The Animal Factory (23 page)

Earl listened silently, surging with gratitude tinged with horror, though the latter was soon stifled by the former. Nevertheless, he simply nodded and smiled; thanking someone for committing murder seemed inappropriate.

The sound of keys jangling as the hospital’s sergeant came up the stairs sent the trio scurrying down a right-angled corridor away from the psych ward grill gate.

Several evenings later, Lieutenant Seeman came up to tell him that the district attorney wasn’t filing charges, and that Ron Decker had been picked up that afternoon by deputies from Los Angeles. “So why don’t you knock off the act, do your time in segregation, and come back to the yard?”

“I’ll think about it, boss,” Earl said.

The gust of joy about the district attorney, and the mixed
feelings
about Ron leaving, turned to melancholia that evening. Dutch Holland was the attendant on duty, and they were watching the first Monday night football game of the season, a dull game where the halftime score was outlandish.

“Rams, my ass!” Earl said, getting up. “My prick is stronger than Gabriel’s arm. They oughta call ’em
Lambs
. Want something to eat?”

“Naw,” Dutch said without moving his eyes from the screen. His massive arms were crossed on his chest, exaggerating their tattooed bulk.

“What about coffee?”

“Can’t sleep if I drink it this late.”

Earl stretched and jiggled his shoulders to unkink the muscles, meanwhile looking at Dutch’s thick neck with its rolls of fat. Dutch was a legend even before Earl first came to prison. Many convicts thought he might be the greatest wrestler in the world; but he liked good booze and bad checks and in his sixth decade this was his sixth imprisonment. With his pancake face and cauliflower ear, Dutch epitomized the brutal convict in appearance, but in reality was a gentle man who needed intolerable provocation to become violent, provocation that seldom came because of his appearance. Nobody challenges a man who looks like a grizzly bear.

The first room had been converted into a small kitchen with a refrigerator and hotplate—and stolen steaks were sent up to Earl from the butcher shop. He usually shared them with Dutch, who like most athletes was committed to the high protein of meat. Now Earl didn’t feel like eating, but put the water pitcher on the hotplate and stepped back into the hallway where big windows overlooked a fence and the blackness of the Bay. Lights of cities beyond the water sparkled brighter than the stars above them. The lights danced in the crystalline air, and the Oakland Bay Bridge was a bright arc disappearing in the brilliance of the Oakland skyline. Earl could see the flash of taillights and neon. The quiet psych ward was conducive to reflections and bittersweet aches. He looked out and wanted freedom; it was so close—and yet so fuckin’ far.

He missed Ron, worried about him. It could go all right in court, or it could fall apart if some prison official sent a report about the stabbing and murder. But there was no use worrying, nothing could be done. For himself, escape was all he had to hope for. He looked out at the dark silhouette of the gun tower on the edge of the water. Though he could see nothing inside it, he knew it was occupied. And the towering banks of vapor lights turned the perimeter into a surreal dayscape. Tower guards often fell asleep, and men in fenced prisons had sometimes managed to cut or climb the wire without being seen. More frequently, they were spotted and shot down. It was a pure gamble, a cast of the dice, and the odds were terrible. Even if he was willing to gamble, San Quentin’s walls were not vulnerable to that move. Earl thought of two successful escapes he knew about; ten years apart men had used dummies during the main count while hiding out in the industrial area. When the count cleared, the riflemen on the walls of the industrial area went home and it was easy to go over. It all hinged on the cellhouse guards counting the dummy. Fool the guard and it was a cinch. If not, it was the hole and new indictments. The guards tended to become lax every few years, ignoring the rule that everyone was to stand at the bars for count. Yet that was also a gamble.

Hostages? Not worth thinking about. Nobody had made it out that way in forty years. It was against the law to open the gate for an inmate with hostages, no matter who they were. In Folsom, three of Earl’s friends had grabbed a visiting choir in the chapel, mostly teen-aged girls, killing a convict who tried to stop them. (He’d gotten a posthumous pardon.) They’d demanded a car. They were told they’d get a hearse. They surrendered and got life sentences. If the gates weren’t opened when a girls’ choir was the hostages, they wouldn’t be opened for anyone.

