Killing Chase (4 page)

I spent the first three
years of my prison sentence continuing the aforementioned pity party. I was depressed, and the only way I could fight the depression was to eat. The money my parents sent funded one of the biggest three-year vending machine splurges in prison history. “Go big or go back to your cell,” I liked to say. It was not uncommon for me to purchase five or six Cokes, seven or eight of those coconut-flaked, moist, mini-doughnut packs, and two or three T.G.I. Friday’s frozen teriyaki wing packages a day. I was lost, and I turned to processed food as my savior. When I had my first prison physical, shortly after I began my sentence, I weighed in at one hundred seventy pounds, and my body fat was somewhere south of ten percent.

I had another physical eight months in and stepped off the scales in shock at seeing two hundred ten pounds. It was during this time that I learned the importance of sharing my wealth with my fellow inmates, but my eating was still out of control. I added Snickers and honey buns to my menu, and two years in, I was pushing two hundred fifty pounds. I could see Sam Farley territory on the horizon. My weight gain caused me to become lethargic, and so I burned fewer calories while continuing to empty a vending machine or two a week. Three years in, I weighed two hundred eighty pounds and was in a downward spiral. Prison counselors were no help. Neither was the money my parents were sending me, but send it they did.

The turning point occurred when I transferred to Carrboro State Prison in June of 2008 and met someone who would end up saving my life. Of course, he almost drove me crazy in the process. Carlton Givens was a jack-of-all-trades at Carrboro and master of none. He had been in and out of prison for thirty years for running con games on the elderly. He used to tell me that to be a good con artist you had to learn to sneak in on people through their emotions instead of their windows. Physically he was harmless, but mentally he had the uncanny ability to hone in on your biggest weakness and beat you upside the head with it. Unless you could score him some smokes, then he was your best friend and you couldn’t get rid of him. The first time he laid eyes on me, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see what was going on.

“Let me guess. You got convicted of eating someone?”

After cementing our “friendship” with a carton of Newports, he said to me one afternoon in the prison yard, “You in here fo’ the rest of yo’ life, Chase?”

Before I could answer, he continued, “No, you ain’t, so stop livin’ in the damn past and look forward to the damn future, boy. It don’t take a brainiac to see dat you killin’ yo’self one damn Twinkie at a time.”

I wasn’t into Twinkies at the time, but Carlton was on a roll, so I let him finish.

“The secret to surviving prison is you got to have a villain. Someone or something that you ain’t gonna let get the better of you. It don’t take much to figure out what yo villain should be, FATTY,” the last word said for emphasis. I took what he said to heart and, over the next few weeks, began to curb the sweets, slowly weaning myself from the trans-fats and processed sugars. Carlton would still call me fatty, and he’d have other inmates do the same thing. It pissed me off to no end, but I eventually saw the magic of his meanness. I started walking interminable laps around the prison yard. We estimated that one lap was almost a quarter mile, and I would easily pound out three to four miles a day, sometimes five, day after day after day.

Eventually, cries of
“Fatty!
” turned into “
Looking good, Hamp!
” The pounds began to fall off. Two months into my weight loss project, I was down thirty-five pounds and had cut out all the junk. Coke became water and honey buns turned into fresh fruit from the overpriced prison commissary. I added weightlifting sessions to my program, and the pounds continued to melt off. I stepped on the scales six months later and weighed in at one ninety six.

Other prisoners congratulated me, and some of the heftier ones were inspired and began their own weight-loss journey. Things were looking up for me, and instead of taking my foot off the gas, I stepped on the pedal and increased the intensity and the amount of time I was working out. If I was sitting still, I would begin to fidget, so I had to teach myself balance. Where was I going anyway? The weights in the yard and the path I had worn next to the ten-foot, concertina-wire rimmed walls weren’t going anywhere.

In early April 2009, Carlton developed a nasty cough. It persisted, and soon he was coughing up blood. The prison doctor x-rayed his chest and found a mass. A subsequent CT scan at the Central Prison Hospital in Raleigh confirmed his suspicions. Lung cancer. Small cell carcinoma, to be more precise. Carlton was soon moved out of general population and into the prison infirmary because of the need for pain medication. They don’t give you a bottle of 10 mg methadone pills and send you on your merry way back to general pop. I would visit him as much as I could, and wheel him out to the infirmary patio to continue the habit that would eventually kill him. I remember asking him what his villain was. What fire burned in his belly that kept him going?

