Debts Unsettled, page 2
“Michael, it’s important we end at this point. Between now and our next session, I want you to journal observations about your friendships and relationships. At a minimum, the two who first came to mind. They sound more like acquaintances, yet you cited them as friends. If they’re available, get together with them and use the skills that make you an excellent attorney. Michael, you recovered after your experience in California. In your current law firm, you made Partner in less than three years; don’t ignore that accomplishment.”
Michael gave a weak smile.
“At the end of each day, I want you to journal what you learned from that day’s personal interactions. Is that okay with you, Michael?”
“Ending the session, or friends being more like acquaintances?”
“Ending the session and journaling your daily thoughts and observations.”
Michael clasped his hands and rested his chin on his thumbs while looking down. He shook his head, then looked up. “Yes.”
Dr. Downing leaned forward. “Your mouth says yes, but your body language tells me it’s not okay with you?”
“I was hoping you’d have a few answers today. Instead, I feel like I’m being accused of something.”
“Michael, I’m making no accusations. But I will help guide you through the self-discovery process. Then we can discuss answers, or more accurately, the actualization of mitigating your discoveries.”
He stood. “And people think attorneys use cryptic language.”
She smiled. “I’m out of town for the next six weeks, so you’ll have plenty of time for reflection. I look forward to discussing friendships, or better yet, relationships. All right?”
Michael nodded and shook her hand. “I’ll see you in six weeks.”
Michael drove toward his office, feeling like his thoughts were being tossed around in a blender; his emotions were bleeding like they were being untangled from blackberry brambles.
He jabbed his assistant’s number on his Favorites screen. His car’s speakerphone came to life.
“This is Trevor, Mr. Mays’ assistant. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Trevor, Michael here.”
“Hi, Mr. Mays.”
“Trevor, I have no appointments until after lunch, right?”
“That was correct, but your late afternoon partners’ meeting and your 2 P.M. meeting were both canceled, so other than three phone calls to return, your day is free.”
“Text me the phone messages. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Have a brilliant afternoon.”
“Thanks, Trevor.”
Given he had six weeks to work on his journal assignment, his immediate priority was to regroup from the doctor’s insights. The prescription, driving to Sisters, Oregon, to have halibut fish & chips for lunch. The result would be six hours behind the wheel. Side effects may include the recognition that he sucks at maintaining relationships. He considered that possibility as he merged onto I-5 Southbound. A random thought interrupted.
She’s taking six weeks off?
He finished the phone calls before he was thirty minutes down the road. One led to interesting, even challenging work. The other two were not profound issues.
Intellectual Property Attorney 101 level.
His calendar, during his first two years with the L.A. firm, overflowed with 101 assignments.
The third year, Michael’s cases became more stimulating. But by the end of that year, his former wife caused the firm’s partners to ask him to leave.
Move on. I will not spend five and a half hours with that cyclone in my head.
He ousted those thoughts by replaying his conversation with Dr. Downing. By the time he’d passed through Salem, and turned onto the highway to Sisters, the realization that the doctor was correct, slugged him. Other than his grandmother, he found few relationships. And those few were surface-only.
A roadside sign announced an exit in a fourth of a mile.
No reason to spend four more hours on the road rehashing what I know is true.
The exit would take him back to Salem, near the Capitol building, to a restaurant he loved.
I have better relationships with restaurants than I do with most people in my life.
He realized how pitiful that sounded.
While taking the exit, he looked to his right, across an open field. The Willamette State Penitentiary loomed behind chain link and razor-wire fencing.
His stare locked onto the prison, causing him to nearly run off the road.
Life could be worse.
3
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Still the Same Day
After lunch, Daniel told his cellmate what he had found.
The cellmate stepped back and sat on the edge of his bunk. “What difference does it make, Daniel?” He grabbed his pillow, placed it on his lap and began rubbing one of the pillow’s corners between his thumb and index finger.
The cellmate was a big man, scary-ugly and smart enough to fear Daniel and his network of enforcers. Or, as Daniel called them, part-time employees. Scary-ugly was also a part-time employee.
“Someone helped the police put me here… it must be him. He’s the same guy who hounded me over 30 years ago. He carried a device I’d never seen and haven’t seen since; I believe he used it to take pictures of me.”
