The Guardians(66)

It’s obvious, at least to me, that Nolton is intrigued by the case. Lujewski keeps a poker face but misses nothing. He opens a laptop and starts pecking.

I continue, “And, we have the names of the two assailants, both convicted murderers. You’ve heard of the Aryan Deacons?”

Nolton smiles and likes it even more. A drug gang, a Mexican cartel at that, a crooked sheriff, the murder of a lawyer at his desk, a wrongful conviction, and now an attempted contract killing to stop an effort at exoneration. Not your everyday case.

“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?”