On the Razor's Edge, page 9
Later in the afternoon, the PA summoned Mitch for a visitor. It had to be someone legal since it was not normal visiting hours. “Maybe my lawyers are finally doing something.” On entering the room, he found Ms. Conroy there again.
“We must stop meeting like this.” Mitch tried some humor, which fell flat.
“Mr. Fraser.” Ms. Conroy nodded coolly, gesturing for him to sit down.
“Actually I expected you a lot sooner than this. What’s it been? Seven months?” Mitch tried to remember.
“We found some short term funding for Lacy. But the flow has stopped, the money’s all used up.”
“I can send you another $1,500.00, but not much more. I’m not selling so well nowadays. Maybe the genre has reached a low tide.”
“What do you write?”
“Mostly garbage. But it keeps me busy, eats up the time and gets me out of these walls... in my imagination.”
“What name do you use?”
“You asked before, and I’m not going to tell you. I can do without your business. Believe me they’re nothing. The hell of it is that my better works don’t sell as well. Go figure.” Mitch made a face. “Here in Oyster Bay we make license plates for the state, mail boxes and street signs to order, and some big ones for the highways. But there’s also a cottage industry. There’s a guy in here stuffing envelopes and sealing them and sending them out by the truckload. He makes enough to help out his daughter who has trouble feeding her kids on the outside. For a while, we also had a contract for telemarketing, but some inmates managed to make an extortion racket out of it, and they suspended the project.”
They came to a pause and regarded each other warily.
“I tracked through your case file again.” Mitch’s ears picked up: she had done that for the second time.
“And?”
“I found nothing definitive. It’s your buddies who incriminated you. Aside from a few hairs, there’s no real forensic evidence to implicate you.”
“She sat beside me in the back seat on the way to the golf course; that’s where the hairs came from.”
“Possibly. Still there’s the testimony of the others...”
“They were lying. All of them. Didn’t it seem even a little suspicious that they spent more time blackening me than any of the others?”
“I grant you their testimony sounded much the same—as if scripted—but face it, that would make just as much sense if you were guilty.”
“Innocent as I am, I’m going to rot in here,” Mitch said bitterly, casting a look around as if surprised by the appearance of the room.
“I don’t know if I should do this, but here’s the address of a prisoner rights group, which can maybe put you in touch with people who review past cases to fight wrongful convictions.”
“Then you believe me?”
“I’m not sure what I believe but you’ve given me more than $15,000 so far and that carries weight with me.”
“How is she?”
Another pause followed as Ms. Conroy considered his request. “Much better. She’s still afraid to leave the house, so she’s working on finishing high school by correspondence. It’s hoped that by next September, she’ll feel strong enough to attend college.”
“Very good for her,” Mitch said brightening. At least something had gone right. “And David?”
“He’s improved drastically and has a job. He and Lacy don’t see each other anymore...” She stopped, realizing that maybe she had said too much.
“I’m very glad to hear that.” And Mitch was, that left fewer things to worry about. “Now, are you charging me for any of your part in this?”
“No. All the money you give me goes for Lacy and David. I travel at my own expense.”
Again a pause followed, pregnant with something. Ms. Conroy regarded him with great intensity.
“I still don’t know why you’re doing this.” She was frowning. “Don’t think me ungrateful, but it makes more sense that you’re paying some kind of blood money to ease a guilty conscience.”
The thought had been bothering him too. Why? In Oyster Bay, money meant little to him. He wrote to make use of time and not drown in it. Money was only a measure of his success. So far on the inside, the only thing money had done for him was to buy off a nuisance. On the outside? For Christmas he’d sent the first of his book earnings to his sister, but she’d returned the letter unopened, as she had with the rest that followed.
“I don’t rightly know. Had I been less wasted, who knows, I might’ve gone along with the rape...” He had difficulty saying the word: it caught in his throat. The thing that bothered him was that his moral compass had been confused; he wasn’t sure how he would have acted under peer pressure. “I hope not, but I have to wonder...”
