Trust in Me (14 page)

Doc peered closely at Ron. “You smoke, boy?”

“Huh?”

“Asked if you smoked.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Doc snorted. “Come on out in the garage with me. We’ll have a smoke before you go.” He looked pointedly at Tucker. “Can’t even have a goddamned cigar in my own livin’ room now that I got a houseguest.”

“You’ll die from it, yet, with that angina,” Tucker said.

“I’m too mean to die.” He shuffled toward the garage with Ron behind him. The boy banged the door shut without another word.

Tucker turned away and his gaze caught on the bookcases. He might be able to keep Doc from smoking around him—and by God he’d get him to quit if it was the last thing he did—but he couldn’t keep him from displaying their accolades like they were religious relics. Slowly, Tucker surveyed the showy mementos. Three Daytona 500 trophies. Three Winston Cups. Engraved plaques from big tracks like Darlington and Dover to the lesser wins in Pocono and Watkins Glen. A lifetime of achievements. And what did he have to show for it? No kids. No wife. No family to speak of. Just one lone man who was as ornery as a wounded bear most of the time. He wondered how Ron Donovan was going to deal with Doc. The kid was long on rebelliousness and short on patience.

Shrugging, Tucker returned to the glass doors, but his thoughts stuck with him like flypaper. Ron was going to jail. He hoped to God the weekend situation was better than most prisons. Tucker wondered how he could find out.

His mind immediately conjured up Ron’s mother again. How were those slender shoulders going to bear this newest trial? Resigned, and placid, she’d
thanked
him, for God’s sake. Her touch had been firm, and her scent—she’d smelled like magnolias—had wafted up to him.

Again, he wondered if he could do something for her. She’d refused the money he’d offered years ago. What the hell else could he do?

You can help her kid.

Damn, he wished he knew more about the jail thing. Then he remembered something. He crossed to the closet and ferreted out the jacket he’d worn to the Council meeting last Friday. In the pocket was Joe Murphy’s card.

We’ll need to stay in touch about this community service, if it goes down like this.

Tucker had tried to foist the card and the responsibility off on Doc—it had been his frigging idea after all—but Doc had dug in his heels and said Tucker’d have to deal with the agency.

Just another part of the punishment, he thought, heading toward the phone to call Murphy. Jesus Christ, how had he become a part of the Donovans’ lives?

o0o

LANCASTER Correctional Facility loomed before them, a hulking brute of a building, made of stone that had weathered to an ominous gray. Out in the middle of nowhere, twenty miles to the north of Long Island and a half hour from Glen Oaks, it stood four stories tall and reminded Beth of a fortress. Ronny gasped as soon as it came into view. The dreary March Saturday morning was a fitting backdrop to the gloom that had settled into the van.

On her son’s left, in the backseat, Beth grasped his hand; on his right, Annie had linked her arm with his. From the front seat, next to Linc, Margo, who’d taken the train up from the city the night before, said, “It looks a lot better than Alcatraz, kid. I think you can handle it.” Beth recognized the traces of concern in her attempt to lighten the mood.

Linc reached over and squeezed her knee. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “We know you can handle it, don’t we, buddy?”

They’d all agreed Ronny needed some
Scared Straight
tactics, but they weren’t going to leave him hanging out to dry, either, with no adult support. They’d had too much of that kind of neglect themselves. Her son was frightened to death of this experience, and by God they were all going to help him through it.

They halted at an entrance booth, flashed the pass the jail had sent in a packet of instructions, and parked in the small lot. Beth slid out of the right side, and Ron followed her. He retrieved his belongings—he’d been told to bring a change of clothes, sleep-wear, towel and toiletries, a book, quarters for candy and soda, and any medication in its original containers. As he dragged the duffel bag out of the back, she was reminded of the little boy she’d dropped off at a week-long camp when he was seven. His chin had stuck out in false bravado just like now, and he’d faced her with the same dark, wary eyes. Though he was over six feet tall instead of four, and wore black jeans, a shirt reading
It’s not a phase
and black boots, he seemed as young and fearful as he had in his silly Camp Tomahawk T-shirt, denim shorts and navy blue sneakers. She’d cried on Margo’s shoulder all the way home that day.

