Punishment (23 page)

It was mid-week and the restaurant was quiet. As we passed an older couple, the woman reached out and caught Caddy’s hand. Caddy introduced me—“My friend, Tony Breau,” she said. The name sounded strange coming from her.

Distant relatives of Jack, she explained, after we sat down. Then she whispered, “I almost said MacMillan.”

I said I thought Jack was from away. Yes, she said, but he had
roots here too. She seemed subdued. I suggested a glass of wine while we explored the menu. She smiled and I ordered.

As she sipped her wine she picked at the tablecloth with a long fingernail that was painted silver. Finally she said, “There’s word going around that both sides have approached you to testify and you’ve said no to everybody.”

“You have good sources,” I said.

“It’s true, then.”

“Yes, I’m staying out of it.”

She looked away, nodded slowly.

“I’m not interested in helping Strickland’s case. And for reasons I don’t particularly want to go into, I don’t think I could be of much assistance to the Crown.”

“I see.” She took another sip of wine. “We don’t have to talk about it. Actually we shouldn’t.”

But I had to tell her. “Strickland is going out on a limb. He wants to avoid a trial because he says he’d be at great risk in the prison system. He’s considered a rat in that world. And that kind of reputation can get you killed.”

“A rat,” she said, nodding. “I saw something on television.”

“It’s the lowest form of life in prison,” I said.

“Well.” She made an unsympathetic face. “He’s made a trial inevitable, hasn’t he?”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Not if the charges get thrown out at the preliminary.”

“How could that happen?” Her expression was dismayed.

“Caddy. They admitted to me … the Crown admitted to me that the evidence is thin.”

She looked away, nodding. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised
if he wiggles out of it.” Then she studied my face for a while, as if I were an interesting stranger. “I sometimes forget that you come from another world. I don’t mean that to sound …”

“It’s true,” I said. “It’s another world. A hard, hard world.”

“And maybe he belongs there …”

I examined the tablecloth, struggling to hold on to her, to stop this drift. Then she reached across, squeezed my hand, held it. “Poor Tony,” she said. “I’m glad you aren’t in that world anymore.”

I just nodded.

“Tell me. What would happen to him …?”

“Probably nothing,” I said. “There would be a hundred ways to protect him.”

“And why can’t you just say that?”

“Caddy, his lawyer could make an awful mess of my credibility. Strickland knows as much about me as I know about him.”

“What could he possibly know that would damage your credibility?”

“Strickland had an affair with my wife.” It was out, inadvertently, the moment suddenly derailed by shock.

“My God.” She withdrew her hand. In the silence that followed, the restaurant seemed to have become very busy. People at other tables laughing, clinking cutlery and glasses, background music, waiters enumerating specials. Caddy’s eyes now fixed on me, once again the stranger.

“How could you possibly know something like that?”

I laughed. “Because he told me.”

“He told you? And you believed him?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Why would he tell you?”

“It gives him power. If I’m not going to help him, I’ll know the risk of doing damage to his case.”

“How could he have an affair with Anna when he was a prisoner?”

“He was in a place where her father was the warden. Anna was there a lot, visiting her parents, inmates who were clients. I told you she’s a lawyer. She was also helping Strickland with some courses, to improve his education.” I laughed.

“How …?”

“I introduced them.”

Once again she slipped her hand over mine, squeezed my fingers.

“So they’d drag that out in court and I’d come off as just some guy with a personal grudge.”

“Poor Tony. What a world.”

“And he’s indicated that he knows some other things related to my work. I can only assume some of the information came from her. In which case he probably knows a lot, especially about a particular situation that became one of the reasons for my retirement. So.”

I called the waiter. “Double Scotch, water on the side. You? Another glass of wine?”

She shook her head. “I often wondered why you retired so young, Tony. In every way, still in your prime.”

“Maybe that’s what it looks like.”

“You’re a good man, Tony. You were a good man when the rest of us were only children. I always thought that.”

“You might not think that if Strickland got his yap going.”

“Among other things, he’s a liar and everybody knows it.”

“And what would you say if he had proof that I’m as bad as he is, causing death by negligence. Or worse—cowardice.”