Scary-ugly became wide-eyed. He looked at the floor.
He slammed his hand on top of his bald head. “That means, somehow, he traveled back in time. That ain’t possible, right? Maybe it was his daddy you seen. I mean, I seen boys who look just like their daddies.”
Daniel stood, paced, and talked out loud to himself. “That could be, but why was he always on the sideline? Each time, he was watching Deborah Mays and her son from a distance.”
“Maybe his daddy was shy. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye peeled but didn’t like crowds, or people.”
Daniel’s gaze slashed at Scary-ugly. “Stop interrupting my thoughts.”
But Daniel’s thoughts were taking him nowhere. He leaned against a wall and gazed into the past. “I guess I’ll never find out short of time travel being discovered.”
Scary-ugly had recoiled, wishing he could take back his comments. While withdrawing farther onto his bunk, Daniel’s last sentence registered. He blurted out, “Hey, there’s a dude in here who says he’s innocent—”
Daniel cut him off. “Don’t we all?”
Scary-Ugly hugged his pillow tighter, pleading, “Let me finish, Daniel. It might be something.” He retreated farther onto his bunk until the concrete block wall stopped him. “This dude claims he used a book to travel back in time. It’s a convincing story, man. Most dudes laugh at him, but I’ve listened to him tell it… probably ten times. It never changes.”
“A book?” Daniel’s full attention fell on his cellmate. “Michael Mays, or whoever it was, carried a book. What’s the guy’s name?”
“Russell. I never heard his last name.”
Daniel swung his feet up onto his bunk and laid back. “Point him out at dinner.”
As Daniel drifted off, clanking sounds startled him. “Get up, Daniel. The Warden wants to see you.” Again, the guard hit the cell’s doorjamb with his baton.
Daniel sat up, placed his feet on the floor, and glared at the guard. “Hit the doorjamb again.”
Scary-ugly sat up and also glared. But his glare was scary-ugly.
The guard backed away.
Daniel picked up his shirt, shook it out, brushed off lint from the left sleeve, then put it on as he walked through his cell’s doorway and into the hallway. The guard pulled out handcuffs.
“Lead the way,” Daniel scowled and buttoned his shirt as he followed.
As they neared the Warden’s office, the guard pointed to an oak banker’s chair outside the office doorway. Daniel glanced at him but continued walking straight through the Warden’s open door. The guard moved to stop him. The Warden held up his hand. “It’s okay, Jim. Please close the door.”
The Warden’s office had two large bookcases stuffed with books. All but those on a shelf in the bookcase closest to his desk showed no signs of wear. Those closest were well-worn policy manuals, at the ready, waiting to pounce. He’d lined his walls with framed certificates for participating in trainings, his college diploma, and years-of-service awards.
The warden sat behind his desk, tapping the edge of a file folder in his right hand against the palm of his left hand.
Daniel sat, not waiting for an invitation.
The Warden stared at Daniel for a few seconds then stood. “Daniel… we have a problem.”
“What problem do you have, Warden?”
The Warden remained calm. “Daniel, you know we don't allow controversial material on our in-house computers.”
Daniel did not break eye contact or respond.
“Our IT people searched the library server and found disturbing photos in a file you created.”
Daniel still did not break eye contact or respond.
“Your parole hearing is tomorrow, right?”
Daniel’s head lowered and his eyes narrowed, but his stare held.
The Warden opened the file folder. He pulled out photos and laid them one-by-one on the desk until only one remained in his hand. Daniel did not shift his glare.
The Warden held up the remaining photo. It was of a partially clad woman who died from traumatic, disfiguring injuries. He slid the photo back into the envelope while saying, “What will the Parole Board think when they see these? Do you believe they will view you as rehabilitated and grant you parole?”
Daniel did not speak. Instead, he reached next to a photo on the desk and picked up a pad of yellow sticky notes. With a pen from a wooden “Years of Service” award pen holder, he wrote on a sticky note, peeled it from the pad, and stuck it on one of the photos. As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the pen and sticky note pad on the desk. The pen rolled across the photos and fell to the floor.
The Warden removed the note Daniel had written on.
He fixed his gaze on Daniel and raised the note until it came between them.
For a few seconds, he stared at the note.
