Breakout (3 page)

“California,” Sherman said, “will argue that their murder charge takes precedence.”

“But I’m
here
,” Parker said. “That should take precedence. We can argue it.”

It was clear that Sherman didn’t want the work involved; it was too pleasant to think of this case as a simple one, a fellow
here today, on his way to California tomorrow. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

“You can do something else for me,” Parker said.

“Yes?”

“There’s a woman doesn’t know what’s happened to me. She’ll worry. I don’t want to phone her from here, or write her through
the censors, because I don’t want her connected to me, don’t want to make trouble for her.” He pointed at the briefcase. “You’ll
have some paper in there, and an envelope. I want to write her, so she’ll know I’m still alive, and put it in the envelope,
and address it. I’ll ask you to put the stamp on it and mail it, and not show it to the people here. I won’t ask her to do
anything illegal, this is just so she won’t worry, but I won’t get the law complicating her life.”

Sherman looked away, toward the guards at the doors, the prisoners’ door and the lawyers’ door. Then he looked at Parker and
nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

What Sherman gave him was a yellow lined sheet of paper from a long legal pad, and a pen, and an envelope with Sherman’s office
address on it for the return. Parker wrote, ’This place is called Stoneveldt. I’m here as Ronald Kasper. Get me a mouth I
can use.” No heading and no signature. He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, sealed it, wrote “Claire Willis, East
Shore Rd., Colliver’s Pond, NJ 08989” on the front, then said, “You got Scotch tape in there?”

“I think so.”

Sherman rooted around in the briefcase, came up with a roll of tape, handed it over. Parker taped the flap, then folded a
length of tape along all four edges. Now it couldn’t be opened without leaving traces. He pushed the envelope and the roll
of tape over to Sherman, saying, “I appreciate it. I’ve been worried about her.”

Sherman looked at the envelope. “New Jersey. Long way from here.”

“Yes.”

“You’d have been better off staying there.”

“I didn’t know that then,” Parker said.

“No.” Sherman tapped the return address on the envelope. “If your friend has questions, she can get in touch with me.”

“She probably will.”

Putting letter and tape away, Sherman said, “We haven’t talked about the arraignment. I assume you want to plead not guilty.”

“Sure. When is it?”

“It’s scheduled now for a week from Thursday.”

Parker frowned at him. “That long? For an arraignment?”

“The courts are really quite clogged,” Sherman told him. “But it doesn’t matter that much, whatever time you do in here counts
on your sentence.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Parker said. “And it gives us more time to argue the extradition thing. They can’t start that until
after the arraignment.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Sherman said. “Do you have any other questions? Anything else I should do? People to contact?”

“No, if you just send that to Claire so she knows I’m alive, then I won’t worry about things.”

“Good.” Sherman stuck his hand out. “Nice to chat with you, Ronald.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sherman.”

They both stood, and Sherman said, “See you at the arraignment.”

“Right,” Parker said, knowing he’d never see Mr. Sherman again.

T
he first week is the hardest. The change from outside, from freedom to confinement, from spreading your arms wide to holding
them in close to your body, is so abrupt and extreme that the mind refuses to believe it. Second by second, it keeps on being
a rotten surprise, the worst joke in the world. You keep thinking, I can’t stand this, I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going
to wig out or off myself, I can’t stand this
now
and
now
and
now.

Then, sometime in the second week, the mind’s defenses kick in, the brain just flips over, and this place, this impossible
miserable place, just becomes the place where you happen to live. These people are the people you live among, these rules
are the rules you live within. This is your world now, and it’s the other one that isn’t real any more.

Parker wondered if he’d be here that long.

The stolid regularity of the routine helped in this process of turning the inmate into a con. In Stone-veldt, the day began
at six, when the cell gates were electrically rolled open, loudly, but then nothing happened until seven-twenty, when everyone
on three was to line up by the door to the stairs. It was opened, and in single file they thudded down the flights and through
the corridor with the white line on the floor into the main building and on into the mess hall there. They arrived at seven-thirty
and had to be out by seven fifty-five. The inmates on four had breakfast there at seven, those from two at eight, and those
on the ground floor at eight-thirty.