He said, “Chase, I knew from the get-go that I was rurnt and would probably die in one of these places. Anger never would’ve done me no good. A loving set of parents wearing my butt out, maybe. No, my young friend, I am a special breed a prisoner. I don’t got no villain. I do have a friend named acceptance, though. You gon get out of here one day and get yo second chance, ’n I suspect you won’t fuck it up like I done mine.”

Carlton’s condition continued to worsen, and one day he was gone, moved to the hospice wing of the Central Prison Hospital. I never saw him again, but I never forgot him either.

***

As I sat in the prison library, on the day of my supposed release, I said a simple prayer for Carlton Givens, a most unlikely angel sent to me when I needed one the most.

The woman stepped out of
her top-floor corner office and outside, onto the spacious, park-like terrace with its green space and padded park benches. Each corner of the square, five-story building had this benefit.
The Sky Park
, as it was affectionately known, though seventy feet off the ground, didn’t quite qualify as lofty. Top executives and corporate lawyer types needed space to blow off steam or step away from the computer screen and think from time to time. She was one of eight lucky employees to have this perk, as two corner offices could access each terrace.

She pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of her navy slacks and lit her fourth and final cigarette of the day. She took a deep drag and exhaled forcefully. Try as she might, she couldn’t blow her problems away on a cloud of smoke. The stress of life had her sneaking smokes from her mom’s stash beginning during her freshman year of high school, and she hadn’t been able to stop. It was the only vice that had woven itself into the fabric of her life, other than Pinterest. She rarely drank and had only experimented with recreational drugs twice in her entire life. She ate healthy and made it a point to run at least two miles a day and lift weights at least three days a week. So why was it so damn hard to quit? She knew why. The guilt and the hurt.

She walked over to the edge of the terrace and took in the familiar view. The wind picked up and blew wavy, brown hair into her eyes. White, pillow-like clouds drifted lazily overhead and blotted out the sun from time to time. For five minutes, she stood there, thinking and smoking and pushing hair out of her face. The past would soon be in the present, and she wasn’t sure how that would affect the future.

“It’s a little early for the fourth cigarette,” said the man, as he stepped out of his office. “You gonna make it to six o’clock without having another one?”

“I didn’t know you were keeping a running tally,” she said, without turning to look at him.

Technically, he was her boss, everyone’s boss, but it was complicated.

“You should be happy,” he said. His voice was hoarse, she noted, an early sign of his body’s betrayal.

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“You can begin to mitigate some of the guilt you’ve felt since, what, tenth grade. He won’t hate you; he’s always loved you, even though he has tried hard to forget about you. I’m the one that will feel the brunt of his anger.” He winced and rubbed at his neck

“Deservedly so.”

“No denying that. Look how long it’s taken you to forgive me,” he said, remorse in his voice.

Some things cannot be forgiven,
she didn’t say; instead she focused her attention on two brown pelicans as they circled the water and searched for their next meal. They would begin their dive any minute toward the brackish water, because that’s what pelicans did. They took the plunge, just like she would.

“Is the neck getting worse?”

“About a seven on a one to ten scale.”

“You should take a pain pill.”

“We’ll see,” he grumbled, frustrated about his circumstances.

“I want to be the one to tell him,” she said as she finally turned to the man. “It will sound better coming from me. Well, as good as something like this can sound,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Not entirely.”

“When?”

“The sooner, the better. It’s time to come clean, admit that I made a deal with the devil, no offense, and ask for forgiveness.”
So many devils, she thought
.

“I had so much to lose back then,” he said. “I didn’t know any other way.”

“Yeah, it was always about you, wasn’t it,” she said, trying to keep her anger in check.
Calm down. He’s dying.

She exhaled a final lungful of smoke, dropped the cigarette, and stubbed it out with the toe of her black Louboutin pumps, before walking back inside without saying a word.

