Sparring Partners(66)
Diantha parked in a vast lot and inspected her face in the mirror. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing to attract attention. Slacks, flat-sole shoes, a jacket, no skin showing from the neck down, as per the website. For a stylish woman who loved fashion and took plenty of time each morning putting herself together, she was surprised at how plain she looked.
Back in the early days when she was fresh out of law school and the first female associate at Malloy & Malloy, she had always made the effort to dress up for the office. The men appreciated it and Bolton especially enjoyed her company. The clerical staff was all young women and Bolton paid them well. He was a demanding boss who favored linen suits, silk ties, French cuffs, and Italian shoes. The unwritten dress code around Malloy & Malloy was that to succeed you’d better look good.
She left her cell phone and briefcase in the car and locked it. At the entrance of the administration building she paused for a second to look at the cheap bronze plaque the state had screwed into a cinderblock wall. It commemorated the distinguished career of an old warden who’d been dead for forty years. Winston Saliba.
Who finished high school with the dream of having a prison named in their honor?
Inside the doors was a grungy reception area and two guards who appeared ready to pounce on the next visitor. They took her driver’s license and ran her through the metal detectors. She filled out forms and was sent to a holding room where she waited half an hour. The chairs were plastic and unbalanced. The magazines were three years old. The place smelled of cheap antiseptic and gas heat. When it was her turn, a guard led her down a hallway, through locked doors, and into a pen where a golf cart awaited. He pointed to the back seat and they climbed in. He drove without a word, and she had nothing to say as well. Their pathway was a narrow paved road lined with chain-link fence ten feet tall and topped with glistening razor wire. On the other side were dozens of inmates out in the yard, staring at her.
How anyone, especially an older white guy like Bolton, could survive in such a dismal place was unfathomable. She saw a sign for Camp D and knew she was close. The mail she sent him went to Camp D.
Inside, the guard grunted this way and that and they entered a large visitation room with plastic tables and chairs scattered about, and vending machines lining the walls. There were no other visitors. Lay people visited only on the weekends. Lawyers could come and go as they pleased. He pointed to a corner where there were four doors under a sign that said attorney visitation rooms. He opened a door, showed her a seat, and said, finally, “He’ll be out in a minute. You got anything to hand over to him?”
“No.”
The narrow room was divided by a wall four feet high, and on top of it was a thick sheet of glass that ran to the ceiling. The minutes dragged on, and she reminded herself of how much she resented Rusty and Kirk for forcing her to be there. Bolton was their problem, not hers. She had not seen him in five years and that was not long enough.
His door opened and a guard appeared. Bolton was behind him and ignored her as the cuffs were removed. The guard left and closed the door. Bolton sat in his plastic chair and smiled at her. He picked up his receiver and said, “Hello, Diantha. I wasn’t expecting you.”
His first words were lies. Kirk had told him the night before, on his illegal cell phone, that she would be pinch-hitting.
“Hello, Bolton. How are you?”
“Swell. The days and weeks are passing. I’ll be out soon enough. How are you these days, Diantha? It’s so great to see you. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m well. Phoebe’s growing like a weed. Fifteen now and trying to drive me crazy.” She managed a quick smile, but it was difficult.
“And Jonathan?”
She nodded for a second and decided to tell a fib of her own. “Jonathan’s fine.”
“You look great, aging beautifully, which is not unexpected.”
“Thanks, I guess. You look almost dapper in your prison fatigues.”
And he did. Thin as a rail, fit, lean, and his matching khaki shirt and pants had obviously been starched and pressed. Those in the general population she had just driven past all wore white pants with blue stripes down the legs, and white shirts. Evidently the softer ones in Camp D got better clothes if they could afford them. Every month she deposited $1,000 in his account and the money went for food, clothing, books, and such luxuries as a color TV and portable AC unit. She would be sending more, per Rusty and Kirk, but the prison max was $1,000.
With plenty of time to sleep and rest and almost unlimited access to the outdoor gymnasium, Bolton looked younger than he had five years earlier when they said goodbye. That, plus no alcohol, no women, no eighteen-hour days at the office, and he appeared to be thriving in prison, at least physically.
And no complaints. According to Rusty and Kirk, the old man had never once blamed anyone for his bad luck. Nor had he shown the slightest remorse for the death of his wife. He had always maintained that he did not murder her. He had pled to manslaughter, a far less serious charge.
“So where’s Kirk?” he asked.
He knew damned well, but she played along. “He had an important appointment with his new lawyer. Things are not going well with Chrissy.”
“No surprise there. And Rusty?”
“He was in trial all week and couldn’t get things organized.”
“How’d the trial go?”
“He lost again. Asked the jury for thirty-five million, got zero. Big loss.”