Sutton (22 page)

Not long ago Chapin was America’s finest newspaperman. As editor of Pulitzer’s
Evening World
he made his reputation by having no heart and few scruples. He reveled in human misery, took glee in exploiting the victims of sensational crimes and tragedies, and in crushing his competition on all the big stories of the age. He even somehow had a man onboard the
Carpathia
, which pulled survivors of the
Titanic
from the North Atlantic. While the
Carpathia
steamed back to New York, Chapin’s man conducted the first-ever interviews with those survivors. And when the
Carpathia
’s tight-assed captain wouldn’t let Chapin’s man wire his notes to shore, Chapin rented a tug and met the
Carpathia
as it entered New York Harbor. Maneuvering the tug alongside the ship, Chapin shouted to his man to toss his notes overboard, then caught them just before they hit the water. Chapin got an extra on the streets before the survivors were disembarked and fully dried off.

Chapin had the brains, the nerve, the drive to become another Mencken. His brilliant career, however, came to an abrupt end in 1918. About the time Willie was courting Bess, Chapin was killing his wife. One shot to the head while she slept. Chapin told cops that he was secretly bankrupt and didn’t want his wife to suffer the scandal and indignity of poverty. He considered the murder an act of mercy. The judge did not. He gave Chapin life.

Lawes, however, makes life soft for Chapin. He gives the old newsman free run of the prison, lets him do what he pleases, go where he likes, so long as Chapin ghosts Lawes’s magazine pieces and memoirs. Recently Lawes even granted Chapin permission to turn Sing Sing’s south yard into an English rose garden. Now he’s making Willie the assistant gardener.

The first time Willie visits Chapin’s cell, in the old death house, he sees that it’s not one cell but two, the wall between them knocked out. It’s also lavishly appointed—bookshelves, leather chairs, a rolltop desk. Suites at the Waldorf aren’t half so nice. Willie raps lightly on the barred door, which stands open. Chapin, an elegant, bespectacled man in his mid-sixties, wearing gray flannel slacks and a tan cardigan, is entertaining visitors. They’re all actors, including one in a natty Panama coat who played in a film Willie quite disliked.
Danny Donovan, the Gentleman Cracksman—
it was the story of a safecracker with style. The details, the nitty-gritty were all wrong. Willie is about to introduce himself, set the actor straight, when Chapin cuts him short.

You’re Sutton.

Yes sir.

I’m frightfully busy at the moment. Come back at four.

As if Willie is dropping by Chapin’s stateroom. To see about a game of shuffleboard. Willie wants to tell Chapin to kiss his Irish ass, but he holds his tongue. Chapin is the warden’s pet, it won’t do to cross him.

In the weeks that follow, Chapin high-hats Willie time and again, and Willie merely smiles, takes it. A small price to pay, he thinks, for peace with Lawes, and the privilege of working outdoors.

Then, gradually, Willie finds his dislike of Chapin ripening into a perverse fascination. Kneeling beside Chapin, planting tumbleweeds that Chapin claims are rosebushes, Willie steals frequent sidelong looks at that famous face. He studies Chapin’s wide brow and alert gray eyes, marvels at Chapin’s immaculate grooming. Most prisoners don’t bother combing their hair, but Chapin never leaves his cell without his gray locks sliced precisely down the middle and wetted with fragrant oil. Just as he refuses to look the part of a prisoner, Chapin also never speaks like one. His voice is commanding, musical, a deep basso. It puts Willie in mind of this new invention everyone’s so excited about—the radio. Except that Chapin is better than the radio, because he’s less staticky. Sometimes Willie asks Chapin a mundane question to which he already knows the answer, just to hear him vocalize. He especially enjoys the way Chapin intones the names of different roses.

What did you say these bushes are going to be sir?

Those, Chapin says, will be General Jacqueminots.

Is that so sir? And these?

Lovely Frau Karl Druschkis. Some Madame Butterfly as well.

And here sir?

Ah. Yes. Dorothy Perkins.

You have a very fine voice, Mr. Chapin.

Thank you, Sutton. Before becoming a journalist I was an actor. Pretty fair one too. I played Romeo. I played Lear. That’s why Warden Lawes permits us to stage a few plays each year.

Oh?

