The Body and the Blood (10 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“You two’ve been up to no good,” Anna said when we walked into her office.

I nodded, as we both sank down into the chairs across from her desk.

“So tell.”

“We had a little chat with Carlos Matos,” Merrill said, still squirming around trying to fit his large frame into the average-size chair.

“Did he do it?” she asked.

From behind Anna’s desk, on the shelf with all the ceramic angels, a small CD player emitted the smooth sounds of jazz. It was mood music. And it created a soulful, pleasant atmosphere that, like Anna, was out of place here. No wonder inmates lined up to get into her office, though I suspected they, like me, had other, more carnal, reasons as well.

“Don’t ask me,” Merrill said with a wry smile. “I just available for fisticuffs when needed.”

“Fisticuffs?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just tryin’ it out.”

Anna smiled and looked at me for a real answer.

I shrugged. “I don’t think so, but . . . .”

“I figured you’d have this thing solved by now.”

“I keep telling you,” I said. “I’m not nearly as smart as you think I am.”

We all grew silent a moment and I considered again how much the angels in her office reminded me of her. Like Anna, they were fiery and sensual, with a look of intelligence and simple unadorned beauty.

She cleared her throat. “Need me to do anything on the case while you’re gone?”

“Mind doing a little background on the suspects.”

“Sure. Who are they? Chris Sobel . . .” she said, reaching for a pad and writing his name on it.

“Yeah,” I said. “Though you’ve probably already told me most everything on him. Mike Hawkins, Jacqueel Jefferson, Carlos Matos, Juan Martinez, and Milton White. They’re the only inmates who went anywhere close to Justin’s cell.”

“You figured out
how
it was done yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Daniels has a couple of working theories, but we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,
I
might just have it. And if I haven’t, I know who can.”

“Who?”

“Milton White.”

“Milton White?”

“Oldest convict we’ve got. His DC number is in the sixties. And he’s escaped from six different maximum security prisons, including FSP.”

I was shocked. Inmates rarely escaped from within a prison, especially not Florida State Prison, the Florida prison most like an old fashioned penitentiary. Most escapes were done by inmates who were already outside the prison—on a work squad, chain gang, furlough, or while being transported.

She said, “Who better to commit or plan the perfect locked-cell murder than an escape artist?”

Before I could respond, her phone rang.

“It’s for you,” she said, handing me the receiver.

I took the call while they continued to talk quietly about Milton White.

“Come on,” I said after I hung up.

“Where?” Anna asked.

“That was Shebrica Pitts,” I said. “Michael’s wife. She wants to meet with me.”

“So why’re we going?”

“To put her at ease,” I said.

“How exactly will
we
do that?” she asked, looking at Merrill.

“Just being ourselves,” Merrill said. “You a woman and I a brother.”

* * * * *

We met Shebrica Pitts in front of the Dollar Store in Pottersville where she worked part-time as a cashier. She was a thick woman with dark skin and long straight hair in a heap atop her head, its thick strands coated with a wet substance that made it glisten in the sunlight. Her breasts were enormous, seeming to stretch her bra to the point of tearing, but for all their heft, her backside was even bigger.

“
Damn
,” Merrill exclaimed when we pulled into the small parking lot. “Just follow the booty.”

“Have you ever known him to do anything else?” Anna said.

“You think when she back that thing up you can hear those little warning beeps?” he asked.

“I thought brothers liked a sister with some backside,” Anna asked.

“
Some,
” he said. “
Sheeit
. They is such a thing as too much.”

Merrill was in a particularly good humor, which was often the case when Anna joined us.

Shebrica Pitts was standing at the corner of the building lighting a cigarette when we walked up. Her forehead furrowed and eyes narrowed as she looked at Merrill, then Anna, then me.

“They’re here to put you at ease,” I said.

She looked confused.

“This is Merrill Monroe,” I said.

“I’m black,” he added.

“And Anna Rodden.”

“I’m a woman,” Anna said.

“We work together,” I explained. “If they hear what you have to say now it saves me the time of having to tell them later.”

She nodded as if that were reasonable.

Though her cigarette had been lit for a while now, she still hadn’t taken a drag.

“We got to breathe that shit,” Merrill said, “you might as well be enjoying it.”

She looked at the cigarette in her hand as if surprised to see it. “I don’t smoke . . . just like the breaks.”

Beneath the overhang, the front porch of the Dollar Store was filled with several outdoor products including a barrel filled with rakes, hoes, and shovels, a stack of park-style benches, and plastic tables with matching chairs and optional umbrellas—all for what seemed to me a fraction of the cost of the materials it took to make them. The plate glass windows behind them were filled with sale signs and Halloween decorations.

“I don’t have long,” she said. “Better get to it. Michael in trouble?”

I shrugged. “Could be. Right now he’s a witness and a suspect in a murder investigation—but one of many.”

I decided not to mention the possible assault charges should the video resurface.

“He
really
a suspect?” she asked in surprise.

I nodded. “So am I. Everyone who was there at the time is right now.”

