The Sanctuary

32

WEDNESDAY

I WAS A bundle of raw nerves. Keith drove the rented black Ford sedan down Highway 138 toward Lone Pine Canyon Road toward Basal. He had pulled the entire plan together in fewer than forty hours and, despite the fact that it fell into place so seamlessly, I was certain we’d forgotten something.

We had identification. Getting in would all come down to our Office of the Inspector General ID badges.

Never mind that. Even if we hadn’t forgotten anything and getting into the prison proved to be as simple as we thought it could be, we were entering the lions’ den. The warden was in there. Randell was in there.

We were dressed like congressmen visiting our constituents, Keith in a dark blue suit and me in blue slacks and a white blouse.

I’d watched a documentary once about the cult leader Jim Jones, who set up a compound for his followers in Guyana called Jonestown. A congressman who had gone in to investigate rumors of abuse lost his life along with more than nine hundred temple followers.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Basal was our Jonestown and I was that congressman.

We’d left Judge Thompson in his estate, assured of his silence and compliance. Knowing that he was complicit at some level, we told him what we wanted him to hear: someone wanted him dead, and unless he got our hands on one million dollars within forty-eight hours, we would have to at least fake his death. We would be back. There would be no contact until then, because we believed that someone was watching.

As to why Sicko wanted the judge dead, the reasoning had become obvious to us: Thompson was a loose end who knew too much to be left alive. If we killed him, we would be implicated in his murder and go to prison, which was one of Sicko’s stated objectives from the beginning. It was the perfect setup.

As to why Sicko had led me to the dancing bear, then to the warehouse with the maimed boy before leading us to the judge, the answer seemed obvious in retrospect: he was manipulating me, pushing me further and further, hoping I would snap and kill a man with my own hands.

But now we’d turned the tables on him. He didn’t know it yet, but he was now playing our game, and in that game I needed the judge alive. In fact, he was invaluable. Assuming both Danny and I survived the next twenty-four hours.

“You’re sure these IDs will work?” I asked.

Keith didn’t bother answering. He drove the sedan in silence, as he had for most of the drive north. Neither of us had slept more than a few hours since Sunday night.

He’d dyed his hair black and wore a mustache and goatee. He looked nothing like the Keith I knew. I’d found a short blonde wig and wore rectangular, wireframe glasses. True, I was still my skinny self, but Keith seemed certain that the warden wouldn’t detect us. Although he had probably seen pictures of us, he hadn’t met either of us in person, a key factor in recognition. Our alterations were simple but they would be effective, and I had to trust him on that.

“How long?” I asked.

“Five minutes.”

Honestly, most of my nervousness revolved around the thought of seeing Danny again. Would I? What condition was he in? Was he even alive? I stared at the road ahead and tried to imagine seeing him again. Would he recognize me with a wig on? What would I say?

I’d written a letter that laid it all out—everything that had happened, everything we planned. Although the judge didn’t know it yet, with his help I was going to get Danny transferred out of Basal. But first we had to keep him alive. We had to stop Randell. We had to deal with the warden. That couldn’t be done from the outside because there was too much risk of the warden being tipped off, which would send him sky-high. He’d blow up the whole prison with Danny in it. He’d become the new Jim Jones, and Basal would become his Jonestown.

The letter was folded neatly in my underwear—nothing was as important as getting it to Danny.

Keith gave me a quick glance, then returned his gaze to the road.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

He waited a while before answering. “I was thinking that I’ve been over this a hundred times, and I’m still having a hard time believing the system would leave such a gap in their security. They must have retina scans, fingerprints—something to identify OIG deputies besides a simple ID.”

I gave him our pat answer. “Who wants to break into prison, right?”

“Yeah, but you’d think they’d have more protocols in place. What if someone wanted to break in to kill a high-value target? I know we’re not talking witnesses here, we’re talking convicted inmates. One gets knocked off and no one really cares much. Still…”

“But you trust your source,” I said, knowing the answer.

He nodded absently. “Sources. Three of them.”

