Last Call

"But that's exactly what happened," said Cy. "Reems got shot and killed. Why isn't the safety valve going public?"

"If Reems ends up dead in prison with no help on the escape, the safety valve knows it was a hit. But if the killer helps him escape and then several days later there's a shooting behind the old Homeboy's – well, that's not so clear. Could have been a robbery or just Isaac's bad luck. Theo could have shot him. Cops could have wasted him and made it look like somebody else did it. There are countless possibilities. Once Isaac is outside, no way can the safety valve say for sure that he was killed by the guy Isaac was extorting."

"But then who's the safety valve?"

Jack smiled a little, pleased that Cy seemed to think this made sense. "A safety valve has to be someone the extortionist trusts. If Isaac had someone like that on the outside, he would have run to him for help when his car and cash weren't waiting for him at the convenience store on the night he escaped. He wouldn't have called on Theo."

"So…he must be inside."

"Inside TGK," said Jack.

It was as if the proverbial lightbulb had blinked on. Inside TGK was exactly where Theo needed to go.

"How long is he in for?"

"As long as it takes," said Jack.

"Or until it ain't safe in there no more."

"Yeah," said Jack, his expression turning serious. "Whichever comes first."

Chapter 23

Six-thirty A.M. Theo was a half hour away from his first prison breakfast in years, and the harsh lights brightened the entire cell block.

He hadn't slept well; he was wide awake for the 2:00 a.m. head count. The count before that had been between 9:00 and 10:00 p.m., prior to his arrival. Quite a long gap, which he assumed Isaac Reems had noted in the timing of his escape. Theo wasn't sure when his mind stopped racing, and he finally dozed off, but the 4:00 a.m. count had definitely roused him. The mattress was thin, the pillow was lumpy, and the coarse blanket smell ed of a detergent strong enough to kill every germ known to medical science. Theo never really fell back to sleep.

Prison life was going to be an even bigger readjustment than he'd figured.

He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and planted his feet on the bare concrete floor. "Dude, whattaya think you're doin'?" he said.

Charger froze. He was standing at the small metal sink, washing his face. He glanced over his shoulder toward his new cell mate. Theo's chilling glare alone was enough to make him realize that there was a new morning protocol and that Charger had broken it. Charger stepped away from the sink, face dripping wet, and made room for Theo.

"Not too smart, are you?" said Theo, as he bumped him farther to one side. Theo didn't enjoy it, but abusing his cell mate was all part of the act. He needed Charger spreading the word throughout TGK that this new guy was a badass.

The noise level within the cell block rose steadily like one collective stomach growl. At 7:00 a.m. the buzzer sounded, the place fell quiet, and the inmates came to the bars, standing in pairs behind locked cell doors. A team of guards passed from one end to the other and counted heads. The cell-house sergeant signaled to the control booth, another buzzer sounded, and forty cell doors slid open simultaneously. The inmates stepped out into the block to form two lines, one on each side of the corridor. Theo tried not to make his curiosity too obvious as he checked out his new neighbors. Even if he hadn't known that the second floor was mostly sex offenders, Theo probably could have guessed what each guy was in for, just by looking at him. The young Hispanic with jet black hair and a movie-star profile: roofies and date rape. The scrawny white guy across from him: jerking off in school zones. The black guy with arms like an NFL linebacker and a missing right earlobe: beats his wife or girlfriend, or both. Jail was a veritable warehouse of broken lives and useless parts. If Theo looked hard enough, he probably could have spotted one or two old Grove Lords. Maybe Isaac had found them, too.

Theo wondered if his search for the safety valve could possibly be that easy.

"Single file, A block first," the cell-house sergeant a

The line was long and Theo was near the rear, so he butted ahead to get closer to an inmate from two cells down, a brotha' who reminded Theo of his older brother Tatum – someone who looked like a player. He had the body of a weight lifter, the hands of a prizefighter, and the eyes of a sniper. He was still pulling on his undershirt, half undressed, his briefly exposed back covered with tattoos.

"Hope you like slop," he told Theo, speaking under his breath as he buttoned his shirt.

Theo offered a slow nod – not to express his agreement, just his way of saying it was cool for him to speak without Theo speaking first.

"Yeah, the food really sucks," added Charger. He'd ridden on Theo's coattails to cut ahead in the line.

"Shut up, weasel," said Theo.

Theo was part of the main line, the general prison population, which entered the cafeteria just as the "short line" was leaving through another exit. The short line ate separately – breakfast, lunch, and di

"Snitches," said the big guy, again speaking only to Theo.

The line moved steadily but slowly. Theo grabbed a tray and took everything they offered: toast, diluted orange juice, something that resembled watery scrambled eggs, a glob of oatmeal that stuck together like mastic, sausage patties that could have doubled as hockey pucks.

"Over here," someone said.

Theo turned and saw the Tatum look-alike at the end of the second table, sitting by himself. It was unofficial reserved seating, by invitation only. Theo sat directly across from him but said nothing. He just started eating.

"New?" the guy said.

Theo salted his eggs. "Only to this place."

"Done time?"

"FSP. Death row."

He seemed duly impressed." How'd you beat that?"

"Good lawyer." It wasn't a lie, his i

"Cool. Maybe I can use him."

"Only one problem," said Theo.

"What?"

"He doesn't defend punks."

He worked a spoon through his fingers like a miniature baton, shooting Theo an angry glare that would have reduced most inmates to gelatin. Theo shot one right back, then smiled. "Gotcha, dude."

It took a moment, but finally he returned the smile – albeit a thin one. A toothy grin wasn't part of prison culture, unless you were a catcher, and this guy didn't roll over on anybody's bunk.

"Moses," he said, extending his hand.

"Theo," he said, shaking prison style.

Charger walked by with his tray in hand. Theo and Moses gave him a collective look that said, "Beat it." He moved on to the next table.

"What you in here for?" said Moses.

"The food."

Another little smile. "Me too," said Moses, and then he stuffed his mouth with the world's lousiest oatmeal.

They invited no one to join them, so they had their own end of the table for the entire breakfast. It was mostly small talk, guarded but mutually respectful, a confirmation that they agreed on certain basic tenets that would ensure their peaceful coexistence: Miami's Duane Wade (not Lebron James) was the best player to go in the famous first round of the 2003 NBA draft; Kobe Bryant never would have made it in prison; and anybody who messes with you, messes with me – and then wishes that he hadn't.

Theo was back in his cell by eight o'clock. Charger had voluntary work duty and wouldn't return until eleven o'clock. Theo had yet to be assigned a job, so he had the cell to himself until lunchtime. He lay on his bunk, thinking. Hooking up with Moses was a stroke of luck. He was definitely an operator, a good contact, the kind of guy who would have latched onto an Isaac Reems. Theo could befriend him on many levels, not the least of which was the fact that Theo had distinguished himself as the Clarence Darrow of jailhouse lawyers on death row, an expert on everything from writs of habeas corpus to a prisoner's fundamental right to chew gum. But Theo knew he had to be careful. Ask too many questions too soon around an operator like Moses and you could end up on the wrong side of the prison balance of power.