Equally futile was the “hideout,” used by fish who didn’t know better. They planned to hide until the search was over and then climb over the wall. Hunger was all they got. The search continued until there was definite evidence the missing convicts were outside. Otherwise they were presumed to be within the walls. One search had gone on for two months—until a dog found the missing body buried in the lower yard. It wasn’t an escape but a murder. After a century the guards knew the prison better than the convicts. Records were kept of every possible hiding place.

Nearly every successful escape from inside the prison was in a truck.

Dutch called out that the second half was ready to start, breaking into Earl’s fierce reverie. Earl made the coffee and walked back toward the television, noticing Dutch’s seamed neck and the stubble of white hair on the round skull. Dutch was an old man. His life was over. Fear curled through Earl. Everyone gets old and dies, and it doesn’t matter afterward, but it was frightening to be old and facing death without memories of having lived.

I’ll get out, Earl vowed, one way or another. Then he thought of Ron, wondered what was happening in Los Angeles. If Ron came back, he would have to be included in any plans for escape.

Beyond having more graffiti penciled and carved into its walls, the courtroom bullpen hadn’t changed, nor had the human debris jamming it. The puffed, doughy faces and dirty clothes were those of the helpless and poor, not of criminals. But where Ron’s attitude toward them had once been pity flecked with contempt, now contempt for weakness was uppermost. Also missing was the slight sense of fear that he’d known before. He leaned against a corner, legs extended along a bench, not letting a trembling wino sit down. When a husky young black began cursing the world, the rage
trembling
in his voice, Ron half smiled and felt bemused. Once the sight of such fury would have caused his stomach to knot up; now he knew it was probably a defensive bluff, noise to hide fear, and even if it was real, it was no threat. He’d learned that physical toughness didn’t make for real dangerousness. Being a tough guy was in the mind, in being able to steal someone’s life without a qualm. He now knew he was capable of that. What was it Earl said? “Rattlesnakes give off a noise, but cobras are silent.”

On the heels of these nihilistic thoughts came realization that they were a reaction to the devastating news Jacob Horvath had brought to the jail’s attorney room last night. Horvath’s drooping lower lip and pained eyes signaled the reality even before he spoke. He’d gone to see the judge in the afternoon, to get the feel of the situation, but expecting no trouble. The judge had shown him an incident report about the murder (Horvath hadn’t known), and a letter signed by the associate warden and the warden, saying that Ron Decker was a member of the notorious White Brotherhood, which group was responsible for at least half a dozen murders in California prisons within the past two years. Although the evidence was insufficient to prosecute for this latest killing, a number of
anonymous
but reliable inmate informants had linked Decker to it. Jacob Horvath’s voice had risen from sad concern to near indignation, as if Ron had somehow failed him. Ron’s first sense of deflation had been replaced by cold anger and contempt. He would meet the defeat with scorn; it diminished pain. And that had been his attitude all night long. He didn’t even want to appear in court; it was all a ritual sham. The matter was already decided and he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of showing that it hurt. He could be precisely what they thought him to be. Life was all the playing of roles anyway. All games; all bullshit.

When the deputy sheriff acting as bailiff called Ron to the gate and fastened the bright steel bracelets over his wrists, Ron felt a mild scorn, and a bizarre sense of pride or power, for if they were fetters, they were also symbols of society’s fear.

The courtroom was totally without spectators. Just the clerk and court reporter were there, and Horvath behind a seated deputy district attorney. Horvath was leaning over, talking into the man’s ear. Both of them laughed softly, but it sounded loud in the empty stillness. Ron felt a tug of anger. Not long ago he would have been benignly indifferent to such friendliness between competing
attorneys
, but now he thought it was traitorous. The prosecutor was the enemy, and war was never friendly.

Without being told by the accompanying deputy, Ron pushed through the low gate and sat on a chair inside the railing. The deputy hovered next to him. The clerk, a pudgy man in rimless glasses, saw the arrival of the defendant and went through the door at the left of the bench. This was the only case being heard this afternoon and he was notifying the judge that all was ready.