When everyone had exited, Linc locked the car and put his arm around Ron; they walked to the entrance marked INMATES.

Inmates.

Oh God.

An armed guard buzzed them in. Painted a stark white with nothing on the walls, the reception area held a desk and a structure behind it that looked like a huge cage with wire baskets. A second uniformed guard, with a brush cut and a scar just below his ear, manned the area; his name tag read, T. WELLS, CORRECTION OFFICER. He scowled at them. The only other occupant of the room stood when they entered.

It was Joe Murphy.

“Joe?” Linc halted halfway to the desk.

Beth stopped, too, puzzled by Joe’s presence.

Annie froze.

Margo stepped back and slid an arm around Annie’s shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Annie asked.

“I came to see if I could be any help.”

Before Annie could respond, Ron said, “Thanks.” He seemed relieved Joe was there.

Joe nodded to the officer. “You’ll have to surrender all your personal belongings, Ron—wallet, comb, et cetera.” He glanced at Beth, gave her a weak smile, then stepped forward and guided them both to the desk.

“Name,” the guard growled.

“Ron Donovan.” Ronny’s voice cracked, which it hadn’t done since he was thirteen. Beth’s stomach somersaulted. It all seemed surreal, as if the guard was an actor out of
The Shawshank Redemption
and the monstrous building was a stage facade.

“Empty your pockets, and put the stuff in here.” He handed Ron a basket. “You goin’ to Intake with him?” he asked Beth.

“Yes.

He faced Joe. “You his father?”

“I’m his social worker.”

The guard gave a clipped nod. “You goin’ in, too?”

Ron said, “Come, please. For Mom.”

Beth nodded, grateful beyond measure Joe had had the foresight to come out here. Though he was a far cry from the knight in shining armor Annie used to see him as, Beth welcomed his support today.

The guard asked Joe and Beth to give up their belongings, then buzzed again, and indicated a heavy steel door. “Through there,” was all he said.

Her knees like jelly, Beth turned to the door and took a step toward it but stumbled; Joe caught her arm.

“Easy,” he whispered out of earshot to Ron. “We’ll get through this.”

Leaning on him, she followed her son into the jail.

They entered a larger area with a battered desk and four chairs. Behind the desk sat a man in a severe navy suit. He was big and black and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His name tag read, J. BAILEY, INTAKE OFFICER. “Ronald Donovan?” he asked coldly.

Ron nodded.

“Mrs. Donovan?” Bailey’s voice held a trace of warmth as he extended his hand to her, shook it, and motioned them to sit. She noticed his wedding ring and wondered if he had any kids, wondered if he knew the agony of watching your child go through something so awful. He nodded to Joe. “Murphy.”

Before she could question their familiarity, Bailey turned to Ron. “I’ll outline for you and your mother what will happen this weekend, Donovan. Then you’ll be taken inside alone.” He faced Beth. “He’ll be safe here, Mrs. Donovan, but we won’t coddle him. This program is for men like Ron who are this close to prison.” He made an inch-size gesture with his thumb and index finger.

Men like Ron? But her son was a...Oh. Lord, he was man.

“You’re lucky to get in here.” Bailey focused on Ron with a glacial stare. “And you do one thing wrong, you’re out on your ear and we throw you into the system. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Every weekend until the end of May you’re ours at exactly eight A.M. on Saturday morning. For the first two weekends, you’ll stay in a cell till Sunday night at seven, when your mother can pick you up. You’ll be allowed out only for meals and breaks. This time is for you to think about what you’ve done and how lucky you are to be here. You’ll have no contact with inmates but meals.”

Ron nodded. So did Beth. At least he’d be safe.

“After those two weekends, you’ll work in a supervised program.” He picked up a folder. “Right now, we’re painting for the Lancaster County Housing Authority. You’ll start at nine A.M. on Saturday, work until seven at night. Meals will be provided. You’ll spend Sundays going to church, meeting with counselors and returning to the houses to paint for the afternoon.”

Ron nodded again, but he gripped the edge of the chair. Beth reached out and covered one of his hands. Though it was big and masculine, it trembled in hers.

“There are only two rules here. Do exactly as you’re told, and don’t get in any trouble. You don’t follow them, you’re out. Being assigned to Lancaster’s Weekend Program is a privilege, and if you blow it, you’re history.” He stood and checked the clock. “Time to go.”