Lowering it, his face had gone pale.
Panic leapt into his eyes. “Where did you get this?”
Daniel snarled. “It doesn’t matter. But if the Parole Board sees those photos,” again, lowering his head while maintaining eye contact, “I will have my employees—on the outside—pay your family a visit.”
His face contorted into a twisted smile. “Imagine your family’s photos among those on your desk.”
Without another word, Daniel stood, walked to the door, opened it, and walked out while waving to the guard. “Let’s go, Jim.”
The Warden continued to stand, staring back and forth between the yellow sticky note and the photos on the desk.
That evening, Scary-ugly pointed out Russell.
As Daniel walked toward the table, he made eye contact with the inmate sitting across from Russell and gave a side nod.
There was no hesitation. The inmate was up and gone.
Daniel placed his food tray on the stainless-steel table, sat on the attached stool, and considered Russell for a few seconds. His impression was that the guy looked slippery. A pretty-boy, and everything about him screamed huckster.
“I take it you want to talk?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said, as he used the back of his plastic spork to smear margarine on a piece of bread and took a bite. “Someone told me pieces of your story.” He chewed, while wiping the butter from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Spreading more margarine on the bread, he said, “I want to hear it for myself.”
“I know who you are, Daniel. Your reputation precedes you.”
Daniel dumped ketchup on his meatloaf. He cut off and speared a piece “My reputation is what I want it to be.” Looking back up, he shoved the meatloaf into his mouth. “I have people who build it and protect it for me.”
Russell studied Daniel for a few seconds. “Do you want details, or the Reader’s Digest version?”
“The entire story—but hold on—you're willing to tell me without bargaining? No one in here does that.”
Russell lifted his Spork. Sickly colored gelatinous gravy oozed through the Spork’s short tines. “Either I tell you the story… or eat this crap.” He studied it without emotion, dropped his Spork, and looked at Daniel. “If I keep telling it, someday, someone will believe me and help me get out of here.”
A metal food tray crashed against the concrete floor.
The clatter caused Russell to flinch.
Taking another bite of bread, Daniel gave a slight smile. “I’m listening; I might be that someone.”
Russell told of being convicted of murder and losing everything, including his wife and son.
He moved on to how he had discovered a book that caused time travel. “When I was in high school, my mother told me a story about my grandmother Doris finding my grandfather James shot to death in their garage. When she found him, he was holding a blood-soaked book.
“Not long after my mother told me the story, I was searching my grandmother’s attic, looking for stuff I might turn into beer money. One thing I found was the blood-stained book. I took it and kept it. It was my only connection to my grandfather.”
After describing the exterior of the book, he told Daniel how he discovered its powers. He told of how he had used it to travel back in time, but on his last adventure, he left it behind by mistake.
He ended his story with, “Well, that’s it. Do you believe me?”
Daniel re-positioned the piece of apple pie on his plate to make it easier to cut. “I’ve never been one to believe in things like time travel, and your story hasn’t convinced me. But I’ve learned to be careful in rejecting something out of hand, without considering it further.”
Daniel crammed a spork-load of pie into his mouth and told Russell what he had discovered during his on-line search.
“I don’t understand how I’m related to that story?”
Daniel did not allow excitement to overcome calm. “I’m not convinced you are, but the man on the law firm’s website, Michael Mays, carried a book identical to the one you described.
“How’s that possible? I lost the book.”
Daniel nodded his head slowly, while saying, “Puzzling, isn’t it? To answer that question, I have to figure out if Michael Mays is the man from 30 years ago. The only way I can do that is to get out of this hellhole.
“And when you get out, I expect you to help me get out.”
Daniel ignored Russell. He took on the look of a wolf approaching its prey. A wolf with pie crumbs on its face. Russell leaned away and retreated to the rear edge of the stool.
“If I find it was Michael Mays, and he has the book you described, I will destroy both him and the book!”
4
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Friday, October 4th
Prior to his parole hearing, Daniel met with his attorney in a small holding room. Four concrete block walls and a metal door—which had a small wired-glass window at eye level. A four-by-four-foot metal table and two metal chairs sat stark in the room.
As his attorney walked in, Daniel’s first thought was, They sent me a high school student?
