Day of wrath, p.12
Day of Wrath, page 12
“Well, did you finally see him?” Gormley demanded.
“Yeah, I finally got to see him. They got a fancy deal up there where you go into a little booth and look through glass at the person you want to talk to. I had a microphone in front of me, and so did Jesse. It was strange, ya know, looking through the glass at him and talking like we was on the radio or something.”
“Jesus, you probably were,” Al Martin said. “They probably monitored every word.”
“And you think I didn’t know that, Al! Shit, man, I got a few brains.”
“Okay, what was the conversation?” Gormley asked.
Flash sat up and stretched. “I just talked to him ‘bout family things. I told him Cousin Larry was back in town and that maybe he’d see old Cousin Larry if everything went okay. I said we heard on the news that there was goin’ to be a judges’ meeting soon, and maybe if they all got together, he might get a new trial. I think he understood what I was tryin’ to tell him.”
“The cops are liable to check out that cousin business,” Gormley said.
“Then they better do a lot of checking,” Flash snorted. “Man, I’ll bet I got maybe a hundred cousins, or something near that.” He laughed. “Gots to be one of them is named Larry.”
“They may have followed you from jail,” Martin said.
Flash shook his head. “No way. After seeing Jesse, I went over to see my mamma and tol’ her everything was all right with him. Didn’t see no cops. But I went over to the neighborhood poolroom and shot a couple of games. After that I waited a bit, then drove on over here. Nobody followed me.”
“And you’re sure about the judges’ meeting and the guards?” Gormley asked.
“Unless they change the way they been doin’ it, I’m sure. You’ll have maybe one or two cops at the back entrance to the court building and at the most one or two more in the executive judge’s courtroom. That’s it. And most of them court dudes is just worn-out old coppers who have found a soft job. They ain’t exactly no candidates for a SWAT team, if you see what I mean?”
“When do they hold the meetings?”
“Usually right after court closes—about five o’clock. Mostly the meetings don’t take more than an hour.”
“We’ll have to get by those officers at the rear entrance,” Martin said. “That could be a problem.”
Gormley shook his head. “Maybe not. Suppose we went in during regular court hours and just stayed over? Do you think we’d run into trouble, Flash?”
The thin black man shrugged. “Don’t see how. There’s always somebody hanging around at that time. As long as you look like you belong, no one’s goin’ to bother you.”
Gormley nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. During the day of the meeting each of us will enter the building and wait until it closes. We’ll be in, and we won’t have to worry about getting by the guards on the first floor, only the ones in the courtroom.”
“How do we get the weapons in?” Martin asked.
“That’s easy,” Gormley replied. “You, Alice Mary, and myself will pose as lawyers. We’ll carry briefcases, big ones like the cases they carry exhibits in. And we can load up Thelma’s big purse. Between the briefcases and the purse we can get everything in that we’ll need.”
“I can carry a briefcase,” Flash said.
Gormley laughed. “No offense, Flash, but unless you get a different hairstyle and clothes, you sure don’t look much like a lawyer.”
It hit the others funny, and everyone laughed.
Except Flash Johnson.
Gormley noted the black man’s expression. The resentment was deep. Flash Johnson would have to go, Gormley decided. It was now only a question of when.
“We have some time to work all this out,” Gormley said. “We need plenty of drill. I want everyone to know exactly what to do and when and where to do it. If we carry this off, the whole world will know and respect us. But if we miss, we’ll just be so much dead meat. So, planning is everything, right?”
Flash Johnson began to formulate some plans of his own. He did not intend to end up as “dead meat.”
“It should be a night to remember,” Gormley said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
the probation officer
No one else seemed affected by the death. It had come suddenly, without any warning, but they had all shrugged it off as just another passing incident in the working day.
Frank Conroy had talked to the old man in the holding tank in the early morning. He looked bad, his wrinkled skin ashen, but he was an old, familiar customer and he seldom looked any better. He had only a few yellowed teeth remaining and he sprayed spittle when he talked. His mind was still sharp despite the years of alcohol abuse, and he tried earnestly to convince Conroy that he would be all right back on the street. But the probation officer thought otherwise and recommended a thirty-day drying-out period to the judge.
The old man had a name—Francis P. Garrity—not unlike Conroy’s. Garrity’s record as a drunk and vagrant was multipaged. He had shuffled off to the bullpen after sentencing to await the bus ride with the other prisoners to the county work farm. Then it happened. Garrity made an odd sound, the other prisoners said, fell to the tile floor, and began shaking. It was not unusual in drunks. Most of the other men just moved away from the jerking limbs, presuming it to be the onset of delirium tremens. But it wasn’t. Francis Garrity was dying. His body shook violently, and his eyes bulged as his being fought against death. He vomited and soiled himself simultaneously and then lay still, his stench filling the barred room.
The officers unlocked the cell door and rushed in, but Francis P. Garrity was already dead.
Conroy had been attracted to the cell by the commotion, although it was only momentary. The business in the courtroom never stopped, the misdemeanor cases rolled along uninterrupted even when the men from the county morgue removed the body in a canvas bag. A court officer mopped up the mess in the cell. Everything continued as if nothing had happened.
