If a murderer admitted in court that they’d told their victim they were going to kill them at a specific time on a certain day, then left them in a cell to contemplate their impending death — the jury would consider it one of the most chilling, calculating murder accounts they’d ever heard.
And the victim, unwilling to accept their fate, would scream and claw at the cell walls. The family too, if told of that impending fate, would wail and scream and protest.
But prisoners on death-row didn’t. Their shoulders simply slumped, the light of hope faded from their eyes, and they accepted.
Because it was the system.
The weight of it pressing inch by inch down on them. Accept. Accept. Accept. Until they caved in totally in defeat, no hope left for them to cling to.
And as ten minutes later Torvald finished his briefing and the cell door slammed back behind him, Larry had never felt so cold and alone, the impact jarring icily through him, making him shiver. His eyes filled, a single tear rolling out; that too feeling lonely and cold as it trickled down one cheek. Alone.
At the last minute, Torvald had reached out and touched Larry’s arm. ‘If there’s anything you need over these next hours, Larry… just ask.’ And at that second, he did finally meet Larry’s eye, and Larry saw what he’d suspected: that last light of hope had gone from them.
Because as much as at times he’d given up on himself, there’d always been that light and hope and warmth from others; he could see it in their eyes. And now that was finally gone, there was nothing left. No hope. Nothing left to save him.
Within three hours, Bob Stratton had a list of likely MO mug-shots for the 4 thStreet grand-auto theft of twelve years ago, and an hour and a half after that had received an update with current mug-shots of those still active now.
Sixteen photos. But only five looked like they might have a chance of matching the partial cam-shots and the description Ayliss had given him. Stratton looked at his watch: 6.34 p.m. If he was quick and downtown traffic was kind, he just might be able to get them in front of the staff at the Internet cafe before they closed at 7 p.m.
He got there with four minutes to spare, but there was some calling out as to who might have been working the day in question, before a light bulb of recognition came on in the eyes of a blonde-with-a-green-stripe wiping down the espresso machine. Tracy.
‘Yeah… yeah, I remember,’ Tracy said. ‘Lawyer guy that phoned in a panic and ran in a couple of weeks back, just missed the guy. Gave him a cam-video to take away.’
‘That’s the one.’ Stratton had decided to show her all sixteen mug-shots in sets of four at a time, and laid the cam photos to one side as a reminder. ‘Now, out of these… anyone that looks like the guy that was here that day?’
One photo in set two, though she couldn’t be sure; but then she twisted her mouth in the same way over another photo in set three. ‘Uuuh, again, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’
Stratton put the two photos side by side. ‘Strongest bet — if you were forced to choose?’
She pointed to one, but then seconds later became unsure and her finger wavered over the other. ‘I’m sorry… on this one his hair just isn’t right, too wild, too much of an Afro — but the rest, hmmm? Maybe his hair’s changed since this photo.’ Tracy tilted her head, as if to get a better angle. ‘If they were both smiling, I’d know for sure.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s got a big gap between his front teeth.’
Stratton could just imagine how that advice would go down with police departments: ensuring there’s no smiling on mug-shots might make perps look more severe and menacing, more like criminals, but you miss out on valuable dental recognition.
Stratton nodded with a no-teeth smile. In the end, not enough to choose between them; he’d just have to chase up both. ‘Thanks.’
And as soon as Stratton got back in his car, he called his contact again, Jack Harris of Fourth District, and got addresses for both names.
‘Last known for Roland Cole is Mid-City… and Steve Thelwood, along the coast at Long Beach.’
Stratton wrote down the addresses. ‘Great. Thanks, Jack.’ Then he tried Ayliss’s number to bring him up to date, but it didn’t answer. Still plane-hopping, no doubt.
When he got to the address in Mid-City, Roland Cole wasn’t there and the new apartment tenant didn’t know of his whereabouts. ‘I been here seven months now, and you’re not the first person called askin’ for him,’ a Biggie-Small look-alike in jogging pants and a vest informed him. ‘Easy to see now why he left no forwardin’.’
Stratton headed along the coast to Long Beach.
There were times when head-guard Glenn Bateson liked to stamp his authority on Libreville; that sense of power over the life and death of its inmates would hit him strongly, make his head almost swim with it, and he’d in turn mark his presence by making his boot-step heavier, more purposeful, along its corridors.
He could practically feel that step shuddering through prisoners from thirty or forty paces away, getting more intense with each stride, so that when he finally came alongside their cells, they could barely look at him, a scant fearful glance that said, ‘ I’m not really here. You didn’t see me.’
He felt that way now; that sense of power over life and death stronger than he could remember in a long while, as he paced towards the cell of Tally Shavell. But his step wasn’t heavy now, in fact it was far lighter than normal, because he didn’t want to bring attention to where he was heading.
No scant or uneasy look as Shavell greeted him, those cold, soulless dark eyes stayed on him steadily, unwavering. Equal ground; equal control over life and death at Libreville. The only emotion Shavell showed was the faint lifting of one eyebrow as Bateson explained what he wanted.
‘I know.’ Bateson thought he hadn’t heard right at first and had asked Nel-M to repeat himself above the background activity and voices. Somewhere busy. ‘Hit me as strange too, given the timing.’
Shavell kept the eyebrow raised. ‘And for doin’ this good deed?’
‘Thirty grand. In cash to a named account, or translated into disposable goods in here.’ Bateson smiled crookedly; he was on the same, and they’d probably each make another thirty big ones from the pills or powder sold on. ‘If you know what I mean?’
Shavell’s eyes shifted from Bateson as he started planning things out in his mind, with no acknowledgement as Bateson left his cell.
42
When the call came through to Havana’s Jose Marti airport, it was taken first of all by a young officer named Ruiz.
Quickly realizing that he was out of his depth, he handed over to his Captain, Sebastian Moragues, who’d started looking over inquisitively as he’d repeated segments for clarification.
New Orleans. Suspected false identity. Cubana flight from Nassau. Moragues’ inquisitive frown deepened as the request was repeated.
‘So, let me get this clear. This Mr Ayliss arriving soon — you suspect that it might be someone else posing as him? False identity?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And do you have an official arrest warrant your end for that?’
Brief pause, conferring the other end. ‘No… no we don’t. It’s just a suspicion at this stage. Though a very strong one.’
‘And based just on this suspicion… you want us to stop and detain him?’ Moragues was old school Castro, and for them the unwritten rule book was clear: no favours for Americans, because they’ve done none for us the past forty years. So unless it posed a threat to Cuban national security or involved drug-trafficking, which Cuba was keen to keep itself free of, Moragues was going to take a lot of convincing. And with not even the right paperwork in place their end? Madre de Putas!