Bronx Requiem(3)

Beck wanted to be as far away as possible from the COs. He didn’t trust himself. He feared he might throw everything away and attack a guard to avenge what had been done to him, hoping they would shoot him, or beat him to death, and end the nightmare of his imprisonment.

The remaining sane part of James Beck forced him to do what he had done to survive the SHU—walk. Get away by himself.

There weren’t many prisoners in the north yard. All were in small groups except for a solitary figure standing in a slice of sun, face raised to the warm light, his hands behind his back.

Beck decided he needed some of that sunlight. Absorb some of the cleansing warmth. He had to get into the light, and if it meant passing the lone figure to get to it, so be it.

Beck refused to walk with his head down, or with any hint of deference. He strode purposefully toward the man, but kept enough distance to indicate he had no intention of talking to him, or accosting him.

The sound of Beck’s footsteps made the man open his eyes and turn toward Beck. Not surprising, since it would have been foolish not to watch someone approaching you in the north yard at Dannemora. Beck held both hands open, away from his pockets, to show there was nothing in them.

The other prisoner watched carefully. As Beck came closer, the prisoner’s expression changed. Was it concern? Preparation to attack? Whatever it was, Beck found himself stopping, almost against his will, and meeting the man’s gaze.

“What?” said Beck. One word, with enough of an edge to communicate to the man he’d better not give him any trouble.

“How long?” said the man.

It took a moment for Beck to get it. His brain still working slowly.

“Sixty days.”

“First time in the SHU?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded slowly.

“Did they win?”

Beck started to answer, then stopped. He thought about it. Really thought about it before he answered.

“No. Not yet.”

Paco Johnson nodded again, communicating a deep, profound sense of empathy and encouragement, even though he was a complete stranger.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

Beck nodded back and walked on, feeling the human connection the man had made with him. It had only taken a handful of words, but whoever he was, Beck knew the man had changed his course.

*

Over the next days, months, and years Packy Johnson and James Beck forged a friendship and an unbreakable bond. At first, Packy concentrated on slowly guiding Beck back from the brink, asking him careful, pointed questions that pushed Beck to think and examine everything about himself, each question asked with the intention of helping Beck figure out what kind of man he wanted to be.

Packy Johnson had been incarcerated for most of his life, and had earned his status as a respected, righteous con long ago. Beck never asked Packy why he had decided to help him. Maybe it was part of Johnson’s contrarian nature to help a white man. Maybe it was Johnson’s curiosity about how a man with no criminal record had killed a cop. Whatever the reason, Beck didn’t question it. Nor did he question the unspoken understanding that each of them would watch the other’s back, share whatever they had, and suffer whatever the other suffered.

They might talk once a week, or every day. The conversations could be terse, or rambling. Beck learned how to do time, survive prison but, above all else, in the cauldron of hell that was Clinton maximum-security prison, James Beck learned the meaning and value of a true friend.





1

TUESDAY, MAY 27, 6:30 P.M.





NINE YEARS LATER


James Beck stood outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan and checked his watch again. Demarco Jones had dropped him off in front of the main entrance, then driven off to park Beck’s custom Mercury Marauder. Beck had ten minutes before the bus from Eastern Correctional Facility arrived. He wanted to be standing at the gate when Packy Johnson stepped off that bus, but he didn’t know which of the 421 gates in the massive terminal was the right one.

Beck weaved around the line of people waiting for cabs and maneuvered past an obese black man wearing layers of clothing who’d parked himself in front of the entrance along with two overflowing shopping carts covered by a blue tarp.

Beck walked in, looking for the information booth. He saw it fifteen feet in front of him. A sign on the booth read: Please go to the Information Booth located on the 1st floor of the South Wing, 8th Avenue entrance for assistance. Thank You.

Shit.

He checked his watch. 6:32 P.M. He had eight minutes before the bus was due to arrive. Should he try to find the gate himself? He knew it was a ShortLine bus, but had no idea which gates were assigned to that bus line.

South wing. South wing. Maybe the ShortLine buses arrived in the south wing.

Beck turned and went back out onto Eighth Avenue and headed south, dodging slower moving pedestrians, sweating in the sultry New York heat and humidity. Typical New York spring. Last week, fifty-seven degrees and raining. Today, eighty degrees and sunny.

Beck remembered when he had come out of prison, five years ago. It was different for him. He wasn’t released on parole, so he had no restrictions. It was a crisp fall day in October instead of a muggy day in May. And he hadn’t spent the majority of his life incarcerated. Just eight years, but long enough so every connection to friends or family had withered or disappeared, so there was no one available to drive upstate and pick him up. He’d taken the exact same bus down from Eastern Correctional Facility just outside of Napanoch, New York. Because his conviction had been overturned, and he had a dedicated lawyer working for him, Beck had left prison with up-to-date identification, a working credit card, three hundred dollars in cash, plus an ATM card from Chase.