“I wouldn’t believe a word of it, not coming from anybody.”

I studied her face and the soft shadows tracing lines left there by time and sorrow, but in her searching eyes, there was no shadow, no trace of doubt. I forced myself to smile.

“Have you given any thought to what we’re going to eat?”

Sitting outside her place, truck engine running, Caddy said: “I’d ask you in for tea but it’s getting late.” I examined her face, listened to her tone of voice for some lingering traces of disappointment or embarrassment from my disclosures or from the last time I’d been in her house, the stormy night we shared her bed.

“Thanks anyway,” I said. “I really should get home. And of course there’s my guest.”

For an instant she seemed confused, but then she smiled. “Ah yes. After the court stuff, I’ll take him off your hands.”

“He’s no trouble at all,” I said. “He’s good company.”

“You’ll be going to the court yourself, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I wasn’t really planning to.” The thought of watching Strickland posturing, manipulating, left me cold. “To tell you the truth the sight of Strickland would be a bit more than I can deal with just now.”

“I know what you mean.” She continued to sit thoughtfully on the far side of the truck. “I was hoping, though, that you’d be there. It would be good to see you there.”

I silently cursed the console between us, the ridiculous cup holders, four of them it seemed.

“Do you know when you’ll be on?”

“They’ve set aside three days,” she said. “He told me I’ll probably be on the second day, after a policeman and a pathologist and some others. Probably the afternoon sometime.”

“What day?”

“Next Thursday, the thirteenth.”

“I’ll come and get you at noon and we’ll go together.”

“Ah no, Tony, I wouldn’t … I didn’t mean you have to babysit me.”

“Caddy, if you want me there, I’ll be there.”

I woke to a racket the next morning. I’d slept in and it was nearly ten o’clock. The dog was barking and the phone was ringing by the bedside. I half-expected Caddy. I picked it up, struggled to sound cheerful. But there was a computerized female voice on the other end: “You have a collect call from a correctional institution.” And then his voice, full of confidence: “Dwayne Strickland.”

“If you wish to accept the call,” the computer said, “say ‘yes.’ If not, you may hang up now.”

I put the receiver down slowly, firmly.

“Hey, Mr. Breau,” the inmate said. He was smiling as if we were old acquaintances. We were on Lower E range. There were two other inmates nearby but too far distant to overhear. He was
speaking softly. The name printed on his shirt didn’t mean anything to me. Dewolf. “I just came from Warkworth. Somebody there asked me to give you a message.” I was confused.

“Strickland?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Steele.”

I said: “Steele?”

“You’re Tony Breau?”

“Yes.”

“Steele said you also go by Wentworth.”

“Wentworth? You must have the wrong guy.”

“No. He said it was your nickname among the coppers, eh, Wentworth. Anyway, he says hello … hopes you’re well. Says, take care of yourself.”

“Wentworth?” I asked in the lunchroom. “That name mean anything to anybody?”

There was an old guard there, memory going back to the fifties. He said: “What about him?” And I said: “Someone brought his name up.” And the old guy said, “Only Wentworth I ever heard of was a guard here back in the early sixties. He was making his rounds one night, somebody shanked him in one of the toilets. No witnesses and nobody ever figured out a motive. Eventually there was a suspect, based on information from another inmate. But no proof. Possibly a contract job. Somebody with a beef against poor Wentworth put out a hit on him. Not hard to do in a place like this. Some of these fuckers would kill you for a cuppa coffee.”

I
remember it was late on a Friday afternoon and I was preparing for an early weekend exit. I was actually standing, stuffing a briefcase, when the door opened and two officers from institutional security walked in.

“Got a minute?”

I sat down. They sat opposite me. I didn’t know them well but remembered one of them from the Pittman investigation. He was the larger of the two, with a shaved head. “You know some con by the name of Dewolf?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been talking about you.”

“So what’s Dewolf been saying?”

The smaller of the two looked at the floor for a moment,
then straight at me. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” I said. “Sex offender. Came here a while back from Warkworth. Out of the blue he made some comments to me that could have been a threat.”

“When was that?”

“I dunno. Six, ten months ago. I put it out of my mind. Why?”