“He’s been so different lately,” she said, shaking her head. “It only started when he got on at the prison. And it’s gettin’ worse and worse.”

“What is?” Anna asked gently.

“He’s got no patience with me or the kids. Ten years of marriage, he never put a hand on me and only spanked the kids when he wasn’t mad.”

From the pocket of her Dollar Store smock, she withdrew a long narrow sausage stick, peeled back its red and yellow wrapper, and began chewing on it. I thought about how trim and muscular her husband was, how different they seemed—and not just physically.

“And now?” Anna asked.

She swallowed. “He hits me . . . beats my kids.”

Merrill’s reaction—the change in his posture, the flexing of his muscles—was palpable, but he didn’t say anything.

Across Main Street, the bell of the drive-thru liquor store dinged and the clerk slid open the window. Next to it, a man was coming out of the florist shop carrying a single rose in a bud vase with a balloon tied to it.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“Been building for about a year now, but it’s gotten real bad the past few months.”

“Do you think he’s involved in Justin Menge’s murder?” I asked.

She took the last bite of the sausage, wadded up the wrapper, and stuck it in the pocket of her smock. “Who’s that?”

“The inmate who died in the PM unit.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. No, there’s no way.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration and she thought about it some more. “I ain’t sure, but I don’t think so.”

“But you never thought he’d hit you either, did you?” Anna said.

“That’s different.”

“It ain’t
that
different,” Merrill said. “Man who a hit a woman . . .”

“It’s not like that,” she said to him, then turning to me added, “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want you to help him.”

“If he wants me to,” I said. “But he’s got to—”

“It’s that damn job,” she said.

Paula’s question reverberated through my mind:
How much does prison change a man?

I had heard this so many times before—from spouses, children, parents, friends, even the officers themselves. The hostile, negative environment, the continuous assault on their sensibilities, the constant lack of civility, humility, even humanity, resulting in the captors acting like the captives they loathed.

This was nothing new. What was, and what concerned me more, was the way I was feeling, the change I was experiencing. How could I, as their spiritual leader, offer them an alternative if I were no different? How could I help them deal their demons when I was continually being defeated by the same ones?

There were so few opportunities in rural areas like this one, which, of course, was why the state built prisons in them. And now, with a soft paper market, there were less and less logging jobs. One paper mill had closed and the other was struggling. With such rampant poverty, many people took any position the prison offered—as much for the insurance as the money.

“That’s all it is,” she continued. “That damn prison. I wish he’d go back to roofin’.”

School was out. I could tell by the new clientele. Now, teachers—nicely dressed women, their walk intentional, their pace certain, who normally shopped in Panama City or Tallahassee—dashed into the Dollar Store, and unlike their mid-day counterparts, didn’t browse or do their week’s shopping, just picked up an odd item or two and left.

“He won’t?” Anna asked.

“Say he won’t.”

Evidently the Dollar Store didn’t have an intercom system. From inside the open door, a woman with a low, heavily accented voice shouted, “Shebrica open up register two, please. Shebrica.”

“Listen,” she said, extinguishing her cigarette, “I don’t think he killed nobody, but if you find out he did, I need to know.”

“What will you do?” Anna asked.

She shrugged. “Don’t know, but I’ve gotta look out for my kids. Will you talk to him, try to help him?”

I nodded.

“You think he did it?”

“I think he could be dangerous,” I said. “I have no idea whether or not he was involved in the murder.”

“I can’t afford to leave him right now even if I had to,” she said. “But in a few months . . .”

“What changes then?” Anna asked.

“I finish my correctional officer training,” she said, without the slightest hint of irony in her voice, “and I can get on out at the prison myself.”

Chapter Twenty

“I’ve got a big surprise for you,” Susan said. “And you’re gonna love it.”

It was late Saturday afternoon. We were riding in her black BMW on 285, the under-produced, cheaply recorded sound of indie alt rock playing softly through her speakers in the back. The sun was setting, the dusk air cool and crisp, the weekend traffic light.

It had only been three days since Justin had been murdered. As usual, things were moving quickly—they almost always did at the prison—and I didn’t want to leave, but Susan and I had been planning this for a long time, it was important to her, and I was sure the break would do me good. It was for that reason that I was determined not to talk about—and if possible not to even think about—the case this weekend.

I had felt so dry lately, so numb inside, as if I were in a spiritual wasteland, and was hoping time away from the prison would help.

I said, “I couldn’t love it any more than last night’s surprise.”

When I had arrived last night, she had met me at the door wearing only her earrings.

She smiled, and though it was spectacular, it wasn’t quite the same with her clothes on. “You’ll love this surprise, too. Just in a different way.”

I nodded.

“By the way, how’s it going working with Dad?”

“Like things with another Daniels I know,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “Surprisingly well.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“Why’s that?”

“The third surprise.”

“There’s a
third
surprise? But I haven’t even gotten the second one yet.”

“You may not think the third one’s a good surprise. Mom and Dad are coming up tonight.”

