The Innocent

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

IT WAS MY TURN to cook. At least that’s what I told Val when she arrived at my home in Stormville on a Sunday night nearly three weeks after the escape.

“Shouldn’t I be cooking for you, boss?” she said, spooning out the strips of stir-fried boneless chicken and fresh vegetables drowned in a marinara sauce and pouring it over a bed of hot pasta. “I mean, as a celebration of your recent exoneration.” She wore a cashmere V-neck sweater and a tan skirt, white pantyhose, and little brown shoes with buckles.

“Salud” I said, lifting my glass of Chianti. “Keeper Marconi is not going to jail after all. In the words of the grand jury, hastily assembled on my account I might add, ‘No Bill of Particulars is to be filed against Mister Marconi.’ “

“I especially enjoyed the part where the judge apologized to you for the hell you were put through.”

“I felt I deserved every word.”

We clicked glasses and listened to Zoot Sims skillfully hit highs and lows on his soprano sax. From the dining room, I could see the television in the living room. I had the picture on with the sound down because Val and I were both waiting for the Channel 13 news to begin at six. When it did, I got up from the table, turned down the volume on the stereo and, using the remote, turned the sound up on the television so we could hear, loud and clear, Chris Collins’s report from the Albany County Courthouse.

“Today Commissioner for the Department of Corrections, Washington Irving Pelton, was arraigned on numerous charges, including drug trafficking and conspiracy, as well as the murders of former Green Haven Corrections Officer Thomas D. Walsh, Jr. and Stormville Police Department Detective Martin Schillinger,” said Collins, from where she stood on top of the marble steps of the county courthouse. She wore the red mini-dress with matching blazer that I liked so much. Her hair seductively framed her face, making her black eyes seem even wider than they really were. Behind her a group of reporters rushed Wash Pelton as he was escorted out of the courthouse by an army of navy-blue uniforms. Pelton kept his head down and used the wide collar of his raincoat to block his face. His wrists were locked in cuffs. “Pelton was arrested late last week at his home in Albany after a hidden video camera captured not only his confession that he was the ring leader of a massive drug operation inside and outside of Green Haven Prison, but also his confession that he’d shot-point-blank -both Walsh and Schillinger. The videotape is said to have come directly from Green Haven Warden Jack ‘Keeper’ Marconi, although sources have not yet made a positive ID regarding who made the tape available to Newscenter 13. What we do know is that Judge Sclera, overseer of the grand jury, acquitted Keeper Marconi just this morning of all charges stemming from the escape of cop-killer Eduard Vasquez from Green Haven. And in light of recent events, charges against Marconi and Vasquez’s long-time girlfriend, Cassandra Wolf, for the murder of Vasquez will be dropped.

“In other developments, Cassandra Wolf agreed to give full testimony concerning her knowledge of the major drug-running scheme that has plagued Green Haven for the last twenty-four to thirty-six months. In return, Wolf should receive total immunity. For now, she has been released on her own recognizance. According to inside sources, Wolf is willing to implicate all parties involved, living and dead. Reports also indicate that Corrections Officers Logan and Mastriano are among those Wolf has set her sights on exposing.

“And in further developments,” Collins went on, “Doctor Arnold Fleischer was arrested last evening at Newburgh General for his role in artificially manufacturing Mastriano’s coma, which had attracted the attention of the entire nation. Also arrested was A. J. Royale, the dentist from Newburgh, who, it is said, performed unnecessary dental procedures on Eduard Vasquez in order to justify the many field trips outside of Green Haven. And Republican senatorial hopeful John ‘Jake’ Warren was found attempting to board a plane bound for Switzerland only four hours after being released from custody this afternoon. As of now, pending arraignment for his role in the Green Haven conspiracy, he awaits trial without bail inside the same holding cell at the Albany County Jail in which Keeper Marconi was detained a few weeks ago.”

I pointed the remote at the television and cut the power.

“Looks like Chris Collins has her Emmy award-winning story,” I said, sitting back down at the table.

“Don’t you want to see the rest of the report?” Val said.

I took a mouthful of the hot chicken and pasta, tasted the rich marinara sauce. I washed it down with a swallow of wine. At the same time, I shook my head.

