Chapter 11
Nat sat, allegedly concentrating, in her small modern office. She'd called Angus twice but he didn't call back. She went to see him after her morning classes but he was gone. McConnell had already sent around an email advising everybody that he was assuming supervision of all externships, which set the faculty and students buzzing. Colleagues who had never spoken to Nat had stopped in to fish for juicy details. She'd begged off, saying she had to research her article, and corroborated her alibi by papering her desk with handwritten notes and placing a takeout Dunkin' Donuts cup next to her laptop, which had long ago gone into hibernation, code for "you're not working hard enough, girl."
She checked her desk clock. 12:05 p.m. She had brought Mrs. Saunders's phone number to the office but hadn't gotten up the nerve to call her yet, though she came close at 10:23 a.m. and 10:43 a.m. She'd wanted to talk it over with Hank, but he'd left early again. She couldn't decide whether to call. She felt as if it were either urgent or too soon, which made no sense.
Her gaze wandered over the wooden chairs in front of her desk, then strayed to the wall-mounted bookshelves of yellowish oak, happily crammed with law books, case reporters, and legal nonfiction. Llewellyn's Bramble Bush, Holmes's The Common Law, Breyer's Active Liberty. The sight of books didn't comfort her the way it usually did, and she couldn't stop thinking about Mrs. Saunders, Angus, or yesterday. No reporters had called her, for which she thanked God. Still. She hit a key to wake up her computer and logged onto phillynews.com. She had to look everywhere to find the story: Disturbance Put Down in Record Time at Chester County Correctional Institution.
Nat almost laughed. What had Angus said? Let the spinning begin. She clicked the link and the story came on, barely a paragraph on her laptop screen:
Prison officials quelled a disturbance at SCI Chester County yesterday, in the record time of sixteen minutes, though not before the deaths of a corrections officer and three inmates. The disturbance began with a mattress fire in the RHU, or the rehabilitation unit, but was suppressed with the use of high-tech "stingers," percussive devices that fire nonlethal rubber pelts when deployed. Killed were corrections officer Ron Saunders, 38, of Pocopson, and inmates Simon Upchurch, 34, of Chester, Herman Ramirez, 37, and Jorge Orega, 32, both of Avondale. Charges in connection with the incident are pending.
Nat frowned. The article made it sound as if all the deaths had taken place in the RHU, which they hadn't, and that Saunders was a casualty of the melee, rather than having been murdered in a different Place. Did the difference matter? She skimmed the article again and noticed a related article link, and clicked it. The Very Model of a Corrections Officer, popped onto the screen. It was a sidebar about Saunders. She sipped cold coffee and read on:
Ron Saunders died as he lived, serving others. When inmates started a fire in the RHU, the rehabilitation unit where violent inmates are housed, Saunders was the first to respond to the call. That urge to serve others got him killed, even in a minor disturbance. Saunders was a veteran corrections officer with an eleven-year record, and also served as a volunteer firefighter for Pocopson Township and was well known in the community for his good works. He leaves behind a wife, Barbara, and three children, Timothy, John, and James. A private memorial and viewing will be held in his honor, and the family has requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the Boys' and Girls' Clubs of West Chester, Pa.
Again, Nat didn't get it. The sidebar also made it sound as if Saunders had died in the RHU. She shook her head, which started to pound again. Saunders's wife was named Barbara and he had three kids. Nat couldn't put it off another minute. She grabbed the notepaper with the number, picked up the phone, and called the Saunders house. Her heart began to hammer, and the call connected with a loud click.
"Yes?" answered a woman who sounded older.
"Hi, my name is Nat Greco. I hate to bother you, but is this the home of Ron Saunders, who worked as a corrections officer?"
"Yes, it is."
"Please accept my condolences. May I ask, is Mrs. Saunders at home?"
"She can't come to the phone. I'm her mother. You're not a reporter, are you?"
"No, not at all. I teach at a law school. I was at the prison when the riot broke out." Nat swallowed hard. "I happened to be with Mr. Saunders, at the time he ... when he ..."
"You're the one," the woman said, her tone hushed. "We heard that there was someone with him. Were you there, when he died?"
"I tried to save him." Nat felt shaky all over again. "I'm sorry, so sorry, that I couldn't."
"No, no, no, dear, that's all right." The older woman's tone turned soothing. "I didn't mean it that way. Barbara, my daughter, was so pleased that Ron wasn't alone when he passed. I feel exactly the same way."
Nat breathed easier. "I was wondering if I could speak with Mrs. Saunders sometime. I could talk with her over the phone or in person, whenever it's convenient. Whatever she wishes."
"I know she'd love to meet you and talk with you. You're her last connection with Ron. Would you mind coming out to the house? I'm afraid she's not ready to travel, and the children are here."
Poor kids. "Of course, I'll come there."
"When can you come? I know she'll want to see you as soon as possible. We were just talking about it, praying that you existed and that it wasn't just a rumor."
"I can come whenever you wish. Anytime this week is fine."
"How kind of you. How about today?"
Gulp.
