“Westy has a message he wants you to deliver, that’s all,” Cooley said as he exhaled a fresh stream of smoke.
Communication work paid well and was the safest way to augment his income. Even if he was caught passing a written message, what convicts called a “kite,” he could claim he’d confiscated it. But right now…he was too concerned about the added scrutiny he was under.
“I’d do it, but I’m already in enough shit. I need to stay aboveboard for a while.”
“I told you, my bro’s handling your problem.”
“There’s nothing he can do.”
“Where’s your faith, man? We run the place. You know that.”
His arrogance annoyed John. The war wasn’t over yet. Peyton and the warden were doing all they could to weed out dirty C.O.s. They had Rosenburg working overtime, investigating anything that smelled remotely suspicious. But with so many inmates wanting so many things, there were simply too many ways to earn a buck and too many ways to spend the extra dough. He wasn’t the only one to sell out.
“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.” John was pretty sure the administration had won this battle. It was too late for anyone to fix, even Weston Jager. Or Detric Whitehead himself. “You going to give me the money or not?”
As soon as Cooley handed over the envelope, John counted through the stack of money. It was all there—two thousand bucks for making sure Bentley got his ass kicked and for smuggling in a cell phone. It would’ve been a nice financial boost if he hadn’t gotten busted. As it was, he’d lose more than that due to the suspension.
“We’re even,” he muttered, and turned away.
Cooley remained where he was. “That’s it, then?” he called after him. “I should tell Westy it’s a no? Deech won’t like that.”
“Deech” was Detric Whitehead’s nickname. They all had one. Even the general. “I can’t,” John said, but he was already calculating up his financial obligations, knew he’d be broke again in a few days. How would he survive the coming weeks?
He’d figure out what was going on with Rick Wallace and that stranger, that was how. News of what they were doing had to be worth more than the petty amounts he’d earned in the past—maybe even enough to finally get him out of the red.
He’d climbed into his truck when he waved to let Cooley know he had more to say. It might take a while to learn Wallace and Peyton’s secret; he could use a few bucks to keep him going in the meantime.
Driving forward, John lowered his window.
Cooley took a final puff on his cigarette and ground it into the dirt. “Change your mind already? You are so predictable.”
“Shut up,” John snapped. “Just tell me what Weston wants me to do and how much he’s offering.”
21
Eleven guard towers surrounded the maximum-security facility erected on land carved out of the surrounding forest. Shifting, Virgil tried to take in as much as he could while the two officers who’d picked him up at Peyton’s house—Nance and Parquet—turned into the main entrance. Pelican Bay sprawled over two hundred and seventy-five acres, ten miles south of the Oregon border. If it wasn’t for the three fences that established the perimeter, two topped with razor wire, the middle one electrified, the white two-story concrete buildings would’ve looked as innocuous as an industrial park.
Another of the many ironies he’d noted since coming here, Virgil thought. Half the men living at this “industrial park” were lifers, which gave them little to lose. And thanks to the overcrowding in California prisons, as many as three hundred inmates were, at times, supervised by only two guards.
Surviving here wasn’t going to be easy, even if he managed to keep his purpose a secret….
“Big mother, isn’t it?” Dangling one hand over the wheel, Nance paused in the parking lot of the administration building located out front, turning around to gauge Virgil’s reaction.
Virgil didn’t answer, but he arched his eyebrows, awed in spite of himself.
“It’s a freakin’ city,” Parquet chimed in from the passenger seat. “Has its own fire department, water treatment facility, boiler plants and electrical generators. It even has a full medical department with hundreds of medical staff, and an education department with teachers and a school district superintendent.”
Nance gave the car some gas. “No wonder it takes one hundred and eighty million dollars a year just to keep it running.”
“With that kind of cash outlay, conditions here must be pretty good, right?” Virgil said.
Nance and Parquet both chuckled at his sarcasm. From the outside, the institution seemed clean and quiet, but it was a bit too sterile. Pelican Bay’s reputation, one of efficient brutality, was well-known. But there was no time for the police officers to respond to his remark. They’d reached the vehicle sallyport, which was surrounded by carefully groomed gardens.
More irony….
Lowering his window, Nance showed the proper paperwork and signed in.
Twenty-three if he was a day, the chubby, baby-faced sallyport officer squatted to positively identify everyone and get a better look at Virgil. “Heard this guy was comin’ in. You like to cause trouble, huh, buddy?”
Virgil didn’t dignify his question with a response. Obviously this guy was another “HACK”—horse’s ass carrying keys—like so many of the C.O.s he’d met over the years. Since the job didn’t require much more than a high school diploma, C.O.s weren’t always the brightest individuals society had to offer. Pelican Bay C.O.s had often been accused of being racist and cruel. They denied that, of course. And in recent years administration had worked hard to clean up the image. But Virgil had a difficult time believing those rumors were completely unfounded. Where there’s smoke…
Nance answered. “Trouble of the worst kind.”
“He’d better watch himself,” the guy said. “This is the end of the line for guys like him. We don’t put up with any shit.”
Officer Nance had been teasing—Virgil could tell by his tone—but the young man in the green uniform was dead serious. He sounded eager for the opportunity to conquer, to punish, and that tempted Virgil to prove the guy wasn’t half as strong, mentally or physically, as he pretended to be.
But a response like that didn’t make sense. Virgil was on the other side for a change. On the same side as this officer. Not that it sat well with him. There were moments, a lot of them, when he didn’t want to join forces with the law. He’d spent too many years hating those who’d oppressed him. Maybe the cons he’d associated with in prison weren’t pillars of the community, but they had a code and they adhered to it. That was something.