After breakfast they were trooped back up to their floor, but the cell gates were left open, and there was a game room with
playing cards and board games and a television set down at the opposite end from the stairs. This was the time when those
who felt sick could be escorted to the dispensary.

At ten-thirty they were led downstairs again, but this time down the long concrete floor between the outer wall and the ground
floor cells to iron doors at the rear that opened onto the exercise yard. Armiston wasn’t on the ground floor, those cells
being given to the nondangerous sad sacks, the drunk drivers, domestic disputes, deadbeat dads. The exercise yard, enclosed
by high unpainted concrete block walls, was packed dirt, with a weight-lifting area and one basketball hoop.

Three’s lunch period was twelve forty-five to one-thirty, and afternoon outside time three-thirty to four-thirty. Also in
the afternoon was the time when the prisoners could go off to the library to find something to read or to work on their case.

Morning and afternoon, after breakfast and after lunch, a group of names was called on the loudspeaker, and those cons went
off on assignments. The way it was structured, everybody was given work to do, a half day three times a week, in the kitchen
or the laundry or paint detail or mopping the floors. Skilled men fixed toilets and television sets. During those times, Parker
found people to talk with, get a sense of, remember for later.

Dinner six-thirty to seven-thirty. At nine, everybody had to be back in his cage. The cell gates rolled shut. The lights went
out.

T
he fifth day, the loudspeaker said, “Rasper,” and the guard said, “Lawyer visit,” but it wasn’t wrinkled Jacob Sherman, looking
to duck the work of fighting extradition. It was an older man, Asian, hair sleeked back and flesh gleaming, who rose in Armani
and pastels on his side of the table. “I am Mr. Li,” he said, and extended a card without being asked.

The card was full of names and addresses, all in blue print on ivory, with “Jonathan Li” in gold on the bottom right. Parker
put it away and said, “You’ve got me now.”

“Transfer complete.” Li was amused, not by Parker in particular but by his own entire life; it made him easy to be around,
but suggested there were circumstances when he might not be completely reliable. “We should sit,” he said. “For the quiet.”

They sat, and Parker waited, watching him. His smoothly sheathed forearms on the tabletop, wrists delicately crossed, Li leaned
a bit forward as he talked, to keep the conversation within their space. “Your friend Claire wants me to assure you she’s
fine.”

“Good.”

“And that she expects to see you soon.”

“We can only hope,” Parker said.

“Oh, we can do more than hope,” Li told him.

“I understand California wants me,” Parker said.

“California must wait its turn.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, yes,” Li said. “My professional opinion is, you should not leave this place until you want to leave this place.”

’That’s good,” Parker said.

“Also, as you may know,” Li went on, “if you are to have any visitor other than immediate members of your family, you must
put in the request yourself, from this end, and the authorities will or will not approve of it. Unfortunately, you have no
immediate family nearby—”

“No.”

“—but it happens that your former brother-in-law is working on a construction job not terribly far from here and would be
happy to have that opportunity to visit you while you’re in confinement.”

“My former brother-in-law,” Parker said.

“I believe at one time he was married to your sister Debby.”

Parker had no sister Debby. He said, “Oh, sure.”

“So your former brother-in-law, Ed Mackey—”

“Ah,” Parker said. That was more real than sister Debby.

Li smiled at him. “Yes, I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Even surprised,” Parker said.

“As I understand it,” Li said, “you and your brother-in-law have been partners in business enterprises in the past, and he
believes you might be interested in a similar business enterprise once your current legal problems have been resolved.”

“He’s probably right about that,” Parker said.

Li also had a briefcase, like Sherman, but his was on the floor and was much more glossy and polished. Dipping into it, Li
came out with a thin sheaf of forms. “This is the application,” he said. “I’ve filled in Mr. Mackey’s part.”

Parker took the form. He hadn’t expected anybody else to take a hand in this. “I’m looking forward to seeing Ed,” he said,
meaning it, then looked at Li: “I understand the arraignment’s next Thursday.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll be ready by then,” Li said. He seemed comfortable with the idea.