"It would be such a comfort to Barbara, and she needs it. If you could manage it, anytime this afternoon would be wonderful. Though I'm sure you're very busy."
"No, I'm not. I'm in the city, and I could leave now and be there in an hour or so. I have your address."
"See you then. We're here all day."
Thank you," Nat said, hanging up. No time like the present. She logged onto maps.com, got the driving directions, and was printing them when she heard a knock. She looked up. Angus was standing in the threshold of her office in his thick sweater, wearing a sideways grin. If he was upset about the meeting with McConnell, he was covering it well.
"So this is your office, huh?" he said, looking around. "Nice vibe. Pretty. Light. Quiet." As he scanned the shelves, Nat slid the driving directions discreetly from the tray. Angus gestured at the large window behind her chair, which overlooked Sansom Street, with its trendy shops and restaurants. "You have the hip and cool view. The White Dog is my favorite restaurant. Free-range law professors our specialty."
"What's your view like?" It struck Nat that she had no idea where Angus's office was. She really had to get out more.
"I'm in the basement, but it's gorgeous. We have our own place, all remodeled. You should see it."
"Don't tell me, lemme guess. Posters of Che Guevara. Lenin. Woodstock. Birds on guitars."
"How did you know?" Angus laughed, but Nat didn't want to banter anymore. He had to be hurting inside.
"You okay?"
"You mean since my demotion?"
"You weren't demoted."
"Emasculated, then."
Nat smiled, and Angus laughed, nevertheless.
"I'm fine. I called Sam's cell, but there was no answer. He has to go to the veldt to get away, where there's no possibility of fund-raising."
Nat cocked her head. "I feel bad for you."
"Don't worry. Sam gets it. He knows how important those externships are, and I built them. He'll set it right when he comes back." Angus shrugged. "Did you see the newspapers?"
"The account is hardly complete, or accurate."
"I know, right? I get that they don't want to alarm the community, but it's ridiculous."
"If I hear about those stupid stingers one more time, I'll scream."
"Hey, you wanna grab lunch?" Angus asked, but Nat hesitated.
"Uh, cant. I was just going out. I have an errand to run."
"Okay." Angus's face fell somewhere behind his beard. "Rain check, then?”
“Sur
e.”
"I'm not hitting on you."
"I know that."
"I'm over you."
"Good for you."
"In fact, I barely liked you, until you stood up for me with that tool McConnell."
Nat laughed, and Angus's grin returned.
"You should stop by my office sometime. You're wrong about the decor. No Che Guevara posters."
"Jessica Alba?"
"You got me." Angus laughed. "Walk you out? I'll grab a falafel from the truck."
"Okay." Nat went in her desk for her handbag, feeling guilty for not telling him about Saunders. He was the only one who could really understand what yesterday had been like. Then again, if she told him, she'd be admitting that she'd lied to the police. On impulse, she closed her office door and showed him the seat across from her desk. "Sit down a minute, would you?"
Angus sat down, mystified. "You gonna emasculate me, too?"
"No, but I have to tell you something. The whole truth and nothing but." Nat went back to her desk, sat down, and told him the story of finding Saunders, alive despite his wounds. As Angus listened, his bright eyes grew somber, and Nat managed not to cry. "The thing I didn't tell you is that, before he died, Saunders said something to me. His last words. It was a message for his wife. I didn't want to tell the cops. It's not their business."
"I understand." Angus rubbed his beard. "It's not mine, either."
Exactly. "But I have to tell his wife. That's where I was going just now. Out to the Saunders house."
"In the subs? That's the errand?" Angus smiled. "You're a terrible liar Natalie. You acted so guilty, I was worried you were having an affair, and I'm not even your boyfriend."
Nat laughed. It felt good to joke around with him. A shaft of sunlight moved onto his hair, bringing out golden highlights she hadn't noticed before. Either he had washed it last night or he was a total hunk and probably not a drug addict. She had a new respect for him, after yesterday and this morning.
"I also think that you're extraordinary, for trying to save him."
"I could have done more."
"No. That's not fair." Angus shook his head. "You can't ask so much of yourself. You'll lose sight of what you did accomplish."
"Like what?"
"Like simply being there when he died."
It's what his mother-in law had said on the phone.
"You know, sometimes it's enough just to be. Just be. Don't fix. Don't perform. Don't control. Just be" Angus paused "I know, it sounds so Zen."
"Faculty Steven Seagal."
"Forgive me, I was a religion major. I almost went to divinity school."
"Really?"
"I know, right? Anyway, so you're going out to the house now? I think that's the right thing to do. You have to do it, and in person. It's the man's last words before he left the planet." I agree.
"You want me to go with you? I know the area better than you do. I'll give you some privacy when you talk to his widow."
"Are you free?"
"I have to make some calls, but I can do it on the way. You shouldn't have to go alone, and I'm the one who got you into this. It's the least I can do."
Nat smiled, touched. "Falafel's on me."
