Dying Declaration (13 page)

22

NIKKI AND THE KIDS WERE
ushered into a small booth in a prison interview room. They were separated from Thomas by bulletproof glass and forced to speak through some small metal slits in the bottom of the glass window. Normally, family would be allowed to spend a few minutes daily with the prisoners in a supervised rec area, a deputy had explained on the way to the room, but Mr. Hammond was on restriction because of an altercation the day before. Nikki tried to pry loose the details, but the deputy didn’t know much about it.

At first the kids seemed taken aback by the whole intimidating setting. The humorless deputies, the cold and forbidding rooms,
the heavy metal doors. But once they both squeezed into the chair opposite their father in the booth, they began chattering excitedly, often at the same time. Nikki stood behind them, arms crossed, her lips forming a gentle smile as she took it all in.

“What happened to your face, Daddy?” Stinky asked.

Thomas rubbed his fingers gently along the stitches. “This?” he asked, as if he were surprised that anybody would notice.
“It’s nothin’. Just had a little accident lifting weights. It’ll be all right.”

Nikki gave Thomas a cynical look that he pretended not to notice. Stinky started in on a play-by-play of the beach, of Nikki’s apartment, and of riding in a convertible. She endured numerous interruptions from Tiger, who explained how he slept on the floor in the Pretty Lady’s bedroom just to keep the girls safe. Fifteen minutes of chatter flew by, and their time was up.

There was a brief pause, and then Tiger spoke in a subdued tone. “I want you to come home, Daddy. When are you comin’ home?”

“Pretty soon,” Thomas promised. “But in the meantime, Miss Nikki is in total charge. You do whatever she says. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Stinky responded enthusiastically.

Tiger didn’t speak, apparently hoping that his sister’s response had covered them both.

“Tiger?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered without enthusiasm.

“Now, let me ask y’all a question,” Thomas said, looking straight at Tiger. “Did you both git ready for school this mornin’
with no complainin’ and no playin’ hooky?”

“I did,” Stinky said, her blonde curls bobbing as she nodded.

“Kinda,” Tiger said.

Thomas pointed his index finger at Tiger, touching the glass with it. “Kinda’” ain’t good enough, young man. Is that understood?”

Tiger nodded vigorously. At this moment he probably wondered if the glass could really hold back his dad.

“I want you to be the first one ready tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yep.”

“Yep?” Thomas repeated gruffly.

“Yes,
sir
, I mean,” Tiger said quickly.

Nikki glanced at her watch and cleared her throat. She hated to do this, but she had no choice.

“We gotta go, guys,” she said softly.

It was painful to watch the look on Thomas’s face’a father denied the most basic impulse—the ability to hug his own kids. He looked quietly at both his children, biting his bottom lip. Nikki could only see the back of Stinky’s head now as she leaned forward, but she suspected the little girl was crying. And there was no telling what was going through Tiger’s mind as he sat up straight, trying with all his might to look brave.

Thomas reached out with both hands and placed his massive palms on the glass. Without a word, Stinky placed her tiny hand in the same spot against the glass for one hand, and Tiger followed suit on the other. For a moment they were suspended there,
pressing against the glass as if touching each other, Thomas loving on them with his eyes.

“I love you guys,” Thomas said.

“I love you, Daddy,” Stinky sniffed.

“I love you too,” Tiger said bravely.

“C’mon, guys.” Nikki spoke softly but firmly from behind them. This wasn’t getting any easier, and memories of her own adoptive dad—their final good-bye—were not helping. Almost at once, both kids got up from the seat and buried their little heads in Nikki’s embrace, one on each side.

Nikki hugged the kids, her eyes locked on Thomas.

“Thanks,” he said simply. A man of few words.

“You’re welcome,” Nikki replied. Her attention was drawn to the stitches over his eye and the huge bruise spreading across his cheekbone. “Take care of yourself in there. It’s every man for himself. Don’t get in anybody else’s business.” She couldn’t read his expression.
What happened yesterday?
“Trust no one. I mean it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Thomas said.

Then Nikki took the kids by their hands and, as they glanced back over their shoulders, led them from the room.

Later that day Thomas Hammond stepped into the outside rec area, determined to keep his distance from Buster and the weightlifters. It had rained earlier in the day, but now the sun was burning off the last remnants of moisture. Another hot and sticky afternoon. Another day when the jumpsuit would cling to his skin like a wet blanket.

The weightlifters were grunting and sweating on the far end of the fenced-in area, a full hundred yards away. Thomas kept to himself, hands in his pockets, hanging out and talking to no one. After a time he decided to saunter past the basketball courts and find a seat alone by the back fence.

The inmates were playing their usual game of brutal basketball, egged on by small groups hanging around the basketball court,
taunting the players. As Thomas walked warily around the court, he approached a group of three young black men, huddled together,
talking intensely to each other, ignoring the game. He recognized the man with his back toward Thomas as the cell-mate of Buster. The cornrows, the wiry build, the animated intensity of the conversation—all characteristics of the man the inmates called A-town.

The men talking to A-town were other members of Buster’s ES gang. One was short and muscular with huge arms, a V-build—thin waist, broad shoulders—and a flat, square face. According to the jailhouse talk, he was in for some drug offenses and conspiracy to commit murder. It was all somehow related to the same killing that had landed A-town behind bars.

The other man was taller and thinner, an intense and volcanic type, who was in for aggravated assault and battery, his third major offense in as many years. If convicted, he was looking at serious time. His stature among the inmates was enhanced by a huge scar running from his forehead down the length of his right cheek, the remnant of a knife fight in which the other man nearly died. The inmate claimed self-defense. Everybody in jail claimed self-defense.

