Asking For Trouble (12 page)

His appeal had crashed and burned. It had been the dumbest idea he’d had since he’d ripped off the liquor store on an impulse. Macarthur, his lawyer, felt the judgment against him had been harsh and the DA’s case had been sloppy. But the DA had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s for the rematch. The only winner had been Macarthur’s bank account.

“What about savings? You must have something tucked away,” Benton suggested.

What a joke. A life of crime and what did he have to show for it? Nothing. A big fat zero. “I told him the only thing I have left to my name is my life insurance.”

“You Milligan?” a heavily muscled Hispanic demanded, casting a shadow over them. Bulging biceps stretched the arms of his prison-issue T-shirt, threatening to tear the material. His sixty-inch chest tapered to a narrow waist. Gang tattoos lined his arms. And he wasn’t alone. Two equally lethal-looking Hispanics shadowed him.

The interruption threw Milligan. He stammered something that wasn’t a reply. The Hispanic, unsatisfied with the response, grabbed Milligan by the shirt pockets. His fingers bit into Milligan’s flesh as he hoisted him to his feet. The Hispanic’s boys moved in to shroud events from prying eyes. Benton jumped to his feet as a sign of allegiance, but he was heavily outgunned in this situation.

“You’re Phillip Milligan, aren’t you, man?”

The Hispanic released one hand and drew back a fist. Milligan turned his head away, closed his eyes, and braced for the impact. “Yeah, man, I’m Phillip Milligan.”

The Hispanic’s grip loosened, but he didn’t remove it. Milligan opened his eyes.

“What do you want?” Milligan asked, the pressure in his chest from his pounding heart making it hard to speak.

The inmate eyed Benton. “Take a hike, man.”

Benton didn’t have to be asked twice, and he descended the bleachers two rows at a time. Milligan didn’t blame him. No one risked his neck for another inmate, even for a friend.

The Hispanic waited until Benton was out of earshot. “You’re in for kidnapping.”

“Armed robbery,” Milligan corrected. “I ripped off a liquor store. It went wrong.”

“Don’t make me say it again.” The Hispanic’s grip tightened around Milligan’s throat until he saw stars go supernova in his vision. “You’re in for kidnapping.”

“Yes,” he croaked.

“Was it a child?” Spittle flecked Milligan’s face. “Was it a girl? Don’t tell me it was a girl.”

“No.” Milligan could barely breathe. He was going to pass out if the thug didn’t release his grip. “It was a woman. She was sixty.”

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

“No, man. I’m telling you the truth. It was an old woman.” Milligan knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help himself. If he didn’t say something to convince this ape, he’d end up as a case file on a prison investigator’s desk.

The Hispanic released his pipe wrench grip, and Milligan collapsed onto the bleachers with a clang.

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“You’ve got till Friday to prove the person you kidnapped wasn’t a kid.”

“How do I do that?”

The Hispanic turned and tramped away from the bleachers with his shadows following in his wake. “Friday. Don’t make me find you.”

***

Milligan held a forkful of food but didn’t put it in his mouth. He stared at the elegant mural painted in the mess hall, chronicling the history of California. One of the inmates had spent his
twenty-five-year stretch completing it. Word was the Smithsonian wanted it. He hoped they wouldn’t get it. He didn’t see why they should have one of the few things of beauty in the prison. It was one of those things that kept his spirits up. Surviving prison was all about spirit, and with his current problems, Milligan felt his spirit slipping away in fist-sized chunks. Benton slipped into the seat opposite.

“His name is Rodriguez.” Benton speared a forkful of his dinner and ate it. “He just graduated from the RC.”

“The RC?”

“Yeah.”

That didn’t make sense. Milligan and Rodriguez’s roles were swapped. Inmates fresh out of the San Q’s Reception Center, the holding pen for new inmates awaiting final processing, usually had to prove themselves to the general population, not the other way around. General pop wanted to know with whom they were sharing a cell. They wanted to see papers. No one wanted a pedophile as a celly.

“I thought he looked new,” Milligan said. “What’s he in for?”

“Gang-related activities.” Benton made air quotes.

