mind, but that was his anger talking.

Closing his eyes, Virgil relegated this gatehouse asshole to the list of people not worth hassling. It wasn’t difficult to tell the kid was all talk. He’d run if Virgil ever confronted him one-on-one. Virgil had received similar comments from other C.O.s dozens of times. They acted tough when they had every advantage. But they were merely attempting to cover their own inadequacies.

“It’s probably better not to provoke some people,” Nance told him.

“He doesn’t scare me. We’ve got fourteen hundred of these hard-asses.” Wearing a self-satisfied grin, he searched the inside compartments and undercarriage of the car.

“What an idiot,” Nance grumbled as the kid waved them through the second gate.

Virgil ducked his head to gaze out at the prison ahead of them. Shaped like a giant X, the Security Housing Unit took up one side of the property. The regular maximum-security prison took up the other. It consisted of eight cell blocks radiating, like the spokes of a wheel, from a yard of at least three acres.

They parked next to a bus that had held other prisoners, judging by the crowded intake area and the C.O.s waiting there.

Parquet got out and opened Virgil’s door. “Welcome to twenty-first-century hell.”

The belly chain connecting his handcuffs to the shackles on his ankles rattled as Virgil climbed out of the backseat and stood in the dwindling afternoon sunlight, squinting up at the edifice he’d call home. The chill wind whipping over the treeless grounds reminded him of how cold and sterile it could be in prison.

But he’d been to hell before. It didn’t scare him. At least Laurel and the children were safe. Besides, he was taking something with him this time that they couldn’t strip away—his memories of that night with Peyton, the hope of seeing her inside these concrete walls and the phone number she’d slipped him at breakfast.

Peyton stared out her office window at the empty yard and a section of blacktop where the inmates played basketball. She couldn’t see R & R—Receiving and Release—from the administration building, but she knew Virgil had arrived on the heels of the bus transporting thirty men from other prisons in the state. The C.O.s down there had called her, as requested.

Normally, new arrivals were given a Fish kit—underwear, sheets, a blanket and one change of clothes—and housed in a separate unit called the gym until staff could observe their behavior and determine where they should be placed. But the gym provided a home for those with a “bit” or short prison sentence, too, and was severely overcrowded at the moment. The whole prison was. Originally built for 2,280 inmates, it held a thousand more, and that gave her a good excuse to drop Virgil into gen pop. It was important to get him into regular circulation as soon as possible. She wouldn’t rest easy until he was out of this place and safely away. The 2002 riot, when blacks and Hispanics started stabbing one another in the exercise yard known as Facility B, had taken one hundred and twenty guards and thirty minutes to stop, and that was using everything from pepper spray, to tear gas, to rubber bullets, to wooden bullets, to two dozen .223-caliber rounds from Ruger Mini-14 rifles. The inmates wouldn’t quit fighting until someone was killed.

Although there was only one death, due to a rifle shot, many convicts were injured, mostly by other prisoners. Once it was all over, the staff found fifty makeshift weapons in the yard.

“Hey, you got a minute?”

Surprised that she had company, Peyton turned to find Lieutenant McCalley standing in the doorway. Shelley wasn’t at her desk—probably out having a smoke—and Peyton had left the door open. She’d been too anxious to shut herself in, had wanted to hear and see everything going on around her, even though the administration building was beyond the electrified perimeter that enclosed all the level-four inmates. She’d never see or hear a disturbance involving Virgil from where she worked.

“Sure.” Concerned by the serious expression on McCalley’s face, she gestured that he should take a seat. “What’s wrong?”

He walked into the room and sat down but got right up again. “The disciplinary action we’re taking against John Hutchinson?” John again? “Yes? What about it?”

“A few more details have come to light.”

Finally able to forget, for a moment, that Virgil was entering the prison at this very moment, Peyton came around to sit on the edge of her desk. “What kind of details?”

“One of the C.O.s who helped break up the fight came to see me this morning.”

“Who—Ulnig?”