Our break-in would be made possible because of the separation of power between the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and the governor’s Office of the Inspector General, the investigative watchdog that had reporting authority over the way the CDCR ran the prisons. In essence, the OIG could investigate any complaints of abuse in the department of corrections. Misappropriation of funds, theft—any form of misconduct in the prison system was the OIG’s to flush out.

OIG deputies routinely showed up unannounced to audit, inspect, or investigate complaints. According to California law, any prison official’s refusal to cooperate constituted a misdemeanor. The OIG was seen by some as the governor’s Gestapo arm, the adversary, the ones who made the difficult task of controlling prison populations even harder.

But that adversarial relationship gave OIG deputies healthy respect, and we intended on tapping it. We needed only an hour inside, plenty of time to do what we needed to do and get out before any collateral damage was discovered.

There were problems, challenges that would have been impossibilities without Keith’s connections, like getting fake ID badges made quickly. And any investigation into a prison like Basal would immediately put the warden on high alert. He would watch us like a hawk.

After numerous phone calls and hours of digging, the plan that Keith landed on seemed flawless.

We would show up unannounced as two deputies dispatched from the main office in Sacramento. The warden would be familiar with regional deputies. Our papers identified us as deputies Myles Somerset and Julia Wishart. We were investigating a current well-known problem in the system: spiked milk supplied by the Prison Industry Authority. We would take random blood and urine samples from inmates, and milk samples from the kitchen. It would take only an hour and we’d be out of their hair.

The warden wouldn’t call the Sacramento office to verify our task, because doing so would cast suspicion on his motives for inserting himself into the investigation. You don’t call headquarters and demand to know why the Gestapo are checking out your prison unless you’re covering something up. He might be able to make inquiries through back channels, but it would take time. Hopefully enough for us to get in and out.

Once we were processed and inside, we had the authority to ask the staff to help us or stay clear. We would find Randell and Danny, do what we needed to do, and leave.

Simple.

But we both knew nothing was ever that simple.

Keith took the turn onto the winding canyon road, and the silence seemed to deepen, despite the fact that neither of us was talking. The radio was off, the windows were up, the air was turned down. My gut felt inside out.

“Remember,” he said softly. “It’s all in the way we play it. It’s in the eyes and the voice. Who are you?”

“Julia Wishart. OIG. You don’t need to worry, I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. So does the judge now.”

“Maybe I should shoot off Randell’s toes.”

“Maybe not.” We both grinned, but our attempt at humor fell flat.

“We stick to our agreement,” Keith said. “We go in, confront Randell, tell him if he touches Danny he’ll spend the rest of his life in a far worse place, learn what we can about Sicko from him, warn Danny, then get out. If everything falls apart, we call the authorities using the number on speed dial. I’d rather be at the mercy of law enforcement than of the warden. If neither of us can make a call and we can’t get out…” He blew out some air. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

“You’re sure they won’t search us?”

“They could by law but they won’t. I’ve checked. Once they process us we can come and go as we please. Just remember that and wear it on your face, not just on your badge.”

“Like I said, I can handle myself.”

I wasn’t exactly new to this. I knew I could flip a switch if I had to. You do what you have to do when the world is at stake, and Danny was my world.

We passed the bluff where I’d stood and looked down at Basal just over a week earlier. Keith guided the car around a curve, and the prison’s first checkpoint came into view. A brick guardhouse with a gate. Two officers stood inside behind the large glass window.

“Here we go,” Keith said. “Let me do the talking.”

He slowed the car and came to a stop next to the reinforced glass. I immediately recognized one of the men in the guardhouse. It was the blond man I’d talked to on my first visit.

My first thought was that it was over. He’d recognize me. He knew I wasn’t with the OIG.

But I wasn’t the same woman he’d met, was I? I was Julia Wishart, OIG.

Keith beamed at the man. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” He casually stuck out his ID. “Myles Somerset, OIG. We need access to the facility for an inspection, if that’s not a problem.”

