In prison, many of these women received drug addiction treatment, and got clean, for the first time in their adult lives. But when they came out, the situation for females was even more harrowing than it was for males. Few had held jobs in the past, and some were simply unemployable. A federal law enacted in 1996 imposed a lifetime ban on female offenders from receiving family welfare benefits and food stamps. No wonder many of these women believed they were better off behind bars.
Rachel thought there was some truth to this, for women and for men. Certainly for those who were beyond reform, or for those who were simply unprepared to deal with the straight world ever again, prison was a 'better place.' No question, it was easier to jail, for some, than it was to live on the street. Many offenders she had known, those who were clearly not going to make it, had spoken almost wistfully about going back to prison. In a couple of cases, she had told these offenders to violate themselves, go back to jail, get fat and recharged, and then come out and try it again. Many, of course, never did come out.
What she wouldn't do, what she could never do, was believe that supervision and reform did not work just because they did not work for everyone. If she lost faith in the possibility of redemption, then what she did on a daily basis made no sense.
'I'm gonna try to get over to that clinic next week, Miss Lopez,' said Nardine.
'Tomorrow would be better,' said Rachel. 'Okay?'
Lorenzo Brown and Mark Christianson sat in the Tahoe, idling on M Street, Northeast, off 3rd, looking at a used-car lot surrounded by a high fence topped with concertina wire. Nearby stood the husk of the old Washington Coliseum, its arched roofline rising above the landscape. A pack of kids rode their bikes down the street, turning to cool-eye the uniformed men in the truck.
Mark pulled the case report on the car lot's owner, Patricio Martinez, and studied it.
'Man still got Cujo back in there?' said Lorenzo.
'You mean Lucky.'
'How many Spanish you figure call their dogs Lucky?'
'They do like that name.' Mark closed the file. 'C'mon.'
They locked the truck and walked across the street, entering the open gates of the lot. The business sold old cars, none guaranteed, all with available financing at an exorbitant rate. Ford Tempos, low-end Nissans, Pontiac Fieros, Geos, and Chrysler products from the eighties and early nineties were parked in rows, some unwashed, all with prices soaped on their windshields. Most went for under a thousand dollars.
A young Hispanic man came out of the garage beside the lot office and eyed the men in uniform as he rubbed his greasy hands on a shop rag. The man was dark and small.
'Patricio around?' said Mark, that pleasant smile on his face.
'Offi',' said the young man.
'Can you get him for me?'
The man made no move to do a thing. They all stood there for a minute or so, Mark smiling and the young guy rubbing his hands on the rag and staring implacably at Mark and sometimes Lorenzo. Then a rotund middle-aged Hispanic wearing a gold chain decorating his neck and hairy chest, visible through an almost completely unbuttoned sport shirt, came out of the office to greet them.
'Mark Christianson,' said Mark, extending his hand, which the rotund man, Patricio Martinez, shook. 'From the Humane Society.'
'I remember you, sure.'
'Here to check up on Lucky. You mind if we get a look at him?'
'Yeah,' said Patricio Martinez in a jovial way, 'sure, sure.'
Patricio made a come-on gesture with his hand and moved his bulk between the rows of cars. Lorenzo and Mark followed.
Lorenzo could see Mark's jaw tightening behind his smile. The keeping of guard dogs got Mark's back up. Animals kept in auto parts graveyards, used-car lots, warehouses, and retail establishments had no care or companionship after business hours. On the days that those places were closed, or during act-of-god weather events, many had none at all. During big snowstorms, Mark went out while the rest of the city was at a standstill and fed, watered, and checked on dogs like Lucky. In fact, Mark had ripped his pants climbing over the concertina wire of this very lot to check on Lucky during the blizzard of 2003.
They turned a corner and came upon a cage, the back of which gave to an open bay door. Lucky smelled their presence. He came out, galloping like a horse, and began to bark, stopping in front of the links, baring his teeth at Mark and Lorenzo. It was a deep, booming bark, fitting for the dog's size. Lucky was the biggest rottweiler Lorenzo had ever seen.
'Looks like he remembers you, man,' said Lorenzo. 'From that time you came down here in the snow. They say once you feed 'em, they love you for life.'
Mark ignored him and whistled softly, the way he liked to do when he approached an animal, making a loose fist and putting his knuckles close to the links. The dog snapped at his fist and continued to bark. Mark kept his hand in place and looked around the cage, checking for water and cleanliness. Brown streaks, left from recently shoveled feces, were visible on the asphalt. Greenhead flies had lit on the streaks. Flies, in bunches, were parked on Lucky's gnarled ears as well.
'That's a boy,' said Patricio Martinez, looking fondly at the beast. 'Goddamn Lucky, he's good.'
'You see those feces?' said Mark.
'He no got fleas!'
'Feces,' said Mark. 'Dog shit.'
'Dog shit, sure. I clean it up.'
'But you didn't clean it up good enough. After you shovel it, you have to hose it away completely. Otherwise you get all those flies. And then the flies get on Lucky's ears. They get inside Lucky's ears, you understand?'
'Sure, sure.'
Mark withdrew his hand, knowing the dog would not quiet down in the presence of his master, Lucky being Lucky, doing his job. Then Mark gave instructions to Martinez as to what could be done about the fly problem and the dog's ears. Mark said he would drop by a solution to rub on Lucky's ears in the next few days, to get him started on the treatment. Mark wrote out another Official Notification report so that Martinez would know he was serious.
'And you need to get that dog neutered,' said Mark.
'Eh?'
Mark made a scissoring motion with his fingers down by his own crotch.
Martinez pursed his lips in distaste. 'I'm not gonna do that to Lucky.'
Having those big balls on him, thought Lorenzo, that's what keeps old Lucky angry. Unlike Mark, Brown wasn't going to put his hand anywhere near that animal. Pit bulls got all the negative press, and they could do some serious damage, but in Lorenzo's experience, unneutered male rotties were the least trustworthy, most aggressive dogs of any type. This one here had a head the size of a buffalo's too.
Mark truly believed that there was no such thing as a bad animal. Lorenzo had to remind him that they were animals. Mark just trusted them too much sometimes.
'Get him fixed,' said Mark, finishing off the form and handing it to Martinez. 'We don't need any more unwanted animals in this city.'
'Lucky's good,' said Martinez, wiping at a tear in the corner of his eye that was not there.
'I'll be seeing you again,' said Mark.
Lorenzo and Mark walked out of the lot and crossed the street to the truck.
'Lucky was really feelin' your love vibe back there,' said Lorenzo.
'You lived like that, you'd be angry too.'
'I bet no one steals none of those hoopties out of that lot, though.'
'Why would they?' said Mark. 'I wouldn't take one of those cars if Martinez was gonna give it to me for free.'
'True.'
'Lucky's just lonely.'
'Maybe you ought to come down one night, crawl into that cage, and lie down beside him. Sing him a lullaby, somethin' like that.'