“She’s just going to tell us that Wash Pelton is also the number-one suspect in the killing of Eduard Vasquez, and she might speculate on whether or not Pelton will get life or lethal injection if convicted of all three murders.” I took another bite of food.

Val took a small sip of the wine and sat back.

“He’s white, boss,” she said. “He’s rich. He’s a politician. People in high places owe him money and favors.”

“Ten years,” I said. “Tops, after the reduction of charges, of course.”

“With parole,” Val said, picking at the food on her plate, “he’ll be out in seven.”

Bucky Pizzarelli filled the silence for a time, until the music was drowned out by the Cessnas taking off from the Stormville airstrip. It felt good to be eating a meal in my own home and sitting at my kitchen table with Val.

Man, it just felt good to be free and clear.

“What about you, Keeper?” Val said. “What are you going to do now that things are going back to normal?”

“Things will never be normal.”

“You know what I mean, boss.”

“I’m not going back to the iron house. You can count on that.”

“What will you do?” Setting down her fork. “You’re a prison man. You can’t just start a new career at your-”

I reached across the table and pressed my hand against her mouth.

“Don’t say it,” I said. “Don’t say the A word.”

She smiled and it felt good looking at her tan, chiseled face and her brown hair and the way it hung down on the smooth skin of her exposed neck.

“Don’t worry,” I added, “I’m not about to leave town or anything crazy like that.”

Using her thumb and index finger, Val twisted her wine glass by its stem.

“Of course, that’s none of my business,” she said.

“Look, Val,” I said, “I’m toying with the idea of going out on my own. You know, like a private investigator. Only a guy who specializes in prison-related crime. Drug trafficking, money laundering, murder, breakouts. The whole ball of beeswax.”

Val took a breath as if relieved. She nodded her head with approval.

“Only makes sense,” she said. “The prison is a society unto its own. Its own rules and laws. Its own government and social order. No one knows it better than you, boss. Except maybe the COs and inmates themselves. Certainly not the governor, certainly not the politicians. Makes sense you taking it on privately. You know the system like the back of your hand.”

I reached across the table, took Val’s hand in mine.

“Just like I want to get to know the back of yours,” I said. I felt that good feeling in my stomach. The feeling that comes when things between a man and a woman are new and wonderful.

Val smiled like an angel and she squeezed my hand then gently pulled away.

“We’ll work on that a little, too,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

IN THE DARKNESS OF the early morning, Tony Angelino’s black fedora made him look more like a shadow than a man. Sometimes I wondered if he really was more shadow than man. We stood outside the Miss Albany Diner on Broadway on the first cool morning since spring had begun that year. Through the window of the diner, you could see a single exposed light bulb burning brightly over the counter. I couldn’t see him from where I stood, but I knew Cliff was inside prepping the grill. It was four-thirty on a Monday morning. For obvious reasons, Broadway was even emptier than usual.

“Sorry to get you out of bed again,” I said to Tony, handing him a manila envelope. “This should make it worth the trip.”

In the darkness it was hard to make out Tony’s face. But I could feel his smile and I could see his breath as it vaporized in the cool morning air.

“And this is for you,” he said in a low whisper voice. He handed me a brown paper bag that contained an undersized videotape, along with a few things I had asked him and his Guinea Pigs to get for me at the last minute.

“Think they’ll start a full-scale investigation into the missing porn video?”

“They might, paisan,” Tony said, shrugging his shoulders. “And on the other hand, they might not bother. That video is the least of Pelton’s problems now.”

“The second video, the one Cassandra and I made at the cabin, is the important one,” I said. “That should be enough to make a conviction stick.”

“Cassandra wants to see the porn film destroyed, huh?” Tony posed.

“Can you blame her, Tone?” I said, gripping the video tightly with my right hand.

Tony nodded empathetically.

“So,” I said, “what do you think the DA’s gonna say when he finds out that the Commissioner of Corrections’ favorite home movie is gone?”

