Текст книги "Inside"
Автор книги: Brenda Novak
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
He actually shuddered. The minute that registered on her face, he wished he could take it back. It was the stress—the pressure he was under. Maybe Mercedes had gained some weight, and maybe she’d let herself go in other ways. He couldn’t help finding her drab and worn compared to the women who caught his eye. Compared to Peyton, who particularly appealed to him. But he still loved her. Didn’t he?
“I wasn’t needy until I married you,” she said. “You made me like this.” He heard their youngest daughter come into the living room then, yelling “Daddy!” and Mercedes dropped her voice. “And sometimes I hate you for it.”
“You hate me?”
He expected her to deny it. He’d taken her words out of context. She hadn’t really said she hated him. But she didn’t attempt to correct him; she stood there, glaring at him through those hazel eyes that seemed years older than when he’d looked into them last.
“Mercedes?” he prompted.
“I hate what you’ve turned me into,” she finally declared.
The tears that streamed down her cheeks made it possible for him to breathe again. She didn’t mean it. It wasn’t as if she’d ever leave him. “We’ll talk about it when I get back, okay? I promise. And…and maybe we’ll get counseling.” She’d been begging him to go to a therapist for more than a year. Maybe if he gave her that hope, she’d calm down and he’d be free to do what he had to do before dealing with his marriage.
“If we don’t get help, we won’t make it,” she told him dully, and turned, like a tired old hag in her sloppy sweats, to do the laundry.
Rick knew he should put his arms around her, comfort her, tell her he still loved her and offer a sincere apology. He could see how she’d feel used. When they made love, he pretended she was someone else, someone more attractive. And lately that someone had been Peyton. Fantasizing about another woman wasn’t the best thing for their relationship. He owed Mercedes more. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch her right now. He kept seeing Peyton’s bright eyes, beautiful face and perfect figure, and the contrast between them was just too great; he was losing all desire for his own wife.
Or maybe it was Mercedes’s fault for not taking better care of herself. If she was more attractive, he’d want her—as long as she could stop acting like a bitch when he needed a little understanding.
Regardless, they’d have to solve their problems later. If he didn’t make this flight, Laurel might not survive the night. Then he wouldn’t have the option to quit; he’d be fired.
“Listen, I—I’ll call you later, okay? I wouldn’t go tonight if I had any choice, but…something big is going on at work. Something that came down from the governor himself. This isn’t optional. It’s flattering that they’ve chosen me to implement it. And I would’ve told you I had to leave except…I knew it would upset you and I didn’t want to deal with the backlash. You can understand that, can’t you? I’m so tired of fighting.”
“You can’t be any more tired of it than I am,” she said.
“Daddy?” Ruby came to their bedroom. “You’re leaving again?” she asked, and the disappointment in her voice and on her face so mirrored her mother’s he could barely bring himself to swipe a kiss across her cheek.
“I’ll be back soon, princess,” he said, and went to tell his other daughter goodbye.
7
Peyton wanted to know more about the crime for which Virgil Skinner had lost fourteen years of his life. She also wanted to know more about his mother and his uncle and what they’d done to help or hurt him.
Figuring there had to be some details about him in the media, a piece on his exoneration if not the crime, she went online and began to search. Because he’d been incarcerated in Colorado, she first visited the website of the Denver Post and was pleasantly surprised to find an article dated two weeks ago.
Convicted Murderer Exonerated
After Fourteen Years
Virgil Skinner, thirty-two, was only eighteen when he was convicted for the murder of his stepfather, Martin Crawley, who was forty-six at the time. Given a life sentence for shooting Crawley with Crawley’s own gun, which was kept in the house, Skinner wasn’t expected to see a parole board for thirty years.
Enter Innocent America, an organization based in Los Angeles dedicated to freeing Americans wrongly convicted of crimes. “There are other organizations dedicated to exonerating, almost exclusively through DNA testing, wrongly convicted individuals,” said Lisa Higgleby, staff attorney for IA. “We’re here for all the rest. Barring DNA proof, it’s very difficult to get a conviction overturned, but a far greater percentage of people are faced with this type of case than one that can be cleared through the use of science.” According to Higgleby, the primary causes of wrongful conviction include witness misidentification, an incompetent or inadequate defense, the use of jailhouse informants and prosecutorial/police misconduct or mistakes.