They came for me a
few minutes after ten a.m. More specifically, it was Patterson who came for me as I was heading to lunch. Since the meeting with Schmidt two weeks ago, I lived under the fear that the plan would be nixed. Schmidt suggested I call my dad a few days after the meeting and tell him about my impending parole, but I still thought it was someone’s idea of a cruel joke. My father is normally an emotionless creature, but he seemed genuinely happy that I would be coming home. I still had my doubts until yesterday, when running on the yard, a guard whispered as I ran past that tomorrow was release day and that I should keep running. When I got back to where he had been standing, he was gone.

We made the same walk as we had two weeks prior, except instead of turning right into medical, we turned left into the unlocked and opened administrative offices door. We walked down an empty hall to a door labeled “Conference Room.” He opened it, ushered me in, and closed it behind me. Seated inside at a solid-oak conference table was my new best friend, Special Agent Rollin Schmidt, in his black rumpled suit, along with . . . well, perhaps I should explain it this way. Imagine you have been in a darkened theater for seven years, and you’ve seen the exact same boring movie every day. Then one day, unexpectedly, you leave the theater without your sunglasses, and the sun is just over-the-top bright when you walk out the doors. There was a brilliant ray of sun sitting next to Agent Schmidt, and she stood and offered her hand as I walked in.

“Chase, this is Jenna Brighton. You two will be getting to know one another in the very near future,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Chase,” she said, as her large, emerald eyes appraised me. The only females I had seen the past seven years were the occasional infirmary nurse and my mom on her four visits. Some prisons had open visitation, but I had never experienced that.

Back to the ray of light that was Special Agent Jenna Brighton. She was about five feet five inches with straight blonde hair that came to her shoulders. I didn’t see any makeup and the more I stared, the more I realized that girls like Jenna didn’t need makeup.

“Nice to meet you, Special Agent Brighton,” I managed to get out, as she firmly shook my hand.

“Chase, get used to calling her Jenna. She is going to be your contact in Foggy Harbor; you two will be playing the part of boyfriend and girlfriend. We don’t have time now to go over all the rules about that, but Jenna will bring you up to speed in due course.”

“Wow, the FBI springs me from prison and provides a girlfriend too. You guys are the best.”

“Just remember to do what Jenna says, Chase. Now, your lawyer, Mr. Stinson, arrived thirty minutes ago and is waiting over at intake. He has no idea who we are and will not see us while here. He will be provided a copy of your parole papers after you sign them. Before release, medical will check you out and give you a couple of shots. Once that is completed, you will be released and working for us. We will give you three or four days to become acclimated to life on the outside. Enjoy yourself and relax. We don’t want you doing any snooping at all, or job hunting, got it? Monday, Jenna will find you and set up a more public ‘date,’ but I need you to approach her. It will look more legit if anyone has eyes on you. I’m sure a good-looking, confident guy like yourself will have no problem with that.”

“No, I imagine that will not be a problem for me,” I said, giving Jenna a quick smile. “Why would anyone be watching me?”

“We’re just covering the bases, Chase. Dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s. Okay, we’re done here. Best of luck, and God help you if you try and screw us over on this,” he said as we shook hands.

I’m not sure I bought Agent Schmidt’s covering the bases comment, but I wasn’t upsetting the apple cart this close to freedom.

“Agent Schmidt, I have no desire to ever return to prison.”

“I guess we will find out soon,” he said, looking at me with those untrusting, tired eyes.

“Until we meet again, Ms. Brighton,” I said with a nod.

“I’ll be in touch soon, Chase,” she said, a little twinkle in her eye. Or maybe I was just imagining that. All I knew was that one way or another, I was now in bed with the FBI. I exited the room, and Patterson dutifully escorted me over to medical, where I endured one final round of poking and prodding and two shots, one particularly painful, in my shoulder.

“One for tetanus and the other for the flu. Compliments of the state of North Carolina,” said a nurse I’d never seen before. What did I care, I was being released. Twenty minutes later, I was shaking hands with Arthur Stinson and wearing jeans for the first time in forever.

“Congratulations, Chase. Your father is looking forward to seeing you.” We walked out to the parking lot and I turned to look at Ashmore one final time before getting into a black Cadillac Escalade.

“How is he?”

“You can ask him yourself in ten minutes. He flew us up here from Foggy Harbor. Do you want to stop and get some real food before we head to the airport?”