Ron was wearing khaki pants and shirt and prison shoes, the issue given men going to court. Once he would have felt self-conscious; now it didn’t matter that he was branded as different. Horvath waved but seemed ready to continue talking to the prosecutor until Ron beckoned with a peremptory gesture. Then Horvath came over, putting his attaché case on top of the counsel table en route.

“Anything new?” Ron asked.

“Nope. Nothing. I tried to talk to him in chambers, but his mind is made up. I don’t understand what the hell happened to you up there. You knew—”

“Quit it. What’s done is done.”

“I’m going to make a pitch, but—” He shook his head.

“Don’t waste your breath. I’ve got some things to say. In fact, just tell him I’m making my own statement. You don’t have to do a thing.”

“Instead of me?”

“Right.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Bullshit! Just tell him—”

Before more could be said, the clerk came out, banged the gavel, and intoned, “Please rise. Department Northeast B. Superior Court of the State of California, County of Los Angeles, is now in session, the Honorable Arlen Standish, judge presiding.”

It was the same as before, the few people getting to their feet as the black-robed jurist came out and gained majesty as he stepped up to the bench. That is, everyone stood except Ron. When the deputy tugged his arm, he leaned forward and raised his ass three inches from the chair. He wouldn’t have done that much except complete refusal might have brought a later ass-kicking. He managed thus to comply while showing how he felt. The judge, however, didn’t look up until everyone was again seated.

“People versus Decker,” the clerk said. “Hearing under Eleven sixty-eight of the Penal Code.”

When Ron stood beside Horvath, he was assailed by the fragrance of the lawyer’s aftershave; his awareness was magnified by a year of smelling nothing fragrant except farts.

“I suppose we have to … uh … have discussions on this matter,” the judge said. As before, he shifted unseen papers. He put on glasses, read something; then looked over the glasses toward Horvath. “I imagine you have something to say, Counselor.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Before Horvath could say more, Ron poked him with an elbow and hissed from between clenched teeth, “Tell him.”

“Rrr-uh,” Horvath stuttered, his articulate circuits jammed.

“Your Honor,” Ron said loudly, even more loudly and more shrilly than he wanted, “I’d like to address the Court in this matter.”

“No, no, Mr. Decker. You will speak through counsel. That’s what counsel is for.”

“In that case, Your Honor,” Ron said slowly, “I wish to remove Mr. Horvath as counsel of record and invoke my right to proceed in
propria persona
.”

The judge hesitated. “Are you dissatisfied with Mr. Horvath?”

“That isn’t the question. I simply want to represent myself at this hearing … and according to decisions, I have an absolute right to do so if I can make an intelligent waiver of my right to counsel. I believe the standard is that I know the elements of the offense, the defenses, and the penalties. It isn’t necessary that I be a trained attorney. The first two are moot at this point … and I obviously know the penalties.” As soon as he began speaking, the tension went away, and he knew he sounded articulate. It surprised him.

“Do you have any comment, Mr. Horvath?”

“It’s a surprise … I … I’ve done my best. I have no objection. Mr. Decker is far from illiterate and he knows what’s at stake.”

The judge looked to the youthful deputy district attorney. “Do the People have anything to add?”

The prosecutor came to his feet. “The People would like to make sure this is an intelligent waiver … that the defendant doesn’t double back later with a petition for habeas corpus claiming the waiver was invalid.”

“I don’t think that the record will reflect incompetency,” the judge said mildly. “If we were in a critical proceeding where legal training … I would certainly make a lengthy inquiry before allowing a defendant to abandon the protection of counsel. But, as I recall, the decisions indicate the right to self-representation is absolute if the waiver is intelligent … and this defendant has recited the proper standards.” The judge nodded to Ron. “Proceed, Mr. Decker. You are your own attorney as long as you maintain decorum.”

Confronted with permission to speak, Ron was temporarily unable to. He’d intended to express disdain for the sham, but the
avuncular
judiciousness of the judge had ignited a flicker of hope. Perhaps it wasn’t already decided. Yet he didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want to snivel. He would take the middle course and play it according to the response elicited.