The man stared at Keith, then at his ID, then looked at me. For a moment I wasn’t sure how to take his stare. He’d been confident, casual, completely in command when I’d met him before. Now he seemed off guard, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he sensed something wrong or because a visit from the inspector general naturally set most prison staff on edge.

“OIG,” he said. “What’s the nature of your visit?”

“Well now, that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?”

The officer stared at him. We all knew that OIG had no obligation to explain itself. Keith let the question stand for a second, then grinned.

“We’re doing routine inspections tied to an investigation of the Prison Industry Authority. You can understand my reluctance to give any opportunity to suppress evidence. It’s a supply-side issue. We’ll be in and out in an hour.”

The guard’s eyes met mine again. “Identification?”

I reached across Keith and handed him my ID. “Afternoon, Officer. Deputy Julia Wishart.” I could think of nothing else to say, so I just said, “Shouldn’t take long.”

The man took my badge and dipped his head. “Just one second.”

He retreated into the booth, spoke to the other staff member, then lifted a phone off the wall and made a call.

“He’s checking,” I whispered.

Keith didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me, which was message enough. Shut up.

The guard spoke into the phone, tapped quickly at a keyboard, then hung up the receiver. Our names would come up on a list of registered OIG deputies because our counterparts actually existed, far away in Sacramento, probably pushing paper. Keith had done his homework. An elderly man with round spectacles somewhere in Culver City knew he’d forged two OIG IDs for the fair price of five thousand dollars, but any admission on his part would land him in prison. We were covered.

Again, I only half-believed it.

The guard leaned back out of the booth and handed Keith the IDs. “Long way from Sacramento.”

“Tell me about it,” Keith said. “They’re running this one out of the main office.”

He nodded. “Head on down to the first sally port. They’re expecting you. A staff member will accompany you from there.”

“Thank you, sir.” Keith gave him half a salute, put the car back in gear, and headed past the lifted gate.

We drove for a hundred yards before either of us spoke. “Never underestimate the value of a good forgery,” Keith said.

“Just like that.”

“Not quite.”

But it was just like that.

I knew it was too easy. I should have known then that something was terribly wrong. I kept telling myself that it would work, that everything was going to be all right, that the demons screaming inside of me were just a part of my neurosis. I kept thinking that although getting in was the easiest part, God was on our side, because we’d come to set the world straight and sometimes the good side does win.

But then suddenly it wasn’t just like that, because we came around a corner and the massive structure called Basal loomed before us.

I sat next to Keith, numbed by our audacity in the face of that fortress. It had all seemed so doable on paper, but driving up to the prison I was suddenly certain that I wouldn’t come out alive. If I did, it would be in Danny’s shackles because he would no longer need them. He’d be dead.

Then again, maybe it really was just like that, because we were breaking in, not breaking out, and getting into prison was very easy in the United States of America. You can check in anytime you like, but you can never leave.

The first gate at the perimeter fence rolled open as we approached. I sat still and tried to keep my mind on Danny as we rolled into the sally port.

“This is it,” I heard Keith say.

“Just like that,” I returned.

“Not quite,” he repeated.

But it was. A deputy welcomed us, asked us to leave the rental car where it was, and then led us, briefcases in hand, along the fences to steps leading up to the arching front entrance. The massive bolts on the iron doors were drawn back. Some would say that Basal looked stately compared to other prisons, but all I saw was a glorified dungeon. I tried to imagine Danny locked away inside such a beautiful building, but I couldn’t and my mind returned to flip-flopping between just like that and impossible.

Something was wrong.

No, nothing’s wrong, Renee. My palms were sweating, but everything was going exactly as we’d planned it.

We were breaking into Basal to save Danny.

We were ushered into a reception area that reminded me of a waiting room at a doctor’s office. I stood by the window, looking calm and collected with both hands clasping my briefcase as Keith gave our badges and paperwork to the staff member on duty.

I was thinking that I should do something besides stand there like a coat rack, but Keith was in charge of getting us in.