Beth felt her stomach pitch as Ron stood and stared at her. His eyes were so bleak, she couldn’t bear to look at them, so she stepped forward and hugged him. He held on tight, and ludicrously, she remembered that when he’d turned eleven he’d stopped hugging her in front of others.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered in her ear.

“You’ll be okay, honey, I promise.”

When he drew away, his eyes were moist. Beth almost lost it then, but she held back for him.

Joe took Ron’s arm and drew him aside, said something Beth couldn’t hear, and patted his shoulder. Then J. Bailey opened the steel door and took Ronny inside.

The door banged shut with a loud clang that reverberated through the barren room. She just watched after her son, numb. Then the feeling started, rising up from her lungs into her throat. She thought she might be sick, and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her knees buckled. Joe crossed to her, and with only a slight hesitation, took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. She held on to him, clutching his soft sweater, listening to the soothing words he uttered. After a minute, she felt stronger and drew back. “Sorry, I’m not usually so...weak.”

His gray eyes were full of warmth. “You got good reason, Bonnie.”

Despite the horror of the circumstances, she smiled at the old nickname. “Thanks, Billy.”

“Ronny’ll be all right.” Joe’s tone turned sober. “And the first time is the toughest. Seeing everything. Its starkness. You won’t even come in after today. Just drop him off at the door.”

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I’m familiar with the routine.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “You knew they’d let you come in with me, didn’t you? You knew the officer.”

His expression said
guilty-as-charged
. “Yeah.”

“Do they always let social workers in?”

His face reddened. “I got a little pull here. I’ve dealt with this facility before.”

“Thanks Joe, for doing this for me. And for helping my son.”

After a hesitation, Joe squeezed her neck. “You’re welcome.” He nodded to the exit. “You ready to go?”

She glanced at the steel door through which Ronny had passed. “Yes. I’ll be all right.”

“Sure you will. The Outlaws are tough, remember?”

She touched his arm. “I remember.”

o0o

WHAT the
hell
was he doing here?
Tucker leaned against the wall of the souvenir shop and stared at The Downtown Diner, like the stepchild he’d been, looking in from the outside. It was dusk and Beth Donovan had put up the CLOSED sign. The last patron had left, followed by what must be the employees, one tall and thin, one short and stubby. Mutt and Jeff, Doc had called them.

Through the front glass, he could see her move around. She straightened menus on the counter, then she wiped it off. She checked the coffeepots and headed to the front booths. When she leaned over a table, she looked up through the window. And froze.

Shit! Too late he realized he was visible underneath the new streetlight that had been part of the downtown renovation. His heartbeat picked up like it did before a big race. She stared at him for a few moments, then turned away. He blew out a heavy breath. A reprieve. She’d seen him but wasn’t going to make an issue of it.

Pushing off from the brick wall, he decided to go back to Doc’s, stop this stupid vigil that he’d been compelled to keep all day—driving through the streets, passing the diner several times, walking around town till he got too cold. Disgusted with himself, Tucker took a step toward his car when the front door of the diner opened. She stood in the doorway.

Go home
, he told himself.
Leave it alone
.

He edged toward the road.

She waited.

He stepped down the curb.

She watched him.

He felt snared like the rabbits he used to catch in traps. Calling himself a no good, selfish fool, he crossed the street. Five feet away from her, he stopped, jammed his hands into his suede jacket and stared some more.

In the faint light of the street, he could see the lines of stress on her face. She’d pulled her hair back in some kind of tie, and it made her look as fragile as the tiny glass figurines his mother used to collect. Arms wrapped around her waist, she shivered in the thin cotton sweater she wore. Like the one she’d worn the night of the Council meeting, it was pink and soft as down. “It’s cold out here. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t wanna bother you.”

“You were watching me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She shrugged. “You didn’t. Come inside.”

Mutely, he nodded and followed her into the diner. The lure was too great; he felt as if he’d been stripped of his own free will. Closing the door behind him, he stayed by it. She crossed the room, her legs impossibly long in the dark gray slacks. Behind the counter, she went to the coffee. A pot still warmed on the burner. He could smell the rich brew. “It’s high test,” she said softly. “I don’t drink the decaf.”