Vincent Zandri - The Innocent

“But so far, he shows no real sign of taking that kind of hit, does he?”

“Could be a blood clot, could be a basilar skull fracture, who knows.”

“For now you keep him in ICU?”

“We’ve pumped him up with some Manitol and steroids in case of brain swelling.”

“His breathing seems okay.”

“Don’t see a ventilator, do you?”

Feisty little guy, I thought. This doctor is a feisty little guy.

Together we looked at Mastriano for a second or two, like he was about to bound up, say Gotcha. He was as still and as stiff as-you guessed it-a statue. The IV dripped slowly and steadily, in sync with the rising and falling of his chest.

“But he still shows no real sign of a concussion,” I said, shaking my head.

“Just the sleeping,” the doctor said, “which, in itself, could be serious.”

We said nothing for a few more seconds, just continued staring at the motionless body. Then I said, “Doctor, can I see you out in the hall?”

“He can’t hear us,” he said, nodding toward Mastriano.

“Indulge me.” Turning for the open door.

Outside we leaned our shoulders up against the white plaster wall. The nurses and interns marched passed us, not giving us a second look.

“Doctor, is there any chance Mister Mastriano could be faking sleep? I mean, maybe he popped some sleeping pills or something.”

The doc let loose with a high-pitched nasal laugh that I assumed was intended to convey my apparent silliness.

“Listen up,” I added, “a cop killer escaped from my prison today and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

“I suppose,” he said, getting a grip on himself. “But it’s awfully tough to do for hours on end. And he’s been in ICU for some time now.”

“But it is possible?”

“Given the right conditions, I guess all things are possible. But then, it’s not unusual for a man to go into a catatonic state if properly frightened or startled. And from what I understand, that officer has been through a lot. We’ve drawn some blood. It’s being analyzed as we speak. If there are drugs involved, it’ll show up.”

“What happens next?”

“Tests, tests, and more tests.” Smiling. “That’s what we like to do here.”

“Tests for what?”

“CSF leak, concussion, epilepsy, a few other assorted maladies. We have a neurologist coming in to check out his brain, put him into an imaging machine, really get into it. We even have to test his vision.”

“Do me another favor, will you?”

He nodded and rolled his eyes in a way that told me he was sick of answering my questions.

“Make sure,” I said, loud enough for Mastriano to hear me, if he could hear me, “that I’m notified right away if the officer wakes up.”

“He’ll be with us for quite a while,” the doctor informed.

I took out my wallet, slipped out a business card, and handed it to him. Then I leaned into his ear. “Doctor,” I whispered, “let’s hope your patient makes one hell of a miraculous recovery.”

MAYBE IT HAD SOMETHING to do with having Wash Pelton on the brain. Maybe it had something to do with seeing Bernie Mastriano laid up in bed, knocked out cold without the slightest hint of injury. Maybe it had something to do with Vasquez taking off without a trace. Maybe it was all of the above. But as I walked across the massive block-shaped parking lot outside the electronic sliding-glass doors of Newburgh General, the events of the past came back to haunt me in all their timeless brilliance and horror.

Listen. In the world of the Attica survivor, memory never occurs in the past tense.

One second it’s May 1997 and the next it’s September 1971 all over again.

In my memory I am able to see Mike Norman rolled over onto all fours on the muddy floor of D-Yard, heaving his guts. My blindfold has finally been pulled away and I can see that there is nothing left in Mike’s system to throw up onto the mud and gravel. He slumps over onto his left side, his shackled legs and hands tucked up into his chest. In the yard, with the fires going and the rebel inmates chanting for blood and revenge, we are the innocent angels of the prison system. Mike’s face is soaked with sweat and dirt. The three of us-Norman, Pelton, and I-have got to stick together if only to keep each other sane. But I know Norman is fighting a losing battle. His nerves are giving out. And there are rumors about one CO who got locked in a bathroom on the main floor of the administration building while a rebel tossed in kerosene and a lit match. Another man was castrated with a shiv and crucified to the wall in G-Block. I myself have seen COs kicked to within inches of their lives. Before my blindfold was removed, I could only listen to their screams, their moans, the gurgling, and then the silence.

When an inmate walks by with a wood shank as long as a spear, I try to persuade him to remove my cuffs and shackles. My buddy is hurt, I tell him. I’ve got a right to help my buddy. Pelton tries to stand. He holds his long arms out as if the inmate will unlock the cuffs right then and there. Instead, the inmate uses the dull end of the shank like a nightstick, plows it into Wash’s gut. Wash collapses, curls into himself on the ground. I see the inmate’s leg lift behind me and I feel the steel in his toe as his boot comes down against my head.

ON THE DRIVE BACK to Green Haven, with John Coltrane playing softly on the radio, my own eyes caught my attention in the rearview mirror. The skin around my brown eyes was heavy and wrinkled. Dark bags were already beginning to form. Goatee thick and speckled with gray, widow’s peak receding above my forehead. I needed a shave. The knot of my tie had been pushed to one side of my collar. The tension was shooting through the center of my solar plexus and down the backs of my arms, tightening my triceps. Chest, arms, stomach were tight and sore, yet I hadn’t pumped iron in five full days.

It’s amazing, really, how stress affects people.

By the time I got back to the office, Val had left. My entire staff had gone home to their wives, their kids and their hot suppers. They sipped cocktails, shoes off, feet up on the coffee table, and got a charge out of the daily news read for them off the teleprompter. At least that’s the way it had been for me not too long ago. I no longer had any of those things or the woman who had given them to me, but I still had my Jamesons. And as I poured a second shot, I pushed away the paperwork that had piled up after I’d left the office that afternoon.

I felt empty inside, my stomach as vacant as Vasquez’s cell.

I sat back, put my feet up on the desk, and gazed into the darkness of my second-floor office-a darkness broken only by the white light from the desk lamp and the scattered spotlights moving across the prison grounds like hungry sharks lurking through deep, blue waters.

I took another drink of whiskey and fingered the notes filled with Val’s handwriting. Messages from the commissioner. I had no interest in talking with him right now. As I said, I had to avoid him not only because of the escape, but because of the two additional names he wanted slashed from an already diminished list of officers. I could have given him Robert Logan and Bernard Mastriano, but I still couldn’t be sure that they weren’t telling the truth about Vasquez’s escape.

The white spotlight swept across my floor.

The wall-mounted clock face showed the big hand on the twelve, little hand on the seven.

I knew Pelton would still be in his office. He would be in his office until midnight, maybe later. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch, send out for a fresh suit of clothing. Pelton had a wife, Rhonda, a small blond-haired bull terrier of a woman who acted as public relations officer for the commission-a position Wash had virtually invented for her. She was notorious for her flirting and her drinking. Pelton was notorious for the way he sometimes slapped her sober. But then, like in any bureaucracy, there were a lot of rumors in the corrections department.