he—”
“Now don’t start in with that Thomas Merton stuff, okay? I can’t—”
“Stuff? It’s not
stuff.
It’s what makes us human.”
“When it comes to humanity,” I said, “I’m more of a law-of-club-and-fang guy.”
“What?”
“From
Call of the Wild.
Jack London. If I was standing on a street corner in Louisville, or anywhere else, that’s what I’d see. Everybody out for
himself, and ready to take away what’s yours. That’s my revelation.” And had been ever since I’d been beat up looking for
Jacqueline’s killers.
Sister Mary looked at her hands. I felt like a jerk.
“Can you hold up?” I said.
She nodded. “As long as it’s just e-mail, but…”
I waited. She looked at me in the dim light of the chapel. Half her face was in shadow. “We both know it’s not going to end
at e-mails, don’t we?”
45
P ROBABLY NOT.
Which was no doubt why I had trouble sleeping. Thinking of that scum out there, laughing. And then wondering about Merton
and how Sister Mary could buy into it and why couldn’t I? Or did I even want to? And in all of that the memory of Thai food
and wine and the smell of Kimberly’s hair.
And what did Plato ever have to say about Thai food and soft kisses in the night? The old fart.
I finally drifted off looking at a fingernail of moon outside the small window in my trailer bedroom.
It felt like I got ten minutes’ worth. A little after three my phone jolted me awake.
It was Kate Richess.
“They’ve arrested Eric,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Arrested Eric? What for?”
No answer. I could hear her labored breath.
“Kate, what was he arrested for?”
“For… killing his brother.”
I didn’t say anything. My thoughts weren’t exactly jelling.
“What can we do?” Kate said.
“Where is he?”
“Jail, downtown. He asked me to call you. I’m sorry I woke you. I just can’t sleep, I can’t do anything.…”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Don’t let this happen, Ty. I can’t lose my other son.”
I wish I could have waved a magic wand for her. But this wasn’t sounding good at all. Brother killing brother, that was the
oldest crime on the books. Cain killed Abel. After that, Cain was a goner. Convicted and sentenced. The boy never had a chance.
Lawyers hadn’t been invented yet.
46
I N THE EARLY afternoon I drove downtown with Sister Mary.
The Twin Towers Correctional Facility is on Bauchet Street, across from the Men’s Central Jail. A newer and more secure housing
than Central, it is usually reserved for the more troublesome inmates, like heavy gangbangers, or those with severe medical
needs.
They call the design of the place “panoptic,” which basically means they can always see you. You can’t always see them.
Creepy.
We entered the lobby and walked past the long row of cement benches, where the public waits to be called up for visitations.
Sister Mary sat on one of the benches and took out a book.
I went to the front window and gave them my attorney slip, which had Eric’s name and booking number on it, and my Bar card
and driver’s license. I signed in, and the large deputy with arms like logs said, “Fourth floor.”
I walked through the security scanner—they don’t allow any electronics or cell phones—bringing only my briefcase. Then I walked
down the long corridor, alone but not alone.
There are cameras everywhere and hidden glass through which you can be observed. Even though I didn’t see another human body,
I knew I was being watched. The institutional yellow walls, sort of early vomit, felt even more constrictive than normal.
There’s an antiseptic feeling to the place, no personality. You would think an inmate would prefer to be housed here, where
you might only have one other cell mate, as opposed to four or five at Men’s Central. But the inmates actually like the camaraderie,
if you can call it that, at Central. Here it’s like being
“Now don’t start in with that Thomas Merton stuff, okay? I can’t—”
“Stuff? It’s not
stuff.
It’s what makes us human.”
“When it comes to humanity,” I said, “I’m more of a law-of-club-and-fang guy.”
“What?”
“From
Call of the Wild.
Jack London. If I was standing on a street corner in Louisville, or anywhere else, that’s what I’d see. Everybody out for
himself, and ready to take away what’s yours. That’s my revelation.” And had been ever since I’d been beat up looking for
Jacqueline’s killers.
Sister Mary looked at her hands. I felt like a jerk.
“Can you hold up?” I said.
She nodded. “As long as it’s just e-mail, but…”
I waited. She looked at me in the dim light of the chapel. Half her face was in shadow. “We both know it’s not going to end
at e-mails, don’t we?”
45
P ROBABLY NOT.
Which was no doubt why I had trouble sleeping. Thinking of that scum out there, laughing. And then wondering about Merton
and how Sister Mary could buy into it and why couldn’t I? Or did I even want to? And in all of that the memory of Thai food
and wine and the smell of Kimberly’s hair.
And what did Plato ever have to say about Thai food and soft kisses in the night? The old fart.
I finally drifted off looking at a fingernail of moon outside the small window in my trailer bedroom.
It felt like I got ten minutes’ worth. A little after three my phone jolted me awake.
It was Kate Richess.
“They’ve arrested Eric,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Arrested Eric? What for?”
No answer. I could hear her labored breath.
“Kate, what was he arrested for?”
“For… killing his brother.”
I didn’t say anything. My thoughts weren’t exactly jelling.
“What can we do?” Kate said.
“Where is he?”
“Jail, downtown. He asked me to call you. I’m sorry I woke you. I just can’t sleep, I can’t do anything.…”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Don’t let this happen, Ty. I can’t lose my other son.”
I wish I could have waved a magic wand for her. But this wasn’t sounding good at all. Brother killing brother, that was the
oldest crime on the books. Cain killed Abel. After that, Cain was a goner. Convicted and sentenced. The boy never had a chance.
Lawyers hadn’t been invented yet.
46
I N THE EARLY afternoon I drove downtown with Sister Mary.
The Twin Towers Correctional Facility is on Bauchet Street, across from the Men’s Central Jail. A newer and more secure housing
than Central, it is usually reserved for the more troublesome inmates, like heavy gangbangers, or those with severe medical
needs.
They call the design of the place “panoptic,” which basically means they can always see you. You can’t always see them.
Creepy.
We entered the lobby and walked past the long row of cement benches, where the public waits to be called up for visitations.
Sister Mary sat on one of the benches and took out a book.
I went to the front window and gave them my attorney slip, which had Eric’s name and booking number on it, and my Bar card
and driver’s license. I signed in, and the large deputy with arms like logs said, “Fourth floor.”
I walked through the security scanner—they don’t allow any electronics or cell phones—bringing only my briefcase. Then I walked
down the long corridor, alone but not alone.
There are cameras everywhere and hidden glass through which you can be observed. Even though I didn’t see another human body,
I knew I was being watched. The institutional yellow walls, sort of early vomit, felt even more constrictive than normal.
There’s an antiseptic feeling to the place, no personality. You would think an inmate would prefer to be housed here, where
you might only have one other cell mate, as opposed to four or five at Men’s Central. But the inmates actually like the camaraderie,
if you can call it that, at Central. Here it’s like being
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