Sunlit red-wine lipstick—which matched her fingernails—emphasized her full lips. Her cropped hair was platinum blonde with a hint of violet and appeared wind-blown.
Gray-violet eyes threw Daniel into a turmoil.
Or was it the black suit jacket and skirt, tailored tight, stressing she was young and fit?
Either way, it was a feeling he had not experienced in over 30 years.
Her fragrance made him want to grab her, bury his face in her hair, and breath in… slowly.
As he studied her, he fantasized about adding her photo to the Warden’s desktop.
“Daniel, my name is Sam Grant.” She removed her backpack and placed it on the floor next to the door. She pulled out several files, turned, looked up, and caught Daniel staring at her backside. As he raised his eyes, his lecherous smile caused her to step back. She tried to hide her fear, which pleased Daniel.
“Daniel…” she faltered, “I can… I can help you,” as she shook his hand with a grip strength that did not represent the weakness she felt in her gut. She looked at the files trembling in her hand. “I’ve reviewed your case and personal history.”
With none of the confidence she’d walked in with, she said, “I believe you’ll be out of here soon.”
As she laid out her strategy, her phone buzzed, causing her to jump.
Nervous as a schoolgirl. Daniel mused.
“Excuse me, I have to answer this text.”
Daniel saw no use for phones. His parents were long gone. No brothers or sisters. Maybe he’d find a use for one if paroled.
She held up her iPhone. “I apologize. My office sent a message I had to answer.”
As she lowered it, something caught Daniel’s eye. “Hold it.”
Sam saw he was looking at the back of her phone. Almost dropping it, she turned it over as if expecting to see a black widow spider.
Daniel leaned forward. “The shiny thing. Looks like an apple?”
She pointed to the back of the phone. “Oh,” she said and let out a deep breath. “That’s Apple’s logo. It’s on all of their products.”
“Does it do more than make calls?”
“More than we have time to discuss.”
“Does it take pictures?”
“Yes, great photos.”
“When were those phones first made?”
Sam tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “My brother bought one of the first models while I was in my sophomore year in college. So… 2007?”
“Sam, I can tell these questions sound strange to you, but I’ve been in here 30 years. I know nothing about phone technology.”
“How is it possible you’ve avoided smartphone technology?”
“I’ve avoided all technologies, except for our library’s computers. And people know I avoid it, so they are very careful with their conversations around me.”
Michael gave a weak smile.
“At the end of each day, I want you to journal what you learned from that day’s personal interactions. Is that okay with you, Michael?”
“Ending the session, or friends being more like acquaintances?”
“Ending the session and journaling your daily thoughts and observations.”
Michael clasped his hands and rested his chin on his thumbs while looking down. He shook his head, then looked up. “Yes.”
Dr. Downing leaned forward. “Your mouth says yes, but your body language tells me it’s not okay with you?”
“I was hoping you’d have a few answers today. Instead, I feel like I’m being accused of something.”
“Michael, I’m making no accusations. But I will help guide you through the self-discovery process. Then we can discuss answers, or more accurately, the actualization of mitigating your discoveries.”
He stood. “And people think attorneys use cryptic language.”
She smiled. “I’m out of town for the next six weeks, so you’ll have plenty of time for reflection. I look forward to discussing friendships, or better yet, relationships. All right?”
Michael nodded and shook her hand. “I’ll see you in six weeks.”
Michael drove toward his office, feeling like his thoughts were being tossed around in a blender; his emotions were bleeding like they were being untangled from blackberry brambles.
He jabbed his assistant’s number on his Favorites screen. His car’s speakerphone came to life.
“This is Trevor, Mr. Mays’ assistant. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Trevor, Michael here.”
“Hi, Mr. Mays.”
“Trevor, I have no appointments until after lunch, right?”
“That was correct, but your late afternoon partners’ meeting and your 2 P.M. meeting were both canceled, so other than three phone calls to return, your day is free.”
“Text me the phone messages. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Have a brilliant afternoon.”
“Thanks, Trevor.”
Given he had six weeks to work on his journal assignment, his immediate priority was to regroup from the doctor’s insights. The prescription, driving to Sisters, Oregon, to have halibut fish & chips for lunch. The result would be six hours behind the wheel. Side effects may include the recognition that he sucks at maintaining relationships. He considered that possibility as he merged onto I-5 Southbound. A random thought interrupted.
