Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

I left the house before six o'clock the next morning, picked up some coffee at Starbucks, and by six-thirty was on the interstate, heading north. I knew from having made this trip many times that it was going to take me almost three hours to cover the hundred and seventy-nine miles to Corcoran State Prison, which is located in lower Central California.

I had called ahead and talked to the visitor's custodial sergeant, told him who I was, and that I needed Truit Hickman sent over from general population to the visitor's center. After I gave him my badge number, I informed the sergeant I would be there around ten A. IM. and that I was investigating some anomalies that came up during Hickman's appeal. There was no appeal, so I kept it vague, and he seemed satisfied.

I hate the drive through the desert and since I had all day, I decided to take the more scenic, coastal route. By the time I was approaching Santa Barbara, my thoughts had again turned exclusively to Alexa. I didn't want to call her until later hoping that she'd get some needed sleep. She was running on nervous energy, and recently had been losing weight. I could see the strain on her face, the tightness around her eyes and mouth.

North of Santa Barbara I turned inland and after forty minutes drove out of the low hills into Central California. It was mostly farmland up here, but after twenty miles the fields gave way to high desert. Along the roadside, I passed an occasional saguaro cactus standing like a man at gunpoint with his hands in the air.

By nine-thirty I was nearing my destination and turned on Poplar Avenue for the eleven-and-a-half-mile stretch before hitting Central Valley Highway. I called Alexa, but was told by Ellen that she was out of the office.

"Out?" I said, concerned. "Out where?"

"She went across the street for some breakfast."

"Oh, okay. How's she doing this morning?"

"Compared to what?"

"Stick with her, Ellen. She needs our help."

"I'm trying. You too," she said.

I hung up and finally turned on to Otis Avenue.

The huge, foreboding prison loomed in the tan dust up ahead like randomly stacked chunks of gray concrete. Corcoran was ugly, like all prisons. It was built on the site of what was once Tulare Lake, the long-ago home of the Tachi Indians. The dry lake mitigated the prison's relentless, unforgiving architecture because everything out here was relentless and unforgiving. In this hopeless landscape Corcoran State Prison somehow managed to belong. Level One inmates had placed painted, white rocks along the drive and lining the visitor's parking lot. Very festive.

I found a spot, locked up, and walked under a cloudless sky to a large structure with a painted sign that read:

CALIFORNIA DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS VISITING CENTER

If everything went according to plan, Tru Hickman would have already been transferred here from Level Four, saving me a long wait.

The visitor's building, like everything else, was poured concrete with slit windows that resembled gun ports. The buildings were sending a stern message.

The inside of the CDCVC was more of the same. Brown linoleum floors, pale yellow walls, hard metal furniture that looked like it had been intentionally designed to hurt. I talked to a desk officer, showed my creds, and handed over my gun, which was locked in a gun box. He handed me a receipt and I was buzzed through a sally port into the police and attorney's waiting room, a grim little space with faded leather chairs and one window.

Thirty minutes later, a prison sergeant who looked like a college linebacker came through a door and told me to follow him. He led me through another sally port into a large visitor's room full of wood desks and chairs. There were already two prisoners with their families at opposite ends of the room. Both inmates were holding infants. Their wives each carried transparent plastic diaper bags, which were mandated by the prison visiting rules and allowed staff a clear view of the contents inside. The two families were huddled as far away from each other as possible, whispering. Large killjoy signs were posted that read:

YOU MAY HOLD HANDS ABOVE THE TABLE.

TO AVOID TRANSFER OF DRUGS

ABSOLUTELY NO KISSING.

I sat at a wooden table and waited. The two inmate families gave me a quick look, knew what I was at a glance, and further turned their backs to me.

Then, Tru Hickman came into the room, escorted by a yard bull. I'd seen his booking photo, so I certainly wasn't expecting

Jay Leno, but in person this guy was sad and pitiful. His walk was puppet gangly and loose-jointed, as if nothing really quite connected. Hips forward, elbows out, head bobbing, trailing a loser vibe. He was implausibly thin like a lot of tweakers, having spent years forgoing food in favor of meth. His jaw was undershot, his complexion pockmarked, with ears that stuck out. He had recently been beaten. There were bruises all over him and his left eye was swollen half-shut. His nose looked as if it had been broken and badly set. This kid was a target for aggression.

He sat down and immediately looked down at his hands, then started to pull at a loose thread on one of his frayed cuffs, his eyes steadfastly refusing to look up at me.

"Tru, I'm Detective Scully. I'm looking into your case. I'm here because of the letter you wrote to LAPD Internal Affairs. I was asked to talk to you by Detective Llevar. You spoke to her on the phone the day before yesterday."

" 'Kay." He continued to stare down at his cuffs, showing me the top of his head.

"Tru, you want to look up at me?"

"'Kay." He didn't look up.

"Now. You wanta look up now?"

The eyes slowly came up and found me sitting across from him. We locked gazes for a second and I saw fear and pain swimming in brown pools of confusion before his eyes darted away, then came back, then darted away again. It was as if he was taking me in, one quick little glance at a time.

"I read your letter. You need to tell me why you think you were framed. You need to start at the beginning. Walk me through it."

"Man, this is so…" Then he looked over at one of the inmates across the room. "I can't snitch people out with them in here. I'm already wearing a rat jacket. It's why I keep getting stomped on."

"This is the visiting room, Tru. They have a right to be here."

"But…"

"I drove all the way up from L. A. I'm interested in what you have to say. Forget about them. Just talk to me, okay?" He didn't speak, so I said, "Let's just start with the day of the murder. Your friend, Mike Church, came over and got into a fight with your mom. Start there."

Now his eyes finally found mine. "Ain't my fucking friend," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "That guy's like a case of the clap I can't get rid of. Been on me since tenth grade."

"You met him at the California Youth Authority, right?"

"Yeah. Pounded my ass every fuckin' mornin'. My crime was I was alive and that seemed to really piss him off."

"If he's not a friend, why was he over at your house the day your mother was killed?"

"To fuck with me. To make my life suck. That's all he ever wanted me for. He'd pop a bunch of Amies, get all 'roided out and come lookin' for my ass."

"No other reason?"

"That afternoon he said he wanted me to go buy a case of beer for him. Like I'm still his CYA yard bitch."

"That's it? That's all he wanted? Why?"

"Why? How the hell do I know? He wants my life to be shit. He'll kick my ass just to get the lint in my pocket. He's a fuckin' psycho."

"Why didn't he buy the beer himself?"

"I just told ya. He likes fucking with me. He knows my mom hates his guts. He likes to rile her up. Sometimes I wouldn't see him or his greaser gang friends for months, then all of a sudden, there he is. Back in my life like a boil on my dick. Nothing I can do about it, either."