In seconds, they were gone.
Chapter 22
Theo was arraigned from jail, his court appearance nothing more than a closed-circuit television transmission to the duty judge. Bail was set at $25,000. The charge was harboring a fugitive and a host of related offenses, including the aiding and abetting of Isaac Reems's escape.
Theo uttered just two words at the arraignment: "Not guilty." His lawyer didn't even ask the prosecutor to recommend release on his own recognizance, didn't urge the judge to set a lesser amount. But he did offer Theo some words of encouragement, and he meant them quite literally.
"Watch your back, buddy."
Theo didn't make bail.
It was 10:00 p.m., and Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center was in lockdown for the night. Theo's mind was elsewhere as the guards escorted him to his cell.
The walk down the long corridor, iron bars on either side, triggered a wave of memories. Prison would always be a part of him, and not even the vindication of DNA testing could erase the fact that he'd lost four of his best years to Florida's death row. Sometimes that seemed like another lifetime. Right now, it felt like yesterday, and the worst of his checkered past was rising up in his throat like battery acid. He'd come within minutes of a gruesome death, saved only by an eleventh-hour stay of execution won by his lawyer from the Freedom Institute, a young idealist named Jack Swyteck. Theo recalled every step of the lonely, final journey from which most men never returned. He'd managed only two bites of his last meal, stone crabs and Key lime pie. He'd refused God's forgiveness, and he would never forget the prison chaplain's frustration at his continued protestations of innocence. He could still smell the tobacco-stained hand of the prison barber who shaved his head and ankles so that the electrodes would connect properly at both ends, ensuring the smooth and efficient passage of kilovolts that would sear his skin, boil his blood, and snuff out his life. In the Hollywood portrayal, a stoic corrections officer calls out, "Dead man walking." In Florida, however, it was "Dead man coming," and it was the refrain of fellow inmates, not prison personnel, as the condemned man – hands and feet shackled, dressed in pants and an orange T-shirt, surrounded by guards – made his way to the electric chair.
A catcall from one of the inmates caught Theo's attention. The whistler was deep within one of the blackened cells, unidentifiable. A newbie might have been rattled – the thought of a horny jailbird liking the looks of his ass – but Theo was unfazed, keeping his eyes forward.
You just try it, pretty boy.
They stopped at the third cell from the end. A black man lay on the lower bunk of a shadowy, two-man cell. The top bunk was empty.
The guard rattled the bars with his nightstick. The sweeping beam of his flashlight hit the sleeping inmate in the eyes. "Up against the far wall," he said.
The inmate rolled out of the bunk and did as he was told. The lead guard radioed the control booth. A buzzer sounded. The cell door slid open automatically.
"It's lights out," the guard told Theo. "Unpack your bag and fill your locker in the morning."
Theo entered the cell in silence. He turned completely around to face the guards, but it wasn't out of respect to authority. It was prison talk between cell mates, Theo's way of saying that he wasn't afraid to show his back to this chump. The electronic buzzer sounded. The door slid closed, the clank of metal echoing off walls and floors of steel and unfinished concrete.
"Welcome to TGK," the guard said. He and the other guard walked away, their footfalls piercing the eerie quiet of prison after lockdown.
Theo turned to face his cell mate. The whites of their eyes met in the darkness from opposite ends of a cell that measured seven feet wide and twelve feet deep. It was bigger than those on death row, but then again, Theo had lived there alone.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
Theo didn't answer. In prison, you didn't give up anything if you didn't need something in return. Theo already knew the man's name: Ricky Baldwin. He knew his prison nickname: Charger. He knew his rap: assault and battery. His victim was a prostitute. Most everyone on the second floor was incarcerated for some kind of sex-related crime. They found a home in TGK, a county-run facility, because they were awaiting trial in Miami or because their lawyer had cut a deal with the state attorney for less than one year of jail time. Most of these guys, however, belonged in Florida State Prison serving much longer sentences. Guys like Ricky Baldwin, aka Charger. And Isaac Reems.
Charger started toward his bunk.
"You're up top," said Theo.
Charger stopped and slowly turned his head, giving Theo plenty of attitude. "Say what, dude?"
Theo gave it right back to him, his most intimidating look. "You're upstairs. That's my bunk."
Charger grumbled and started toward the lower bunk. Quick as lightning, Theo cut him off and grabbed him by the wrist. "Get away from my bunk," Theo hissed, "or I'm gonna end up back on death row."
Charger froze. Maybe it was Theo's tone of voice. Maybe it was the menacing look in his eyes. Or it could have been the way Theo's huge hand fit so easily around Charger's wrist, a strong grip that conveyed his ability to snap a man's bones like brittle twigs. Whatever it was, Theo could feel his strategy working. Nothing short of a shank could have made him back down, because he knew this was the defining moment between him and his cell mate.
The stare-down lasted less than a minute. Then Charger flinched. Theo knew he would. That was the thing about these punks. Sure, Charger was "man enough" to slug a prostitute while her face was buried between his legs. Isaac had even had the balls to sneak through a sleeping woman's bedroom window. But mano a mano, they always backed down from the likes of Theo Knight.
Charger stepped away. Theo took the clean pillow from the top bunk and tossed the used one onto the floor. Charger paused for just a second, as if debating whether to stand up for himself and bitch about it. He didn't. He picked up the pillow and quietly climbed into the top bunk.
Theo slid into the lower bunk and allowed himself a deep, relaxing breath. Mission accomplished. But he still had a long way to go.
He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the underside of Charger's bunk. It was dark in the cell, but his eyes had adjusted, and just enough light from the corridor enabled him to see the traces of prison artwork on the metal underside of the top bunk. Some of it was in black marker, some in pencil. There was a calendar, of course. Someone with more talent than taste had sketched a NASCAR race car zooming toward a giant open vagina. There were also gang symbols. Theo recognized some of them. Panthers. Mongroles.
Grove Lords.
Under different circumstances, he might have found irony in the fact that he was in TGK, in Isaac Reems's old cell, in the bunk below Isaac's former cell mate. But there was no irony here. No coincidence.
Everything was going according to plan.
Theo lay in silence, eyes wide open. Sleep was a long way off, and he knew better than to close his eyes any longer than necessary. That was just the way it was in prison.
And prison was where he'd be – at least for a while.
THAT NIGHT, Jack caught up with Uncle Cy at Sparky's Tavern. The old man was running his nephew's bar during his incarceration, and the place was jumping. Fortunately, Theo's arrest didn't seem to hurt business. Another great thing about Miami: a criminal record was rarely a roadblock to success.
"What are you drinking?" said Cy, shouting over the crowd noise and music.
"Nothin', thanks," said Jack.
"Scotch 'n what?"
It was way too loud. Jack spoke up. "Can we talk in private a minute?"
Cy placed a couple of beers on the barmaid's tray, then with a jerk of his head signaled Jack to follow him into the back room.
Jack had promised Andie Henning that no one – absolutely no one – would know about their arrangement. Jack had also promised Theo that, if his uncle seemed to be taking it too hard, he would make an exception. One look at the old man's face and Jack could see it was destroying him. The worry lines seemed carved in wax. Uncle Cy, however, sounded less than impressed as Jack laid out the details.