The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (28 page)

“Sure,” she says. “But we’re too busy putting people in prison to worry about what happens once they get there. Do you plan to give me the names?”

“What will you do with them?”

She ponders this as she takes a sip of coffee and glances at Lujewski. He stops pecking and says, “The Aryan Deacons spun off from the Aryan Brotherhood, the largest white prison gang in the U.S. The Dekes’ membership is estimated at ten thousand, though recordkeeping is spotty. Typical gang activity—drugs, food, sex, cell phones. Their alumni—the few who get out—remain members and carry on criminal activity. Pretty nasty bunch of boys.”

Nolton says to me, “Again, we have our hands full on this side of the wall.”

I say, “There’s also a prison guard who’s probably involved. White guy who looked the other way. He could be the weak link because he has more to lose.”

She says, “I like the way you think, Post.”

“We’re in the same business, sort of. You solve crimes to lock people up. I solve crimes to get people out.”

It was a typical workday for Adam Stone. He punched in at 7:59 a.m., and spent fifteen minutes at his locker drinking coffee and eating a doughnut with two other guards. He was in no hurry to report to Unit E for another stressful day of supervising criminals who would kill him if given half a chance. A few of the men he liked, and he enjoyed their banter. Others he despised, or even hated. Especially the blacks. Stone had been raised in a rough, rural area where few blacks lived or felt welcome. His father was a bitter racist who despised all minorities and blamed them for his lack of upward mobility in life. His mother claimed to have been sexually assaulted by a black athlete in high school, though no charges were ever filed. As a child, Adam was taught to avoid blacks when possible and to speak to them only in unpleasant terms.

As a prison guard, though, he had no choice. Seventy percent of the population at Garvin was black or brown, as were most of the guards. For the seven years Adam had worked there, his racism had only deepened. He saw them at their worst—caged men who had always been discriminated against and abused were in charge of an environment they controlled. Their retribution was often sickening. For protection, the whites needed their own gangs. He secretly admired the Aryans. Outnumbered and constantly threatened, they survived by swearing blood oaths to one another. Their brand of violence was often breathtaking. Three years earlier, they had attacked two black guards with razor-sharp shanks, then hid the bodies and watched them bleed to death.

During the day, Adam made his rounds, escorted prisoners to the infirmary and back, spent an obligatory hour watching surveillance cameras, stretched his thirty-minute lunch break into an hour, and punched out at 4:30. Eight hours of work without breaking a sweat, at twelve dollars each.

He has no way of knowing that agents working for the federal government spent the day digging through his life.

Two of them trail him as he leaves the prison. He is driving his pride and joy, a late-model Ram monster truck with oversized tires, black rims, not a speck of dirt anywhere. It is costing him $650 a month with years to go. His wife drives a late-model Toyota sedan at $300 a month. Their home is mortgaged to the tune of $135,000. Their bank records, obtained by warrant, show balances of almost $9,000 in checking and savings. In summary, Adam and his wife, who works as a part-time clerk in an insurance office, are living far above their meager means.

He stops for gas at a country store and goes inside to pay. When he returns, two gentlemen in jeans and sneakers are waiting. They quickly give their names, mention the FBI, flash badges, and say they would like to talk. For a tough guy who feels even tougher in his uniform, Adam is weak at the knees. Beads of sweat ripple across his forehead.

He follows them a mile to an abandoned school with an empty gravel lot. Under an old oak, next to what was once a playground, he leans on the edge of a wooden picnic table and tries to sound relaxed. “What can I do for you fellas?”

Agent Frost says, “Just a few questions.”

“Go right ahead,” Adam says with a drippy smile. He wipes his large forehead with the back of a sleeve.

Agent Thagard says, “We know you’re a guard at Garvin, been there for what, seven years?”

“Yes sir. Something like that.”

“You know an inmate by the name of Quincy Miller?”

Adam frowns and looks at the tree limbs as if searching deeply. A shake of the head and a quite unconvincing no. “Don’t believe so. Lot of inmates at Garvin.”