“Well that’s honest and says something about you. Anyway try the second-look people, maybe they can help you. You can use my name.” Mitch was taken aback and looked it. “They’re good, and if you’re really innocent I don’t want you on my conscience.”
That evening Mitch wrote and rewrote the letter until they turned off the lights. Then he spent half the night rehashing it. First thing next morning he reworked the latest composition and after breakfast dropped it in the mailbox.
On Thursday Mitch spent the entire afternoon in the administration block, undergoing the annual mandatory conduct review. A panel of three, Lieutenant Graham, Sergeant Deangelis and a guard, Roman, went page by page over his record and asked questions. The file was full of his volunteer work and the panel couldn’t find anything to latch onto.
“You know it’s rather remarkable how little is in here. There’re no long lists of complaints, accusations or supplications we usually find. It seems your rights have not been trampled on. It almost looks like as if you like it with us.” And the Lieutenant rustled the sheaf of papers to tuck back into the file.
“Not quite. The food could be better and the room service improved...” Mitch decided to take a humorous tone, but it rubbed Roman the wrong way.
“This is a serious process, you’d best keep that in mind,” Roman snapped.
“Yes, of course. Sorry,” Mitch was instantly contrite.
“Now let’s go easy here,” the Lieutenant intervened. “It’s a nice change to deal with someone who doesn’t cause trouble and is uniformly helpful. In fact a model prisoner. We could use a whole lot of you. Is there something you really want?”
“My own computer in my cell. I write a lot, for myself and others, and a computer would be really helpful. I have the money to buy my own, but I need permission.”
“It’s on record that you do a volume of correspondence for others.” The Lieutenant tapped with his pen on the file. “We’ll see what can be arranged.”
In the end they gave him an excellent rating and promoted him to the highest easement level, allowing him greater freedom of movement, unfettered access to the Internet and a green badge to declare his new status. Of course this could easily single him out and make the other inmates suspicious, so as soon as he left the room, Mitch took the badge off and tucked it away. As a consequence of the good outcome of the review, he was looking forward to more computer time, and perhaps his own dedicated machine. His publisher was pestering him for more books, wanting to saturate a flagging market with more selections.
Chapter 13
“After 14 months we finally went to court. In an unusual move, the prosecution and defense agreed to try us all together. It was strange and aggravating to sit with Butch and the others on the same side, each of us flanked by our individual lawyers. During break times the lawyers and the bailiffs kept us, the accused, carefully separate. There were no opportunities for collusion. Jury selection proved to be a tedious process and consumed nearly a month because each of the five lawyers was free to challenge a prospective juror. I kind of latched onto a motherly type, hoping to arouse her sympathies.
“The trial finally got underway, and in the introductory remarks, the prosecution laid out a blow by blow account of the rape and assault, how we individually fed into it, and the lasting consequences for the victims, Lacy and David. I was aghast to hear the full details of what happened, for the first time; I found, to my horror, how much of it was aimed at me. It soon became obvious that my friends and buddies were offering me up as a scapegoat.
“Mr. Epstein, the chief prosecutor, presented video statements from Lacy and David. Lacy still looked shell shocked and was barely able to get through it. She stuttered and trembled, mixed up the time and progression, and at every question her eyes betrayed her panic as she sought to escape. She was a shadow of the good-looking girl I remembered.
“David was a little better, but he was able to recall little of what actually happened. His face was still puffy from the latest cosmetic surgery to repair his face. Every once in a while a flash of anger would shine through his testimony.
“Mr. Epstein made a point of stressing that given both victims’ fragile mental states, they would not be called to testify in person, but written answers would be provided to any questions the prosecution or defense wished to ask. Then Mr. Murphy, the assistant DA, took over to outline the technical details of the forensic evidence. He liked to begin and end his speech with ‘The state will prove, and will do so conclusively...’ and add the points he was underlining.
“The defense lawyers then took their turns extolling the virtues of their clients (what virtues? We were all dissolute S.O.B.’s), and promised to refute every one of the prosecution’s points. My lawyer took his turn and repeated my assertion that I was passed out in the back of the car. Then the trial adjourned for the weekend and I was taken back into my holding cell. At least the meals were better, but there weren’t many opportunities to exercise.”