“He’ll say something smart, like, ‘What do you mean my porn flick is missing?’ “

Tony and I shook hands like paisans. Behind him I saw Cliff through the picture window. He was moving in and out of the light, setting up the booths with ketchup bottles, knives, and forks. By now I could smell the good smell of peppers and onions and home-fried potatoes sizzling on the grill. Tony released my hand. I tucked the package into my leather jacket, zipped it up.

“You’re not going back, are you?” Tony said, obviously referring to Green Haven.

“I don’t see the use in it,” I said.

“I heard you handed it all to Dan Sloat?”

“Dan’ll make an excellent warden.”

“What are you gonna do, paisan?”

“Keep busy,” I said. “I’ve got Val and her kid. I’ve got my drums.”

“What are you gonna do for money, I mean?”

“Work for myself,” I said. “Private investigations. That and quit smoking…maybe.”

“Word’s out the attorney general’s office is looking for an unbiased special investigator with prior prison experience, in light of recent tragedies, that is.”

“I’m their man,” I said.

“Call me if you need a lawyer or the Guinea Pigs, Mister Visionary. Call me for lunch or call me for dinner. But, Keeper, don’t call me before breakfast.”

“Sure,” I said.

Tony tugged on the brim of his fedora. He turned and jogged up the three steps to the door of the diner. In the bit of light that leaked out through the diner window, I could finally make out his face when he turned to me one last time and winked. He opened the glass-and-wood door and went in. “The usual, Clifford,” he said, his deep voice booming loud and clear through the plate glass. “Sunny-side up with coffee. And hey, paisan, let’s have a smile. Turn that frown upside down!”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

I WAS DRIVING THE Toyota as the sun came up over the mountains beyond the Hudson River directly to the east. My cup of coffee sat in the holder on the dash; I held a cigarette in my left hand. I blew a stream of white smoke out the window, turned onto Marian Avenue, and found the house that now belonged to the widow of the cop slain by Eduard Vasquez in 1988. She had moved back to Albany with her young son to live with her mother, who, the record showed, was also a widow.

I rang the doorbell to a yellow, single-story, clapboard house that needed a paint job in the worst way. A young woman, dressed in a frayed pink robe, came to the door. Poking his head out from behind his mother’s robe was a little boy of about eight or nine. The young woman with cropped black hair and brown eyes did not recognize me. Not at first anyway.

“Can I help you with something?” she said, making a conscious effort to keep the boy behind her where he was protected.

“I have a package for you, ma’am,” I said. “May I?”

I opened the screen door and handed her a manila folder, exactly like the one I had handed Tony Angelino earlier. This package also contained a hundred thousand dollars. Money that Cassandra insisted belonged to this woman and her son.

“A hundred grand won’t bring back her husband or that kid’s father,” Cassandra had told me during the drive from Ironville to Albany, “but it will give her back some of her life.”

I agreed.

The woman took the package from my hand, opened it.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Money from an overlooked policemen’s fund,” I fibbed. “But there’s one catch.”

Now the woman pressed her son into her leg with one hand, gripped the manila envelope with the other.

“Don’t tell anyone where it came from.”

I winked at the little boy. His fine, sandy-brown hair was buzz-cut short. When he gave me a smile, I could see that one of his top teeth was missing.

“Have a nice day,” I said, and then I turned and walked across the overgrown lawn toward my Toyota. But before I got in, the woman called out to me from her front door.

“Keeper,” she said. “You’re Keeper Marconi.”

I turned.

“I never believed you killed that prisoner,” she said. “Not for a second.”

I smiled at her and her son. Then I turned and walked away, without saying another word. The hero that I was.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CASSANDRA STOOD ON A pier made of heavy timbers covered with two or three coatings of asphalt. She wore a Levi’s jacket on this cool morning and the same pair of black jeans she’d worn at the cabin in Ironville. I approached her from behind. She turned quickly and smiled.

“You’re late,” she said. The wind off the river blew the hair away from her face so that the heart-shaped tattoo was exposed in the early morning sunlight.

“I had things to take care of first,” I said. In the distance, an oil tanker moved upriver slowly, almost motionlessly, heading for the petroleum processing plant that took up a good-sized chunk of riverfront property immediately south of the port.

