Betrayal Page 2

  9.

  But while you might be thinking that is a lot of stuff to be coming in unseen through the front doors of a prison, the methods were even crazier. The most effective way, as you’ve probably seen in a lot of prison movies, are laundry trucks. That shit is actually true. I was dumbfounded when I saw the amount of shit wrapped up in a bed sheet, delivered as if the truck had ‘Postal Service” stencilled on the side instead of ‘JD Hillman Laundry Services’.

  The amount of stuff that these guys brought in was unfathomable. It really was. Every trip would contain several bags of items and these fuckers entered the prison every single day except Sundays. And it was me that was sent out to help them, sometimes supervised, most times not. It depended on the screw on duty, most as laid back as Officer Friendly herself.

  Then there were the bin guys. Not the garbage bins. The yellow bins with the funny symbols on them. The ‘hazardous waste’ truck came in 3 times a week and had contraband inside the fresh bins he brought in. It was my job to wheel the filled ones out and replace them with fresh ones. A job perfect for catching all the delicious parcels.

  Next on the list were the ‘sanitary’ deliveries. This was the service that took care of all the ‘ladies’ special monthly needs’, if you catch my drift. Sanitary bins were dispersed throughout the jail, into every single building in the prison. Whilst it wasn’t my job to take them to those buildings, I did manage to get my hands on the ones in the medical unit. The rest were dispersed by the delivery guy himself, escorted by an allocated screw.

  Contraband was also brought in via food delivery vehicles, but these I didn’t deal with. Kitchen billets took care of them. But it was via the meal trolleys that the freshly-acquired contraband was sent off to its allocated delivery point.

  While all of these methods netted us a whole lot of contraband, there was one other way the stuff made it through. Officers. Crooked officers to be exact. They were on the payroll with us just as much as they were receiving payment from the prison itself. Some would have more than doubled, possibly even tripled their income by smuggling stuff in.

  While some hid drugs and what-nots in their shoes, bags or even just pockets, others went the whole way, smuggling stuff through the front gates either in their arse or up their snatch if they had one. Officers like Jackie Friendly didn’t mind what they shoved up there, often bringing in enough dope to send an entire unit sky-high. Jackie even went as far as to hide more drugs under her ample breasts just so she could get extra cash.

  Yup, we had a regular supply line into the jail and there was a tonne of shit coming through my fingers. Delivering the goods was almost as easy.

  10.

  While a lot of the contraband came through my unit, it also fell onto my shoulders to get it out of there just as quick. Having the shit lying around only increased the chances of me getting caught with it so I never delayed getting it out of there. There were a few methods I employed, all of which effective trade routes around the Palace.

  Clancy still ran the kitchen supply line so I would throw a lot of the gear into empty meal trolleys before wheeling it back to the kitchen each meal time. The kitchen supplied lunch and dinner each day, giving me 2 round trips with which to move shit. I was usually greeted by Clancy himself who would then distribute the gear into the appropriate unit trolleys. It was like running a regular courier service.

  Most of the screws didn’t really care about what we smuggled. A lot of them didn’t want the hassle of having to fill out a report and figured that if they didn’t see anything, they didn’t need to know anything. Not checking meant they wouldn’t find anything and hence remained in their stations most of the time.

  There were the occasional gung-ho officers, but we knew who they were and when they were on. One of our own paid screws would be nearby as we passed, just to keep them distracted long enough for us to stroll safely by. It really worked a treat.

  The other great way to move gear between units was via the librarian. This was a prisoner that worked in the library and delivered books to each unit twice a week. There were 2 crooks that regularly swapped unit runs between each other, but both knew the drill. I don’t know what they were each paid but I do know they were trustworthy enough to do as they were tasked. Li Wong and Joe Henry were lifers who lived in ‘The Patch’.

  The Patch was a special unit where old-timers saw out their twilight years. It had a population of around 35, all sentenced to life and all over the age of 60. They worked specific jobs around the prison, including the library and some academic roles for a few screws and administration staff.

  Each time Li or Joe wheeled their trolley in, several books on the top shelf would be hollowed out, perfect for hiding anything we needed to move around. Because they visited every unit throughout the week, it made them an especially valuable commodity in the transportation chain.

  There were numerous ways to move shit around the Palace, including officers and prisoners. If someone was discharged from our unit and sent back to their own after a sickness or injury, I would be sure to add a little something to their take-home bag. Thefts were very rare and when they did occur, drew immediate wrath that often resulted in them returning to the medical unit with a fresh batch of injuries.

  Yup, life was grand in the medical wing. I had a regular job I enjoyed and a regular hobby I loved. While one relied on a mop, the other relied on cunning. And as weeks turned into months and months into years, I was busy planning my revenge.

  Chapter 2

  1.

  Frank and Nails ran the unit with infantry-like efficiency, continuing to offer ‘protection’ to those willing to pay with drugs, cash and other special favours. Nails opted for Razzie to join him on his daily rounds, acting as a pure lookout while Nails did the intimidating. His arrogance grew with each day, putting even the late Tommy White to shame.

