Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

D.T.’s lawyer was a fighter, got a court order to have the brass ’range for him to visit his client. All they done was let D.T. talk to the lawyer on the phone, didn’t want anyone ’portant to see the hurt’en they’d put on him, turned his face black and red. The lawyer hadn’t a what’s what ’bout the murder and all. Just had good news to tell D.T.: that the courts had overturned the rape conviction, that he would be back in court in a couple of weeks. D.T. wasn’t ’cited, caught the lawyer by surprise, told him all what had happened, blew the lawyer’s wig back. He jumped right on the case, told D.T. to hang on, he would get him transferred. Oh, he should’ve been got took out the gut of the beast.

The lawyer made some waves, had them give D.T. all his property: legal documents, notepad, and stuff. Gave him his reading glasses and case; the fancy gold ink pen Ms. Prichard gave him was still in it. Mohlerson kept fucking with D.T., playing in his food, tearing up his mail, taunting him in the worst way, saying God don’t like ugly, ’plying him and Ms. Prichard was coupling up. Mohlerson had a picture of D.T.’s sister, stuck it down his pants, then bad-mouthed his mama. Said he rather see Ms. Prichard dead than with D.T.’s nigger ass and was glad he killed the filthy whore. D.T. was ’furiated, a mad dog, wanted to kill that cracker!

I was over at the graves, shining shoes, working my way to D.T., had something ’portant to tell him, had a care package for him too: snacks and hygiene stuff, snuck it in my shoeshine box, heard how they was treating him. Made it just in time and saw D.T. get his wish. He caught Mohlerson off guard, too busy rubbing D.T.’s picture ’cross his nuts, and for the last time. The kid reached ’tween the bars and got hold of Mohlerson’s shirt. Oh, drew that fancy ink pen and stabbed Mohlerson in the neck over and over, screaming, “Same thing make you laugh, make you cry!” Those blue eyes was cold, reptilian, no moist, gleam, only a blue so black, soulless.

Mohlerson fell to his knees, clutching his neck, trying to hold it together. Blood gushed out, squirting horror on the glass, spilling to the floor. He stared up from the pool of red death into D.T.’s eyes, evil and unforgiving, watching him wallow in agony, waiting fiercely for Mohlerson to die. Oh, wish I could’ve threw his carcass to the gulls.

I was ear hustling at the rotunda, heard ’em say the murder case against D.T. had been dropped. Oh, I had took the bloody ink pen from him, stuck it in my waist, and waited. . It was a good ’nuff chapter for an ending.

Monroe Correctional Complex (Monroe, Washington)

When it was announced that the Green River Killer had been apprehended, most people assumed he would be tried, convicted, and executed in short order. Based on the sheer volume of bodies he had stacked up, it was difficult to imagine any other outcome; even his legal team didn’t have much hope for him.

One of Bridgway’s junior lawyers, however, had a vision. He was just a couple of years into his career and was basically brought along to take notes, but he saw the bigger picture in a way others couldn’t, wouldn’t, or hadn’t even considered. To Martin, being the guy who saved this monster from certain execution would be an excellent springboard from which he could launch a lucrative law career. With that in mind, he began some informal discussions with a colleague in the prosecutor’s office the day he was assigned to assist on the case. It was a long process, but Martin felt certain he had the leverage to see his vision to fruition.

Mike, on the other hand, was having a run of bad luck. His identity theft ring had just been busted, and he was booked into county jail with a bail he could never raise, not to mention the prospect of ten years in prison looming ominously over him. Just in case he had some question about how mad they were at him, the guards assigned him to a cell in the highest-security section of the jail, three doors down from Gary Bridgway. He’d have to have been a complete idiot not to get that message.

When Mike called his wife from jail, he tried to avoid talking about his case. All that would do is depress her, so he casually mentioned that he was living practically next door to Gary Bridgway. Molly’s reaction was quite unexpected and caught Mike off guard. She seemed very interested in the fact that Mike was a neighbor to the most notorious serial killer in the history of Washington State.

When Mike called Molly again the next day, she almost immediately brought up Bridgway. He filled her in on the details as best he could, but there really wasn’t much to tell. They spent the majority of their lives locked in cells, so even though Bridgway was in close physical proximity, there was little opportunity to interact with him, even if Mike actually wanted to do so. Toward the end of their conversation, Molly asked Mike if he could get Bridgway’s autograph for her. Mike was repulsed by this and almost hung up, but Molly was quick to point out that Mike hadn’t exactly left her financially secure. After the cops were done seizing all of his stuff, there was almost nothing left but bills. Eventually, Molly admitted that she’d done some research and discovered that a Bridgway autograph was currently selling for four hundred bucks on the Internet. Mike ended the call, assuring her he’d see what he could do.

Meanwhile, Martin was getting close to arranging a deal, and it was time to pitch the idea to Bridgway. Seemed simple enough: trade some bodies for his life. Bridgway was screwed anyway, so what did he have to lose? After an hour talking with Bridgway, however, it seemed that the small degree of trust necessary for him to get on board with the idea was lacking. Understandably, Bridgway was leery of a trap and reluctant to agree to the deal unless his fears could be put to rest.

Bridgway had only been back from his attorney visit for a few minutes when Mike showed up at his door. When the tier porter had been caught smoking, Mike, with only a series of identity thefts on his record, was the logical choice to replace him; if the guards had to let a prisoner wander around outside of his cell, everyone was more comfortable with a guy who’d passed a bunch of bad paper than with the other, more violent prisoners on the tier. Mike was hired the same day the tier porter was fired. His first mission was to get his wife a Bridgway autograph.

The problem was, Bridgway didn’t want to sign. He found it hard to believe anyone would want his autograph for anything other than to screw him over, so he refused all of Mike’s pleas. Every day Mike would try another angle, and each time he’d get the same answer. Every evening, when Mike called Molly, he’d catch hell for failing to produce.

Tuesday afternoon, Mike had a brainstorm. He was pushing the dirty dust mop down the concrete tier when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of Bridgway’s door. It was common practice for prisoners to slip written communications through the crack in their doorjambs; the guards would eventually pick them up on their numerous daily walkthroughs. As soon as Mike saw the paper sticking out of Bridgway’s door, he quickly scanned his surroundings to see if anyone was watching him.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the paper was a store order. This was the method through which prisoners were able to purchase snacks and personal hygiene items. The procedure was to list the items one wished to purchase, then sign the bottom to authorize jail staff to take the necessary funds from the prisoner’s jail account. Mike made three more passes along the hallway, each time looking out of the corner of his eye through the small window in Bridgway’s door to see if the guy was paying any attention to him. He appeared to be reading a book, so on the next pass, Mike reached out and snatched the store order on his way by, stuffing it down the front of his coveralls in the same motion. Nobody appeared to notice. That evening, the first Bridgway autograph was in the mail to Molly.