“No, Rathman.”

“And?”

“He’s changing his story.”

“Why do you think he’s doing that?”

McCalley began to circle the room but paused at the picture of her father, even though she knew he’d seen it many times before. “No clue. He says I misunderstood him. That he doesn’t believe Hutchinson over-reacted. He’s now claiming Riggs was trying to come after Hutchinson with a sharpened toothbrush. He said if Hutchinson hadn’t kicked Riggs, he would’ve been shanked.”

“But Riggs had no weapon. We already established that.”

The lieutenant ran a hand through his hair, mussing the only long part—the bangs he usually combed off his forehead. “Rathman produced the toothbrush Riggs supposedly had.”

“But it was Riggs who was jumped by Weston Jager. It’s also Weston who has a history of violence, both inside and outside the prison. Why would Riggs have a shank?”

“Rathman says he knew what was coming and wanted to be prepared. When it finally happened, he decided it was time to get himself out of gen pop and into the SHU, where he wouldn’t have to watch his back anymore. If that meant he had to stab a C.O., he was willing to stab a C.O.”

Peyton scowled as she tried to assimilate this information. “Why didn’t Rathman explain this before?”

“He said he told me what he thought had happened but has since realized he made a mistake. He said Riggs must’ve dropped the weapon after he hit his head. Weston Jager picked it up, and once Rathman saw Weston with it, he didn’t believe it had belonged to Riggs.”

“That part I can understand.”

“And Rathman’s been able to prove it was Riggs’s weapon, not Jager’s.”

“How?”

“Riggs no longer has a toothbrush in his cell, for one. And his cell mate insists he spent hours and hours at night sharpening something he wouldn’t show him.”

“Oh, jeez.” Rubbing her temples, Peyton scrambled to figure out what should be done. “Have you talked to Hutchinson about the toothbrush? I mean…if he saw it in Riggs’s hand and felt threatened by it—if that’s why he lashed out—why didn’t he say so?” Instead of all that garbage about adrenaline and the heat of the moment…

“I don’t know. I haven’t gone back to him yet. I wanted to speak with you first, inform you that we might need to reevaluate.”

“Reevaluate what?” It was the warden. He’d come to her door. Peyton had met with him earlier to assure him she was prepared for “Simeon’s” arrival. They’d also gone over the Hutchinson situation but, apparently, everything wasn’t as it seemed.

“The suspension of John Hutchinson,” she said.

His forehead rumpled as he walked into the room. “What’s going on?”

Hearing Shelley’s voice out in the hall, Peyton closed the door to give them some privacy while she explained. When she’d finished, the warden cursed in disgust.

“Sounds to me as if you didn’t do enough research,” he said to McCalley. Then he turned to her. “And you didn’t make sure he did enough research. Which means you were both derelict in your duty.”

“This is the first we’ve heard about Riggs having a weapon,” Peyton said.

“You should’ve known before, should’ve kept digging until you had all the facts before you handed down a decision.”

At the time, they’d believed they had all the facts. They’d interviewed everyone, spoken to John repeatedly, held off on making a decision until they felt confident they’d chosen the right course of action.

“Hutchinson is one of us,” Fischer said. “That means he deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

But just this morning, the warden had said they needed to make an example out of him, emphasizing that abuse would not be tolerated. He’d reacted the same way they’d reacted to the information available, which made him just as “derelict” in his duty.

Not that he’d ever admit it. He always acted as if he never would’ve made a particular mistake—after it was proven to be a mistake.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “So…now that the situation’s changed, how do you suggest we handle it?” Peyton wanted him to take full responsibility for the decision, so he’d have no room to blame her later if it was wrong.

“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

She kept her mouth shut and waited for him to explain.

“Call Hutchinson in, apologize to him and make sure he understands that there’ll be no disciplinary action. And while you’re at it, try thanking him for risking his life to keep order.”

McCalley shot her a glance before focusing on the warden. “But there are still a lot of unanswered questions, sir. Shouldn’t we continue to investigate?”

