The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (16 page)

20

Morrison hadn't realized how it made him feel to be sitting next to Radix nearly 24/7 until he hit the open road by himself. Highway 401 east of the city, a flat three-lane wide road divided by a grass median, was hypnotizing him. Skyscrapers, pollution, people everywhere were gone. The outside world consisted of a clear blue sky and farmers' fields. He was alone with the radio, with a cooler riding shotgun that contained bottled water, diced fruit and a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

The sun hung over the horizon and it cast a burnt orange light on cornfields, the asphalt road and roadside truck stops. Morrison allowed some of the brightness to creep its way inside him. With Nastos and Carscadden offering to help, hope felt alien and was taking some getting used to.

He had a tour of seven evening shifts behind him and he was looking forward to some time away from Radix and to tend to personal matters. When Radix had called him that morning, inviting him to an Argos game later on, he declined. He said that he was busy, going to Disney Land. The confidence of Nastos emboldened him to be cryptic with Radix and it was a small victory.

With Nastos leading them, Morrison's days of being bossed around by Radix were over. Morrison had done some asking around among the older guys at work and learned that Nastos was a notorious investigator. Ten years on the beat, the last fifteen as a detective, Nastos was a one-man wrecking crew, respected by all who could tolerate him. He felt a lot better with Nastos running the show.

The highway had light traffic going east out of the city. Disney Land was a three-hour drive away, located in the south end of Kingston by the water. It was an old grey brick building with a ridiculous red roof. The inmates inside called it Disney Land but it had other names: Collins Bay Correctional Facility and, maybe the most appropriate name of all, Gladiator School.

Collins Bay was a medium-security jail but medium didn't mean less dangerous. It had nothing to do with the amount of bars, razor wire or security measures — all jails were secure. Medium was more reflective of the sentencing terms or the physical threats of the prisons. In maximum-security jails, there was a higher ratio of life sentences and solitary confinement or segregation
cells that those in the business referred to as
seg.
However, Morrison knew medium-security jails could be far more violent. Unlike max, in medium prisons the cons were more transient and more likely to have to re-earn their respect from the new cons transferring in. And in a world of divergent languages, communities and ethnicities, the common language is and would always be violence. In Collins Bay, Gladiator School, the violence was frequent and the aggressors went either to seg or back to max jail and the victims stayed put or, if they were crippled for life, went to a minimum prison to serve out their time with the snitches.

Morrison didn't want to think about what jail he would go to if he was ever caught for any of the things that they had done. If the bikers grew tired of him and eventually turned over the video they said they had, he'd get to spend a good part of his life in a six-by-eight. Suicide would be the only other option. Before Nastos and Carscadden came along he had told himself that if they got caught he'd just kill himself.

He saw his exit off of the highway and took it. Maybe not the fastest but the most scenic way to get there was to get off the
401
at Highway
6
and take it all the way down to Lake Ontario. That way he'd get a nice view of the lake since the road was on the edge of the bay until you get to the actual Collins Bay. From there the prison was just down the road.

Visiting hours are only at specific times, especially for the guys in segregation. They only got one day a week.
It used to be Mondays but now it's Wednesdays; no one knows why.
Either way, visiting during the week was much easier than during weekends, which were packed. Wednesdays gave Morrison a solid two hours and he felt like he was going to need every minute of it.

He had arrived slightly early with everything he needed. After signing in and showing
ID
, he was searched just like everyone else despite being a cop. The walls were concrete; the doors, tables, gates were cast iron. There were a few out-of-place fake plants that were coated in dust. He waited his turn and was eventually wanded with the metal detector before he was led to the large, glassed-in common room where visitations took place. The room was big and square, filled with prison-made picnic tables built of prefabricated high-density plastic. In the middle of each table was a microphone protected in an inverted box.

Guards weren't allowed to record the entire conversation but they were allowed to record samples. It was the standard pathologically Canadian attempt to try to please everyone while achieving the opposite.

Guards watched from the other side of the glass, sitting at tables with
TV
monitors that were more likely turned to
ESPN
than to the surveillance feeds from the room. The floor had been mopped recently and it stunk of Pine-Sol and stuck to Morrison's feet whenever he shifted his shoes. Fluorescent lighting buzzed. Most of the guards were as scary as the prisoners — large men with hostile faces and neck tattoos. Other visitors who had been excited or even happy during entry into the building and the search were solemn now. People weren't meant to be in places like this. Rigid, cold, closed in, trapped.
Prison is the slaughterhouse for hope.

A buzzer sounded and the metal door unlocked. A muscular arm slid the door open and the parade of prisoners rolled in. These were all segregated prisoners, or seg-men.
On the outside the perception was that seg-men were the most dangerous of the violent sociopathic jail population and many were. But there were also the child rapists, the snitches and the lame who made up a larger percentage of the group. Morrison's appointment was with someone in transition from medical.

The man looked like him but was shorter and older with greying hair and lines around his eyes. The prison-issue orange jumpsuit did nothing for him.

The man sat down. “Little brother.” Despite the bruised and swollen face, the sutures to his brow and jaw, the man had a smug smile on his face like he had the world by the balls.

“Terry? What the hell —”

“How's mom?”

“She's fine, Terry, just fine.” Morrison looked around the room for an answer to what had happened to his brother. The young skinny boy that he remembered, not this thick, greying man that sat rigid on the bench opposite. Morrison noticed that he was being eyeballed by a beefed-up white dude with a shaved head and tattoos on his face. He indicated the man. “What's his problem?”

Terry avoided making eye contact with anyone. “That's Clarence.”

“What's up his ass?”