  But Frank seemed to enjoy his new right-hand man. I would often see them banter on the top deck when I returned from work each day. The relationship between Frank and myself was strained as far as I was concerned, but I didn’t let it show. As far as Frank knew, we were good. I was doing my job and making him money, lots of it. While I wasn’t too fussed about my own cut of the cash, it helped with my growing shopping list.

  It seemed that the more I worked out and built myself up, the more food I needed, especially protein powder. I also began to eat a much cleaner diet, avoiding prison-cooked food for the most part. I could purchase what I needed with relative ease, not only because of the money I made from my day job, but also because of San.

  2.

  San disappeared from the unit a few days after the Traiforous girl was killed. We hadn’t exchanged a single word on the matter, nor to each other and I wasn’t surprised to learn that he’d left without saying goodbye.

  His sentence was simply over, the lucky prick getting early parole. The money worked in his favour on that occasion and I doubt he minded the prospect of home-cooked meals again.

  I didn’t take his leaving without a farewell to heart, understanding that it must have been hard for him. I’d grown to understand his reasons for the things he did to my family, even feeling a kind of forgiveness. I doubt whether things were easier now that we opened communication lines between us and the murder didn’t help the situation.

  It took him a few months to work up the courage to make the first move, eventually paying me a visit. It wasn’t a very long one, but for what it’s worth, it helped the both of us. The conversation was a little bit one-sided, but what words we did have, probably saved our relationship.

  He dropped by unannounced on a Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t expecting anyone and thus had been laying back on my bed, reading one of Jack’s old additions to his library. He was an amazing writer and I sometimes found myself wanting to read his work more than King’s.

  Anyway, the officers on duty summoned me to the station, handed me the slip and sent me on my way. There wasn’t really anyone else it could have been, so wasn’t that
surprised to find him sitting at one of the visitor tables. The irony was that the table was the same one where my final visit had been with Rhonda.

  “Hey, kid,” San said, rising in his chair a little and shaking my hand. I shook, smiled and sat, all in one motion. We sat in silence for a few moments and I began to wonder if he was going to feed me some preaching stuff, maybe to make himself feel a little better. But he didn’t.

  “How ya been keeping?”

  “Not bad,” I replied, reaching for the chocolate he’d broken apart on the table. I popped one in my mouth, meeting San’s gaze again.

  “How’s the unit? Everyone still getting on?” It wasn’t really a question that needed answering, simply nodding. I knew he wanted to ask me a specific question. I waited patiently waiting for him to build the courage to ask. He looked at a patch of linoleum that didn’t match the rest. It was about 10 feet by 10 feet, a significant piece that looked out of place.

  “Is that where it happened?” he asked, staring at the ground where a grieving Nick cradled the corpse of his eldest child. He turned back to me, looking into my eyes, but trying to delve deeper. I could feel the questions burning into him behind his gaze and wanted to tell him everything. But part of me wanted to hear him ask. I wanted to know what he thought of me.

  “Did you know?” was what he said next. It was the only question that really mattered. One that had probably kept him awake at night. He wanted to know whether I knew what was going to go down in that very room before I entered it that day. I could see him stare at me, waiting for me to answer and hopefully catch any deception I painted over it.

  “No,” I replied firmly. I kept eye contact, wanting him to believe me. I didn’t add to the answer, the single word enough to convince him. He continued eyeing me off for a few more seconds before looking back at the spot on the floor.

  “Did Frank?” Now it was my turn to stare at him. In all the time since that day, I had assumed that it was common knowledge that Frank orchestrated the whole thing with Danny. I didn’t have any reason to doubt otherwise, Frank more than happy to take the credit.

  “Why would you ask me that?” I asked, genuinely confused. San returned his gaze at me and waited for the answer to come to him. I don’t think he needed me to answer, but I did anyway.

  “He did, didn’t he?” I suddenly realized why San was asking me. He’d been kept in the dark as much as me. While I may have been kept in the dark about the victim, San was kept in the dark about the real architect.

  “Yes. Frank knew. Frank and Danny planned it together. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Frank told me he didn’t know. He said it was all Danny. That he gave specific instructions for Nick to die.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt sick, sick enough for my colour to change.

  “You OK, kid? You look like you’re gonna barf.” He suddenly stood, walked past me and headed for the row of vending machines. He returned a minute later and handed me a bottle of water which I grabbed, opened and swallowed half of in 3 big gulps.

  “Why would Frank lie to you?” I asked once the feeling subsided enough. I could still feel the sweat on my brow but thankfully, the nausea had passed.

  “Because I asked him. I wanted to know whether my money was going to a child killer.”

  “Your money? You pay Frank? For what?” I asked, more questions building behind the first. He looked at me with a surprised expression, shaking his head a little as if expecting me to know the answer.

  “For you, of course.” I was stunned into silence, words evading my ever effort to grab them. “You didn’t know, did you?” he said after a minute of watching me struggle. “He hasn’t told you.”

  “Told me what?” I finally asked.

  “He may have not come right out and say it, but he threatened your life unless I paid. Called it ‘protection money for his finest’. Said you needed looking after and he could ensure your safety for a sum.” The nausea threatened to return as I suddenly realized how badly I’d been played. We’d both been played. Used like the pawns we really were.

