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  The guard trained his beady eyes on Doc Waters. With his out-of-control white hair and a badly bent posture, the one-time Rutgers history professor came across as the archetypal mad scientist. Hard to imagine, but at one time, Doc was a respected academic. That was before his gambling habit sent him on a free fall that quite literally landed him in the gutter. The local cops steered Doc to the Gateway and the move probably saved his life. Like Maurice, there was more to Professor Waters than his shaggy exterior. Doc was the Gateway’s resident genius—an incredibly bright man with a personality that could be as engaging as it was caustic.

  The guard glared at Waters. “Don’t I know you?”

  Doc answered without hesitation. “Maybe. Were you at last month’s Gay Pride meeting?”

  “What are you, a wiseass?”

  In fact, that’s exactly what the professor was. His super intelligence made it easy for him to pop out a snappy comeback any time circumstances warranted. Of course, his wit wasn’t worth much when he was plummeting to the bottom. It was during his downward spiral that Doc piled up a steep gambling debt that was ultimately handed over to a Philadelphia gangster for collection. One-liners didn’t help much when the mob applied its payment-past-due tactics. First to go were the tips of two fingers on the professor’s left hand. A month later, three cracked ribs. Then things got serious. Round three ended up as a cover story in Philadelphia magazine. According to Doc, two thugs pulverized his left testicle and promised to do the same to his remaining jewel unless he paid his principal plus interest within two weeks. Instead, the professor told all to the FBI, who pounced on the Mafia bill collector and his enforcers. Doc got fifteen minutes of fame and the mob got furious. Even before Philadelphia magazine popularized him as “One Nut Walters,” Doc had made his way to the top of organized crime’s hit list.

  “Wait a minute.” The guard studied Doc more closely. “I think I remember who you are.”

  Manny Maglio’s niece suddenly diverted the guard’s attention. “My name’s Twyla,” she announced.

  Twyla had been standing behind me, out of the guard’s line of sight. When she stepped to the waist-high check-in counter, the guard lost all interest in Professor Waters.

  “You’re who?”

  “Twyla Tharp. I’m a dancer.” Twyla pushed a business card toward the guard. A full-color, full-figure photo appeared above a few bold, raised letters that spelled out: TWYLA THARP—DANCE PROFESSIONAL.

  “You don’t say.” The guard shifted his gaze from Twyla’s business card to her half-buttoned blouse and then to her fake leather micro skirt. “What kind of dancer?”

  “A very good dancer.”

  “Yeah?” The guard couldn’t rein in his grin. “Do any private shows?”

  Manny Maglio barreled into my brain. Just a mental picture, no words. But I got the message. My job was to keep Twyla on a tight leash that the guard was pulling in a different direction.

  I nudged Twyla to the side. The guard’s smile vanished and he glared at me as his fantasy evaporated. “Dr. Waters—” I paused to point at my white-haired accomplice, “his uncle is chief of corrections.” I upped the volume on chief of corrections just so it was clear that it was the top dog who was opening the door for us. “We’ve got permission to see Miklos Zeusenoerdorf.”

  The guard pulled out a computer printout from underneath his newspaper. “You’re the people here to see that pervert? Tell you right now—he killed Benjamin Kurios. Been here fifteen years and I can read any asshole who’s in here like a book. ’Course even if your pal happens to be innocent, he don’t have a chance with the lawyer he’s got.”

  “Lawyer? A public defender?”

  “Hell, no. I mean he’s got what’s walkin’ in the door behind ya.” The guard looked past me at a rumpled man wearing a discolored yarmulke who darted through the main entrance with as much grace as a Mexican jumping bean. “Yigal Rosenblatt, Esquire,” the guard said with obvious distain.

  “Looking for Mr. Bullock.” The lawyer charged toward me, his words coming out mainly through his nose.

  “I’m Bullock.”

  “Certainly glad to meet you,” the attorney replied, pumping my hand. “Certainly glad to meet you.”