“What? Why?”

“To visit. Get away for a while. Mom need a change of scenery. Trust me, the second surprise is so good it’ll make up for the third one. It’s why I told you about the third one first.”

“You could always just give me the first surprise again,” I said.

“Oh,
I
will. And again. And again. And again.”

She sounded like the insatiable wife every husband wanted, which, when we were married before, she hadn’t been. Had she changed? Was it that we were older now? Were we still in the inevitable infatuation-induced ecstatic period of a new relationship? Or was she just trying to do and say all the right things?

“Who’s this playing?” I asked, nodding toward the sound system.

“You like them?”

“I do. They’ve got a good sound, but their lyrics . . .”

“I know. I knew you’d appreciate what they have to say.”

“What’s their name?”

As we turned onto 75 North and drove through downtown, I realized for the first time in a long time just how much I missed the city. The mammoth Turner Stadium dominated the landscape on our right, and I longed to see the Braves play in person again. Seeing the old familiar sights of Georgia Tech, the Varsity, MARTA, and the large illuminated sign on the Big Bethel AME church on Auburn Avenue that read: JESUS SAVES made me feel like I was home. Maybe moving back up wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I realized what I was feeling was nostalgia, and I also knew how deceptive visiting a place could be. At the moment, I wasn’t thinking about the realities of life here, the bad memories, the places that were haunted for me. Nor was I seriously considering how I would make a living or deal with the congestion that felt so claustrophobic to me.

“Why won’t you tell me the band’s name?”

“I’m doing some PR work for them.”

“You are?” I asked, my voice rising in surprise. “That’s so cool. I didn’t know you did—”

“I keep telling you, I’m a whole new person since you knew me. Anyway, I’m trying to get them to change their name. You know how these indie bands are with their names. They pick one their friends think is clever or will stand out, but they don’t really think it through.”

“Damn. It must be pretty bad if you can’t bring yourself to tell me.”

“It’s . . . Anal Seepage. And we’re going to hear them at Chastain tonight.”

“
Anal Seepage
?”

“As in, there music’s so good, even if you take as directed it may cause . . .”

Ten minutes later, we were entering Chastain Park, picnic basket in hand, to see the group I liked to think of as Susan’s as yet unsigned band perform beneath the stars.

“I think it’s so cool you’re doing this,” I said.

“I told you I wasn’t just a suit.”

“I love you,” I said, and pulled her into me with my free hand and kissed her on the neck, getting lost momentarily in her hair.

We found our seats and observed the time-honored Chastain ritual of spreading out gourmet take-out and candles on TV trays in front of us.

Just a mile from all the bustling and boozing of Buckhead, the Chastain Park Amphitheatre is an intimate outdoor stage at the bottom of a gently sloping hill, beneath the trees of Chastain Park.

Susan and I were sitting in the center terrace section on metal seats. Behind us, young people sat on blankets spread out on the grass of the hillside. Before us, near the stage, small groups of middle-aged patrons sat around tables, drinking wine, eating gourmet takeout, and laughing.

Unlike the general admission blanket sitters on the Lawn, the gray-haired, living-the-good-life season ticket holders sitting around Plaza tables weren’t here for the music.

Most of the acts who performed at Chastain were older, even iconic. Susan had booked her band in here at the last minute when Moody Blues had to cancel, thinking it was a great opportunity for good exposure, but I wasn’t so sure. Too many of the ticket holders in attendance were not the target audience for a band like this one—even when they were no longer known as Anal Seepage.

As it grew dark, bringing out the stars in the sky and the future stars on stage, I looked up at the vast expanse and gave thanks for such experiences, which I knew to be a foretaste of what was to come when the one who created the stars, the moon, the music, and the love I felt made all things one again.

The music was good. The band gave a great performance, their lack of pretension and cynicism making up for any deficits in musicianship.

It was a perfect night—good music and food, me with my new wife bathed in magic and moonlight.

Perfect . . . right up until the thunderstorm started.

“I don’t want us to leave,” Susan said. “They’ll come back out when it passes. I don’t want to miss it.”

“I don’t want us to miss the rest of our lives. These are metal seats and they’re inside a giant target on the side of a hill.”

“We can go to the car, but we’re not leaving.”

By the time we reached the car, it had stopped raining, but rather than being pulled back to the concert, we were pulled by a much greater force into the back seat.

Soon our wet clothes were on the floorboard, and we were making love to a soundtrack of dripping raindrops, frogs and other post-rain, nocturnal noises, and the live music an energetic, enthusiastic band.

Our lovemaking was tender, but intense and passionate, and as sacred as the rain or the music or the magical night. Through the open window, the moon bathed our bodies in a soft light as the wind-swept raindrops baptized us into a renewed matrimony that was truly holy.

Afterwards, we had dessert at a twenty-four hour bakery on Peachtree Street with the sweet taste of each other still in our mouths, and then we went home and made love again, careful not to wake Tom and Sarah Daniels who we hoped were fast asleep down the hall.