“Who did you report this to?”

“Nobody.”

“Were there witnesses?”

“There were a couple of cons in the area but I doubt if they heard anything.”

“Do you remember who they were?”

“I really didn’t take any notice.”

“What exactly did Dewolf say?” Now he had a notebook in his hand, flipping through for a blank page.

“He mentioned a name, said it was my nickname. Wentworth. I’d never heard it before. Then I checked it out and found out who Wentworth was.”

The larger one, with the shaved head, had his notebook out now too. Mumbled, “So you know who Wentworth was?” I remembered an uneasy feeling from earlier, when this one was asking me questions about Pittman. How he would refer to Steele as Tommy.

“Yes,” I said. “I found out.”

“And why didn’t you report this?”

“As far as I was concerned, Dewolf was just another yappy con. If I took every little …”

“It isn’t just about you, Tony,” the smaller, smarter version
said. “This is about the whole place. A potential threat to you is a threat to everybody.”

I smiled patiently. “Yes, but there’s such a thing as threat assessment.”

The big one leaned across the desk. “It’s not your place to be making unilateral assessments. Now what was the basis for your beef with Dewolf?”

I looked at him steadily, trying to convey that I knew as much about institutional security as he did. “I never laid eyes on the asshole before in my life. So what has he been saying?”

The smaller one sighed. “Vague remarks. And you’re right he could be posturing. But there’s enough in what he says about people wanting you taken out that we’re taking it serious. So what’s the beef about?”

“I have no beef. Not with him.”

“Not with him?”

For an instant I considered explaining but an instinct made me shrug and look away from the hard unsympathetic face in front of me. “Not with anybody that I know.”

The big one sat back and folded his arms. “So what do you think it was about then?”

I shrugged, pursed my lips, folded my arms too. “Beats me.”

“Tommy Steele,” he said.

“Tommy Steele,” I repeated, trying to seem surprised. Forced a smile. “Tommy. What about him?”

“He’s over at Warkworth now. We were wondering if you ever hear from him.”

“Ahhh. Right. I’d forgotten that he moved over there. Maybe he’s picked something up, about this Dewolf. What
do you think? You think it might be worth talking to him?”

The smaller IPSO said: “You and Steele … how did you leave things?”

I shrugged. “Who’s to know?”

I looked from one to the other, picked up a pen, rolled it between thumb and forefinger, genuinely considering. For a moment I wanted to tell them about the fallout after the inquiry into Pittman’s death; the silence and the tension I’d encountered in the day room, among the lockers. Tell them about the hostile glances, the feeling of exclusion, especially after Steele’s demotion and transfer to Warkworth. Tell them that Dewolf’s message really came from Steele. But I asked myself: Why make matters worse? Why compound the damage done already, why confirm your reputation as a rat? And, really, how could I tell these goons that I now considered my co-workers to be more dangerous than any con? Especially the bald one, who called Steele “Tommy.”

At last I said, “I doubt if Tommy knows anything, I’m sure he’d have come forward if he’d heard.”

“You and Steele,” the big one said quietly. “He couldn’t have been a happy camper after the inquiry.”

I tried to compose a poker face. “Tommy? We talked things through. What are you getting at?”

The smaller one, seated, now picking at a cuticle, said, “We’re all on the same side here, Tony.”

I shrugged. “Believe me, I want to help you. But it’s likely just some old goof in Warkworth with a grudge. I’m sure there’s more than one. I checked Dewolf’s history and didn’t find anything to worry about, as long as I’m over nine years old.” I smiled and dropped the pen.

They stood. The smaller officer leaned across the desk, held out his hand. I grasped it firmly. The skinhead turned toward the door, no courtesies. “We’ll be getting back to you,” the smaller one said.

“Come on,” I said, suddenly feeling the slackness in my smile. “What’s to get back about? This is nothing. Dewolf is nobody.”

“That’ll be for somebody else to decide.” And then they left.

It occurred to me to talk to Anna. Get a lawyer’s perspective. Should I make a legal move on Steele? Should I be getting ready for a problem with the service? But I let it slide and then it was another summer. We talked about vacation.