Parker said, “We’ll delay it?”

Li unfolded his wrists to open expressive hands, like lily pads opening. “You are, after all, the client,” he said. “I believe
you’re in no hurry to alter your situation, in regard to these charges and so on. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“I thought so.” Rising, putting out a hand to shake, he said, “I won’t take up any more of your time unless I have news.”

Shaking that firm hand, Parker said, “There won’t be news for a while.”

“Only your brother-in-law.”

Parker grinned. “I’m looking forward to that.”

I
t looks to me,” Ed Mackey said, “as though you zigged when you should have zagged.”

“There was a local hand,” Parker said, “dumber than he had to be.”

Mackey nodded. “I read about it in the local papers.”

This was a different place from where he’d met with the lawyers, farther along the same corridor in the same building, a more
open place like a cafeteria, with bare metal tables and metal chairs, and soda and snack vending machines in a row on one
wall. There were family groups and single visitors, with a steady surf sound of conversation, guards walking around but nobody
standing over you.

The rules in here were few and simple. The prisoners were not to put their hands under the table, and no object of any kind,
not even an Oreo cookie, was to pass between a prisoner and any visitor, not even an infant. To break either rule was to be
removed from the visitor room immediately and strip-searched; and probably to lose visitation rights, at least for a while

When Parker had been led in here, Mackey was already seated at a small square table away from the vending machines and the
loudest family groups. Mackey, stocky, blunt-featured, and blunt-bodied, didn’t rise but grinned and waved a greeting. Parker
went over and sat with him, and when Mackey said he’d been reading the local papers, he asked, “You reading up on more than
one thing?”

“Not around here.”

“Good.” Parker frowned at him. “I didn’t know you’d be in this part of the world.”

Mackey laughed. “I didn’t know
you’d
be here either,” he said. “You wanna know why I’m here?”

“Yes.”

“There was a fella we used to know named George Liss.”

“That’s right.”

“And because you were there, too,” Mackey said, “I’m still alive.” What he didn’t add, not in a place like this, was that
Liss was not still alive, and Parker’d done that, too.

So Mackey felt he owed Parker one, because in truth Liss had tried to kill them both, and in saving himself Parker had saved
Mackey as well. Parker didn’t keep scorecards like that, but he didn’t mind if Mackey wanted to. He said, “I appreciate it.”

“
De nada,
” Mackey said. “Anything I can do to make life a little brighter?”

“One thing now.”

“Sure.”

“This is all transient,” Parker told him. “The whole population, everybody moving through. Tough to get a read on anybody.”

“You need histories,” Mackey suggested.

“And if it’s somebody I can talk to,” Parker said, “then I need a friend of his on the outside to tell him I’m all right.”

Mackey wore a zippered jacket, and now he took from its inner pocket a memo pad and pen, which attracted the attention of
a guard. The guard watched, but Parker kept his hands flat on the table and Mackey leaned back, pad on the palm of his left
hand. “Go,” he said.

“Brandon Williams. Bob Clayton. Walter Jelinek. Tom Marcantoni.”

Putting the pad and pen away, Mackey said, “This is tricky. Very roundabout.”

“All I got is time,” Parker said.

That was the seventh day. Two days later, Mackey was back, looking pleased. “Brenda says hello,” he said. Brenda was his lady,
had been for a long time.

Parker said, “She with you?”

“Always,” Mackey said. “She’s never far away. She’s somebody else saved my life once.”

“You must be a bad risk,” Parker said.

Mackey grinned. “Not if I keep hanging out with the right people.”

Some years ago, Brenda had trailed Mackey and Parker, though she hadn’t been asked to, when they went to deliver some stolen
paintings in a deal that then went very bad. At the end, Parker left a lumberyard’s burning main building, with the paintings
destroyed, and he’d believed Mackey was dead, shot by one of the people who’d been waiting in there. Brenda, seeing Parker
take off alone, went into the building, found Mackey on the concrete floor, and dragged him out and into her car before the
fire engines arrived.