For Skinner, however, it was the testimony of the one person he should have been able to trust—his mother—that sealed his fate. “If not for the way my mother protected my uncle, and herself, my brother would not have gone to prison and lost such a big chunk of his life,” said Laurel Hodges, Skinner’s sister, a divorced mother of two who has fought diligently for her brother’s freedom. It was Hodges who contacted Innocent America and convinced them to take a look at his case.
“Laurel’s faith in her brother was unyielding. I absolutely couldn’t tell her no,” said Higgleby. “But this case would never have reached a happy resolution without Geraldine Lawson.” Ex-wife to Skinner’s uncle, Lawson came forward with information about the night Crawley was killed that caused police to reopen the investigation.
Gary Lawson has since been charged with Martin Crawley’s murder and is being held without bail in Los Angeles while awaiting trial. Skinner’s own mother is suspected of asking her brother to carry out the murder, but no charges have yet been filed against her.
Comfortably dressed in sweats again now that she was back from taking Virgil to the motel, Peyton read the article twice, then searched the internet with Ellen Crawley and Ellen Lawson, in case she’d gone back to her maiden name, Geraldine Lawson, Martin Crawley, Virgil Skinner, even Laurel Hodges as keywords. But other than a short piece in the L.A. Times mentioning Ellen and Gary’s implication in the fourteen-year-old shooting, she came up empty-handed. During regular business hours, she could probably get hold of someone in the federal system who might agree to run his prisoner ID number. But since he’d been released, that might not give her much. She already knew where he’d been incarcerated, at least at the end of his sentence, and for how long. What she wanted was the rest of Virgil’s story….
Leaning back, she glanced at the clock. Nearly nine. Not terribly late. She wondered if she’d be able to reach Wallace. She hadn’t planned to tell him that she knew Bennett wasn’t who she’d been told he was. But now that Rick had left Crescent City, maybe they could have a private conversation. She had Wallace’s cell number in her electronic phonebook. He’d given it to her more than a month ago, when they’d met for dinner to discuss the growing gang problem. He hadn’t suggested anything like what they were doing with Virgil, but she guessed he’d been thinking about developing Operation Inside even then.
She brought up his contact information while walking into the living room, where she could pace in front of the wall of windows that looked out onto the dark ocean.
He answered almost immediately. “Don’t tell me something’s wrong.”
She realized what he must’ve thought, hearing from her so late and so unexpectedly. “No, nothing.”
“Then what’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“At nine o’clock on a Saturday night?”
“Sorry, but I’m glad you’re available.”
“I’m not…not really. I’m at the airport, waiting in the security line. You’ve got maybe ten minutes. So what’s going on? Is it Bennett?”
“Don’t you mean Skinner?”
He went silent. Then he said, “How’d you find out?”
Being purposely vague to avoid an outright lie, she kept it simple. “I did some research.”
He didn’t question her further. Was it because he knew he hadn’t put any work into that sketchy bio? “Skinner’s the one who wanted to use a false name,” he explained. “I was just trying to accommodate him, for safety reasons.”
His safety wasn’t worth doing a better job?
“Otherwise, I would’ve told you.”
She stared up at the stars, which seemed far brighter here on the coast than they ever had in Sacramento. “I see.”
“Are you…upset?”
“No, but I do feel entitled to some answers.”
Obviously relieved that she was taking his deception so well, he became less stressed and more congenial. “What do you want to know?”
“Why don’t we start with this—why was he tried in the federal system? Was it only because of tougher sentencing? Or was there more?”
“As far as I know, that was it.”
As Virgil had indicated. “That was a consideration for an eighteen-year-old boy?”
“A kid who’d murdered his stepfather in cold blood. Or so they believed.”