  Yigal Rosenblatt talked with extraordinary speed. But the machine-gun pace of his speech was nothing compared to his herky-jerky mannerisms that had him constantly shifting from one foot to another. Except for a white shirt and a patch of pale skin, Yigal was black from his yarmulke to his scuffed wingtips. The lawyer’s beard was dark and unkempt—so was his rumpled suit and unflattering two-toned black tie.

  “I didn’t know Zeus had a lawyer,” I said.

  “Oh, we took him on two days ago.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “My firm. Gafstein and Rosenblatt.” Yigal lurched left, then right.

  “Zeusenoerdorf doesn’t have money for a lawyer. Why would a private law firm want this case?”

  “Oh, you know.” Yigal pointed his eyes to the floor.

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Have to get your name out there,” Yigal said. “Chance for exposure. High-profile case and all.”

  “But if you lose the case—”

  “Doesn’t matter. We don’t care if we win or lose so long as the papers spell our names right.” Yigal snorted out what I think was supposed to be a laugh.

  “And Zeus wants you to represent him?” I couldn’t disguise my astonishment that even a mentally challenged man facing the death penalty would place his fate in the hands of someone like Yigal Rosenblatt.

  “Oh, yes. Signed all the papers, which we filed yesterday. Everything’s all in order.”

  “But Zeus can’t write his name.”

  “Had to make a mark. But it’s all legal, you know. He’s our client right to the end.”

  End gave me a chill.

  “How did you know about me—about us, Mr. Rosenblatt?” I glanced back at Doc, Maurice, and Twyla.

  “Standard procedure. Legal counsel gets a notice about all visitor appointments.”

  The guard grunted his disapproval, but another look at Twyla and his unhappiness with the legal system seemed to disappear.

  “Did Zeus tell you what happened, Mr. Rosenblatt?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. We have a signed statement.”

  “You mean a marked statement.”

  “Right, right. Had him mark everything important. Even his religious preference.”

  I blinked. “Zeus has a religious preference?”

  “He certainly does. Didn’t think he was a Jew, but that’s what he is.”

  “Zeus’s Jewish?”

  “Oh, yes. So he says. That made it very important for us to take the case. You see, I’m Jewish too.”

  Gosh, really? “I don’t think Zeus is Jewish, Mr. Rosenblatt,” I stated bluntly.

  “Said so himself on a few occasions.”

  “So you’ve talked to him?”

  “I have.”

  “And you could understand what Zeus was saying?”

  Hesitation. It was the first time since Yigal had walked into the foyer that he stopped moving. “Uh, not everything.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why we’re here.” I explained that Maurice Tyson was maybe the only person who could understand Zeus. Anyone else listening to the accused was probably not getting the right story.

  “I see.” Yigal stroked his beard. “But you understand we transcribed what my client said and then had him read it. After that, he signed the statement with his signa—with his mark.”

  “Mr. Rosenblatt, Zeus can’t read.”

  “That’s not my understanding.”

  It struck me that Yigal Rosenblatt could easily be one of my Gateway residents.

  “What we’re going to do is have Maurice talk to Zeus and find out exactly what happened,” I said.

  Yigal used a stubby finger to scratch his head. “Interesting. We can do that but I’m legal counsel, you know. So, I have to be a party to every
thing that’s said.”

  I could have argued the right of privacy if there were such a thing in a jail. But I had a full-blown headache. Trying to converse with someone who hopped like a frog on acid would give anyone a migraine. “All right,” I agreed and turned to the distracted guard. “We’re ready to go in.”

  “Who’s we?” the guard asked.

  I gestured to the peculiar group to my rear.

  “See that?” the guard pointed to a sign to his left. “Read rule number two.”

  I got about a third of the way through rule two and wondered why it wasn’t rule number one: Each inmate is permitted a maximum of (3) visitors per session. This total will not exceed (2) adult visitors per session. Children (13) and older will be considered an adult.

  “Can only let two of you in,” said the guard.

  Yigal started marching in place. “Sounds right. But when the rule says visitors, that doesn’t mean counsel. No, it doesn’t. We lawyers aren’t the same as visitors.”

  No arguing that point.

