He'd also managed to computer-select his own cellmate. The lucky winner was a huge Native American named John HorseKiller, who had killed four Sheriff's Deputies, but no horses. The gargantuan, six-foot nine-inch Indian belonged to no gang, club, or ethnic Mafia organization. But he was fiercely loyal to Malavida because the twentytwo-year-old had arranged for HorseKiller's dying mother to be illegally added to the CIGNA insurance group medical plan. Her chemotherapy was being paid for by thousands of unsuspecting policy owners. As compensation, HorseKiller would "run the gears" on any inmate who gave Malavida a hard time.
Malavida had it made in Lompoc. He was the Santa Claus of the joint, but he dreamed of catching tube rides at Huntington Beach on his yellow-and-orange surfboard. He missed lying on the sand, his long, black hair wet on his shoulders. He missed the girls, sunshine, and water… but most of all, he missed his mother.
A guard came to tell him that he had visitors in the Attorneys' Wing. Malavida shut off the computer he was working on and, without saying anything, followed the muscle-bound screw out of D Block, across the yard, and into the Administration Building. He made his mind a blank, trying not to think about who or what had just hit on his wall.
When Malavida walked into one of the attorneys' rooms and saw John Lockwood, his heart went cold. Malavida despised Lockwood. The Customs agent had done more than arrest him… He had lied, but more important, he had destroyed Malavida's family and Malavida's mother had not looked at him the same way since Lockwood had arrested him. Malavida's eyes flicked over to a very pretty, slender, auburn-haired young woman, also in the room. The guard closed the door and Malavida forced his anger away. He had learned that anger rarely served a purpose. It destroyed logic and made you vulnerable. Like a well-trained fighter, Malavida was determined to meet Lockwood with cold, surgical precision.
"Make your pitch, Zanzo," Malavida said, without emotion. "You didn't come up here to bring me cookies."
"Give it a rest, Mal. I was just doing my job."
"Who's this?" Malavida said, glancing at Karen.
"Karen Dawson. She works with me at Customs."
Karen had been looking at Malavida with open surprise. She had been expecting some nerd, an X-over-Y computer geek. Malavida Chacone was handsome and muscular, with long, shiny black hair and even white teeth. He was intense and beautiful and very sexy. A lone teardrop tattoo hung in ethnic anger beneath his left eye. But despite his striking appearance, his eyes were hard as black glass and revealed nothing.
"How'd you like to get out of here for a day?" Lockwood said. "I'm doing fine. I'm keeping my house neat. I get what I need." Lockwood looked down and saw the new Nike running shoes on his feet.
"You on a track team, Mal?" Lockwood said, grinning.
"No, I ain't on a fucking track team. Why would you wanna get me out, huh? I got nothing you want."
"I gotta computer problem."
"I ain't no buster, so go get your help someplace else. 'Sides, they ain't gonna let me outta here anyway."
Lockwood pulled out the folded SCR that Harvey had made up and slid it across the table with his fingers. Malavida made no move to look at it.
"Not gonna help you, Zanzo."
"Why not?" Lockwood asked.
" 'Cause you lied in court."
"So did you."
"It's okay to lie when you're trying to stay out of prn. It's not okay to lie when you're a cop."
"I musta forgot that rule," Lockwood said in mock surprise. "What page is that on?"
"It ain't funny."
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.
"We want you to help us," Karen chipped in. "I've read your record. I think I can understand why you started doing what you did. You were trying to help your mother. We need to hack into a computer, but it's got very strict security on it. I think there are only one or two crackers in the country who could penetrate this machine." She watched him, hoping the flat-footed compliment would soften him. His eyes still showed nothing.
Lockwood tapped the folded paper between them.
"This is a Special Circumstances Release. What we're offering you here, Mal, is a field trip with burritos. We'll take you to Lompoc.
You'll help us. Then we'll buy you some Cokes and grease. We'll let you watch the sex channel on the motel TV and we'll have you back here tonight."
"Why would I help you, Lockwood? Gimme one reason."
"One reason? Okay, how's this? I can't ever recall seeing an inmate wearing designer running shoes before. What would happen if I put a trace on the prn phone lines? Would I maybe find some brisk computer sales in the Nike catalog? If I shut down your deal, how long would it be till you were somebody's personal tidbit in here?"
"How the fuck do I get you outta my life?" Malavida scowled.
"Hey, you asked for a reason. How'd I do?"
"Malavida, we need you," Karen pleaded. "Please help us. It would mean so much to us… Won't you do this favor, please?" This time she was openly begging him. Lockwood thought it was arguably the worst version of good cop/bad cop he'd ever pulled.
Malavida knew he'd get no slack from Lockwood. He'd had enough exposure to the tough agent to know they were on opposite sides of the ball. But Karen Dawson looked like bait that could be stolen. He smiled at her and, after a moment, picked up the SCR form and studied it.
"How could I refuse such a pretty chica?" he said insincerely, going badly over the top himself.
"Who's your counselor?" Lockwood asked.
"His name's Stan Shannahan," Malavida was now talking only to Karen. "I can get him to walk this SCR right through. All it's gonna take is maybe a pair of size ten and a half, D, Lucchese cowboy boots in black or tan ostrich. They have 'em at the Ranch Store in Santa Barbara. He's been drooling over them, but I haven't been able to score 'em for him 'cause they got no computer catalog. Throw in the boots and I guarantee he'll stamp us through."
Malavida's attitude was picking up speed as he smiled at Karen. He was definitely in a hurry to get out of Lompoc for a day. He'd already started working on a way to turn a day into a lifetime.
They met Stan Shannahan and gave him Harvey Knox's request. Stan glanced at it and took Malavida into another room. After a minute, they came back and both were smiling.
"You ain't gonna take him outta Lompoc, are ya?" Stan asked, his Texas accent twanging like a bobby pin in a Dixie cup.
"Of course not. We've got a government witness and a Federal prosecutor coming in by van. We're gonna be at the Ocean View motel back in town. We'll conduct the interview there and have him back by tonight."
"Man, these Federal witness deals are really something. What's this Cholo got you need?"
"I'm afraid that's classified, sir," Lockwood droned, "but it's a major case. This interview was approved by the big boss, the Attorney General herself."
"Y'all gonna brung-um back chere tonight?" Stan asked, exposing both a horrible education and brown tobacco-stained teeth.