“It sucks to be wrong when you’ve thrown the book at someone, doesn’t it?” She knew it wasn’t Rick’s mistake, but she couldn’t help blaming him because she could tell he didn’t really care what had happened to Skinner.
“Cut the sarcasm, Peyton. How about feeling sorry for the victim and the victim’s family for a change?”
The typical security announcement came over the PA in the background. She waited before continuing, so he’d be able to hear her. “Why do I have to choose between them? In this case, the ‘perpetrator’ was as much a victim as anyone else.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not social workers. And if it makes you feel any better, the fact that Skinner was charged federally could turn out to be very fortunate for him.”
Only Wallace could shrug off so many years of someone else’s pain. “How can any of this turn out to be fortunate for him?”
“When it’s over, he’ll stand to receive $700,000.”
Rick was referring to the Justice for All Act, which provided settlements to those proven to be falsely imprisoned. But $700,000, as large as it sounded in a lump sum, wasn’t a lot. Time served was one thing; the experiences Virgil would never forget and how they’d shape his future was another.
“If he’d stayed in the state system, he’d get quite a bit less,” Wallace was saying. “At one hundred bucks a day, California pays more than most states. But that’s still a couple hundred thousand less than what he should get from the feds.”
He’ll stand to receive… Should get from the feds… Wallace wasn’t making any promises, and Peyton knew why. A lot could happen before that sum was ever paid. Even without all the complications of Virgil’s current predicament, even if he’d never acted out in prison, there was a possibility the money would never come. The government could appeal it, force him to fight an extended legal battle. She’d seen compensation funds tied up for years. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Oh, shit. You drive me nuts, you know that?”
She wanted to ask, Why? Because I have a conscience? but knew that would be going too far. Instead, she tried to remain on topic. “I’m just saying Skinner’s sister could probably use the money.”
“You’re saying it to the wrong person. I have no power in the federal system. You know that.”
“Whoever negotiated this deal—the director or the governor—might be able to grease the way.”
“Maybe they’re not too inclined to stick their necks out. He went in an innocent boy, but he didn’t play nice with others while he was inside. He’s a loose cannon. The only reason he’s remotely pliable is because of his sister.”
The stab of defensiveness she felt further irritated Peyton. “Wouldn’t you be bitter?”
“Hey, I’m touched by your desire to champion the underdog, but I don’t have time for it today. I’m the facilitator, not the decision maker.”
He had the ear of the decision maker, though. He just didn’t care.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“Wait! What’d he do?” Peyton made it a habit not to read C-files, if she could help it. Knowing what a convict had done made it more difficult not to judge or fear. But she was too curious about Skinner; she had to ask.
“Our boy was pretty handy with a blade.”
Her mind flashed to the knife Skinner had held to her throat. She wondered if Wallace even knew he had it, and guessed not. “He killed another inmate?”
“Two to be precise.”
“Two?” she repeated, shocked in spite of her expectations.
“You ask Skinner, he’ll tell you it was self-defense. They jumped him. But there are witnesses who claim otherwise.”
Thinking of what she’d just read and had already known—that jailhouse witnesses were one of the reasons a certain percentage of innocent people were locked up—she had to ask, “Reliable witnesses?”
“Depends on who you talk to. But he shouldn’t have had a shank to begin with.”
Maybe he didn’t feel safe. Maybe he knew he might get jumped…. “Was he ever charged?”
“No.”
Then the D.A. didn’t have enough evidence for a conviction. But she was willing to bet they’d threatened to bring charges. “Someone offered him a deal?”
“If he turned informant and agreed to take down the Hells Fury, the past would stay in the past.”
“I see. And if he didn’t, he’d face the possibility of another trial.”
“That’s right. Even if he hired a good attorney and was able to avoid more prison time, he’d still have a record—”
“If they managed to convict him.”
He ignored her interruption. “And little hope of compensation for time already served. That’s no place to start a new life.”
No, it wasn’t. She headed to the kitchen, washed an apple and took it into the living room. “He’s not doing this for the compensation money, you know.”
“Like I said, his sister’s the only reason he’s tractable.”
