“Let’s go,” he said. “Least I know where one of my clients is at.”
The Richland County Detention Center stood at the end of John Mark Dial Road, about one hundred miles northwest of Charleston, the approach marked by the offices of bondsmen and attorneys. It was a complex of low redbrick buildings surrounded by two rows of fencing topped with razor wire. Its windows were long and narrow, overlooking the parking lot and the woods beyond on one side. The inner fence was electrified.
There wasn’t a great deal that we could do to prevent the knowledge of Atys Jones’s impending release from reaching the media, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise to find a camera crew and a handful of journalists and photographers in the parking lot, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. I had gone on ahead of Elliot and had been watching them for about fifteen minutes by the time Elliot’s car appeared. Nothing exciting had happened to either them or me in the interim, apart from one brief flurry of domestic theater when an unhappy wife, a small, dainty woman in high heels and a blue dress, arrived to collect her husband after he’d spent some time cooling his heels in a cell. He had blood on his shirt and beer stains on his pants as he emerged blinking into the fading light of the early evening, at which point his wife slapped him once across the head and gave him the benefit of her wide and pretty profane vocabulary. He looked like he wanted to run back to jail and lock himself in his cell, especially when he saw all the cameras and thought, for one brief moment, that they’d come for him.
The media pounced on Elliot as soon as he stepped from his car, then tried to block his way again when he came out twenty minutes later through the wired tunnel that led into the jail’s reception area, his arm around the shoulders of a young man with light brown skin who kept his head low and his baseball cap pulled down almost to the bridge of his nose. Elliot didn’t even dignify them with a “No comment.” Instead, he thrust the young man into the car and they drove away, speeding. The more sensationalist members of the fourth estate raced to their vehicles to follow him.
I was already in place. I waited until Elliot had passed me, then kept close behind him as far as the exit road, at which point I gave the wheel a good spin and managed to block both lanes before stepping from the car. The TV van ground to a halt a few feet from my door and a cameraman in jungle fatigues opened the driver’s door and started screaming at me to get out of his way.
I examined my nails. They were nice and short. I tried to keep them neat. Neatness was a very underrated virtue.
“You hear me? Get the fuck out of the way,” yelled Combat Man. His face was turning a bright shade of red. Behind his van I could see more media types congregating as they tried to figure out what all the fuss was about. A small group of young black males in low-slung jeans and Wu Wear shirts emerged from a bondsman’s office and wandered down to enjoy the show.
Combat Man, tired of shouting and achieving no result, stormed toward me. He was overweight and in his late forties. His clothing looked kind of ludicrous on him. The black guys started in on him almost immediately.
“Yo, GI Joe, where the war at?”
“ Vietnam over, motherfucker. You gotta let it go. You can’t be livin’ in the past.”
Combat Man shot them a look of pure hatred. He stopped about a foot from me and leaned in until our noses were almost touching.
“The fuck are you doing?” he asked.
“Blocking the road.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“So you can’t get through.”
“Don’t get smart with me. You move your car or I’ll drive my van through it.”
Over his shoulder I could see some prison guards emerging from the lockup, probably on their way to see what all the fuss was about. It was time to go. By the time the reporters got on to the main road, it would be too late for them to find Elliot and Atys. Even if they did find the car, their quarry would not be in it.
“Okay,” I told Combat Man. “You win.”
He seemed a little taken aback.
“That’s it?”
“Sure.”
He shook his head in frustration.
“By the way-”
He looked up at me.
“Those kids are stealing stuff from the back of your van.”
I let the media convoy get well ahead of me, then drove along Bluff Road, past the Zion Mill Creek Baptist Church and the United Methodist, until I reached Campbell ’s Country Corner at the intersection of Bluff and Pineview. The bar had a corrugated roof and barred windows and didn’t look a whole lot different in principle from the county lockup, except that you could order a drink and walk away any time you wanted. It advertised “cold beer at low prices,” held a turkey shoot Fridays and Saturdays, and was a popular stopping-off point for those enjoying their first alcoholic taste of freedom. A hand-lettered sign warned patrons against bringing in their own beer.
I turned onto Pineview, past the side of the bar and a yellow lockup storage garage, and saw a shack standing in the middle of an overgrown yard. Behind the shack a white GMC 4×4 was waiting, into which Elliot and Atys had been transferred before Elliot’s own car, now being driven by another man, had continued on its way. It pulled out of the lot as I appeared, and I stayed a few cars behind it as it headed along Bluff toward 26. The plan was that we would drive Jones straight into Charleston and take him to the safe house. It was kind of a surprise, then, to see Elliot make a left into the lot of Betty’s Diner before he even reached the highway, open the passenger door, and allow Jones to walk ahead of him into the restaurant. I parked the Neon in back then followed them inside, trying to look casual and unconcerned.
Betty’s Diner was a small room with a counter to the left of the door, behind which two black women took orders while two men worked the grills. It was furnished with plastic garden tables and chairs, and the windows were obscured by both blinds and bars. Two TVs played simultaneously and the air was thick with the smell of fried foods and oil. Elliot and Jones were sitting at a table at the back of the room.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing?” I asked when I reached them.
Elliot looked embarrassed.
“He said he needed to eat,” he stammered. “He was cramping. Said he was going to collapse on me if he didn’t eat. He even threatened to jump from the car.”
“Elliot, step outside and you can still hear the echo of his cell door closing. Any closer and he’d be eating prison food again.”
Atys Jones spoke for the first time. His voice was higher than I expected, as if it had broken only recently instead of over half a decade before.
“Fuck you, man, I gots to eat,” he said.
He had a thin face, so light in color as to be almost Hispanic, and nervous, darting eyes. His head stayed low when he spoke, and he looked up at me from under his cap. Despite his bluster, his spirit had been broken. Atys Jones was about as tough as a piñata. Hit him hard enough and candy would come out his ass. Still, it didn’t make his manners any easier to take.
“You were right,” I told Elliot. “He’s quite the charmer. You couldn’t have picked someone a little less irritating to save?”
“I tried, but the Little Orphan Annie case was already taken.”
“The fuck-”
Jones was about to launch into a predictable tirade. I raised a finger at him.
“Stop right now. You swear at me again and that salt shaker is as close as you’ll get to a meal.”
He backed down.
“I didn’t eat nothing in jail. I was scared.”
I felt a stab of guilt and shame. He was a frightened young man with a dead girlfriend and the memory of her blood on his hands. His fate was in the hands of two white men and a jury that would most likely redefine the word “hostile.” All things considered, he was doing well just to be sitting upright with dry eyes.