She’s taking six weeks off?
He finished the phone calls before he was thirty minutes down the road. One led to interesting, even challenging work. The other two were not profound issues.
Intellectual Property Attorney 101 level.
His calendar, during his first two years with the L.A. firm, overflowed with 101 assignments.
The third year, Michael’s cases became more stimulating. But by the end of that year, his former wife caused the firm’s partners to ask him to leave.
Move on. I will not spend five and a half hours with that cyclone in my head.
He ousted those thoughts by replaying his conversation with Dr. Downing. By the time he’d passed through Salem, and turned onto the highway to Sisters, the realization that the doctor was correct, slugged him. Other than his grandmother, he found few relationships. And those few were surface-only.
A roadside sign announced an exit in a fourth of a mile.
No reason to spend four more hours on the road rehashing what I know is true.
The exit would take him back to Salem, near the Capitol building, to a restaurant he loved.
I have better relationships with restaurants than I do with most people in my life.
He realized how pitiful that sounded.
While taking the exit, he looked to his right, across an open field. The Willamette State Penitentiary loomed behind chain link and razor-wire fencing.
His stare locked onto the prison, causing him to nearly run off the road.
Life could be worse.
3
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Still the Same Day
After lunch, Daniel told his cellmate what he had found.
The cellmate stepped back and sat on the edge of his bunk. “What difference does it make, Daniel?” He grabbed his pillow, placed it on his lap and began rubbing one of the pillow’s corners between his thumb and index finger.
The cellmate was a big man, scary-ugly and smart enough to fear Daniel and his network of enforcers. Or, as Daniel called them, part-time employees. Scary-ugly was also a part-time employee.
“Someone helped the police put me here… it must be him. He’s the same guy who hounded me over 30 years ago. He carried a device I’d never seen and haven’t seen since; I believe he used it to take pictures of me.”
Scary-ugly became wide-eyed. He looked at the floor.
He slammed his hand on top of his bald head. “That means, somehow, he traveled back in time. That ain’t possible, right? Maybe it was his daddy you seen. I mean, I seen boys who look just like their daddies.”
Daniel stood, paced, and talked out loud to himself. “That could be, but why was he always on the sideline? Each time, he was watching Deborah Mays and her son from a distance.”
“Maybe his daddy was shy. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye peeled but didn’t like crowds, or people.”
Daniel’s gaze slashed at Scary-ugly. “Stop interrupting my thoughts.”
But Daniel’s thoughts were taking him nowhere. He leaned against a wall and gazed into the past. “I guess I’ll never find out short of time travel being discovered.”
Scary-ugly had recoiled, wishing he could take back his comments. While withdrawing farther onto his bunk, Daniel’s last sentence registered. He blurted out, “Hey, there’s a dude in here who says he’s innocent—”
Daniel cut him off. “Don’t we all?”
Scary-Ugly hugged his pillow tighter, pleading, “Let me finish, Daniel. It might be something.” He retreated farther onto his bunk until the concrete block wall stopped him. “This dude claims he used a book to travel back in time. It’s a convincing story, man. Most dudes laugh at him, but I’ve listened to him tell it… probably ten times. It never changes.”
“A book?” Daniel’s full attention fell on his cellmate. “Michael Mays, or whoever it was, carried a book. What’s the guy’s name?”
“Russell. I never heard his last name.”
Daniel swung his feet up onto his bunk and laid back. “Point him out at dinner.”
As Daniel drifted off, clanking sounds startled him. “Get up, Daniel. The Warden wants to see you.” Again, the guard hit the cell’s doorjamb with his baton.
Daniel sat up, placed his feet on the floor, and glared at the guard. “Hit the doorjamb again.”
Scary-ugly sat up and also glared. But his glare was scary-ugly.
The guard backed away.
Daniel picked up his shirt, shook it out, brushed off lint from the left sleeve, then put it on as he walked through his cell’s doorway and into the hallway. The guard pulled out handcuffs.
“Lead the way,” Daniel scowled and buttoned his shirt as he followed.
