Pointblank came charging into the room, dragging the children behind him. “What’s going on?”
There was more blood on Laurel, who was shaking and crying, than on Ink. Pretty Boy wasn’t sure how that’d happened. The bullet must’ve gone all the way through him.
It took Pointblank a second to realize that the gunshot he’d heard had resulted in Ink’s death. When Laurel managed to escape from under his limp body, Pointblank did a double take. Then he gaped at Pretty Boy. “What did you do?”
“What I had to do.” Somehow Pretty Boy felt calmer, more like himself, than he had in weeks. But that calmness disappeared when Pointblank released the kids, who’d been tugging to get free and ran crying for their mother. “Are you crazy?” His voice ominous, Pointblank went for his knife. “Shady will kill you for saving her. He’ll kill me, too!”
Pretty Boy hadn’t thought this part through. He liked Pointblank more than Ink. No doubt Pointblank knew it. Maybe he was counting on their friendship to save him, because it didn’t make much sense to come at him with a knife when he was holding a gun. Or Pointblank understood that he’d better do what he could to defend himself because, after this, Pretty Boy had no choice but to fire. Not if he wanted to save Laurel and the kids. And not if he wanted to get safely away. “Then I guess I should do him a favor and take care of this myself,” he said, and pulled the trigger twice.
The children screamed. Laurel scrambled to her feet but was so unsteady she fell again. Still, she tried to pull her children behind her, to shield them. She didn’t understand why he’d done what he’d done, whether he’d kill again. She’d never met him before. For all she knew, he was on some murderous rampage….
Raising one hand to tell her it was over, he shoved Ink’s pistol in his waistband next to his own. Tears streaked Mia’s and Jake’s faces, but they were too terrified to cry. They’d seen more than any kids should have to see. But at least the blood staining their mother’s clothes wasn’t her own.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You—you were with them. Wh-why did you—?” At a complete loss, she stopped talking but her meaning was clear.
Hesitating in the doorway, he glanced back at her. “Virgil was once my best friend,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, he always will be. You see him, tell him Pretty Boy sends his best.”
“Pretty Boy?” she repeated.
“Rex McCready,” he corrected. He wasn’t Pretty Boy anymore. That was the nickname he’d been given by The Crew.
She gulped for air and dashed a hand across her wet cheeks. “Why d-did you come here w-with them if—?”
“Just be glad I did,” he broke in. “And whatever you do, don’t stay in Colorado. Take your babies far away, and if you want to be safe, don’t ever come back.”
25
It was nearly one in the morning. Except for some hushed talking, the occasional flush of a toilet or the jangle of keys, the Security Housing Unit was quiet this late at night but it wasn’t dark. It was never completely dark. The lights dimmed at 2200 hours after the first-watch shift change, but that was it.
Peyton’s heels clicked as she walked down a corridor fronting eight cells. From inside one of these “pods,” the SHU appeared smaller than it was in reality. Not in terms of building size—the structure was two stories and had a central command post that sat high above both tiers—but in housing capacity. One of the largest and oldest isolation facilities in the country, Pelican Bay’s SHU housed more than twelve hundred men in gray cells made almost entirely of concrete—the bed, the chair, the desk, everything except the stainless-steel combination toilet and sink. There were no bars on these cells like in old prisons. Painted bright orange, the doors were solid steel, except for round nickel-size cutouts and a slot for the meal tray.
Most inmates in this unit lived alone, but thanks to overcrowding more than a few had cell mates. Depending on the cell mate, sometimes it was better to be alone. Peyton couldn’t imagine spending twenty-two and a half hours a day locked in such a small space with the same person for years on end. She wondered how many marriages—even happy ones—could withstand that kind of close, unrelenting contact.
But going without human interaction wasn’t easy, either. Pelican Bay was designed with no windows except a narrow vertical slit in each cell. The convicts couldn’t see trees or earth or sky, or at least no more than a few inches of it. They couldn’t see the outside of the building where they were being held or other inmates because no two cells lined up directly across from each other. Twice a day corrections officers brought trays of food. Every three days they delivered soap, shampoo and toothpaste in little paper cups. Beyond that, SHU residents had very limited contact with officers, and rarely received visitors. For one thing, family and friends had to call ahead, set up an appointment and get clearance, which made it a hassle. For another, Pelican Bay was too remote. Most of the inmates came from L.A., a two-day drive. Even when they did get a visitor, they had to sit in a booth separated by Plexiglas and speak via telephone. There were men in here who hadn’t received a visitor in years.
Some mental health professionals claimed such extreme isolation pushed men over the edge, drove them insane. Pelican Bay was often the target of this kind of criticism. After what she’d witnessed, Peyton wouldn’t argue with that. At a minimum, she believed years in the SHU couldn’t be healthy, that it would do nothing to make these men less angry or less violent. Just the opposite was true. But she didn’t have a better option for curtailing gang activity. As soon as the government provided one, she’d be more than happy to implement it. That was actually one of the things she hoped to achieve in the foreseeable future. She wanted to incorporate more consistent and effective rehabilitation programs to see if that might lower the recidivism rate for Pelican Bay offenders; if so, other prisons might adopt a similar approach. The entire system needed a massive overhaul. Just for starters, Peyton felt the state should provide a structured integration program for offenders who’d be leaving conditions such as these to go back onto the streets. A whopping ninety-five percent of the twelve hundred who called the SHU home were eligible for parole, meaning they’d be free one day.
Weston didn’t have a cellie. Peyton preferred he be alone to reflect on the actions that’d landed him in the SHU. She hoped removing him from gen pop would isolate Buzz, shift the paradigm of power enough that Virgil could make some headway. Weston belonged in the SHU, anyway. This wasn’t a place one was sent by a judge. Only those who acted up on the inside or joined a gang came here.
Clearing her throat, she stopped at his new cell. “Sergeant Hutchinson said you had something to tell me?”
The holes in the door darkened, indicating that he was standing on the other side. “Why you doin’ this to me, boss?”
His voice sounded far more nasal than usual, due to the swelling of his nose. Peyton couldn’t help feeling a bit smug that he hadn’t gotten away with the one-sided beating he’d no doubt intended when he and his three buddies ganged up on Virgil.
“You know why you’re here.”
“No, I don’t!”
She adjusted the goggles she’d donned to protect her eyes, a necessary precaution since so many inmates created homemade projectiles they launched with the elastic taken from the waistbands of their underwear. Although the missiles could be dangerous in their own right, she was less worried about the pointy end of such objects than what might be smeared on them. The inmates used feces, urine, semen, anything they could to spread hepatitis and HIV. She wore a knife-proof vest for the same reason. It not only protected her from blow darts, it covered her vital organs in case someone tried to stab her by shoving a shank through one of the holes in the door. “Come on. You started that fight in the dining hall.”