If you’re interested, we need a new Regan. The governor pardoned our last one.

Uh-huh.

Willie spreads a bag of bonemeal, embarrassed. Chapin, catching the silence, frowns. I have a copy of the play in my cell, Sutton, you’re welcome to it.

Thank you sir.

How far did you get in school, Sutton?

Eighth grade sir.

Chapin sighs. Every man in here tells the same tale—little or no schooling. The surest first step on the road to crime.

What’s your excuse? Willie wants to ask.

You must use this time to read, Chapin says. Educate yourself. Ignorance landed you here. Ignorance will keep you here. Ignorance will bring you back.

I love to read sir. I always have. But when I walk into a library or bookshop, I get overwhelmed. I don’t know where to start.

Start anywhere.

How do I know what’s worth my time and what’s a waste?

None of it is a waste. Any book is better than no book. Slowly, surely, one will lead you to another, which will lead you to the best. Do you want to spend your life planting roses with me?

No sir.

Then—books. It’s that simple. A book is the only real escape from this fallen world. Aside from death.

Working together under the hot sun, both of them dizzy from the fumes of manure, Chapin entertains Willie with the raciest plots from Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chaucer. He unfolds the plots like lurid newspaper stories, and when he comes to the climax, when Willie is salivating to know what happens next—Chapin stops, tells Willie to read the book. Willie gets the feeling that Chapin is trying to fertilize his mind.

It’s a shame Chapin can’t fertilize anything else. Clearly the old newsman has a black thumb, black as the plague. Willie and Chapin have been hard at work for weeks and all they have to show for it is row after row of purported rosebushes, each of which looks irredeemably dead.

At the start of summer Willie is stricken with the flu. For ten days he’s unable to work in the garden, too weak to get off his cot. He loses eight pounds and vomits so often that he hears the guards talk about transferring him to a hospital. Or morgue.

When his fever finally breaks it’s a bright windy morning. June 1924. Walking slowly to the death house just after breakfast, he stops in his tracks. Before him rolls a sea of scarlets and creams, pinks and umbers, deep purples and delicate corals. A breeze wafts over the new roses and carries to Willie a soft sugary scent.

Willie now sees Chapin sauntering toward him from the death house. Ah! Sutton. Good to see you back among the living.

Thank you sir. But the gardens sir—how? In just the short time I was away.

Such is the nature of roses, Sutton. You’re surprised?

I am sir. Not that I doubted you. They’re just so—beautiful. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything I could call
beautiful
.

Chapin adjusts his spectacles. Yes, he says. True. That’s why I told, er, asked Warden Lawes for this garden. A man requires
some
beauty to survive.

What a shame though sir. That something so beautiful is surrounded by these ugly walls.

Every garden is surrounded by walls, Sutton. Read your Bible. Read your classics. If not for walls there would be no gardens. If not for gardens there would be no walls. The first garden ever was engirded by a wall.

Days later, as the blooms round to the size of baseballs, Willie mentions to Chapin that his favorite is the Dorothy Perkins. It’s a shade of vibrant pink he’s seen only once before. A ribbon Bess wore in her hair at Meadowport.

Chapin grimaces. The Dorothy Perkins, he says, is a tramp. A rambler. Wild, untamed, it wanders up walls, down trellises. But—it expends all its energy rambling. That’s why it has energy to bloom just once. I hope you’re not a Dorothy Perkins, Sutton. I hope you have a second bloom in you.

Yes sir. Me too sir.

Weeks later, while planting coneflowers and salvia around a meditation bench, Willie watches Chapin clip a new Dorothy Perkins to bring back to his cell. Willie does the same. Then, on an impulse, which surprises even himself, Willie asks about Chapin’s crime. Chapin blinks hard, waits a long time before answering. He waits so long that Willie fears he’s overstepped. Money, Chapin says at last.

Sir?

What a world it would be without money, Sutton. After I lost all of mine—bad investments, risky ventures, nefarious advisers—I lost my mind. That’s the long and short of it. I didn’t know how I’d live. I didn’t know how my wife would live. She was accustomed to fine things. We both were. The love of
things
—I daresay that’s claimed as many victims as the love of drink. I intended to kill myself—after. That was my plan. Nellie and I were to be reunited on the other side. Did I tell you that she once played Juliet to my Romeo on the stage? That’s how we met, in fact. But I lost my nerve. It’s easy to romanticize the other side. Until you’re on the threshold.