Milligan knew why. The catchall term covered a lot of sins, but it boosted credentials. Rodriguez would have connections in this prison. His demands and threats carried weight and couldn’t be blown off.

“Do you know him?” Benton asked.

Milligan shook his head.

“Well, I know why he likes you.”

“Why?”

“His kid. His daughter was grabbed by some perv. Something went wrong and the kid died. He had a rep for being vicious before the incident. Now, he’s practically medieval.”

“I didn’t take his kid.”

“He knows that. The prime suspect ended up in a Dumpster, but he don’t have any love for kidnappers, especially those who specialize in kids.”

Milligan cursed. After his failed appeal, this capped his week.

“Someone must have marked your card to have put him on to you, my friend,” Benton added.

Milligan nodded in agreement. He couldn’t think of who, though. He hadn’t tangled with anyone.

“You’d just better get his proof.”

“Yeah.”

“It was an old woman, right?”

“What kind of question is that?” Milligan slammed his fork down on the table. It clanged, drawing glances from both inmates and corrections officers, but that was all it did. No one came to ask them to keep it down.

Benton held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, all I’m saying is that I can understand if you wanted to omit certain facts to prevent this kind of thing from happening.”

A friend. That was all Milligan asked for at a time like this, not doubters. He shook his head in disgust.

“I can’t believe you asked.”

“Hey, I had to ask. I’ve got my own butt to worry about.”

Milligan rose to his feet, taking his uneaten meal with him.

“Where you going?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

He felt the heat of a thousand eyes fall upon him as he trudged over to the trash. The word was out. They knew he was marked.
Dead man walking
, he thought. He was on a private death row until Friday.

“Something disagreeing with you tonight?” the corrections officer asked as Milligan scraped his meal into the trash can.

This was a subtle approach by the CO, which Milligan could appreciate. He, along with his colleagues, probably knew about Rodriguez’s ultimatum, but there was little they could do to prevent something from happening unless someone came forward. If he were to say something, he could find himself in solitary until this storm blew over, but he didn’t need the help. He could prove to Rodriguez that he’d taken the liquor store’s proprietor hostage when the cops had closed in.

Milligan placed his tray on the rack. “Nothing to worry about, Sorenson. I’ll get over my troubles soon.”

T
UESDAY

Milligan slipped into one of the phone booths in his block, having signed up for telephone time with the tier officer. He lifted the receiver and gave the operator Carole’s number. Since she’d lost her job, he didn’t have to worry about whether he’d find her at home. The operator connected him.

“Hey, it’s me.”

He sensed her tense up, and he knew why. He rarely called. He preferred talking face-to-face with her during visiting hours. But he couldn’t allay her fears. They had to be careful about what they said. An officer from the tower or the wall post monitored all calls, listening to several calls at once. The moment they heard any key words relating to killing, drugs, threats, or even cussing, the call would be disconnected and explanations would have to be made. He skirted around the subject, using code words they’d worked out a long time ago, and used the failed appeal as a cover story for the call. He got his point across well enough for Carole to read between the lines and know he was in serious trouble.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked.

“Can you talk to my mom? I know she followed the case in the newspapers. I need the article with the picture of the woman from the liquor store.”

He would have liked to call his mom himself, but he knew she wouldn’t answer his calls. She loved him, but she couldn’t admit to the embarrassment of her son being a convicted criminal, even to him. Moms were funny sometimes.

“Can you do that?” he asked.

“I’ll go straight over there.”

“Thanks, babe.” A pressure had built in his chest like indigestion, and it had seemed to be on the edge of bursting since Rodriguez had tagged him, but Carole eased that. A lightheaded sensation swept over him, and he leaned against the phone booth to keep him from falling. “So how are you?”

She didn’t feel as euphoric as he did at that moment. She cataloged her prison term on the other side of the bars. Macarthur wanted paying, as did the landlord and everyone else. He did his best to soothe her, but what could he do from here? He couldn’t make amends for another
eighteen months, and that was dependent on a lenient parole board. It would be a long eighteen months for Carole. A CO brought the call to an end.

“I gotta go,” he said, “but I’ll call tomorrow. You’ll have the newspaper tomorrow?”