Thomas veered wide of the group. He did not want any trouble, so he gave them at least fifteen feet as he walked by. Still,
he heard some of the words being whispered loudly and intently by A-town. He pretended not to listen—he just kept lumbering along—but the words startled him. He felt his chest pounding, the pressure building in his head.

Something about a bench press. A-town had definitely said something about a “bench press.” And “the throat.” He had heard A-town say it and then saw him draw his hands toward his own throat. If that were all he heard, it would have been just another group of inmates poking fun at Thomas, retelling the events of yesterday. But there was more.

“Like yesterday.” Thomas was almost sure he heard A-town repeat the phrase “like yesterday.” He could make out a few other words, isolated and out of context: “snitch . . . just in case . . . stabbing.” Then one of the men talking with A-town saw Thomas, shot his eyes toward A-town, and nodded his head toward Thomas. The conversation stopped.

Thoughts raced through Thomas’s mind.
I am not a doggone snitch,
he reminded himself. He had the opportunity to rat out Buster on day one, and he had refused. But he had clearly alienated the African Americans. Buster hated him, and Thomas didn’t know why. Now Buster’s gang was plotting to do Thomas in.
How long can I last in a place like this?

All three men turned and stared at Thomas, drilling through him with their eyes. He stared down at his feet and kept walking,
no faster and no slower. He would
not
be intimidated, so he shuffled along toward the back fence. He was now more determined than ever to avoid the weightlifters.

He found a place of solitude at the far end of the rec area, then sat down and leaned against the fence, closing his eyes. He cracked them momentarily, and through the slits kept an eye on both Buster at the weight area as well as the gang of three that Thomas had caught in their little conspiracy. It did not surprise him to see, after a period of time, the three conspirators start walking slowly toward the weights. Thomas eyed them warily but felt relatively safe. The weightlifters and the threesome were more than a hundred feet away, separated from Thomas by an open field of dirt and worn-down crab grass.

Buster was holding court on the bench press. He had started at three-oh-five, done ten reps, then added weight. Nobody even thought about trying to use the bench while Buster rested before his second set. Then he pumped out three-twenty-five for eight reps and added more plates. Three-thirty-five went up five times, and Buster was glistening with sweat. He unzipped the jumpsuit and slid out of the top half, leaving it hanging around his waist. Every muscle in his chest and arms bulged and gleamed as he pumped out another three reps at three hundred forty-five pounds. By now A-town was spotting for him and talking trash. Buster strutted around, shook out his arms, added one more plate to each side, then took his place back on the bench.

Three hundred fifty-five pounds! Thomas had never seen a man bench-press that much.

A-town stood on one side of the bar. Another spotter, the man with the scar, stood on the other. The man with the V-build commenced his own trash-talking exhibition by the military press station. He had a contest going, with some money on the line,
against another inmate who was equally buffed. The other weightlifters were gathered around, watching the military press contest—that is, all but Buster and his spotters who were busy on the bench.

Thomas watched unconcerned, somewhat amused by this childish display of testosterone and somewhat disappointed that he could not be among them. But he was relaxed, and the slits of light coming through his eyelids started fading to black. The intensity of the sun, and his lack of sleep in the cell, began taking their predictable toll.

He was fading in and out of fitful sleep, when nightmares of yesterday came racing back—the bench press bar on his neck, pressing down, the scowl of Buster, the laughter of A-town and the others. Thomas jerked awake and sat straight up.

It would be the perfect jailhouse killin’,
he realized. The big man shuddered, as the terrifying picture formed vividly in his mind. A man lying on the bench, straining against the weights, hundreds of pounds hovering just above his chest. With nobody else looking, a couple of spotters could suddenly press down on the bar and drive it into the bench presser’s throat. It would snap the man’s neck, kill him instantly. A knife would only be needed as backup, in case the plan went awry.

It suddenly became clear to him: Those men had been plotting Thomas’s death.
“The big man just tried to lift too much weight,”
they would say.
“He did it without spotters,”
they would claim.
“We tried to help but got there too late.”

Another accident. Another lowly inmate dead. Who would know? Who would tell? Who would care?

Thomas vowed that he would never bench-press again.

He watched as Buster grabbed the bar, testing his grip. Thomas imagined himself there, an innocent victim walking into the trap. He said a prayer of thanks that God had revealed the plans of his enemies and given him the good sense to avoid trouble. He closed his eyes again, watching through the slits.

Then he saw it! The sun reflected off its blade for just a fraction of a second. With his left hand, A-town had reached inside his jumpsuit, looked around, then removed a small black object. A flick of the wrist, a push of the button, and the blade appeared, glistening in the sun.
A switchblade!

Lord God, have mercy.
A-town had a knife! Thomas watched, still pretending to sleep, as A-town pressed it against his left leg, held it hidden in his hand, and stared down at Buster.

The words came back in a rush:
“Bench press . . . the throat . . . like yesterday . . . snitch . . . just in case . . . stabbing.”
Thomas stood quickly and began jogging toward Buster just as the big man pressed up on the weights, his arms shaking under the load. The other weightlifters were ignoring Buster, transfixed by the military-press contest going on several feet away from the bench. A-town and the man with the scar were on each end of the bench press, their backs to Thomas, their eyes focused on their prey. Thomas could see the tragedy unfolding before his eyes. Buster lowered the bar. A-town squeezed the knife. Thomas ran faster, drew closer; then A-town and his cohort grabbed the ends of the bar and, with a sudden force, pushed hard toward Buster’s neck.

“Take care of yourself,”
Nikki had said.

Thomas sprinted; he was almost there.