Terry offered a weak smile. “With Clarence it's usually the other way around.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Morrison glanced over his way again, which provoked a reaction. Clarence stood up, all six foot five,
350
pounds of him. “You have a problem, you little goof? Eh? You look like a bitch for a
cop
.”
Morrison looked around. A guard picked up a phone and silently spoke into it. Two other guards walked into the secure observation room ready for the coming riot.

“Yeah, I'm talking to you, ya little bitch.”

“I think he likes you, little brother.” Terry swung around in the chair. “Settle down, Clarence. Don't make me back out of our little deal.” He blew Clarence a kiss.

“That's right, pucker-up, Princess. Deals change all the time in here.”

Morrison saw Terry cringe in a micro-expression only family would have noticed. He turned around and tried to shrug it off. Morrison thought for a moment, his instincts telling him that Terry wasn't adjusting well to prison life.

Clarence offered one last grunt then reluctantly went back to his visitation with a woman, almost his size, who could only be his mother. A supervisor appeared in the security room with a Taser on his belt, which seemed to make the other guards relax a little.

Morrison said, “I brought the money order you wanted, one thousand dollars. I gave it to the guard already.”

“I hate asking, but thanks.”

“Thanks nothing, Terry. It's bullshit you're even in here. I can't believe you got manslaughter when they were the ones that started the fight.” He thought back to night that Terry had invited him to the bar but he had to work and couldn't go. Hours later he received a phone call from the regional inspector telling him that his brother was in a bar fight and one of the other guys had succumbed to his injuries. Terry was convicted a year later and sentenced to eight years. He'd have to serve at least three before he even had a chance of getting out.

“It wasn't
your
fault, bro. You weren't there.”

“That's the point.” Morrison thumped the table. “It wasn't your fault either.”

Terry shook his head in a way that made Morrison wish he had never brought it up.
The last thing Terry needs to think about is the trial that sandbagged him.
Still though, he found himself wishing that he had taken the night off work and been there for his brother. He probably wouldn't be in jail now if he had gone. “So what can you do with a thousand dollars in here?”

“Well, we can't have anything brought in but we can have a bank account, and have the guard in charge of purchasing things on the internet. A thousand dollars will keep me in books, I'll get an X-Box and a few games. I dunno, I gotta do something to pass the time.”

“When are you starting school?”

“The next semester is in a month. If it goes well, I'll leave here an accountant.”

Morrison glanced over at Clarence. Leaning back from his mom, his arms crossed, he didn't seem too interested in what she had to say to him. The
time,
Terry could handle. Morrison was sure the real problem was the other prisoners.

“You need to get into a different jail, a minimum, like Fenbrook, up in Gravenhurst.”

“How do I do that?” The urgent way he asked was the first obvious chink in the armour. Terry had betrayed himself with a sign of hope of freedom from this place.

Morrison regretted having to dash it. “I don't know.”

Terry leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Well, why don't we talk about what actually brought you here.”

Morrison examined the microphone in the centre of the table.

“It's okay, little brother. They don't listen.”

“It's all blowing up in my face, Terry, and I have no freaking idea what to do about it.”

Terry's eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me?”

Morrison thought about the look on his mom's face when they took Terry off to jail. She'd be heartbroken, again.

“We were approached by two private detectives. An ex-cop named Nastos and his lawyer friend named Carscadden. They know what we've been up to, they found out who's watching us.”

Terry's lips pursed and his face squinted. “You said the lawyer, Kevin Carscadden?”

“I guess. Heard of him?”

“If there's one thing people talk about in jail, it's lawyers. The lawyer I had screwed me. Dude was what they call in here a dump truck.”

“Dump truck?”

“Yeah, lawyers who take a big retainer, then once the cheque clears they tell you you're better off pleading guilty and dump you the first chance they get. Carscadden is something like one hundred percent at beating murder charges but he's picky with what he takes on.”

“Didn't know that.” He had learned of Nastos' reputation but had no idea that Carscadden was highly regarded. It was something he would have never determined from Carscadden's rumpled suit and baby face.

“He got both a cop and a Russian mobster off of murder charges, neither one served a day. Yeah, if you could hook me up, I might live long enough to get out of here.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. If he has some advice on saving your ass, I suggest you take it.” Terry had this disappointed expression on his face, like he knew Morrison had brushed Carscadden off. “Who do you have after you anyways?”

“Bikers. The Devil Dogs.”

Terry whistled though his teeth. “We've had a few of their guys in here. Bad dudes.”

“Yeah, well, before the detectives met with us, the bikers called to warn that they were coming. They said if we took care of Nastos and Carscadden they'll consider the debt paid and let us walk.”

Maybe for the benefit for any guards who may be watching, Terry tried not to show any reaction to what he had just heard. “You didn't consider it, did you?”

“Me? No way.”

“Yeah, well, as you heard Clarence over there say, deals change. They get you to do their bitch work, then when they're done with you . . .”

“You can be sure that occurred to me.”

Terry wearily glanced at the guards in the control booth then said, “What about Radix?”

“Oh, yeah.” Morrison exhaled. “He considered it big time.”

Terry shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“But what Radix doesn't know, is that later that night, after the meeting —” Morrison's throat suddenly went dry, he gulped hard. “They offered me the same deal if I took care of Radix.”

Terry was staring through the table, the knuckles of his thumbs pressing into his chin as he let the offer sink in. “Well, little brother, I have to ask you, how much do you trust Radix?”

The mere question made him feel uneasy. “Not much. Why?”

“Because if they offered you that deal to take care of
him
, you have to assume they offered it to him to take care of
you
.” For the first time in a long time Terry made eye contact. “The bikers will kill you, that ex-cop might put you in jail, and Radix, he might sacrifice you if he thinks he can walk away. You better watch your ass out there, little brother, 'cause I don't like your chances.”