Willie makes no reply. He senses Chapin has more to say. He waits, expectant, as if Chapin is about to unfold one of his Shakespeare plots. But then over Chapin’s shoulder he sees Eddie.

Mr. Chapin, Eddie says—may I have a word with Willie?

Chapin looks at Willie, then Eddie. He nods.

Willie and Eddie walk off to a corner of the yard, Willie carrying his snipped rose.

Did you see the new Dorothy Perkins, Ed?

The what?

Nothing.

I got news, Sutty. A couple of guys on my tier have found a way out.

You don’t say.

Food trucks. They come and go every day and there’s a way we can stow inside em. It’s legit, I checked, and I told these fellas we’re ready anytime.

Not me, Ed.

Eddie rocks back on his heels. What? Is this a kid?

No.

Don’t tell me you want to keep on plantin petunias.

Beats pushing up daisies.

Sutty.

Ed. With good behavior, and a little help from Lawes, we can be out of here in four years. We’ll be young yet. We’ll have lives.

Eddie starts to argue but Willie hands him the Dorothy Perkins and strolls back to Chapin.

The next morning Willie and Eddie are called to Lawes’s office. A vase on the desk is filled with new Madame Butterfly. The window over the desk looks down on Chapin’s gardens. Lawes stands at the window, his back to Willie and Eddie.

Someone overheard you two clowns yesterday. In the gardens no less—there’s gratitude for you. Well, I’m not going to have some mutts from Irish Town sully my reputation with a crash-out. You’re both gone. Today. I’m shipping you north to Dannemora. Hard by the Canadian border. You don’t like Sing Sing, eh? Trust me, this place will soon seem like Shangri-la.

A guard gives Willie five minutes to pack his things into a paper bag. Then he and Eddie are loaded aboard a bus. Hours later Willie finds himself on the floor of a stone cell, being spit on by two French-speaking guards who stink of cheap wine. The cell is smaller, colder, nastier by far than Willie’s cell at Sing Sing. And there isn’t a rose within two hundred miles.

Sutton watches a car cruise up to Yankee Stadium. The window rolls down. Two men appear from nowhere, pass a brown paper bag into the car. Money comes out. The car speeds away
.

Sutton shakes his head. Say—what’s a beer cost these days at Yankee Stadium?

Fifty cents, Photographer says
.

And they put me in jail for robbery
.

Photographer fumbles in his camera bag for a new lens. What was Sing Sing like, Willie?

If you wanted to learn how to be a criminal, there was no better place. It was the Princeton of bank robbery. There were bank robbers who’d been there so long, they were called bank bursters. That was the old-time term, back in the last century
.

How long were you there?

That first time? Less than a year. It went by fast. I became friends with an old newsman, Charlie Chapin, and I was learning a lot from him. But then Eddie and I were overheard talking about escaping. Well, Eddie was talking, I was listening. I always worried it was Chapin who ratted us. I hope not. Anyway, the warden shipped us to Dannemora, a dungeon up north. That’s when things got rough. Stone cells, no heat. They beat us with metal sticks, fed us undercooked mountain goat. Judas goat
.

Sutton smacks his lips, as if tasting the goat, sets off for the Polara
.

Photographer runs ahead, walks backwards, shoots Sutton in stride. Yeah, he says. That light bouncing off the stadium is cool, Willie. Kind of spooky
.

Reporter walks just behind Sutton, holding open a file. Mr. Sutton, this file says that while at Dannemora you met a future accomplice? Marcus Bassett?

Sutton grunts
.

What was he like?

Typical yegg
.

A what?

Stickup man
.

He sounds, from these clips, like a character
.

His head was shaped like a triangle, Sutton says. A perfect triangle. Imagine? And his eyes looked like waterbugs. And they never stopped moving. You meet someone whose eyes are like waterbugs, walk the other direction. But somehow I thought Marcus was a right guy. I was fooled, I think, because he was a writer. I had respect for writers back then. I should have wised up when he showed me some of his stories
.

No good?

The literary equivalent of undercooked mountain goat. He became a stickup man because he couldn’t sell anything
.