“And draw even more attention to the fact that you suspended a man without sufficient cause? Hell, no! I don’t want our officers to think we won’t stand behind them when they need us most. What’ll that do for morale around here? We’re a family. Riggs had a weapon. Hutchinson acted to disarm him. That’s all we, or anyone else, need to know.”

Protect the family…. Peyton wondered if the C.O.s who’d scalded that mentally ill prisoner back in ’92 had relied on getting “the benefit of the doubt” when they’d been scrubbing the skin off his legs. She preferred to believe staff over prisoners, too, but checks and balances were an essential part of the system. “John didn’t say anything about a shank, sir,” she said. “I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it if it had been a real threat.”

“We have enough to worry about without going after our own,” Fischer retorted. “As long as no one can prove John acted out, we’re fine to assume he didn’t.” He turned to leave her office, but she called after him.

“Sir—”

He turned back. “Have I not made myself clear, Chief Deputy?”

“Yes, you have, but—”

“Just do as I say and quit arguing for a change,” he snapped and left.

Apparently the brutality issue had sidelined whatever he’d come to say. Or he wasn’t willing to discuss it in front of McCalley. Maybe he was so disappointed in how she’d handled the Hutchinson problem, he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all anymore. Lately, they seemed to disagree far too often. Only by sheer will was she able to implement some of his directives.

“You heard him,” she told McCalley. “Give Hutchinson a call.”

“I think he’s making a mistake,” he murmured.

She remembered John’s demeanor when he’d been in her office yesterday. If Riggs had had a shank, and John knew it, he definitely would’ve used that as part of his defense. “So do I.”

Ink wouldn’t leave Colorado, even though Shady had ordered him back to L.A. He was too pissed that Eddie Glover had lived. They’d gotten all the information they were going to get out of Eddie, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but to Ink killing Eddie had become an obsession. He talked about it constantly, said he wanted to add another tattoo to his body depicting him shooting “that miserable son of a bitch C.O.” All he ever craved was blood. As far as Pretty Boy was concerned he was a fucking psychopath. But no one else seemed to care.

Fortunately, there’d been too much activity at the hospital to finish Eddie off, especially when it served no better purpose than to appease Ink’s twisted desire for revenge. Pointblank had flat-out told Ink that every single Crew member would be lying in wait for him if he risked that kind of heat. So he’d finally quit raving about killing Eddie and fixated on going after Laurel again. They’d been arguing about how he was going to accomplish that all day.

“We won’t find her.” Pretty Boy lounged on a bed in the cheap motel where they’d holed up since the shooting. “There’s no reason for her to stay in Colorado. For all we know, she could be halfway across the country.”

Pointblank, who was on the other bed, had been watching television. At this, he finally deigned to enter the conversation. “We stay until we’re told to leave.”

“Ink has been told to leave,” Pretty Boy reminded him.

Pointblank motioned to Ink, who was fiddling with his gun at the desk. “That’s his problem. He’ll have to answer to Shady. You won’t. So don’t worry about it.”

“Shady won’t be pissed at me, not once I get the job done,” Ink said.

“And how do you plan to get the job done when we don’t even know where she is?” Desperate to be rid of him, Pretty Boy fantasized about waking up in the middle of the night and putting a bullet through his brain while he slept. Killing Ink might cause a backlash inside The Crew. The hit wouldn’t be sanctioned by the gang’s leaders. But Pretty Boy felt he’d be doing the world a service. He’d be doing Skin a great service, too. Except he wasn’t sure if he should be motivated by the loyalty that still lingered in his heart. How should he feel about his old cellie? Was Skin debriefing as the others claimed?

If not, why hadn’t he made contact?

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something else was going on….

“Shady’ll find her,” Pointblank—Thompson—said. “You heard what he told us when he called. He’s got some contacts in the CDC.”

But would they go crazy cooped up together before those contacts came through? At this point, Pretty Boy was having fantasies about putting a bullet through his own brain just to escape the monotony. “We’ll see.”