Frank Conroy could not shake a feeling of dread. A man had died, and no one even acknowledged it. They cleaned up, that was all. It was as if Francis P. Garrity had never existed, as if he were meaningless, no longer a memory in the world of the flesh or even the spirit.
Frank Conroy struggled to put the death out of his mind but without success. In the late afternoon he noticed his hands shaking slightly. He tried to think of things to do, something to occupy his time and mind, so that it wouldn’t happen again. He did not want to get drunk again. He did not wish to end up like old Garrity.
The sense of depression grew. He had tried to finish some of his probation reports, but he found he couldn’t concentrate on the files. The paperwork wouldn’t fill the void.
He dialed the medical examiner’s office and identified himself. The attendant looked up the case record. No known relatives, no known friends. An autopsy had already been performed. The cause of death was coronary occlusion with a finding of long-established heart disease. What was left after the autopsy would be held for the mandatory thirty days, and then the remains would be buried in a pauper’s grave without ceremony or service. It happened all the time.
Conroy knew why he had made the call. He had hoped the old man had a relative, just someone who might have shed a tear or had a memory, but there was nobody. He realized that Francis Garrity probably lived the typical disruptive life of an alcoholic and had long ago driven away relatives and friends, but even so, his death had seemed so cold and so very lonely.
He tried walking. The weather threatened rain, but no drops fell. He strode along, swinging his arms, inhaling deeply, hoping the exercise would drive out the devils building inside him. But it did not work. Somehow he knew it would not work.
His apartment drew him like a magnet. He knew why he wanted to go there and dreaded the impulses that seemed to control him. It was almost like physical pain. He needed relief: relief from a hostile world where men were animals, a world without promise or illusion, a place heartless and cruel.
He needed a drink, a strong one.
His apartment was comfortable but spartan. He preferred it that way. His stereo was expensive, and his record collection extensive. He liked all kinds of music, from the classics to country-and-western.
Conroy went to the compact kitchen and opened the cupboard. The bottles were as varied as his record collection. Vodkas, imported gins, and whiskeys of all kinds. Most of the bottles had been sampled, some were almost empty. He reached in and drew out an unopened fifth of expensive Kentucky bourbon, 100 proof. He needed a powerful drink.
The amber liquid spilled into the tumbler until it was half full. He had not meant to pour so much. He debated for a brief moment pouring some into another glass for later, but he knew he wouldn’t do that, that he really wanted all that whiskey, that he needed it. He dropped in two ice cubes and then filled the glass with a dash of tap water.
Walking back into the living room, he kicked off his shoes, sat in his big recliner chair, and sipped the whiskey. The very first taste seemed to restore a sense of peace within him. He knew he shouldn’t continue drinking, that his mental frame of mind made it dangerous to go on, but he continued to sip.
Frank Conroy stared at the stereo. It would be pleasant to listen to soothing music, something to ease his mind. But he knew what he was going to play.
After the last time, he had sworn he would break that damned worn record. It made him almost physically sick just to look at it, at least when he was sober. He had stuck it up in the closet, behind his hats. Out of the way, hidden, but still there.
He sipped the whiskey and let the thoughts come. There was no God, of that he was sure. No God would have let Mrs. Garrity’s fine boy die such an ignominious death. No God would have let poor Francis Garrity get into that deplorable state in the first place. No God would allow men and women to debase themselves and others the way Frank Conroy saw it happen. Just animals, thinking animals, no more, no less. He shivered and drank the rest of his drink.
He experienced a pleasant fuzziness as he padded back to the kitchen for a refill.
“You’re going to do it again, you fucking drunk,” he said softly. “You’re no better than the men in the tank. You and Garrity are one of a kind, Franky, my boy.”
He drank deeply and then turned for the closet door. The record jacket was torn. He pulled the record from it with a desire to smash the damn thing. But he couldn’t. Playing that record again would be an agony. He knew that.
He placed the recording on the turntable and turned the set on. Then he carefully lowered the player arm to a particular spot on the record.
He staggered slightly as he walked to the chair and sat down.
The music gently filled the room. The familiar music of the old Latin Mass pulsated softly. It was the Requiem Mass—the High Mass for the Dead. A true Requiem, the music and the Latin words beseeched God to forgive and forgo justice for mercy. It begged and pleaded for the dead one’s soul.
Frank Conroy drank and listened. As it began, his mind, trained as a priest’s, translated the Latin as the priest in the recording chanted the ancient and chilling “Dies irae, dies ilia.”
“Dies irae, dies ilia,” sang the voice.
Day of wrath, O Day of mourning.
“Solvet saeclum in favilla.”
Lo, the world in ashes burning.
“Teste David cum Sibylla.”
Seer and Sibyl gave the warning.
Glass in his hand, Frank Conroy began to sing along softly with the music.
His mind was a blank. He was drunk. His voice began to take on more authority, he was no longer conscious of the record. He was doing what he had done years before, chanting the Mass for the Dead.
Frank Conroy sang the Latin, his voice moving beautifully along each passage, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. At the time when the name of the departed was to be mentioned, he sang the name of Francis Garrity without even realizing that he had done it.
the information desk
Speedy Gonzales always liked to spend a few minutes with Red Mehan every day. It was a nice break in the workday. Red did all the talking. He could be amusing, and once in a while he came up with a good story or a choice piece of gossip.