As they neared the Warden’s office, the guard pointed to an oak banker’s chair outside the office doorway. Daniel glanced at him but continued walking straight through the Warden’s open door. The guard moved to stop him. The Warden held up his hand. “It’s okay, Jim. Please close the door.”
The Warden’s office had two large bookcases stuffed with books. All but those on a shelf in the bookcase closest to his desk showed no signs of wear. Those closest were well-worn policy manuals, at the ready, waiting to pounce. He’d lined his walls with framed certificates for participating in trainings, his college diploma, and years-of-service awards.
The warden sat behind his desk, tapping the edge of a file folder in his right hand against the palm of his left hand.
Daniel sat, not waiting for an invitation.
The Warden stared at Daniel for a few seconds then stood. “Daniel… we have a problem.”
“What problem do you have, Warden?”
The Warden remained calm. “Daniel, you know we don't allow controversial material on our in-house computers.”
Daniel did not break eye contact or respond.
“Our IT people searched the library server and found disturbing photos in a file you created.”
Daniel still did not break eye contact or respond.
“Your parole hearing is tomorrow, right?”
Daniel’s head lowered and his eyes narrowed, but his stare held.
The Warden opened the file folder. He pulled out photos and laid them one-by-one on the desk until only one remained in his hand. Daniel did not shift his glare.
The Warden held up the remaining photo. It was of a partially clad woman who died from traumatic, disfiguring injuries. He slid the photo back into the envelope while saying, “What will the Parole Board think when they see these? Do you believe they will view you as rehabilitated and grant you parole?”
Daniel did not speak. Instead, he reached next to a photo on the desk and picked up a pad of yellow sticky notes. With a pen from a wooden “Years of Service” award pen holder, he wrote on a sticky note, peeled it from the pad, and stuck it on one of the photos. As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the pen and sticky note pad on the desk. The pen rolled across the photos and fell to the floor.
The Warden removed the note Daniel had written on.
He fixed his gaze on Daniel and raised the note until it came between them.
For a few seconds, he stared at the note.
Lowering it, his face had gone pale.
Panic leapt into his eyes. “Where did you get this?”
Daniel snarled. “It doesn’t matter. But if the Parole Board sees those photos,” again, lowering his head while maintaining eye contact, “I will have my employees—on the outside—pay your family a visit.”
His face contorted into a twisted smile. “Imagine your family’s photos among those on your desk.”
Without another word, Daniel stood, walked to the door, opened it, and walked out while waving to the guard. “Let’s go, Jim.”
The Warden continued to stand, staring back and forth between the yellow sticky note and the photos on the desk.
That evening, Scary-ugly pointed out Russell.
As Daniel walked toward the table, he made eye contact with the inmate sitting across from Russell and gave a side nod.
There was no hesitation. The inmate was up and gone.
Daniel placed his food tray on the stainless-steel table, sat on the attached stool, and considered Russell for a few seconds. His impression was that the guy looked slippery. A pretty-boy, and everything about him screamed huckster.
“I take it you want to talk?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said, as he used the back of his plastic spork to smear margarine on a piece of bread and took a bite. “Someone told me pieces of your story.” He chewed, while wiping the butter from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Spreading more margarine on the bread, he said, “I want to hear it for myself.”
“I know who you are, Daniel. Your reputation precedes you.”
Daniel dumped ketchup on his meatloaf. He cut off and speared a piece “My reputation is what I want it to be.” Looking back up, he shoved the meatloaf into his mouth. “I have people who build it and protect it for me.”
Russell studied Daniel for a few seconds. “Do you want details, or the Reader’s Digest version?”
“The entire story—but hold on—you're willing to tell me without bargaining? No one in here does that.”
Russell lifted his Spork. Sickly colored gelatinous gravy oozed through the Spork’s short tines. “Either I tell you the story… or eat this crap.” He studied it without emotion, dropped his Spork, and looked at Daniel. “If I keep telling it, someday, someone will believe me and help me get out of here.”
A metal food tray crashed against the concrete floor.
The clatter caused Russell to flinch.
Taking another bite of bread, Daniel gave a slight smile. “I’m listening; I might be that someone.”
Russell told of being convicted of murder and losing everything, including his wife and son.
He moved on to how he had discovered a book that caused time travel. “When I was in high school, my mother told me a story about my grandmother Doris finding my grandfather James shot to death in their garage. When she found him, he was holding a blood-soaked book.