I hadn’t even thought about real food, or the fact that I would be free, somewhat, to make decisions for myself.

“They still make onion rings, right, Art? And chili dogs? Please say yes.”

“Yes, I believe they do. Your father informed me that you turned into quite the fitness nut after losing all that weight. You sure you want to jump right into the greasy stuff so quick?”

“I think I can handle the minor derailment to my fitness program.”

“Driver, the closest Sonic please,” Art, the consummate southern gentleman, said to the man at the wheel. He then pulled out a phone and made a call to the plane to let them know of the slight delay.

“What kind of phone is that?” I asked after he had completed the call.

He looked at it before answering. “It’s an iPhone 4s. Technology has evolved quite a bit since you’ve been away. Don’t worry. It’s all pretty intuitive, and your dad already has a technology session lined up for you.” If Art only knew about the technology session the FBI had planned for me. He handed the phone over for me to examine.

“So, what are your plans, Chase?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. Take a few days to relax and reacquaint myself with the real world before I start looking for a job, I guess. I still can’t believe I’m out. How did this happen?”
What story did they feed you, Art?

“From what I gather, the state of North Carolina has overcrowded prisons, and since you’ve been the model prisoner, you get the benefit of early release.”

“How will the news of my release go over back home?” I asked. I wondered if retribution from the remaining Tanner brothers might be in my near future, once word of my release got out.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about them if I were you. Cameron’s oldest brother, Joe, moved away a few years ago, and his younger brother is doing time at a state prison in Charlotte. Your father sent the Tanner family a rather sizable check soon after you entered the system. Technically, he didn’t have to pay them anything since you were eighteen, but your father wanted to get out in front of this before a lawyer had a chance to whisper ‘civil lawsuit’ in their ears. They come from nothing, so a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check was like winning the lottery to ’em and small potatoes for Hank. Paperwork is all signed absolving you from any future lawsuits.”

“It isn’t like I’m worth much anyways, Art. Can’t take blood from a turnip,” I said, using one of my grandfather’s phrases.

Art got serious for a moment. “Chase, I know things haven’t always been great between you and your father, but he wants a better relationship. Give him a chance,” he advised. I gathered that Art was here not so much as my lawyer, but more to soften me up and help me see my father in a better light. Well, I’d oblige him in spades.

“How’s the yacht-building business?” I said later, between bites of chili dog and onion ring. Art was one of dad’s closest advisers, and I was interested to hear his answer.

“Booming! Can’t build them fast enough. Each new Russian billionaire wants a bigger ship than the last one. We call it keeping up with the Ivans.” He laughed.

“So the new boat’s impressive?”

“It’s the most amazing ship I’ve ever seen. To call it a boat is like saying the Louvre is a wall outside a kindergarten classroom. You’ll see for yourself when he gives you the tour.”

We pulled into the small airport parking lot and the driver dropped us off at the main terminal. I followed Art through the small building and out to the tarmac. It was still technically late winter, but on this mid-March day, the temperature was already in the sixties and the sun shone brightly against a dark blue sky. Sitting on the tarmac was dad’s immaculate blue and white Cessna 525, and next to the door stood Henry Hampton, Hank to his friends, in khakis, aviator shades, and a white button-down shirt. Building yachts was where he made his name, but flying was his real passion.

A large smile spread across his face when he saw me. We embraced, and he stood back to look me over.

“Have you been in boot camp or prison? You look like you’ve been chiseled out of a block of granite. Not an ounce of fat on you.” he said hoarsely.

“I’ve had time to lift a few weights and do a little running. Are you sick?”

“Just a cold. Always get ’em when the seasons change. I’m glad you are coming home, son. We have a lot of catching up to do. Ready to go?”

“We can’t get airborne soon enough, Dad.” We boarded quickly and buckled ourselves in the expansive leather executive seats. He spooled up the engines, and soon we were taxiing to the beginning of the eight-thousand-foot runway. The Cessna began its roll, gathered speed, and quickly lifted off. I looked back to the left toward Ashmore, and as my distance from it increased, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. As we ascended, it was sinking in that I was free. Dad banked the Cessna to the right, and we headed east, home to Foggy Harbor and the mess that lay ahead.