  “All right, I’ll let it go,” the guard consented. “So it will be Rosenblatt and two others.” He turned to me. “Which two is it gonna be?”

  It was an easy decision that came with a potentially bad consequence. Maurice Tyson and I had to be there for obvious reasons. But that would leave Doc Waters and Twyla outside and unsupervised. Although the professor was in his sixties, the way he was studying Manny Maglio’s niece, he still had a reservoir of testosterone.

  “Look, isn’t there some way all of us—”

  “Nope,” said the guard.

  “Well, there is a way,” Yigal said. “I have another client here. Beuford Krup. Two of you can visit him. Of course, I’ll need to monitor, you understand. So, I’ll just go back and forth from one client to another. It can work. Done it before.”

  “Beuford Krup’s yours, too?” the guard asked with an expression that mixed astonishment with disgust.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You must really be fishin’ on the bottom, Esquire.”

  That pushed me to ask a question I wasn’t really sure I wanted answered. “What’s Mr. Krup in for?”

  “Bestiality. Beuford never met a sheep he didn’t want to get to know real well.”

  “Damn!” I whispered.

  “No!” Yigal’s shifting became more animated. “Sheep are not part of the complaint. Nothing to do with sheep.”

  The guard rubbed his chin. “That’s right. It wasn’t no sheep. It was a mule.”

  Yigal turned to the Gateway contingent as if we were a jury. “Beuford Krup’s innocent. Can’t be done. With a mule, I mean. Not without being kicked.”

  I had heard enough. “Look, it doesn’t matter what Beuford did or didn’t do as long as he can get us all inside.”

  “Oh, he can,” Yigal assured us. “I have rights as counsel.”

  The guard looked confused. “All right. But the lady stays outside.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Rule seven.”

  I turned back to the sign.

  7. Proper attire is required at all times. Shoes and shirts must be worn; suggestive clothing: see-through fabrics, halter or tube-type tops, short shorts and miniskirts will not be allowed.

  Twyla’s shelf bra pushed her breasts up and practically out of her blouse. Getting past the proper attire roadblock looked like an impossibility until Rosenblatt tossed us a life preserver.

  “I have a trench coat,” the lawyer revealed. “In my car.”

  The guard started to resist, but Yigal had already hopscotched his way out the door. A minute later, he was back with a raincoat.

  “This will work,” he said.

  “This is so nice of you, Mr. Rosen Bag,” Twyla crooned.

  “Rosenblatt,” the lawyer said. “But you can call me Yigal.”

  Twyla appeared genuinely moved. “Well, I love that name. Yigal. What does it mean?”

  Rosenblatt didn’t show much facial skin but the little I could make out began to turn red. “He will redeem. In Hebrew, it means he will redeem.”

  Twyla pulled the lawyer’s coat over her hardworking blouse and skirt. “How cute! Do you have a nickname?”

  “Oh, no. Just Yigal Rosenblatt. That’s my name.”

  “Well, I’m going to call you Yiggy,” Twyla said with a nod that vibrated her chest. “If that’s okay with you.”

  Yigal’s flesh went from pink to a brilliant shade of fuchsia. “Well, it’s unorthodox. But if you want. Just don’t call me that in court.”

  Chapter 3

  “Pick up the phone,” a guard instructed after I had parked myself in front of a fourteen-inch TV monitor. I lifted the handset to the right of the television screen and played twenty questions with an unpleasant woman on the other end of the line. “Who was I here to see?” “What was my name?” “What was my connection to the inmate?” And so on.

  Once the quiz was over, the TV screen went blank. The delay gave me time to do a more careful survey of the visitor center’s high-tech setup. A miniature camera mounted above the monitor in front of me, along with the phone I was still holding, allowed inmates to be seen and heard but only through the wonders of teleconferencing. Any kind of physical intimacy was impossible.

  The Orange County Jail Video Visitation Center was crowded with small groups of distressed adults and a few even more anxious-looking children all staring at screens and passing around telephone receivers. The TV-phone setups were lined up in a row with only a small panel separating one station from another.