He got up to go outside for a cigarette. He never used to smoke. He’d taken it up a few days ago. The nicotine calmed his nerves, and the act of bringing the cigarette to his mouth kept his hands busy. Besides, it provided a good excuse to take a walk every couple of hours.

Thompson’s phone vibrated on the table as Pretty Boy passed by. When he glanced down, he saw that the caller was Shady and froze. Shady’s contact had delivered what they’d asked for. Shady wouldn’t be contacting them again otherwise. They’d already talked to him today.

“Hand me that,” Thompson said.

Pretty Boy hesitated. The last time they’d received orders from Shady, Ink had shot Glover, a corrections officer, and it’d been all they could do to keep him from going back and killing Glover’s whole family. Pretty Boy didn’t want to see anyone else hurt, especially Laurel.

“What’s up with you?” Pointblank snapped at his lack of response.

Ink grabbed the phone before Pretty Boy could reach for it and tossed it over to Thompson, who answered.

“’Lo?…No kidding?…Never heard of it…. Where?… Got it…. ’Course…. This is a step in the right direction, anyway…. If it’s not a big place, maybe we can find her on our own…. Sure…. Will do.”

When he hung up, he scooted off the bed and began stuffing his clothes into his duffel bag. “Get your asses moving,” he said. “We’re out of here.”

Pretty Boy remained rooted to the spot. “Where we goin’?”

“Town called Gunnison.”

“Never heard of it,” Ink said. “Is it close?”

“Not far, maybe two, three hours.”

Pretty Boy’s mind raced. That was as far as the feds had taken Skin’s sister? What had they been thinking?

They’d underestimated the network that served The Crew, didn’t realize that gang members had loyal girlfriends and wives who held regular jobs and could be privy to sensitive information. “Laurel’s there?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

“’Cording to Shady.”

“So his contact came through,” Ink said, obviously impressed.

Pointblank headed into the bathroom. “Damn right. Just like I told you. Shady means business. He does his part.”

Ink shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans. “Does that mean we have an address?”

“Not yet,” Pointblank called back.

Pretty Boy could hear him packing up his shampoo and razor and whatever else he had in there. “When’s that coming through?”

“Shady’s not sure he can get any more than we got now. He’s hoping we’ll be able to find her ourselves.”

Hope buoyed Pretty Boy’s flagging spirits. “That won’t be easy.”

Sticking his head out of the bathroom, Pointblank grinned. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Gunnison’s only got five thousand people.”

Stubbornly clinging to that brief flash of hope, Pretty Boy said, “But if she’s hidden away, there’s no—”

“She won’t stay hidden forever, man.” Pointblank had disappeared into the bathroom again. “Most people can’t take that shit for long. When nothing happens, she’ll start to feel safe, get bored, and then she’ll go out to the grocery store, to church, take the kids to the park.”

“And she’ll be new in town,” Ink added with an eager gleam in his eye. “That means she’ll stand out.”

“So will we,” Pretty Boy said.

The toilet flushed and Pointblank walked out zipping his fly. “We’ll be lookin’ for her. She won’t be lookin’ for us. That’ll give us an advantage. And Gunnison’s only a temporary stop until the government can decide where to put her, so she’s in a rental.”

Pretty Boy’s hope died on the spot. “That’s what Shady’s contact said? Gunnison’s temporary?”

“That’s what she said.”

“What are we supposed to do once we find her?”

Ink, who was packing his own bag, looked up. “What do you think, stupid?”

Trying to avoid another confrontation with the psycho asshole, Pretty Boy kept his attention on Pointblank. “I’m talking about the kids. I don’t want to kill kids. Or a U.S. marshal. That shit’s asking for war.”

Pointblank slung his duffel over his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. First, we gotta find her.”

But Pretty Boy imagined that wouldn’t take too long. They’d be in Gunnison before nightfall. How many rental houses could there be in such a small community?