“I’ll get it now.”

W
EDNESDAY

“What do you mean she doesn’t have it anymore?” Milligan demanded. He worked hard to keep his tone in check. Shouting on the phone would get him disconnected as quickly as mentioning drugs.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Carole said. “She’s thrown out everything about the case. I guess I can ask the newspaper for a copy.”

How could she?
Milligan thought. She hadn’t ever let anything pass by without scrapbooking it. What a time to change her lifetime habit.

From the corner of his eye, Milligan caught sight of Rodriguez staring at him from across the cellblock, and the heat went out of his anger. It wasn’t Carole’s fault, or even his mom’s for throwing out his best chance of staying alive. It was just his bad luck—as usual.

Rodriguez crossed the cellblock, sidestepping the cleaning detail. He put his head inside the phone booth. “Friday,” he said, his threat heavy on the air, and walked out of the block.

“What do you want me to do?” Carole asked.

“Get Macarthur to visit me. I’ll put him on the list for tomorrow.”

T
HURSDAY

“Good to see you, Phillip.” Macarthur slipped into the seat opposite Milligan.

A corrections officer walked by their table in the general visiting room, and Milligan waited until he’d passed before speaking. “Yeah, I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Yes, the appeal should have gone a lot better.”

The remark made Milligan wonder who Macarthur was feeling bad for—his client or himself. “Did Carole tell you about my problem?”

“Yes.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Obviously, we take this up with the warden and have you or this Rodriguez taken out of general circulation.”

Milligan shook his head. “You know how things work here.”

Macarthur straightened his tie and opened his attaché case. “Yes, I do,” he said, sounding solemn. “How I wish it wasn’t true.”

“Then what can you do to help?” Milligan tried not to sound desperate, but he felt the pressure of time crushing him.

“I can produce my trial notes and other court documents, which will prove that Arlene Lozarda is indeed a sixty-year-old woman.”

“That’s great.”

“I’ll make arrangements with Rodriguez’s lawyer to request a meeting.”

“By tomorrow, right?”

“I have a call in to his office now. Things should be sorted out by tomorrow.”

Macarthur’s confident tone removed the ramrod from Milligan’s spine, and he slouched in his chair. This was what an eleventh-hour reprieve felt like. “Thank you.”

A look of sadness clouded Macarthur’s lean features as he packed up his notes. “You realize this will cost you?” he remarked.

Money wasn’t an issue to Milligan. The value of his life far exceeded Macarthur’s billable hours. “Yes.”

“Your account is mounting up. Actually, it’s overdue, and Carole tells me she won’t be able to send me a payment for several months now that she doesn’t have a job.”

Milligan stiffened in his chair. “You’ll do this, though, won’t you? You’ll square this issue with Rodriguez?” He felt that reprieve slipping away from his grasp like it was coated in grease. “You’ve got to. You can’t walk away now.”

Macarthur raised his hands to placate Milligan. “I’m not coldhearted, Phillip. I realize the magnitude of the problem and, yes, I will do all that I can, but I can’t ignore my fees. I do need payment for my services.”

Milligan reached out and grabbed the plain, Formica-topped table. “If it takes the rest of my life, I will pay you back. I promise.”

“That’s all fine, but that doesn’t help me pay the bills. I need some assurance that you can pay your account.” Macarthur snapped the clasps on his alligator-skin case. “I hate to be this way, but all my cases can’t be pro bono, can they now?”

“No.”

Macarthur rose, picking up his attaché. “When can I expect at least an installment against what you owe me?”

How did Macarthur honestly expect Milligan to pay him when he was locked up in here? His family didn’t have money, and they’d spent every penny they had to hire Macarthur in the first place. He guessed Carole could come up with something that might appease him, but the bulk would have to wait until he got out. Macarthur fixed him with a gaze that demanded an answer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

F
RIDAY

Rodriguez jammed his face in Milligan’s as he and Benton left the cafeteria after breakfast. “Do you know what day it is, man?”

“I told you, my lawyer will explain everything when he meets with you at ten. He has concrete evidence proving what I’ve been telling you.”