  While Maurice Tyson and I sat waiting for Zeus to pop up on our monitor, Twyla and Doc Waters were one screen away pretending to live by the jailhouse rules. Their TV came to life first, and I leaned around the narrow vertical panel to catch a glimpse of Beuford Krup, who looked like a piece of gristle covered with gray hair.

  Twyla grabbed the phone. “Hello, Mr. Cup,” she purred and opened her trench coat.

  “Krup,” was all Beuford said but his expression left no doubt he was already under Twyla’s spell.

  “How very nice to meet you, Mr. Krap,” said Twyla.

  Krup had the glassy-eyed stare of a man who might be rethinking whether the back end of a mule wasn’t the only place to find pleasure.

  I was ready to give Twyla advice about what not to say to Beuford when my own TV monitor sprang to life.

  Miklos Petris Zeusenoerdorf, aka Zeus, was born in Copsa Mica, a Romanian town with the reputation as the worst place to live in all of Europe. When the Communists were running the country, the Transylvania air was filled with contaminants from lead-smelting factories and other hazardous pollution-producing plants. Poisonous soot coated everything living and inanimate throughout the town, which became known as the “Black Village.”

  In Copsa Mica, two out of three kids ended up mentally retarded. With food, water, and air loaded with zinc, lead, and cadmium residue, Zeusenoerdorf never had a chance.

  Zeus’s mother, Anes-Marie, had just one stroke of good luck in forty grueling years of life. She had a cousin in New Jersey who was sleeping with a bureaucrat high up in the Manhattan District Office of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. That relationship was good enough to spawn a visa for Anes-Marie who moved from a two-room hovel in Romania to a two-room hovel in Jersey City. There, her good fortune took a U-turn. She was diagnosed with colon cancer and did her dying in and out of Newark’s University Hospital. Although it was a painful end to a miserable existence, she managed to clear a high hurdle before she took her last breath. Her one and only son was made a full citizen of the U.S. of A.

  Zeus became the property of New Jersey’s Division of Youth and Family Services. He was shuffled from one residential youth center to another until age eighteen, when he was spun out of the system. After that, it was life on the streets interrupted by a five-year prison stint. Zeusenoerdorf’s case file and rap sheet painted him as a lost cause.

  “Wha’s happenin’, bro?” Maurice Tyson greeted the imag
e on the TV screen.

  I couldn’t hear Zeus’s response since Maurice owned the phone. Not that it mattered. As Tyson and Zeus went through some preliminaries, Yigal Rosenblatt was fumbling with a legal pad and pen and trying to flip on a pocket-sized tape recorder. The scene so captivated Maurice that he put the conversation with Zeus on hold.

  “Forget the lawyer!” I yelled at Maurice. Easier said than done. “Pay attention to Zeus! Tell me what he’s saying! Everything. Word for word. Understood?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I had my doubts Maurice grasped the gravity of his assignment. His translation could either put Zeus back on the street or send him to death row.

  Maurice leaned toward the small tube-like camera mounted by the TV screen. “So what’d you do, man?”

  Zeus’s mouth began moving.

  After listening for about a minute, Maurice turned to Yigal and me. “This is what he says. He was sleepin’ under a pass over—”

  “Overpass, is what he means,” Yigal interjected. “Not a Passover. I’m sure of it.” Rosenblatt did a Lord of the Dance quickstep that I took to be his way of showing disdain for anyone who confused a sacred Jewish observance with a transportation artery.

  Maurice shot a look of annoyance at the lawyer. “I’m just tellin’ you what he’s tellin’ me.”

  “Keep going, Maurice,” I said.

  Over the next five minutes, Tyson translated Zeus’s account of what occurred the night Benjamin Kurios was killed. Around three a.m., Zeus saw a blue sedan following a white van. Both vehicles were traveling fast. When they reached the underpass, the blue car clipped the back end of the van and sent it into a steel stanchion. The crash crushed the midsection of the van with such force its twin rear doors flew open. According to Zeus, Kurios was catapulted out of the van and ended up on the pavement. About the same time the evangelist hit the ground, the blue car did a one-eighty spin and ran into a buttress on the opposite side of the road.