James Swain - The Program

“What kind of delay is there?”

“It depends upon how fast the stenographer types. There’s usually no more than a ninety second lapse.”

“How will we know which conversation is Crutch’s?”

“Two things will tell us. Crutch will be calling Broward County. His call will either have a 954 or 754 area code. And, he’s the only inmate using a cell phone who isn’t a drug dealer, so what he says will give him away.”

“Will you trace the call?”

“Yes. A team of FBI agents is standing by in Broward.”

“Sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The two men fell silent. They both knew what came next. Lightning flashed in the windows and the rumble of thunder shook the building. Fifteen minutes later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Wood, and he sounded furious.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“Drake is in my car,” Wood said. “He changed his story.”

“Jesus Christ. I’ll be right down.”

There was no fast way out of the prison. Linderman left Jenkins’ office and was processed through the main building. He reached the parking lot five minutes later. His chest was heaving as he walked through the puddles. He wanted to rip Drake’s head off, only Drake was too dumb to understand how dangerous a changed story could be. A single slip-up or suspicion and someone could get killed.

Wood’s van was parked with its headlights on. Drake sat in the passenger seat with a blank look on his face. Linderman banged on the passenger window.

“Get out of the car,” Linderman shouted over the storm.

Drake climbed out. He stood in the pouring rain with a pitiful look on his face. Linderman grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“Tell me why you changed your story,” he said.

“I’m sorry… I just forgot.”

“Tell me what you said.”

Drake cowered in fear as lightening cracked the night sky. “I saw Thunder in the mess hall. He was making snacks for the night guards. He delivers the cell phones the same time he delivers the snacks. He asked about my face. I got tongue-tied and forgot my story. I told him I’d fallen asleep driving home, and hit a tree.”

“Did he buy it?”

“I guess.”

“Did he ask you about the phones?”

“Yeah. I gave him the bag, and he said “New phones?’ and I told him the old ones got destroyed in the wreck. He asked me if I was going to charge him more to pay for them. I told him I was thinking about it.”

“Was that the end of the conversation?”

“Yeah. I left right after that.”

“You’re sure you didn’t say anything else to him?”

“Positive. Oh, wait a minute…”

“What?”

“Shit. I can’t believe it.”

“ What? ”

“I forgot to get the money.”

Linderman nearly hit him. Thunder had run a street gang. He would piece the puzzle together – Drake’s busted up face, the brand new cell phones, Drake forgetting to get paid – and realize that Drake was running scared, and working with the law.

“Go back and get the money,” Linderman said.

Drake’s eyes went wide. He was soaking wet and looked like a scared dog.

“Say no, and the deal is off,” Linderman told him. “We’ll take you back to your house, and leave you there.”

“No Arizona?”

“No Arizona. That’s the price for screwing up.”

A storm cloud opened up directly overhead, the rain coming down so hard that Linderman could hardly see the shivering figure standing directly in front of him.

“All right,” Drake said.

Drake went back inside the prison. Linderman climbed into the van and sat with Wood. Still breathing hard, he watched the storm rage around them.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Wood said.

Linderman did as well, but said nothing. He had long ago accepted that bad feelings were part of his work, and would only go away the day he turned in his badge.

Drake reappeared and tried to get in the car. Linderman got out, and made him stand in the rain. He was not going to have a conversation with Drake without looking him in the eye. It was the only way to gauge if Drake was telling the truth.

“Tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out,” Linderman said.

“Thunder was still in the cafeteria. I got the money and left,” Drake said.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him I wanted my dough.”

“How did he react?”

“He just laughed, said I had shit for brains.”

“He wasn’t suspicious?”

“Hell, no. I’ve forgotten the money before.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you Eric?”

“I swear, I’m telling you the truth.”

He stuck out his hand. “Give it to me. All of it.”

Drake removed a rolled up tube of bills from the pocket of his shirt. Linderman tore the rubber bands away and counted the money. It was all there.

“Is the deal still on? Am I still going to Arizona?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Linderman said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Crutch lay on his cot, listening to the storm.

He thought about a girl he’d fallen in love with in the tenth grade. Lee Chambers, with shoulder-length blond hair and shimmering blue eyes, had sat behind him in science class, and was the most perfect creature he’d ever seen. They’d become friends, and had started eating lunch together in the school cafeteria. His feelings for her were only real feelings that he’d ever felt toward another human being that did not involve violence or death. It had made him think there was still hope for him.

One summer, he’d gone away to camp. Upon returning home, he had discovered that Lee’s family had moved away. Heartbroken, he’d gone to his mother for help. His mother didn’t know where the Chambers family had gone, and had told Crutch that he’d just have to adjust to the loss.

Crutch had cried for days. He could not stop thinking about his mother’s response. Another mother might have helped him get Lee’s forwarding address, and encourage him to form a pen-pal relationship. Not dear old mom. She had chosen to crush him instead.

That was when he’d started hearing a voice inside his head.

Kill the bitch , the voice had said.

The voice would not go away. A few months later, he had killed his mother and three sisters at the dining room table. That was when he’d discovered the beauty of killing, and the equitable sharing of unendurable loss, and suffering.

The steel door leading into the cellblock opened, and light flooded the cellblock. A night guard entered, and stood in the center of the cellblock with his arms crossed.

Thunder shuffled in behind the guard, carrying a bag of cell phones. Thunder was a huge Latino, his face dotted with scars and cryptic tattoos. He went to Leon’s cell first, and handed the black inmate his cell phone.

Crutch gripped the bars in sweaty anticipation. Prison life was defined by waiting. Waiting for meals, waiting to be let out in the yard, waiting to hear from lawyers. The timetable was always someone else’s. Tonight, it was Thunder’s.

“Yo peckerwood, how’s it hanging?” Thunder said, coming to his cell.

“Big and long,” Crutch replied.

“Glad to hear it.”

Crutch stuck his hand through the bars. Thunder slapped the cell phone onto his palm. The moment it touched his skin, Crutch knew something was different.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s new.”

“My source got into a wreck, smashed up the old ones. He had to buy new phones.”

Crutch brought the new phone up to his face. It was a Nokia. He flipped it open and studied the keypad. The numbers looked bigger.