“Is she in real danger?”
“As real as it gets. Skinner could help the authorities get convictions against most of The Crew. But he won’t do it. He has this…twisted sense of honor. Says he won’t break his word or stab his friends in the back for any reason.”
Skinner’s “twisted” honor seemed more admirable than what she’d seen of Wallace’s, but she choked back what she wanted to say and took advantage of the chance to gather more information.
“Then why are they worried?”
“They can’t trust that. They have to assume the worst. And they don’t let anyone walk away.”
“What I don’t get is this—how did the CDCR get hold of him?”
“We had a problem. The feds had a solution. We don’t work in a vacuum.”
Security asked him for his ID. She waited for him to deal with that before continuing. “So…what’s happening here is a favor, a loaner, from the feds?”
“It’s basically a way for everyone to get what they want.”
The noise level surrounding him grew louder; she guessed he’d reached the X-ray machines. “At Skinner’s expense.”
“No, not at his expense. He’s getting something out of it, too.”
“A promise to forget what he might or might not have done in prison. And maybe some money.”
“I don’t know what all is involved. The secretary didn’t give me details. Anything else? Because I’ve got to go. I’ll miss my flight if I don’t hustle.”
“Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
A fresh surge of jostling came across the line. “Fischer.”
“What about him?”
She threw the apple into the air and caught it. “He doesn’t know Bennett isn’t Bennett.”
“Your point?”
“I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason Skinner requested it in the first place. Safety. The fewer people who know his real name, the better off he’ll be.” And the better able she’d be to protect him.
“Go ahead and go around me,” she heard him say, and imagined him stepping out of line. “Now that you know, I’m not sure that’s the best way to proceed.”
He was already thinking about how it might reflect on him if the truth surfaced later. Always looking out for himself…. “Weren’t you the one talking about how easily word of this could leak? If the Hells Fury figure out that something suspicious is going on, even if there’s no name associated with it, no specific target they can go after, they’ll be defensive and more secretive than ever, which will only make his job harder.”
“You’re saying we can’t trust Fischer?”
“I’m saying he’ll tell Frank and Joe, and who knows how many they might confide in. Even if they share it with just their wives it could get around. You know what Crescent City is like. Shop talk. Everywhere. At Little League. At the hair salon. At the grocery store. I want to give Bennett—Skinner—what he was hoping to achieve by using a false identity to begin with, that’s all.”
“But if Fischer finds out and starts to raise hell…”
“He won’t.”
“Find out? Or raise hell?” he asked dryly.
Two squirrels zipped along her deck. “If he doesn’t find out, he won’t have any reason to raise hell.”
Wallace told some other people to go around him. “Fine. Keep it to yourself if that’s what you want,” he said. “But if it comes out later that you knew all along and he gets mad because I didn’t tell him, I’ll explain that you were the one who decided not to pass on the information.”
“Fine. Save your own ass,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect more from you.” She’d never spoken to him like that before. The words had tumbled out before she could stop them.
He bristled just as she expected. “Welcome to the real world. You want to work in corrections you’ll have stand on the front lines like the rest of us.” As if he’d ever been on the front lines. The son of a congressman, he’d gotten a leg up thanks to friends of Daddy’s; he’d never actually worked in a prison. “I have no problem with that,” she said. “Fischer put me in charge of this, anyway.”
There was a slight pause as he digested what she’d told him, but he didn’t respond to it. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he said, and then he was gone.
8
It was going to be a long night. After spending a couple of hours at the water’s edge, where he’d eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while staring out to sea, Virgil returned to his motel room and settled in with the TV on and Peyton’s files at hand. He figured he’d study until he was too tired to continue and, eventually, he might be able to sleep. He knew how to survive an endless night. He’d endured plenty of them in prison. Until he’d managed to establish himself in the pecking order, he’d been so terrified he’d scarcely dared close his eyes. Only by refusing to back down, even if he was getting his ass kicked, had he earned any respect.
