“What, you want to give me some sort of gang quiz?” he asked. “Make sure I know the lingo?”
She straightened the jacket of her suit, a navy blue pinstripe with a pencil skirt she’d bought on her last trip to San Francisco. “You’re saying you’re willing to stab someone to get in? Because if that’s true, I’ll reserve a cell for you this minute.”
He winked at her. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Peyton felt her mouth drop open. “This is who you want to put inside our prison?” she said to Wallace.
“Perfect, isn’t he?” he replied with a grin.
To avoid an angry, knee-jerk reaction, she made a pretense of smoothing her hair, which was, as always, sleekly arranged in a tight knot at her nape—an efficient style that enabled her to feel slightly fashionable, despite working in a world where fashion played no part. “You liked his response?”
As calm, cool and collected as a politician, even when he was under fire, Wallace met her gaze with a level stare. “I think he’s believable. And that’s what we need.”
In an effort to be as clear as possible, she leaned forward. “The point I was trying to make is this: it takes more than words to pass a gang initiation.”
“Simeon and I have already discussed it,” he responded. “We could stage certain…events. It’ll require some cooperation from you, of course, but we can make a stabbing or…whatever else appear real.”
Peyton picked up a pen someone else had left on the table to punctuate her words. “You don’t get it. You can’t choose who you stab. The Hells Fury set the mark.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Wallace looked at Fischer as if to say, Are you going to let her continue to fight us? and Fischer spoke again, but he didn’t rebuke Peyton. He seemed more interested in clarification.
“The department will pay for the investigation?”
Wallace hurried to confirm it. “That’s correct. Why not? It’ll be a bargain compared to what we’ll need just to stop the bleeding if we don’t head off this problem.”
The warden was under constant pressure to trim the operating budget—every warden was, especially with the economic problems facing California. This state had a higher percentage of its population locked up than any other and was struggling to support what it had created. But Peyton didn’t believe saving money justified jeopardizing a man’s life, even if that man was foolhardy enough to get involved in such a dangerous operation. She hoped the fifth person at the table—Joseph Perry, one of the associate wardens below her and the third man who’d ridden over with her to meet Wallace and Bennett—would speak up as she had. If he agreed with her, maybe Fischer would listen.
But she should’ve known better than to count on Perry. When she arched an eyebrow at him, asking for his opinion, he shoved his wire-rimmed glasses higher and remained mum.
“You don’t have anything to say?” she pressed.
With a sniff—he battled constant allergies—he finally spoke in a characteristically nasal voice. “I, ah, I suppose it can work.”
In other words, he didn’t give a damn if it didn’t. It wasn’t his neck on the line.
Peyton turned to the warden. “At least take some time to think this over, sir.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” Fischer studied Simeon. “You sure you’ve got the balls for this, son?”
One side of his mouth twisted in the semblance of a grin, Bennett rolled up his sleeve to expose a tattoo that looked like a prisoner ID number.
“You’re an ex-con?” Peyton cried.
Bennett didn’t rush to explain. Buttoning his sleeve, he nodded.
“Oh, that’s great.” She leaned back so she could cross her legs. “That really makes me feel I can rely on you.” What inmate tattooed his prison number on his arm? Only a very belligerent one….
He didn’t seem to find her sarcasm warranted. “Considering your reservations, I’m more worried about being able to rely on you.”
Peyton would have offered a retort, but the warden spoke before she could. “Why’d they put you behind bars?”
“Murder one.” His gaze never wavered from her face, even though she wasn’t the one who’d asked the question. He was interested in her reaction. Too stunned to speak, she gaped at him.
Rosenburg’s chair raked the carpet as he shoved himself away from the table. “How long were you in?”
Simeon had read her shock and repugnance; Peyton could tell. His lips maintained that mocking grin, but this time he looked at Frank when he answered. “Nearly six years.”
“What happened to Mr. Bennett was…unfortunate,” Wallace said. “But, thanks to evidence that surfaced well after his conviction, he was exonerated.”
Exonerated. For a moment, that word held no meaning for Peyton. Simeon Bennett had become a regular ex-con to her—probably because he seemed every bit as hardened as the men in her prison. Before Wallace’s explanation could reverse that image, she had to walk herself through the definition. He didn’t do it. Of course. He wouldn’t be sitting here, working for the CDCR if he’d murdered someone. But six years? For a crime he didn’t commit? She couldn’t believe he’d be willing to put himself back in such a vulnerable position. To make his pretense credible, they wouldn’t be able to show him any favoritism or give him time off. Going undercover in Pelican Bay would be very close to going inside for real.
“If you think that convinces me you’re ideal for this job, you’re wrong,” Peyton told him.
He had to speak over Wallace in order to respond. “And why is that, Chief Deputy?”
“Something so tragic…it has to have made…changes in who you are.”
A muscle flexed in his cheek. “Which would make me damaged goods. Is that what you’re saying?”
She looked at the warden, Frank, even Joe, for support, but got avid curiosity instead. “It could.”
Simeon’s jaw jutted forward. “I assure you I’ve passed all my psych evals…with flying colors.”
Wallace handed them each a manila envelope. “You’ll find Mr. Bennett’s résumé inside. Given the unusual nature of his background, I assumed you’d have some questions. We want you to feel completely comfortable with what we’ve got planned—well, as comfortable as any of us can feel under the circumstances. But rest assured that we’ve done our homework. We’re calling this Operation Inside, and we expect it to be a success.”
“We…” Peyton repeated.
“The department.”
His emphasis was intended to make a point: it wouldn’t be too beneficial to piss off her employer. But she couldn’t justify worrying more about her career than a man’s life.
Peyton shifted her gaze to Simeon’s knuckles. Love. Hate. Which emotion dominated the other? Did he even know from one minute to the next? “Where’d you do the time?”
“In the federal system.”
He could’ve elaborated but, once again, didn’t. Was it because he didn’t want her poking around in his past, checking up on him? If so, that defensiveness bothered Peyton. A man who’d spent six years in prison for murder could have a lot of dark secrets, despite being exonerated and despite having worked in the private sector for some time.