*****
On the way to pick up his mail, Mitch was hailed by the prison psychiatrist, Dr. Lutrell. “Fraser, I would like you to sign up for the new therapy group we’re starting up for Block C.”
“I would, Dr. Lutrell, but I’ve already attended two courses with Mr. Harvey. Anger management and ethnic sensitivity. He cured me of all the issues already.”
“Good man, Mr. Harvey. We need many more like him.” Then he walked along to the mail room. “I know you’re OK and that’s why I need you. Someone I can bounce statements off, really intended for someone else. You know how sensitive some people are, can’t take anything direct.”
“Isn’t it somewhat devious for therapy?”
“In a normal population it would be, but here we all walk around on eggshells careful not to set an explosion off. You know what I mean?” Mitch continued to look puzzled. “If I want to tell X it’s all right to be angry, he might blow up in my face, but if I tell it to you in his hearing, he might get the message.”
Mitch was reluctant to be trapped into any unwanted collaboration, but it occurred to him that his new novel needed impetus, and the group might give him ideas. Besides, he owed Dr. Lutrell something for past therapy. “OK, I’d be interested.”
“Great, I’ll add you to the list. Meeting tomorrow is at 2:30 in room C47.” And Dr. Lutrell peeled off to collar someone else.
Mitch sought out Howie Mandel, who’d legally changed his name just so he could say he was related to the comedian. He ran a cottage industry from his cell, cutting coupons and sending them to his sister who sold them to housewives. Howie had three guys working for him, going through old newspapers and magazines hunting down coupons. He also had a former university professor, another lifer, filling out anything that promised prizes. Over the years they’d won three cruises in the Caribbean for two, five flat screen TV’s, CD and DVD players, tickets to concerts and sports games, fine dining, and any number of year’s supplies of something... All of this was converted to cash by the sister auctioning it on eBay.
Mitch wanted to get some coupons for a laptop computer.
“Sure we take orders. We charge a nominal fee of 10 percent on any redeemed coupons.” He went through some boxes, fished around a bit and came back with a fistful of coupons. “Look through these and see what looks good to you.”
Mitch searched through, reading the fine print. He chose three that looked the most promising. Howie noted them and said, “Pay when you cash it in, and give me back the rest.”
Mitch was happy, as he’d been informed that his private computer had been approved. He went through his mail, mostly advertisements for legal services, insurance policies, and guaranteed appeals. Mitch knew the scams: you don’t pay us until you’re pardoned. In reality they milked the mark a dollar at a time for collateral expenses (purported telephone calls, faxing and correspondence) until he became wiser. Often the text was blacked out, censored by the authorities, as was all incoming and outgoing mail.
At 2:30 the next day Mitch sought out C47, finding the Doctor inside and seven inmates, all of whom he recognized by sight. Dr. Lutrell made the introductions and gave a short preamble that laid down the ground rules. His main point was that personal attacks on each other weren’t tolerated and after one warning, the offender was asked to leave. On the plus side, after ten successful sessions an attendee was promised a soon to be announced reward. Then he threw open the floor for sharing.
A long silence followed the intro, while people fidgeted in their circle of seats.
“I was turned in by supposed friends. They sold me out...” Mitch decided to get the ball rolling. People listened and Mitch found it surprisingly emotional to get the words out. He didn’t bother with his innocence but concentrated on the betrayal. That produced results, as all of them had been sold out by friends, family and associates. Soon, they were falling over themselves to compete for podium time.
Some, of course, got carried away and had to be cautioned to tone it down. It turned out to be a surprisingly good session. More than ever, Mitch allowed himself to get in touch with his anger and vented a little. Others spewed too, and Dr. Lutrell tried to reframe their concerns into insights that would stay with them.
In the cafeteria later Mitch overheard one of the participants relate to his cronies, “You should’ve heard this pussy bawling. Nearly broke my tender heart...” Then he joined in the general laughter that followed. Mitch wondered who the joker was talking about. Maybe even him?