Chapter 12
The country sky was ice blue and so cold that even the sun was keeping its distance. The Saunders house was the only one on this winding road, and it was surrounded by an expanse of frosted white snow, broken only by dark, barren trees, their branches heavy with snow. Nat parked her red Volvo down the street from the house, finding a space only at the end of a long row of salt-sprayed parked cars. She twisted off the ignition and eyed Angus, sitting in the passenger seat.
"It looks like she has a houseful," Nat said, stating the obvious. "I wonder if it makes sense to do this now."
"The mother asked you to come today." Angus flashed her an encouraging smile. "You'll do fine."
"Thanks, Coach." Nat reached behind the seat for her purse, and they got out of the car. There were no sidewalks, so they walked in the street, which had been recently plowed. Snow sat piled along the side of the road in powdery triangles, clean as spooned sugar. Nat held her camelhair coat closed at her neck, missing her serviceable wool toggle, which she'd left at the prison. Angus shoved his hands in his jeans, with only his sweater and his beard to keep him warm.
They made their way up the street, their breath frosty, their shoes crunching road salt and ice. Nat's stomach tensed as they approached the house, a modest white rancher with forest green trim and a tan garage door. The driveway, on the left side of the house, was parked up with an older Honda and a Toyota SUV, and in the side yard, a snow-covered metal swing set waited for summer. Nat took the lead as they walked up the side of the driveway. She could hear noise as they got closer to the house.
"Don't worry," Angus said as they reached the white metal door, its screens replaced with storm windows, and Nat knocked. A minute later, the door was opened by a young woman with strawberry blond hair, wearing a black knit top and jeans. Her gaze shifted from Nat to Angus; she was plainly frowning at their wounds. In other circumstances, Nat would have gone with "trick or treat."
"I'm Nat Greco, and this is my colleague, Angus Holt."
"Oh, jeez, of course. Nice to meet you," the woman said, chastened. She extended a hand to them both. "Jennifer Paradis. Please, come in." She stood aside, opening the door wide and motioning them through. "My mom's expecting you, too. She's in the kitchen."
Nat thanked her and they followed her into a warm, paneled living room crammed with people. Men stood talking, holding clear plastic glasses, and women gathered together, balancing paper plates that sagged under roast beef sandwiches on hamburger buns and thick squares of casserole. An oversized projection TV played SpongeBob SquarePants on mute, though a bunch of kids watched it anyway, sitting rapt in a circle. Two little girls sprawled nearby on the brown shag rug, their legs splayed carelessly as they crayoned in coloring books. Nat and Angus made their way through the crowd, and heads turned as they passed. Angus's ponytail and big bruise drew more than a few stares, but the mourners smiled at Nat as if they knew her.
"They're all C.O.s," Angus murmured under his breath, and Nat saw a balding man waving from near the TV. He threaded his way to her and shook her hand.
"I heard you tried to save Ron. He was a good friend of mine, and I thank you for your efforts. We all do."
"You're welcome." Nat's voice caught, with surprise. They walked on and entered a small eat-in kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of baked ham. Pyrex dishes of scalloped potatoes, macaroni and cheese, spinach lasagna, sliced eye roast, and other comfort foods covered every surface, though they did little to comfort at times like these.
"Mom, she's here," Jennifer said, and an older woman in red reading glasses, a black cardigan, and black stretch pants looked up from the double sink, where she'd been draining a can of Acme pineapple slices.
"Ms. Greco, my goodness, excuse me." She set down the can and tugged at a beaded lorgnette, so that her glasses tumbled from her nose and to her soft chest. She dried her hands hastily on a thin dishcloth and took Nat's hand in hers, clasping it. "I'm Clare Cracy, Barb's mother. Thank you so much for coming, and for what you did for Ron."
"You're welcome, and my deepest condolences." Nat introduced Angus again, as one little boy chased another into the kitchen, yelling for his Game Boy. Jennifer took off after them.
"My grandchildren have a lot of energy. We feed them too well." Mrs. Cracy smiled, then looked again at Nat and Angus. "Goodness, the two of you are the walking wounded."
"We're fine." Nat was feeling tense again. "Is your daughter around?"
Barb's upstairs resting, but she wants to see you." If she's not up to it, I could come back another time." No, she's waiting for you. Come with me." Mrs. Cracy faced Angus, gesturing to the food. "I'll come right back and fix you a ham sandwich. It's honey baked."
"I've eaten, thanks." Angus winked at Nat. "I'll wait for you here.
"
Mrs. Cracy led the way from the kitchen and back through the crowd, and Nat felt every pair of eyes on her as she climbed the shag-carpeted stairs and disappeared from their view, into the darkness of a second-floor hallway. Leading her, Mrs. Cracy said, "We keep the lights off because Barb gets migraines when she's under stress. It's the second door, up ahead."
"Poor thing. How terrible."
"She's had them since she was a little girl. Light is a big no-no. No caffeine or chocolate, either." Mrs. Cracy continued down the hall, and Nat almost bumped into her when the older woman stopped short and opened a door. "Barb, honey?" she whispered. Over Mrs. Cracy's shoulder, Nat could see that the bedroom looked unusually dark, with blackout shades drawn almost all the way down, flanked by white sheers.