Frost asks, “How about Robert Earl Lane and Jon Drummik? Ever meet those guys?”

A quick cooperative smile and “Sure, they’re both in Unit E. That’s where I’m stationed for now.”

Thagard says, “Quincy Miller, who’s black, was beaten unconscious three days ago in the alley between the gym and the shop, next to Unit E. He was stabbed at least three times and left for dead. You were on duty when the attack occurred. Know anything about it?”

“I may have heard about it.”

“How could you not hear about it?” Frost snaps sharply and takes a step closer.

“A lot of fights at Garvin,” Adam says defensively.

Thagard asks, “You didn’t see Lane and Drummik attack Quincy Miller?”

“No.”

“We have an informant who says you did. Says you were right there, but the reason you didn’t see anything was because you didn’t want to. Says you were the lookout. Says you’re well known as one of the Deacons’ favorite gofers.”

Adam exhales mightily as if sucker punched in the gut. He wipes his forehead again and tries in vain to smile as if amused. “No way, man, no way.”

Thagard says, “Let’s cut the bullshit, Adam. We have search warrants and we have collected all of your financial crap. We know you have nine thousand dollars in the bank, which is quite impressive for a guy making twelve bucks an hour and whose wife makes ten for part-time work, a guy with two kids, a guy who’s never inherited shit from a relative, a guy who spends at least two thousand a month just on nice wheels and a nice house, not to mention groceries and the phone bills. You’re living way above your means, Adam, and we know, from our informant, that you pick up extra dough running drugs for the Deacons. We can prove that in a court tomorrow.”

They could not, but Adam certainly didn’t know the difference.

Frost takes the hand-off smoothly with “You’re going to be indicted, Adam, federal court. The U.S. Attorney in Orlando is working on it now, grand jury comes in tomorrow. But we’re not going after the guards. Most of them peddle goods back and forth, pick up some extra cash. The warden doesn’t really care because he wants his inmates stoned. They behave better when they have trouble walking. You know the drill, Adam. We couldn’t care less about the contraband. We’re on to something much more important. The attack on Quincy Miller was a contract for hire, a hit ordered by someone on the outside. That makes it a conspiracy, and that makes it federal.”

Adam’s eyes water and he wipes them with a forearm. “I ain’t done nothing. You can’t indict me.”

Frost says, “Gee, we’ve never heard that before.”

Thagard says, “The U.S. Attorney will grind you to a pulp, Adam. You don’t stand a chance. He’ll make sure the prison fires you immediately. There goes your salary, there go your bribes, all that cash. Then you’ll lose this cute little monster truck with the fat tires and ghetto rims, and your house, and, shit, Adam, it’s going to be awful.”

“You’re full of shit,” he says, trying to get tough but his voice cracks. They almost feel sorry for him. “You can’t do this.”

Frost says, “Oh, we do it all the time, Adam. If you’re indicted, it’ll take two years to get you to trial, more if the U.S. Attorney so chooses. He doesn’t care if you’re guilty or innocent, he just wants to ruin you if you don’t cooperate.”

Adam’s head jerks back as his eyes grow big. “Cooperate?”

Frost and Thagard exchange grave looks as if they’re not sure they should proceed. Thagard leans in and says, “You’re a small fish, Adam. Always have been, always will be. The U.S. Attorney couldn’t care less about you and your dipshit little bribery scheme. He wants the Deacons, and he wants to know who paid for the hit on Quincy Miller. You play ball with us, we play ball with you.”

“You want me to snitch?”

“No. We want you to inform. Big difference. Gather information from your buddies, pass it along to us. You find out who ordered the hit and we’ll forget about an indictment.”

“They’ll kill me,” he says, and finally bursts into tears. He sobs loudly into his hands as Frost and Thagard look around. Cars pass on the county road but no one bothers to look.

After a few minutes, he pulls himself together. Thagard says, “They will not kill you, Adam, because they will not know what you’re doing. We handle informants all the time, we know the game.”

