Custody of the State (22 page)

Will was certain this had nothing to do with Harry Putnam. Although Putnam was an aggressive prosecutor, perhaps even a street fighter, it was doubtful he would send a fellow lawyer into harm's way. This was confirmed as Will recalled Putnam's neutral position at the court hearing regarding Will's incarceration. And Harriet Bender, though her tactics were disproportionately vicious, lacked the authority to effect the transfer of an inmate.

That left Judge Mason as a viable suspect. There was one strong factor, though, that might eliminate him as responsible. A judge's order to the county jail could be easily traced. The judge would have to know—particularly in light of Will's final comments to the bench as he was being escorted out by the bailiff—that any additional or unreasonable punishment by him would be evidence of bias and prejudice. That evidence might suffice to remove him from the case and tarnish his reputation.

Working through the various scenarios, Will was left with two final options.

The first was that his transfer to the overflow pen was simply a matter of administrative convenience. Perhaps the county jail had received an influx of several new prisoners and simply ran out of bed space, and Will was the “lucky” winner. On the other hand, why not move existing prisoners to the overflow pen? That would seem to be an easier expedient and involve less paperwork.

The final option was beginning to look the most logical—that someone had pressured the chief jailer to make the transfer happen. If that was the case, then Will must have made some heavy-duty enemies in Delphi.

And that would necessarily involve his representation of Mary Sue Fellows. But how could a woman like Mary Sue Fellows make mortal enemies in Delphi? As Will finally completed his mental gymnastics, he realized that it was all an artful diversion. Beneath his curiosity about the transfer and the implications for the case, he was suffering from a growing sense of dread.

The information that Ivan had shared with him about the overflow pen was coming from a man with experience. Ivan had spent most of his life on the margins of society. In and out of jails, befriending those whose lives were spent in and out of jails, he was not the kind of man who would exaggerate the dangers.

Will was certain about one thing—this place to which he was being transferred was likely to be dark, and unspeakably violent.

That was when a thought struck him with such blinding intensity that he had to smile. He was smiling so broadly that when guard Thompson glanced at him in the rearview mirror, he took a second look.

Does God really protect us?
Will thought to himself. As soon as he silently asked himself the question, he answered it.
Of course he does
. Then another thought:
Does he always protect us in the way we want, when we want it?

And then he remembered something that Len Redgrove had once said to him.

“God's love for and protection of us are always consistent with his will for us—and his will for us is always consistent with what is best, not only for us, but also for a fallen world that he is always trying to rescue.”

Those words had sounded so abstractly and logically true—and so consistently true with what Will had discovered in the pages of the Bible and in his own recent spiritual pilgrimage. But now it was something else entirely. Now, he was having to
live it out
in the middle of ugly and chaotic reality.

For Will, it was time to find out what he truly believed.

The squad car pulled into an industrial lane populated with dumpsters and dilapidated warehouses.

At the end of the lane there was a tall brick warehouse with cemented-up windows, four stories high and circled by double rows of barbed wire. The building was lit by several yellow overhead neon lights on metal poles. Guard Thompson parked the car, walked to the call box at the gate, and announced himself. The gate retracted. He parked the car within the barbed-wire fence and led Will to the single sheet-metal door which bore several chalk- and pen-marked obscenities that had been incompletely erased.

There was a clang on the other side as a bolt was withdrawn, and the four-inch-thick door cranked open. A tall figure in a deputy's uniform stood in the shadows on the other side.

“Here's the paperwork,” Thompson said, handing a clipboard with several documents to the man in the doorway. The other man took it without comment. Thompson then gave him a small set of keys for the handcuffs and manacles, and as he passed by Will on his way out the door, he whispered, “Good luck,” and then disappeared into his squad car and quickly drove away.

Will began to pray silently.
I don't belong to this place, Lord, I belong to you. I trust you, and I know that you are in charge
. He walked through the doorway, and the man stepped out of the shadow and into the light. He was big, with his hair shaved almost all the way down to the skull. His eyes were blank, his
face expressionless. On the bridge of his nose there was taped a large piece of gauze with a faint spot of blood in the middle.

Will noticed that he was not wearing a nametag or a badge.

The attorney was led into a small vestibule with a desk and a compact TV, which was playing rock music videos. There was a small metal chair in the middle.

The guard with no name shoved Will down onto the chair and handcuffed him to it.

“Don't move,” he said in a guttural command.

Then the guard ambled over to the desk and sat down, directing his attention to the music videos playing on the TV, which were followed by more music videos.

And followed by yet more music videos.

The common elements were raw—they all contained young men with ripped clothes, sunglasses, tattoos, and little pointy chin beards screaming into the camera from an assortment of bizarre angles.

Time dragged along at an excruciating pace.

There was a large, industrial-looking clock on the wall. Will had been sitting in the chair for two hours, listening to this miserable carnival of noise, banging, and screeching. During that time, the guard had polished off several candy bars and two bottles of Mellow Yellow.

The room was hot, and Will was soaked in sweat. But the guard enjoyed a small fan, pointed directly at him, on his desk. Will's throat had become parched, and his back ached from his position on the metal chair.

He'd noticed that every fifteen minutes or so the guard would increase the volume a notch. By the end of the two hours the TV was blasting so loud that he figured the place could be cited for violating OSHA noise restrictions.

He knew that, for whatever reason, the guard was playing a sick game with him.