Chapter 14
“Once they got into the nitty-gritty of the evidence, things turned really ugly. Mr. Epstein dragged the jury through all the lurid details of the rape. Counted off on his fingers how many times Lacy was violated. When he ran out of fingers he had to borrow a few from Mr. Murphy to complete the count. The two lawyers were there, holding their splayed fingers to the jury, playing up the drama.
“It was a horrific picture. Slide after slide showed Lacy’s injuries. Her eyes were swollen shut because someone had pummeled her in the face. Probably Butch or Lyle. A tooth was chipped, and in her pain she had nearly bit her own tongue off. There was an eight inch tear on the side of her neck and down her front that took fourteen stitches to close. Bruises all over her body, and a ripped vagina as well as an anal tear. Her thighs were black and blue, and a week later still splotchy green.
“A handful of hair was missing, and she could barely speak. The prosecution showed a longer video of Lacy struggling through questioning. Often her eyes were filled with terror, and she broke down to sob uncontrollably. It was painful to watch and Mr. Epstein didn’t hurry through it. Seeing that, I understood why the police were so eager to convict us.
“Signs of violence on David were no less drastic. Someone had literally crushed his jaw and broken his nose and cheekbone, causing permanent eye and nerve injuries. Four teeth were lost outright and the rest had to be capped and wired together. Since his voice box had been crushed, he couldn’t speak at all for three months; he was still taking speech therapy often struggling with pronunciation. Among the damage, ribs were broken, as well as his right ulna; there were three herniated disks, complicated by contusions and lacerations and a host of internal injuries. The medical report strongly stated that the patient was as close to death as possible without actually dying. For two days they had to keep him on the respirator.
“The prosecution showed a taped interview made many months after. David struggled through it, but had to constantly shake off questions; he simply couldn’t remember. Mr. Epstein made it sound like the memory loss was also attributable to the vicious beating he barely survived. I knew better; he’d been stoned out of his skull. He could have been killed and still he would have been happy, full with a cocktail of narcotics. He didn’t remember being raped, in fact he didn’t remember anything after the fifth joint on top of what he already had in his system.
“The defense lawyers could challenge neither the facts of the photographs nor the medical X-rays and reports. The most they could do was to try to distance their respective clients from the acts. All my lawyer could do was to enter into the court record that my hands and knuckles showed no indication of having been used as weapons. Not so Butch and Lyle: they had well documented bruises on their knuckles. Avery’s dental impressions matched multiple bite marks on Lacy’s breasts. After three days of damaging evidence, the jury regarded us with different eyes, their faces hardened into hostile masks...”
*****
The third therapy group was very intense. At first no one wanted to talk, so Mitch took it upon himself to start again, admitting to being angry at the whole world at the loss of his parents, which had left him so vulnerable and unprotected. Dr. Lutrell led him through his feelings, trying to find some perspective that would ease it for Mitch.
After that, like the previous time, they all wanted to have a go at it. Marty, who after twenty-two years of marriage killed his wife, complained bitterly, “She was lazy, always wanting something, nagging me for it but doing nothing to earn it. A new washer, a new car, new clothes, new everything. We were always in debt, and my paycheck was gone before I got it. She watched TV all day, smoking and once set the couch on fire, nearly burning down the house. If the firemen had come five minutes later, the whole place would’ve been gone. Ever since, I had to deal with smelling the smoke in the walls, even under the paint. Like on one of the soaps, she claimed that she was abused when in fact, she was abusive, demeaning me, calling me useless and a total failure because I couldn’t provide all she demanded. We were constantly broke, sometimes living off food stamps. She humiliated me in public, in front of the family, so I couldn’t have friends over...” There was a long breathless, waiting silence. “Then one day she said one word too much, just one word and blood flooded my brains and I grabbed her by the throat and choked her. And I tell you it wasn’t easy. By then she was over three hundred pounds, almost twice my weight, but I was so enraged...” His face turned into a tortured mask as he thought back on it. “She had a large... fat neck, and it was like trying to strangle a walrus... It took a long time.”
