Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

AT 12:50 ON WEDNESDAY afternoon, I reached under the mattress in the master bedroom of my state-appointed home on the grounds of Green Haven Prison. As luck or providence would have it, the pistol was still there. Even though the mattress had been left askew and the underside searched, it hadn’t been searched thoroughly. Maybe Pelton’s men assumed no one would hide anything as obvious as a hand cannon under the mattress. On the other hand, maybe they hadn’t searched under the mattress at all.

I gripped the.45 and depressed the latch with my thumb so that the magazine slipped out into my left hand. Still fully loaded, I slammed the magazine home and cocked a round into the chamber. Then I gave the pistol a quick polish by using the end of the bed sheet as a buffer. When the gunmetal was shiny, I laid the.45 flat on the bed and changed into a pair of jeans and brown cowboy boots. I slipped into a blue-jean work shirt and a charcoal blazer. Checking the safety on the.45 I shoved it, barrel first, inside my belt. Then I turned and looked at myself in the mirror above the dresser. First I looked at myself head on, at the shadowy face, the overgrown goatee, the dark hair now highlighted with shades of gray at the temples. I turned one way and then the other. With my blazer buttoned, the.45 was well hidden.

At the dresser I opened my briefcase, pulled out the number-ten-size envelope, and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans. I took my keys off the dresser and held them in my hand while I returned to the living room, pulled the curtain back just a touch, and took a quick look outside the window. I saw Chris Collins waiting for me in the center of my front lawn, her cameraman right beside her, his camera hoisted up on his right shoulder.

By now, three or four other news teams had gathered as well.

Tenacious bunch.

I would have to make a mad dash for the Toyota if I was going to get out unscathed.

I decided to use the sliding door in back, off the kitchen.

I made my way around the back of the house, past the woodpile, then the garage, until I came to the driveway in front. No one had spotted me yet, but I knew the shit would hit the fan once I attempted to unlock the Toyota. I knew I should have invested in one of those electronic locking and unlocking devices long ago.

My head was buzzing. I felt as if the whole world were about to slip out from under my feet. Then I thought, screw it, this is my house, my driveway, my ride. If I want to walk out to my truck, I have the right to do it without being harassed by the press. I took a step out from behind the wall.

“There he is,” someone said.

The bunch of them turned and looked at me.

I made a dash for the Toyota.

I didn’t have the key in the lock when Chris Collins, along with the other reporters, came running after me. “Mr. Marconi,” Collins shouted, attempting to shove a microphone in my face. “What can you tell us about the escape of cop-killer Eduard Vasquez?”

“Not now, Chris,” I said, avoiding the microphone and her eyes, attempting to jam the key into the lock.

“Mr. Marconi,” another voice screamed, “what about your arrest?”

“Keeper Marconi,” came a third voice, “how much money did you get for assisting with Vasquez’s escape?”

Oh how quickly they turn on you.

I opened the door and got in. I pressed my foot on the gas and fired the six-cylinder up. Then I threw it into reverse and resisted the temptation to run as many reporters down as I could.

THE VIGIL STRETCHED ALL the way from Bernard Mastriano’s fourth-floor room in Newburgh General, out into the hall, down the full length of the corridor, and into the waiting room where a half-dozen cameramen and photographers from newspapers and television stations were exploiting “Day number three for Bernard Mastriano, the corrections officer from Green Haven Prison mercilessly struck down while in the line of duty.”

Somebody had paid somebody an awful lot of money to allow all those media people to be there without reprisals from the hospital staff. The place was so congested that there was barely enough room for the nurses and physicians’ assistants to get through with their clipboards and their IV units on wheels.

I pressed myself through the crowd and was nearly knocked over when I read the words, WHO SHALL PROTECT OUR CHILDREN IF WE CANNOT PROTECT OURSELVES? stenciled in black letters on the large cardboard banners. I squeezed past the children carrying smaller banners that read WHO WILL PROTECT ME? in the same lettering. Under the words were drawn perfectly shaped faces with perfectly shaped teardrops coming from perfectly shaped eyes. The entire scene was surrealistic at best, as though some Hollywood director had taken over the hospital and set the scene for a movie shoot.

I squeezed past the reporters and the cameraman getting shots of the children as they stood together, packed into a far corner of the hospital wing, their faces blank, wide-eyed, and confused. I thought, who in their right minds would come up with banners like these? Who the hell would come up with slogans identifying the corrections department as the protector of all civilization? Certainly not the children. Certainly not the average citizen.

No doubt about it, somebody had definitely given somebody one hell of a payday to go to all this trouble.

Moving closer to Mastriano’s room I could see the bright portable lamps used by the cameramen. The white lights illuminated the CO, made him look like an angel. He was still on his back, but a full bandage had been applied to his head, hiding his black hair completely. An IV was attached to his right arm, just below the elbow. A plastic-and-metal chair had been placed at the head of the bed. I assumed the chair was for his mother. But now it was vacant.

Behind me stood a group of older women, two of whom were dressed in blue habits. All four of them looked at me as soon as I came into the room, but no one seemed to recognize me. They simply went on with their praying- chanting really-rosaries in hand, beads pressed tightly between thumb and forefinger, bodies straight and stiff, faces to the floor, like imitations of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary I remembered from Vasquez’s cell.

Mastriano lay on the bed facing the white ceiling-eyes closed, thick arms straight and pressed against his sides, shoulders stiff, face cleanly shaven as if his mother had just run a razor over those chubby baby cheeks. And maybe she had. A tightly tucked, baby blue blanket covered his entire torso.

I sat down in the empty chair, brought my lips to his ear. I wanted to shout out his name. I wanted to see him jump. But I acted calm and cool while the nuns went on praying and the sweat oozed out from the pores in my forehead.

“Mastriano,” I whispered. “Can you hear me, Mastriano?”

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

“I found your service revolver, Mastriano. Can you hear me, Officer Mastriano?”

I searched for a response, a twitch of a finger, a blinking of an eye, a slight trembling of the bed. I got nothing.

“I would have told you Monday, but things have gotten complicated now. Things have changed now that you’ve got your friends all around you.”

…Blessed art thou amongst women…

“I’ve got the piece, the ammo, and the key to your cuffs.”

…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

“I found all that stuff, Mastriano, and when it all comes back from the lab I’m gonna prove the only prints on it are yours and Logan’s. Do I make myself clear, Mastriano?”

…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…