The hallway smelled of cats and urine and burning food, and the paint was peeling off the walls. It was a hell of a place for a Harvard MBA to wind up, but so was Pelican Bay, and he had survived there for over four years. He knew he would survive here too. He was above all a survivor.
There was a tall thin black man with no teeth sitting at a desk, and Peter noticed that he had tracks on both his arms. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and didn't seem to care, and in spite of his dark skin, he had teardrops tattooed on his face, which was a sign that he had been in prison. He looked up at Peter and smiled. He looked welcoming and pleasant. He could see in Peter's eyes the shell-shocked dazed look of a new release.
“Can I help you, man?” He knew the look and the clothes and the haircut, and despite Peter's visibly aristocratic origins, he knew he had been in prison too. There was something about the way he walked, the caution with which he observed the man at the desk, that said it all. They instantly recognized each other as having a common bond. Peter had far more in common with the man at the desk now than he did with anyone from his own world. This had become his world.
Peter nodded and handed him his papers, saying that he was expected at the halfway house, and the man at the desk looked up at him, nodded, took a key out of the desk drawer, and stood up.
“I'll show you your room,” he volunteered.
“Thanks,” Peter said tersely. All his defenses were up again, as they had been for four years. He knew he was only slightly safer here than he had been at Pelican Bay. It was roughly the same crowd. And many of them would be going back. He didn't want to go back to prison, or have his parole violated, over a brawl, or having to defend himself in a fight.
They walked up two flights of stairs in the rancid-smelling halls. It was an old Victorian that had long since fallen into disrepair and had been taken over for this purpose. The house was inhabited only by men. Upstairs, the house smelled of cats, and seldom-changed litter boxes. The house monitor walked to the end of the hall, stopped at a door, and knocked. There was no answer. He opened it with the key and pushed open the door, as Peter walked past him into the room. It was barely bigger than a broom closet. There was badly stained old shag carpeting on the floor, a bunk bed, two chests, a battered desk, and a chair. The single window looked at the back of another house, badly in need of paint. It was beyond depressing. At least the cells in Pelican Bay had been modern, well lit, and clean. Or at least his was. This looked like a flophouse, as Peter nodded and looked at him.
“The bathroom's down the hall. There's another guy in this room, I think he's at work,” the monitor explained.
“Thanks.” Peter saw that there were no sheets on the top bunk, and realized he'd have to provide his own, or sleep on the mattress, as others did. Most of his room-mate's belongings were spread all over the floor. The place was a mess, and he stood staring out the window for a long moment, feeling things he hadn't felt in years. Despair, sadness, fear. He had no idea where to go now. He had to get a job. He needed money. He had to stay clean. It was so easy to think of dealing drugs again to get himself out of this mess. The prospect of working at McDonald's or washing dishes somewhere did not cheer him. He climbed onto the upper bunk when the monitor left, and lay there, staring at the ceiling. After a while, trying not to think of all he had to do, Peter fell asleep.
At almost the exact moment that Peter Morgan walked into his room in the halfway house in the Mission District in San Francisco, Carlton Waters walked into his in the halfway house in Modesto. The room he was assigned to was shared with a man he had served a dozen years with in San Quentin, Malcolm Stark. The two were old friends, and Waters smiled as soon as he saw him. He had given Stark some excellent legal advice, which had eventually gotten him released.
What are you doing here?” Waters looked pleased to see him, as Stark grinned. Waters didn't let on, but after twenty-four years in prison, he was in culture shock to be out. It was a relief to see a friend.
“I just got out last month. I did another nickel in Soledad, and got out last year. They violated me six months ago, for possession of a firearm. No big deal. I just got out again. This place ain't bad. I think there are a couple of guys here you know.”
“What'd you do the nickel for?” Waters asked, eyeing him. Stark's hair was long, and he had a rugged, battered face. He'd been in a lot of fights as a kid.
“They busted me in San Diego. I got a job as a mule across the border.” He had been in for dealing, when he and Waters first met. It was the only work Stark knew. He was forty-six years old, had been state raised, had been dealing drugs since he was fifteen, and using them since he was twelve. But the first time he'd gone to prison, there had been manslaughter charges too. Someone had gotten killed when a drug deal went sour. “No one got hurt this time.” Waters nodded. He actually liked the guy, although he thought he was a fool to have gotten caught again. And being a mule was as low as it got. It meant he had been hired to carry dope across the border, and obviously hadn't been smart about it, if he'd gotten arrested. But sooner or later, they all did. Or most of them anyway.
“So who else is here?” Waters inquired. For them, it was like a club or a fraternity of men who had been in prison.
“Jim Free, and some other guys you know.” Jim Free, Carlton Waters remembered, had been in Pelican Bay for attempted murder and kidnap. Some guy had paid him to kill his wife, and he'd blown it. Both he and the husband had gotten a “dime.” Ten years. A nickel was five. Pelican Bay, and San Quentin before it, were considered the graduate schools of crime. In some places equal to Peter Morgan's Harvard MBA. “So what are you going to do now, Carl?” Stark inquired, as though discussing summer vacations, or a business they were going to start. Two entrepreneurs discussing their future.
“I've got some ideas. I have to report in to my PA, and there are some people I've got to see about a job.” Waters had family in the area, and he had been making plans for years.
“I'm working on a farm, boxing tomatoes,” Stark volunteered. “It's shit work, but the pay is decent. I want to drive a truck. They said I had to box for three months, till they get to know me. I've got two months to go. They need guys if you want work,” Stark suggested casually, trying to be helpful.
“I want to see if I can find a job in an office. I've gotten soft.” Waters smiled. He looked anything but, he was in remarkable shape, but manual labor didn't appeal to him. He was going to see if he could talk his way into something better. And with luck, he might. The supply officer he'd worked for, for the last two years, had given him a glowing reference, and he had acquired decent computer skills in prison. And after the articles he'd written, he was a modestly skilled writer. He still wanted to write a book about his life in prison.
The two men sat around and talked for a while, and then went out to dinner. They had to sign in and out, and be back by nine o'clock. All Carlton Waters could think of as he walked to the restaurant with Malcolm was how strange it felt to be walking down a street again, and to be going out to dinner. He hadn't done that in twenty-four years, since he was seventeen. He had spent sixty percent of his life in prison, and he hadn't even pulled the trigger. At least that was what he had told the judge, and they had never been able to prove he had. It was over now. He had learned a lot in prison that he might never have learned otherwise. The question was what to do with it. For the moment, he had no idea.
Fernanda picked Ashley and Sam up at school, then dropped Ashley off at ballet, and went home with Sam. As usual, they found Will in the kitchen. He spent most of his time at home eating, although he didn't look it. He was an athlete, both lean and powerful, and just over six feet tall. Allan had been six two, and she assumed that Will would get there soon, at the rate he was growing.