I reached into the right-hand pocket of my leather bomber jacket and pulled out the small videocassette.

“You do the honors,” I said.

“No, you do it,” Cassandra said, her hands in the pockets of her jeans. I felt inside the cassette and pulled out the black videotape. I pulled until most of the celluloid littered the pier. Then I kicked the whole thing into the river. Together, Cassandra and I watched the tape slap against the surface of the river and float away toward oblivion while the gray-and-black tanker inched silently forward.

Now it was time for something else.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the.32 Cassandra had used to kill Vasquez.

Her face turned noticeably pale as I held out the piece.

“You must have seen me,” she said. “You must have seen me climb the hill behind the cabin. You saw me and you said nothing.”

“What I didn’t see or hear was you firing the two rounds on my.45 when I went to sleep that night at the cabin. My guess is that you went outside and far enough down the road so that the explosions wouldn’t wake me. You leaving the cabin like that gave the overcoat man the chance to sneak in and hide himself in the bathroom. When you were finished, you snuck back into the bedroom and returned the weapon to the table next to the bed, where I was still out cold.”

“I’m not a killer,” Cassandra said. “Pelton and Schillinger and Eddy were killers. I knew all about them breaking into your home. Look, I panicked. Blowing off the two rounds seemed like the thing to do at the time, the thing that would save my life if we got arrested. I thought if they implicated you, they’d let me go.”

“It never dawned on you that if Vasquez was shot with a.32, it wouldn’t matter how many.45 slugs were missing from my gun.” I looked down at the tanker-made waves that crashed against the cement pier. “None of it matters now,” I said, taking her hand and giving her the pistol. “I understand why you did it. When I saw that film of you with Pelton and Schillinger, I knew how difficult it must have been for you to be involved with Vasquez for so long.”

Her hand trembled as she tried to grip the.32. I felt the warm sun on my face and the cool breeze that tempered the warmth. The tanker was enormous and very close now.

“What do you want me to do?” she said.

“It depends on what you want to do,” I said.

We stood there not saying anything for a time that seemed forever. When Cassandra turned and tossed the pistol into the river, I felt like I had been swimming underwater for far too long and had only made it to the surface in the nick of time.

“I have something else for you,” I said. I handed her the other items Tony had given me.

“What’s all this?” she said.

“Passport,” I said, “credit cards, driver’s license. A few other assorted necessities for starting over. You already have enough cash.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out,” I said, “as soon as you make it over to where that tanker is about to dock. There’s a man there that you have to see. His name is Captain Ralph and he’s sailing this afternoon for Brazil. You’re going to be on that ship.”

“But what about my testimony?” she said. “I’m supposed-”

“Don’t worry about that. You get involved in a court of law, somehow they’re going to find out who shot Vasquez, and that’ll be the end of you.”

Cassandra looked down at the passport, opened it, and read the name stenciled under the photo.

“Martha Stewart,” she said like a question. “Do I look like a Martha Stewart to you?”

“That’s Tony’s Guinea Pigs for you,” I said, noticing the tears forming in Cassandra’s eyes.

She took a deep breath and smiled. “I never could have imagined things turning out like this.”

“For both of you,” I said, placing my open hand gently on her belly.

She looked up fast.

“You know about my angel, too?”

“I hope it’s a girl,” I said, “and I hope she’s as beautiful as you.”

Cassandra laughed, but at the same time, a tear ran down her cheek, and it kept going until it reached her heart-shaped tattoo.

“I guess it would be wrong for me not to thank you,” she said.

“Just promise me you’ll be on that boat. That’ll be thanks enough.”

She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“I guess I have no other choice,” she said. And then she kissed me gently and started walking toward the dock. She was on her way to Brazil.