The CO who’d ushered us in stood by the door patiently, watching me. I gave him a shallow smile and a nod, then averted my eyes. Did he suspect anything at all? Evidently he didn’t, because he just stood there for the five minutes it took the clerk to process us and call for our escort.

A staff member dressed in a white shirt and blue tie walked into the room and smiled.

“Welcome to Basal, deputies.” He reached out his hand. “Michael Banning, assistant to the warden, at your service. I understand you’d like to inspect our milk.”

Keith took his hand. “Just a random inspection, no cause for alarm. We’d like to get started if that’s all right with you. We have another appointment today.”

“Of course.” He offered me his hand and I didn’t want to take it, but I did. “I’m guessing you’re Julia.”

“Deputy is fine,” I said.

He grinned wide. “Well then, Deputy it is. The warden is on his way down. Can I get either of you anything? Coffee, a soda?”

“This isn’t a social call, Mr. Banning,” Keith said. “The warden will be notified of our findings when our investigation is complete. Now if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to get started.”

“Of course. But I’m sure the warden would feel he’d insulted you if he didn’t greet you himself. It’ll just be a minute.”

I don’t know what came over me at that moment—maybe my fear of meeting the warden, maybe my aversion to waiting one more minute for anything when it came to Danny. But I looked into his eyes and spoke with simple authority.

“Do you know how much evidence can be burned in a minute, Banning?”

Banning. Not Mr. Banning, or Michael, just Banning.

He flashed another grin. “Of course. It’ll just be a moment.”

Before I could make another pass at setting him straight, the door crashed open and a tall man wearing round glasses and a black suit walked in.

“Who do we have the pleasure of assisting today?” he boomed.

This was Marshall Pape, warden of the Basal Institute, I was sure of it. Danny’s greatest enemy.

My demons vanished, fleeing the sudden rage that boiled in my gut. I wanted to walk up to him and slap him in the face and demand he take me to Danny immediately, but that would have only made our break-in a disaster.

I stepped forward and spoke before Keith could. “OIG, Deputies Somerset and Wishart. Thank you for having us, Warden. Nice place you have here. As my partner was just explaining to your assistant, we have another appointment, so if you could help us keep this as simple as possible, we’d be grateful.” I considered stopping there but kept going. “Nothing to worry about—we just need to take some random samples of milk and question some of the inmates about spiking. I’m sure you’ve heard of the recent issues with the Prison Industry Authority. Point us in the right direction so we can get out of your hair.”

Keith watched me, masking his surprise at my monologue, I’m sure. The warden looked down at me with a kind face, if a bit long in the nose. I wasn’t sure if his smile was forced or if he truly found me amusing.

“Right to the point. I like that.” He slid one hand into his pocket. “It is a nice place, isn’t it? We take a lot of pride in what we do here. You have my full cooperation. No one is more eager to root out any irregularity or misconduct, I can assure you.” His eyes turned to Keith. “You’re not from this region. I know most of the deputies.”

“We’re out of the main office. Thank you for your help, Warden. We’d like to get started.”

“Of course. Michael will take you to our conference room and call up any staff or members you wish to interview. Samples of the milk can be taken from the kitchen.”

“The conference room won’t work,” I said. “We’d like to question the inmates in their cells. It’s less formal and more direct. We’ll need a roster.”

His grin faltered. “Of course. You didn’t bring your own records?”

“Policy requires we use the most recent, which would be yours,” Keith said.

“Yes, of course.”

A moment of silence hung over the room.

“Well then, Michael will be glad to take you wherever you wish to go. My prison is yours.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But we won’t be needing an escort.” I looked at the assistant. “Get us a roster and show us around. We’ll take it from there.”

Another beat of silence.

The warden dipped his head. “Michael? You heard the deputy.” He started to turn, then faced me again. “Please be careful, Ms. Wishart. We have a number of men here who would love to get to know you more personally.”

He smiled at both of us, and then walked back out the door.

“So then”—Michael Banning clasped his hands together—“follow me.”

Just like that.

But it was never just like that.