Frost says, “And, if things get too dangerous, Adam, we’ll get you out and get you a job in a federal joint. Twice the pay, twice the benefits.”

Adam looks at them with red eyes and asks, “Can we keep this quiet? I mean, no one can know about this, not even my wife.”

With the word “we” a deal is struck. Frost says, “Of course, Adam. You think we tell folks about our confidential informants? Come on, man. We wrote the book on handling informants.”

For a long time nothing is said as Adam stares at the gravel and occasionally wipes fluids from his face. They watch him and are almost sympathetic. He says, “Can I think about this? Gimme some time.”

“No,” Frost says. “We don’t have time. Things are moving fast, Adam. If Quincy dies then you’ll be on the hook for capital murder, federal style.”

“What’s the charge now?”

“Attempted murder. Conspiracy. Thirty years max, and the U.S. Attorney will go for every last day of it.”

He shakes his head and appears ready for more tears. His voice breaks as he says, “And if I play ball, as you like to say?”

“No indictment. You walk, Adam. Don’t be a fool.”

Frost closes the deal with “This is one of those life-altering moments, Adam. You make the right decision right now and your life goes on. The bad one, and you’re gonna be locked up with the same savages you’ve been guarding.”

Adam stands and bends at the waist, belches. “Excuse me,” he says and walks to the edge of the old playground where he begins retching. Frost and Thagard turn and look toward the road. Adam kneels behind a large bush and vomits loudly for a spell. When he’s finished he shuffles back and sits at the picnic table. His shirt is soaked with sweat, and his cheap brown tie is specked with his lunch.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “What’s the first order of business?”

Frost doesn’t hesitate. “Do either Lane or Drummik have a cell phone?”

“I know Drummik does. I took it to him.”

“Where did you get it?”

Adam hesitates before plunging in. When he says what he’s about to say, there is no turning back. “There’s a man named Mayhall, don’t know his first name, don’t know if Mayhall is real or fake, don’t know where he lives or where he comes from. I see him once or twice a month. He comes here with the goodies for his boys inside Garvin. Cell phones and dope, usually pills and meth, cheap drugs. I take the stuff in and deliver to the right people. He pays me a thousand bucks a month in cash, plus a little stash of dope to sell on my own. I’m not the only guard who does this. When you earn twelve an hour it’s hard to survive.”

Thagard says, “We get that. How many Aryan Deacons in Garvin?”

“Twenty-five or thirty. The Brotherhood has more.”

“How many guards service the Deacons?”

“I’m the only one I know of. Certain guards take care of certain groups. I doubt if Mayhall would want anyone else involved. He gets what he wants with me.”

“Has he served time?”

“I’m sure he has. You can’t join the Deacons unless you’re in prison.”

Frost asks, “Can you get Drummik’s cell phone?”

Adam shrugs and smiles as if he’s quite clever. “Sure. Cell phones are prized possessions and sometimes they get stolen. I’ll go to Drummik’s cell when he’s out on the yard, make it look like a theft.”

“How soon?” Thagard asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay, do it. We’ll track his calls and we’ll give you a replacement.”

Frost asks, “Will this Mayhall character get suspicious if Drummik finds another phone?”

Adam thinks for a moment. Things are still not quite clear. He shakes his head and says, “I doubt it. These guys buy, sell, trade, steal, barter, you name it.”

Thagard leans down and sticks out a hand. “Okay, Adam, we got a deal, right?”

Adam reluctantly shakes his hand.

Frost says, “And your phones are tapped too, Adam. We’re monitoring everything, so no stupid moves, okay?”

They left him at the picnic table, staring into the distance and wondering how his life could change so fast.

Chapter 34

With the FBI throwing its weight around, Quincy is moved to a corner room that is more secure. Two surveillance cameras are mounted prominently above his door. The hospital staff is on high alert and its guards are more of a presence. The prison sends one over each day for a few hours of hallway monitoring, and Orlando police officers enjoy stopping by to flirt with the nurses.