“Not long after my mother told me the story, I was searching my grandmother’s attic, looking for stuff I might turn into beer money. One thing I found was the blood-stained book. I took it and kept it. It was my only connection to my grandfather.”
After describing the exterior of the book, he told Daniel how he discovered its powers. He told of how he had used it to travel back in time, but on his last adventure, he left it behind by mistake.
He ended his story with, “Well, that’s it. Do you believe me?”
Daniel re-positioned the piece of apple pie on his plate to make it easier to cut. “I’ve never been one to believe in things like time travel, and your story hasn’t convinced me. But I’ve learned to be careful in rejecting something out of hand, without considering it further.”
Daniel crammed a spork-load of pie into his mouth and told Russell what he had discovered during his on-line search.
“I don’t understand how I’m related to that story?”
Daniel did not allow excitement to overcome calm. “I’m not convinced you are, but the man on the law firm’s website, Michael Mays, carried a book identical to the one you described.
“How’s that possible? I lost the book.”
Daniel nodded his head slowly, while saying, “Puzzling, isn’t it? To answer that question, I have to figure out if Michael Mays is the man from 30 years ago. The only way I can do that is to get out of this hellhole.
“And when you get out, I expect you to help me get out.”
Daniel ignored Russell. He took on the look of a wolf approaching its prey. A wolf with pie crumbs on its face. Russell leaned away and retreated to the rear edge of the stool.
“If I find it was Michael Mays, and he has the book you described, I will destroy both him and the book!”
4
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Friday, October 4th
Prior to his parole hearing, Daniel met with his attorney in a small holding room. Four concrete block walls and a metal door—which had a small wired-glass window at eye level. A four-by-four-foot metal table and two metal chairs sat stark in the room.
As his attorney walked in, Daniel’s first thought was, They sent me a high school student?
Sunlit red-wine lipstick—which matched her fingernails—emphasized her full lips. Her cropped hair was platinum blonde with a hint of violet and appeared wind-blown.
Gray-violet eyes threw Daniel into a turmoil.
Or was it the black suit jacket and skirt, tailored tight, stressing she was young and fit?
Either way, it was a feeling he had not experienced in over 30 years.
Her fragrance made him want to grab her, bury his face in her hair, and breath in… slowly.
As he studied her, he fantasized about adding her photo to the Warden’s desktop.
“Daniel, my name is Sam Grant.” She removed her backpack and placed it on the floor next to the door. She pulled out several files, turned, looked up, and caught Daniel staring at her backside. As he raised his eyes, his lecherous smile caused her to step back. She tried to hide her fear, which pleased Daniel.
“Daniel…” she faltered, “I can… I can help you,” as she shook his hand with a grip strength that did not represent the weakness she felt in her gut. She looked at the files trembling in her hand. “I’ve reviewed your case and personal history.”
With none of the confidence she’d walked in with, she said, “I believe you’ll be out of here soon.”
As she laid out her strategy, her phone buzzed, causing her to jump.
Nervous as a schoolgirl. Daniel mused.
“Excuse me, I have to answer this text.”
Daniel saw no use for phones. His parents were long gone. No brothers or sisters. Maybe he’d find a use for one if paroled.
She held up her iPhone. “I apologize. My office sent a message I had to answer.”
As she lowered it, something caught Daniel’s eye. “Hold it.”
Sam saw he was looking at the back of her phone. Almost dropping it, she turned it over as if expecting to see a black widow spider.
Daniel leaned forward. “The shiny thing. Looks like an apple?”
She pointed to the back of the phone. “Oh,” she said and let out a deep breath. “That’s Apple’s logo. It’s on all of their products.”
“Does it do more than make calls?”
“More than we have time to discuss.”
“Does it take pictures?”
“Yes, great photos.”
“When were those phones first made?”
Sam tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “My brother bought one of the first models while I was in my sophomore year in college. So… 2007?”
“Sam, I can tell these questions sound strange to you, but I’ve been in here 30 years. I know nothing about phone technology.”
“How is it possible you’ve avoided smartphone technology?”
“I’ve avoided all technologies, except for our library’s computers. And people know I avoid it, so they are very careful with their conversations around me.”