“Speedy, you guys in the probation department probably know more about this than me, but have you ever noticed that crime is divided up for the rich and the poor?
“Naw, I don’t mean that justice depends on how much money you got, nothing like that, although that don’t hurt neither. What I mean is there are laws for rich people and laws for poor people.
“See, if you’re a poor man there’s a whole list of no-nos. I mean you can’t be drunk, you can’t beat up on your old lady, you can’t steal from the local grocery store. Things like that. Those are acts that only poor people do usually. I ain’t saying that occasionally a rich guy don’t take a poke at his old lady, but, hell, she ain’t going to swear out no warrant. Just isn’t done in them circles, you know. Nope, assault charges are only for the poor. It curbs their expected action, see?
“Now, the rich, they don’t get off by any means. Hell, things are just adjusted for their status. Take embezzlement. That’s a rich man’s crime. You ain’t going to find no fuckin’ pimp charged with embezzling his girl’s money. No way! That’s what he does, but that charge don’t apply to him. It’s only for bank presidents, controllers, and cashiers.
“Antitrust charges, income tax evasion—those are rich people’s crimes. I mean, society expects them to do them things, right? So they set up rules.
“And God help the poor son of a bitch who commits a crime belonging to the other class. Especially the rich people. Suppose some bank president swipes a pack of cigars from some cut-rate drugstore. Holy shit, it’s frontpage news! I mean, they really go after the son of a bitch. He’ll lose his job, his old lady will divorce him as soon as it’s possible, and his kids won’t speak to him anymore. He’s a common thief, right? He crossed the line and committed one of their crimes. Society will crucify him.
“Same with the poor man. Of course, he don’t have as many shots at the good stuff. But suppose he embezzles welfare money from the government. Hell, half the contractors doing business with the Defense Department rip it off for millions more than their contracts call for, but let the poor sucker try to squeeze a few bucks out of welfare and they’ll slam his ass into jail, and for a long time too. I mean, he can swipe things at the grocery, shoot somebody, or knock the old lady’s teeth out, and they’ll give him probation. Those crimes are consistent with his class. But let the poor bugger step into the fancy-type crimes and he’ll end up hanging off that cross too.
“No, I ain’t no Communist, but that’s just the way it is. There is one set of laws for the rich and another for the poor. Both are run as fair as possible, I suppose, but they are different.
“You know, sometimes I wish I was rich. That way I could swat the old lady and not get thrown in the clink.”
the burglar
Gus Simes sat on a bench in the common room and watched the other prisoners. All murderers, they really seemed not much different from any of the prisoners with whom he had done time. There were the usual flare-ups, but nothing more than with any other group of confined men. Jail was jail, the same for murderers as for burglars. There was a quickness to anger among these men, but even that could be explained away by the terrible pressure they were all under. The death penalty hung over them all. Certainly that grim prospect was never far from his own thoughts. He imagined it was the same for the others.
He tried to shake the fear, to free his mind so that he could figure a way out. There had to be some solution.
The legality of the state’s new death penalty was currently being challenged. It was all up to the state’s supreme court. Like the other prisoners, Simes now closely followed every legal step as the convicted murderer Harold Hawkins fought against being the first man to be executed under the new death law. Their lives rode with Hawkins. If Hawkins could somehow legally beat the execution law, they would all be free from that ultimate fate. But if Hawkins failed…Simes hated even to think about that.
Simes watched Johnson. The black man had changed. He seemed quiet, almost contented. He refused to share the source of his new mental attitude with Simes, but it was obvious that something he considered good was going to happen. Hagen knew. Hagen had been withdrawn, but now he too seemed relaxed and even entered into conversations within the cell block. Something was in the wind. They had promised to include him. Simes knew that most jailbreaks usually resulted in death for the principals, but it would be good to be part of their plans anyway. He might find out something useful, something he could use to bargain with the authorities for his life.
Ever-present anxiety gripped Simes. It was unfair. He had not killed anyone, yet here he was, awaiting trial for first-degree murder. His nights had turned into endless nightmares that always began with that walk to the glassed-in cubicle, then the hiss as the gas pellets sizzled in the acid, and the choking smell of the deadly gas. He always awoke shaking and sweat soaked. Every night it was the same dream, every night the same fears.
Maybe Hawkins could beat the death law. Then there would be hope.
He watched Hagen playing gin rummy with another prisoner. The man’s eyes were concentrated on the cards. He seemed to be without nerves, as if he had forgotten the fate that awaited them all. Simes looked around at the men in the dayroom. They were all going to die unless the courts overturned Hawkins’s sentence. But Hagen and Johnson seemed unconcerned.
Gus Simes was more than concerned, he was goddamned scared.
the offer
To know Harlee Simmon was to know evil. The tall black man seemed to exude evil like some after-shave lotion liberally used. His luminous black skin and great height were genetic gifts from his African forebears, giants who roamed the great plains. Although almost seven feet tall, he had an easy grace, an almost snakelike quality.