Another hour passed, and Will shifted minutely in his chair.

The nameless guard looked over at him and rose slowly. As he did, he put his hand in a drawer and pulled something out.

Then he sauntered over to Will.

“I thought I told you not to move,” he said, standing directly over Will. “Stand up.”

Will stood up clumsily, the chair still connected to him by his handcuffs.

His difficulty in standing had distracted him for a second. That was exactly the plan—as perfected by the guard through the many months of his tyranny in the overflow pen.

The guard reached out with his hand—the one containing the hand-held electric stun gun—and placed it hard against Will's neck.

There was a crackle–zap, and inside Will's head there was a flash and an explosion. A lightning bolt of pain and electricity ripped through his skull and down to his teeth, dropping him to the cement floor, his head bouncing off it like a bowling ball.

When Will regained consciousness the guard was standing over him, his boot placed heavily on Will's chest.

He saw the look on Will's face and bent down toward him.

“So—you don't like that, lawyer man—do you? You wanna do something about it? You wanna dance with me?”

He straightened up.

“We're gonna have some fun. I'm gonna give you dancing lessons.”

32

C
RYSTAL
B
ANES WAS OUT OF THE CAR
quickly and was walking toward the door of the Trading Post before Spike could turn off the engine.

Stepping into the little store, she approached Tommy, who was at the counter talking with the old man wearing sunglasses.

“Good afternoon,” Banes greeted him. “I'm looking for a Thomas White Arrow. I'm led to believe he has a ranch somewhere in this area. Would either of you know where I could find him?”

The old man at the counter laughed and turned to the Indian.

“‘
Thomas'
—I haven't heard you called that in a long time!”

Tommy studied Banes for a moment.

“I'm Tommy White Arrow. What can I do for you?”

Banes lit up in a bright smile.

“You're Thomas White Arrow? Honestly? That's you? We've come a long way to talk to you,” she said, reaching out her hand to shake his.

Tommy broke into a sardonic half-smile.

“I didn't know that I was so famous.”

“Well, if you aren't now, you will be when I get through with you,” Banes declared, shaking his hand vigorously. “I'm Crystal Banes, host of
Inside Source.
We broadcast on INN—the International News Service—we're seen in every state of the Union, and in over two hundred countries around the world.”

“And you want to talk to me?”

“That's right. You've got some very important information. A lot of people would like to know what you know, Tommy.”

“And what is it I know that you want to know?” Tommy asked with a chuckle.

“A lot of people are looking for a woman and a child. The woman's name is Mary Sue Fellows, her son's name is Joshua. Some people think you may know where she's located. She may even be staying with you. You know, one story like this, and people make a career out of it. You could end up writing books, giving talks. Appearances on every major television station. All you have to do is answer a few of my questions.”

“Make a career out of it?”

“Absolutely. Just think about it. Think of the famous cases in the last decade or two. All of a sudden, people nobody knew—now they're in the headlines, they're in the spotlight, they're writing books about their experiences. Everybody wants to get to know them. And there's money in that,” Banes went on.

“I think I see what you're talking about. It's real clear now.”

The TV host nodded enthusiastically. She tilted her head with a little smile and was getting ready to move in for the kill, when Tommy started speaking.

“You see what's going on, folks?” Tommy asked, addressing his comments to the handful of people in the little store.

“In the old days, they would come and offer the Indians Winchester rifles and firewater. Now they come to the reservation offering fame and fortune and a couple of minutes on national television,” he continued. “Ms. Banes, I already have a career. I own a little ranch, I break horses, and I also give horse-riding lessons. I serve on the tribal counsel, I help support my family—here's my wonderful sister, Katherine,” and with that he pointed over to Katherine, who was smiling and gave a little wave.

“I'm sorry if you took offense. I really didn't mean it that way,” Banes said, trying to recover.

“I didn't take any offense. I just believe in speaking my mind.”

“Good. It's refreshing to meet somebody who is a straight shooter. I appreciate people who tell you the way it really is,” Banes remarked. “So, I'm wondering if you can give me the
straight scoop on this Mary Sue Fellows and her child. Has anybody seen them, Tommy? The word has it that maybe your brother Andrew knows where Mary Sue is. Andrew visited her husband in jail.”

She pulled a snapshot of Mary Sue holding Joshua out of her pocket and displayed it to Tommy.

“Do you recognize the woman in the picture?” Banes inquired. “She may be going by another name, of course.”

“Why is this woman so important?” Tommy asked.

“The State of Georgia believes she's been poisoning her little boy, Joshua. They are searching throughout the country for her. They want to bring her to trial.”

“Do you think she did it?”

“Honestly, I can't really tell you. I don't know,” Banes replied, with a gloss of sincerity in her voice. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that, during the interchange, Spike had sauntered into the grocery store and was listening intently.

“So this woman is supposedly poisoning her son? Is the little boy still alive?” Tommy asked.

“We just don't know,” Banes responded. “But we think he may be in grave danger. He may even dying right now.”

“Grave danger,” Tommy echoed. “That sounds serious.”

“It certainly is. And it's an important news story. And more than that—this little boy needs protecting,” she added.

“I think I agree with you there. He certainly does need protecting.” With that Tommy turned and looked at Katherine, who was standing straight, not moving. In the aisle behind her, Mary Sue and Joshua were still crouching on the floor, out of sight.