If he could adapt to that environment, he could adapt to anything, couldn’t he? One would think so. But all the coping skills he’d developed wouldn’t transfer to this latest challenge. Getting out had filled him with too much hope. Hope that he’d be able to break the grip The Crew had on him. Hope that he could forget the past decade and a half and live a normal life. Hope that his sister would be safe, that she could raise her children in peace.
And that wasn’t all he wanted. Not since meeting Peyton Adams. She’d entered his mind so many times since she’d dropped him off, it made him angry with himself and with her. All through dinner, such as it was, he’d been thinking about how soft her skin had looked—especially when she had her hair slicked back and was wearing that no-nonsense business suit—how tempting he found the curves beneath her tight-fitting sweater and those faded blue jeans, and how much he admired her basic decency. She wasn’t like the other wardens and C.O.s he’d met. Some of them were good people, too. Eddie Glover had made a world of difference for him at Florence. But Peyton had a certain sensibility no one else possessed….
He craved more—of her time, her attention, her—but he knew that wouldn’t be wise for either of them.
How had he let her get under his skin so quickly?
Maybe that wasn’t too odd. Even Wallace found her attractive. He’d mentioned how pretty she was before they’d met her at the library, had joked about wanting to get in her pants. He’d obviously thought talking so crudely was the best way to relate to an ex-con, but Virgil hadn’t been impressed.
The phone rang.
Hoping it was his sister, or Wallace calling with an update, he grabbed the handset. “Hello?”
“Is Hal Geribaldi there?”
“Who?”
“Hal.”
Virgil racked his brain, trying to figure out if he recognized the voice. He didn’t, but that brought little relief. “How did you get this number?”
“Isn’t this the Redwood Inn? Room fourteen?”
“No.”
“Sorry, man.”
Virgil disconnected, then sat staring at the phone. Was it really a wrong number? Or had someone used it to confirm that he was in the room?
He pictured the caller standing next to Pointblank Thompson, a man who’d gotten his nickname by shooting a cop at close range, or Pretty Boy McCready, who’d gotten the name from his good looks. Imagined this stranger, whoever he was, holding the phone so they could hear his voice. Imagined Pretty Boy, a former cell mate, nodding once to signify that they’d found him. And wondered if someone from The Crew would be knocking on his door.
Were they coming for him? Already?
It was possible. He’d been out five days and hadn’t made contact. They had to assume trouble, had to have started searching; they’d grown nervous way back when his exoneration was only a possibility. That was when they’d begun tailing Laurel, just in case he decided to break away. They were afraid a “lifeboat,” as they called an exoneration, might lure him into a legal life. They were also afraid of what he knew and what he’d tell.
But they didn’t need to worry about what he’d say. So far Virgil had refused to snitch on anyone. He understood all the arguments for ratting out those he’d once considered friends. Because of their criminal activities, he’d be doing society a favor, et cetera. He didn’t care. The authorities would have to find someone else to inform on The Crew. Although his former brothers would do their damnedest to take him out, his personal code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to turn traitor.
He’d soon be providing intel on the Hells Fury, but he didn’t view that in the same light. He hadn’t made them any promises. Perhaps the distinction was a bit blurry, but as crazy as his rationale sometimes sounded, even to him, this was the only way he could save Laurel, get out of The Crew and be able to live with himself when it was all over.
If The Crew hurt Laurel, however, he’d forget about the delicate balance he was trying to achieve. Redemption wouldn’t matter. Starting over wouldn’t matter. His future wouldn’t matter. He’d scrap all his good intentions and make their destruction his final mission.
His life had been a tug-of-war from the beginning, hadn’t it? Thanks to his mother and uncle. Maybe he was never meant to escape what they’d done. Maybe, in the end, he’d become what other people had, for all these years, believed him to be. And maybe his actions would lead him straight back to prison, if he didn’t get killed along the way. But at least if he went to prison a second time, he’d deserve to be locked up.
