tools but with books and notebooks, beakers and burners, tubes and vials, canisters and bottles, boxes and bags, all overhung with a series of metal lamps hung by chains from the rafters. There were two refrigerators and a freezer along the far wall. There was a small kitchen area with four burners, an oven, and a sink. A fire extinguisher was fastened to every fifth post of the exposed interior frame. In the far corner was what looked like an office, separated from the main barn by a door that stood open.
Stromsoe thought of the meth labs he’d seen out in the Southern California desert not far from here. Riverside County was ground zero for the labs, but there were plenty in Los Angeles and San Diego and San Bernardino counties, too. Interesting, he thought—except that he was pretty sure Frances Hatfield and the old man weren’t cooking drugs.
He heard Frankie’s saw start up and eased his face back to the window. She pressed the board into the blade, then another. She worked with assurance, and no hurry.
The old man wrestled another set of bolted boards off his bench, walked them across the floor, and fitted them into the growing tower. He took out his socket wrench and looked at the structure appraisingly.
“Nice, Ted,” said Frankie. Stromsoe could just barely make out her words.
“When this one’s finished I’m done for tonight,” said Ted. “Been at it since four.”
“We’ll be ready for next week,” said Frankie.
“I hope so.”
“We need that jet stream to stay south. Just a little help from the stream is all we need.”
The old man said something back but Stromsoe couldn’t make it out.
He eased away from the barn, found the dark edge of the road,and walked back to his car. Ready for next week, he thought. Need the jet stream to stay south?
He wondered if the wooden towers were a decorative garden item that Frankie and her partner sold to local nurseries. He’d seen little windmills that looked a lot like them, though Frankie’s were four times the height and had no blades to catch a breeze.
Then he thought of water wells and storage tanks and railroad structures and mining rigs and weather stations and airport towers and fire observation decks and oil derricks and guard towers and wind turbines for making electricity.
Ready for next week could mean for the distributor, or to complete an order, or…
Frankie, you have some explaining to do.
He smelled the river water again, then the sweet aroma of oranges and lemons carrying on the cool night air.
9
M ike Tavarez surveyed the exercise yard and listened to the inmates counting off their sit-ups: thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …
Their voices rose in crisp unison into the cold afternoon air of Pelican Bay State Prison. They sounded like a small army, thought Tavarez, and in a sense they were, because the Mexican gangs here in Pelican Bay didn’t stand around like the Nazi Lowriders or the Aryan Brotherhood or the Black Guerillas.
No, La Eme and Nuestra Familia—though they would kill one another if you put them together in the same exercise yard at the same time—worked out here in the general population yard for twohours every day. Different hours, but they worked out hard. They heaved and strained and yelled the cadence, in training to stay alive when it was time to fight.
Give people a beat to follow and they’ll do anything you tell them to, thought Tavarez. Like a marching band.
Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one…
“Why don’t you work out with them?” asked Jason Post. Post was one of the correctional officers who had helped get Tavarez transferred from the Security Housing Unit to the general population. That was six months ago. The Prison Guards Union held substantial power at Pelican Bay, and Post was a union activist.
“I like watching,” said Tavarez. “I like their discipline. I never got to see this in the X.”
The Security Housing Unit was known as “the X” because it was shaped
Stromsoe thought of the meth labs he’d seen out in the Southern California desert not far from here. Riverside County was ground zero for the labs, but there were plenty in Los Angeles and San Diego and San Bernardino counties, too. Interesting, he thought—except that he was pretty sure Frances Hatfield and the old man weren’t cooking drugs.
He heard Frankie’s saw start up and eased his face back to the window. She pressed the board into the blade, then another. She worked with assurance, and no hurry.
The old man wrestled another set of bolted boards off his bench, walked them across the floor, and fitted them into the growing tower. He took out his socket wrench and looked at the structure appraisingly.
“Nice, Ted,” said Frankie. Stromsoe could just barely make out her words.
“When this one’s finished I’m done for tonight,” said Ted. “Been at it since four.”
“We’ll be ready for next week,” said Frankie.
“I hope so.”
“We need that jet stream to stay south. Just a little help from the stream is all we need.”
The old man said something back but Stromsoe couldn’t make it out.
He eased away from the barn, found the dark edge of the road,and walked back to his car. Ready for next week, he thought. Need the jet stream to stay south?
He wondered if the wooden towers were a decorative garden item that Frankie and her partner sold to local nurseries. He’d seen little windmills that looked a lot like them, though Frankie’s were four times the height and had no blades to catch a breeze.
Then he thought of water wells and storage tanks and railroad structures and mining rigs and weather stations and airport towers and fire observation decks and oil derricks and guard towers and wind turbines for making electricity.
Ready for next week could mean for the distributor, or to complete an order, or…
Frankie, you have some explaining to do.
He smelled the river water again, then the sweet aroma of oranges and lemons carrying on the cool night air.
9
M ike Tavarez surveyed the exercise yard and listened to the inmates counting off their sit-ups: thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …
Their voices rose in crisp unison into the cold afternoon air of Pelican Bay State Prison. They sounded like a small army, thought Tavarez, and in a sense they were, because the Mexican gangs here in Pelican Bay didn’t stand around like the Nazi Lowriders or the Aryan Brotherhood or the Black Guerillas.
No, La Eme and Nuestra Familia—though they would kill one another if you put them together in the same exercise yard at the same time—worked out here in the general population yard for twohours every day. Different hours, but they worked out hard. They heaved and strained and yelled the cadence, in training to stay alive when it was time to fight.
Give people a beat to follow and they’ll do anything you tell them to, thought Tavarez. Like a marching band.
Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one…
“Why don’t you work out with them?” asked Jason Post. Post was one of the correctional officers who had helped get Tavarez transferred from the Security Housing Unit to the general population. That was six months ago. The Prison Guards Union held substantial power at Pelican Bay, and Post was a union activist.
“I like watching,” said Tavarez. “I like their discipline. I never got to see this in the X.”
The Security Housing Unit was known as “the X” because it was shaped
Similar Books
