Her eyes flickered as she took in what he said, rolling through varying emotions: pain of the memory, embarrassment that anyone had heard — but as her face softened and her eyes became slightly moist, it was clear the emotion that had finally won through.
She brought one hand up and lightly touched one of Jac’s cheeks with the back of her fingertips. ‘You’re a sweet guy. Thanks. It’s nice to know that you took the trouble to care.’ She could have added: it was nice to know that anyone still cared.
But there was no point in burdening this Jac McElroy with the darker shades of her life. Frightening him off before they’d even started to get to know each other.
Jac’s step was light as they said their goodbyes, ‘Until Monday night,’ and he walked into his apartment. No love-life to speak of since Madeleine, and suddenly he had two dates in as many days.
It looked like being a pivotal weekend for his career too; if he got nothing worthwhile from Rodriguez, he’d have little choice but to walk away from the Durrant case.
‘So, they took you down to the boiler room,’ Jac confirmed. ‘Did you make any noise that might alert anyone? Did anyone else see you on the way down?’
‘I made some noise at first when I realized what was goin’ down — but one of ‘em got a hand quickly over my mouth. And wit’ the route they took, cutting down past the restrooms and laundry and only passin’ a handful of cells with open fronts — I’m not sure just who mighta heard or saw me.’ Rodriguez looked down thoughtfully for a second. ‘Though, of course, with who showed up later — obviously one person did hear me.’
The tension mounted steadily in the small interview room as Rodriguez described the events on the night he was taken from his cell. Haveling, his assistant Pete Folley and a guard were ensconced behind the one-way glass screen, the red light on the base of the table microphone indicating that sound was going through to them.
When Rodriguez had entered the interview room, Jac saw that he carried three books: The Catcher in the Rye, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Dostoyevski’s Crime and Punishment. And beneath them, a hand-written letter and two editions of Libreville’s quarterly magazine, Libre-Voice.
‘I brought these,’ Rodriguez offered, ‘‘cause you said on the phone that you wanted support for why Larry, “Thes”, should continue living.’
‘That’s true… I did.’ Jac nodded towards the microphone. The red-light wasn’t on at that stage, Haveling and Folley were just getting settled behind the screen. ‘But that’s going to be for the second part of the interview. This first part, which will be monitored and recorded, is to establish what happened on the night of October twenty-fourth. The night you received your injuries.’ The last thing Jac wanted to do was go into detail about Durrant’s death-wish with Haveling listening in.
Rodriguez wasn’t tall, no more than five-five, and was slightly built. Jac could see that he might have problems in Libreville without someone like Durrant to watch his back. And the evidence of that was strongly etched on his face with the welts and bruises still there, one of them a golf-ball-sized lump that half closed one eye. The sight of Rodriguez’ injuries weren’t helped by the freckles across his nose and cheeks, some of them so large they looked almost like blotches, as if his Latino blood had had problems dispersing evenly through his skin.
But his liveliness of spirit was evident in his eyes: coal-black, constantly darting, assessing, sparkling with verve and cloaked humour — or, if you caught him on a bad day, malice. His only warning-off device. Jac leant closer to the mike. ‘And when they grabbed you in your cell, did you recognize them?’
‘Not at first — it was too dark. But as they took me out into the corridor, I gotta better look.’ Rodriguez glanced towards the mirrored-glass screen, as if appreciating that the information would have most impact to those behind it. ‘The guard was Dennis Marmont. And the other two were inmates — Silass and Jay-T.’
‘I see. And was there another guard with them at any time? A certain Glenn Bateson?’
‘No… no, there wasn’t. He only appeared at the last minute with ‘nother two guards to break everything up. In fact, only one other person was present — Tally Shavell. He was already waitin’ for me down in the boiler room. King Shit.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘Sorry, that’s our other nickname for him.’
Before the meeting, Jac had spent twenty minutes in the annexe to Haveling’s office going through Rodriguez’ file. In Libreville for murdering a rival pimp for the heavy beating of one of his stable of girls, Rodriguez had taken a basic paralegal course, which had led to him being one of two inmates entrusted to help run the prison’s ‘communication and advice’ centre, since a significant part of that would entail contact between inmates and their legal representatives. Jac could see Rodriguez’ formal legalese phrasing take over as he explained events, but his more familiar prison jibe-talk wasn’t far beneath the surface.
‘Once you were down in the boiler room, what happened then?’ Jac wanted more detail on the assault, not only for the impact of what they’d done to Rodriguez to sink home with Haveling — but because it was something difficult to lie about in minute, graphic detail.
As Rodriguez related the events, Jac could practically see him wince with the memory of each blow landing, the shadows in his eyes mirroring his fear in those desperate moments.
‘And if Lawrence Durrant hadn’t arrived when he did, what do you believe would have happened to you?’ Jac asked.
‘I believe they’da killed me — in fact, I’m sure that was their aim all along.’
Jac purposely left silence as breathing space to Rodriguez’ closing comment, then leant closer to the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mr Rodriguez. That concludes this part of the interview.’ He fired a tight grimace towards the glass screen as he flicked off the red light. Hopefully it was enough to convince Haveling — especially with the coded note intended for Marmont that Jac had shown him.
The atmosphere in the interview room immediately eased with the red light off, both of them knowing that they were no longer being monitored, and as Jac’s eyes fell again to the books, Rodriguez was there before him, explaining.
‘If you look at the letter at the front, written by Larry eight years ago at the time of his appeal, then at the margin notes made in the books — you’ll see what I’m gettin’ at.’
Jac scanned the letter, then started flicking through the first pages of The Catcher in the Rye. It took a moment for Jac to realize what the notes were before confirming with Rodriguez.
‘These are Larry Durrant’s notes in the margin?’ Jac rapidly flicked through the rest of the book. Some pages had no margin notes at all, some only one or two small entries — but in almost half the book the notes were extensive, often almost filling the available margin space. ‘All of these suggested changes and corrections?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. He’s been editin’ Catcher in the Rye, for Christ’s sake. A fuckin’ ‘merican classic.’ Rodriguez picked up the other two books and quickly fanned their pages towards Jac. ‘And the same with Steinbeck and Dostoyevski. And going from that…’ Rodriguez tapped the letter, then pointed back to the books… ‘to that — you’ll get some handle on just how much Larry Durrant has progressed while he’s been in here. And on top we got all his good work an’ contributions with the prison magazine.’ Rodriguez pulled out one of the magazines and held it up. ‘That’s why he’s worthwhile fightin’ for. Why he’s now a worthwhile citizen that shouldn’t be allowed to die.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘He just ain’t the same Larry Durrant he was when he first came in here.’
Jac looked again at the letter. Even though it was fairly basic and simple, with two or three spelling errors, it didn’t smack of total illiteracy — although Jac took Rodriguez’ point. There was a Grand Canyon gap between the letter and Durrant’s editing notes and articles. A remarkable journey that could hopefully impress the State Governor as to Durrant’s worthiness — if they got that far.