  “How much?” I asked once my anger subsided enough. It wasn’t just anger I felt, but downright shame. I’d embarrassed myself by thinking I was somebody within the gang. I suddenly realized I was nobody. Just a deluded fool.

  “2 grand a week.” The anger that tore through me at that moment awoke a rage that I hadn’t felt for a long time. The deception ripped into my heart, the words once again evading me. “Don’t worry about it, Dylan. I can afford it. If it means keeping you safe then so be it. Let me do something at least. Make up for all the years I wasn’t there.”

  I suddenly realized that the man sitting before me, the man who’d been living in a cell just a few doors down from me in the unit, was my father. He was my Dad. I don’t know why it took until that very moment for me to accept the truth, but that’s when it happened. I saw him for the man he really was. A father who was genuinely sorry for his actions.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” was all I could say. He looked at me, as stunned to hear the name as much as I was saying it. I could see a single tear drop from the corner of one eye and slowly roll down his cheek as he lent forward, waving me towards him. We embraced each other in a tight hug that felt real. It felt right. I finally accepted my father.

  3.

  That first visit had been the beginning of a new road for both of us. With the animosity all but gone, it felt amazing to have someone in my life again that truly meant something. Having San on the outside was a real support that seemed to lift a weight off my shoulders.

  He visited with me every Saturday, the two of us chatting about anything and everything. He shared a lot of himself with me, not holding back, even things that may have been difficult to reveal. I learnt about his side of the family, the family I never knew and now never would. Both his parents had passed away and if there were other siblings, he didn’t mention them.

  San also filled my spending account on a weekly basis, up to the maximum of $110 that the prison permitted. Despite not needing it, the gesture felt warming, it really did. I think he genuinely wanted to be a father to me, despite the barriers between us. But while we managed to remove most of the mental barriers, the physical ones remained in place, despite his best efforts.

  4.

  It was another surprise visit that gave me renewed hope. But this visit wasn’t one from anybody I was expecting. It came completely out of the blue, not even a heads up from the one pulling the strings.

  It was the middle of a workday when Friendly called me to the officer’s station. She was partnered with a guy called Hans Zimmerman or something, a brooding blond who reminded me of a Nazi officer from The Great Escape. He looked at me with such contemptuous eyes, I almost said something. But I refrained, not willing to risk my link in the supply train just yet.

  Instead, I took the slip from Friendly, thanked her politely and made my way to the visits centre. There was only a single manned gate to get through and the officer on duty made short work of it, not paying me the slightest attention.

  The back of the visits centre was fairly quiet, only 2 other crooks waiting to be processed. The 2 officers took each of them, stripped them and watched as they dressed. When one of them finished, it was my turn to do the nude dance.

  5.

  While I half expected San to be sitting at the table assigned to my visit, it was another man waiting for me, one I hadn’t seen in a long time. I barely remembered the exchange between us, but it was his sideburns I couldn’t forget.

  Giorgio Ling sported sideburns that would have made Elvis proud, gold sunglasses sitting atop his head and a blank notepad open on the small table in front of him. He was flicking a pen around his knuckles, the kind of clicky-pen often reserved as corporate gifts.

  He stood as I approached, a wide grin across his face as he pumped my fist enthusiastically.

  “Dylan. Hey, sport. Good to see you.” He waved for me to sit and resumed his previous pose. “Giorgio, please,
” he added, patting his chest.

  “Hey,” was all I could offer, unsure of what he was doing there. “

  “Probably a bit surprised at being pulled up here from your unit. Your Dad asked me to drop by and have a chat with you. Maybe see if there’s a way to get you out of here.”

  “Get me out of here? You think there’s a chance of that happening?” I asked, a strange emotion washing over me.

  “There might be. I tried to help you and your brother back when this all began. Our chances would have been better back then, but hey. Never too late, right?” He sounded confident with a fair amount of cockiness mixed in. I was half-expecting him to jump up on the table and begin a rendition of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’.

  “Pretty sure they had an open and shut case. Hence why we ended up here.”

  “Yes, maybe. But there’s such a thing as circumstantial evidence. All we need to do is introduce doubt into the minds of a judge or two and voila…retrial.”

  “You think you can get me a retrial now? Dude, forgive my ignorance, but it’s been like 5 years. Why would they give me a retrial after all this time?” In all honesty, I didn’t want my hopes raised. I’d already lost so much since that fateful day. My life had been all but erased. The last thing I wanted was for this Muppet to raise my hopes, only to have them dashed all over again.

  “That’s what I’m here to see, Dylan. Your Dad wants me to dig around a bit. See what I can find.”

  “No,” I suddenly said, the sound of the word even shocking me. Giorgio paused for a minute, staring at me, the pen he’d still been flicking temporarily frozen on top of his hand.

  “No?” he finally asked. He sounded annoyed more than surprised.

  “That’s right. No. I don’t want a retrial.” My mouth felt like it was on rails, the words coming unannounced, as if chosen by a separate mind entirely. Did I really want to pass an opportunity to get out of this place? This guy had the means and experience to win me my freedom. Why the fuck would I refuse?