A few minutes later I was still standing at the empty pier, with the river water moving flat and slow and the wind cool and picking up as the bright morning wore on. I knew I could have asked Cassandra whose baby she carried. Deep down, maybe it was a bit corny of me, but I knew I could have asked her and that she would have told me if the father was Vasquez or Pelton or Schillinger or the overcoat man, for that matter. But then, knowing for sure that it was one of these men would not have been a good thing. And besides, letting it go presented a second possibility. Just suppose the baby’s father was not one of the above? Just suppose the baby’s father was a nice, hard working young man whom Cassandra had not mentioned in the interest of protecting his identity? It wasn’t likely, but just the same it was the scenario I preferred to believe.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

MIKE NORMAN’S BODY WAS finally taken out of cold storage and buried at the Albany Rural Cemetery around noon on a warm bright day in early June. He received full pomp-and-circumstance, including three dress-uniformed cops who fired twenty-one rounds into the sky from black, police-issue M-16s.

I stood away from the fanfare, far away from the crowd that had gathered by his grave, even farther from the podium where Mayor Jennings delivered a eulogy that included a plea for reform in the corrections department in light of recent calamities. He called for more prisons, more officers, more programs for violent offenders, better medical conditions, fewer field trips. Because, after all, Attica survivor Mike Norman would have wanted it that way.

While the mayor spoke, I crossed the flat green landscape until I found a rectangular plot that, at five feet by ten feet, measured little less than a prison cell. It was a grave I did not visit often, but I knew it as a silent peaceful place, especially at midday with the sun yellow and red over the hills to the east. The cemetery had been laid out on a hillside a century and a half ago and on a clear day you could see through the tall maples and oaks to the Hudson River below; you could see the morning sun reflected off its glassy surface. Overhead, tall pine trees shaded the plots. When their pine needles shed, even the footsteps of the visitors were muffled, so that the place reverberated in silence.

In the Albany Rural Cemetery, you always felt like you were being watched, even when you were certain you were alone. Sometimes you were sure that you could hear the voices of the souls speaking to you, but then you would realize that it was the sound of your own heart beating, your own voice inside your head.

Silence was the reason Fran had chosen this place not two months before she’d died. One Sunday morning over coffee she’d said that if she went before me, she would like to be buried here, under the shady silence of the trees, with the river in the distance.

I remember looking at Fran with a worried smile. I’d told her she was crazy, that she shouldn’t say such things, that such things could become self-fulfilling prophecies. That she was way too young. That she had a whole lot of life to live yet.

“But I think you knew something I didn’t, Fran,” I said, “even if you weren’t entirely conscious of it.”

Fran’s headstone was hewn from the whitest marble I could find. Small and smooth, it was buried flat in the earth, not like the usual arched headstone that began to lean with time until it fell to the ground, more dead-looking than the person it was meant to honor.

I wanted Fran’s marker to be perfect forever.

The engraving below the etching of an angel read

FRANCES GORDINI MARCONI B. SEPTEMBER 14, 1952-D. MAY 13, 1996

It said nothing else, her epitaph too personal for the world to know.

I turned toward the entrance to the cemetery. I could see a woman coming toward me, walking slowly along the dirt path. With the sun behind her, surrounding her like an aura, it was impossible to see her face. But for a second I felt my heart fall away from my chest and the air leave my lungs. I stood up straight and waited for her, and when suddenly I saw her face and knew for certain that it could never again be Fran, I felt foolish and sad.

But I wasn’t sad for long because the woman was Val, and she looked at me and smiled, her face lit up by the orange, cathedral-like sunlight shining in through the trees. I looked into her eyes, and I saw that she’d been crying. She carried a single red rose, and she knelt down, and laid the rose on Fran’s grave. Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross, brought her hands together, and closed her eyes. After a minute passed, she made the sign of the cross once more and then reached out with her right hand to touch Fran’s headstone. She stood up, took my hand, and held it tightly.

“You okay?” I said.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she said. We understood one another and moved on back toward Mike’s service. I stopped before I got too close. From that distance I could see that the mayor had stopped talking and that a priest was sprinkling holy water on the mahogany coffin. He chanted some prayers I recognized, but I had forgotten most of the words. An Act of Contrition, a Hail Mary, and an Our Father. And then he sprinkled the coffin with more holy water.

Val’s hand in mine, I turned and looked into her eyes, and I knew that a new life was about to begin, for her and me.

“I want to leave now,” she whispered.

“I’m ready,” I said.

Val squeezed my hand as we headed for the cemetery gates.