Climbing off the bed, he went to his duffel bag, pulled a slip of paper from the zippered pouch on one side and studied the phone number scrawled across it. Pretty Boy’s number since he’d gotten out of prison. Virgil was tempted to call him, to tell him that as long as Laurel was okay he wouldn’t nark on anyone. He could get Pretty Boy to buy it. But even if Pretty Boy managed to convince Horse and Shady, the man who was really calling the shots, the gang couldn’t allow him to disrespect them by walking off unscathed.
Just in case they were scrambling and hadn’t yet decided how to react to his sudden disappearance, Virgil dared not call. Doing so might make them move on Laurel more quickly than they otherwise would. He wanted to give Wallace as much time as possible to get her to a safe place.
With a sigh, he tossed the number on the desk and stepped over to the window, where he held the drapes so he could peer out.
Fog made it difficult to see the parking lot, but a car idled in front of the lobby, its headlights boring holes in the mist. That car seemed suspect. But everything seemed suspect. He’d been living without trust for too long, had lost the ability to feel safe.
The phone rang again. Still leery, he stood to one side of the window as he answered. “’Lo?”
“Virgil?”
It was Peyton. Letting go of his breath, he sank onto the bed. “Yes?”
“You okay?”
He pictured that car, wondered if he had any reason to worry. “Fine, why?”
“I thought you’d be sleeping.”
“You were trying to wake me up?”
“Since we’ve become friends, I knew you wouldn’t care.”
She was teasing, and now that she was at a safe distance, he welcomed the distraction. It relieved the tension inside him and gave him a chance to reassure himself that The Crew wasn’t outside waiting. “Am I to assume you regret your earlier decision?” he asked.
“What earlier decision?”
“To take me back to the motel?”
“That was your decision. I would’ve been happy to feed you.”
“I was more interested in dessert.”
She ignored that comment. “I just spoke to Wallace.”
His hand tightened on the phone. “Is Laurel okay?”
“He was getting on a plane and didn’t mention Laurel. Should he have?”
“He’s supposed to be taking care of her.”
“Then that’s where he’s going. Trust me, he doesn’t want to screw up. He has big plans for his future.”
The comments Wallace had made about Peyton rose in his mind again. Wait till you see her. She is so hot. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of that. “In more ways than one.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t like Wallace?”
“Not particularly.” He got up to check the window, saw the same car sitting in the parking lot. Surely it didn’t take more than a few minutes to rent a room…. “Why not?”
“A lot of reasons. But I don’t care who or what he is as long as he keeps his word. He will keep his word, won’t he?”
She hesitated. “He…should.”
“You don’t sound too certain.”
“I can’t promise what’s out of my control, Virgil.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re worried about this operation, isn’t it? You know they don’t expect me to come out of it alive.” No response.
“It’s a pretty smart plan, really. If I get killed, they won’t have to pay me the money they owe me. Easy way to save a large sum without risking one of their own people.”
“I’m positive that’s not true. No one’s thinking any such thing. And even if they are, you’ll get the money.”
In other words, he’d live to see the day. He could tell she planned to ensure it. But he wasn’t convinced she’d be able to make much of a difference. What went down in prison tended to happen very fast and not right under the nose of the warden or the chief deputy warden, either.
But he didn’t say that. It felt good to have someone on his side. Somehow, he believed Peyton cared about his well-being, that she was sincere even though it would serve her better to look out for her own interests.
“I told Wallace, by the way,” she said.
“Told him what?”
“That I’m aware of who you really are.”
He checked the window again. Car still there. “Why’d you do that?”
“I wanted more information.”
“On…?”
“You.”
“Did you get it?”
“I think so.”
“And now you know all my darkest secrets.”
“I know the basics.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I initially said I’d keep it to myself. But I felt it was only fair to inform you that I’d changed my mind.”
Footsteps sounded outside on the walkway—the footsteps of more than one person, moving fast. “We’ll have to talk later,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” She’d heard the tension in his voice, but he didn’t explain. There was no time. Dropping the phone, he grabbed the knife he’d stolen from the restaurant. A steak knife wouldn’t offer much protection, not from two men toting guns, but he could only use what he had.
Spine to the wall, he waited to see if whoever was coming would kick in the door.
