Inevitable Sentences Read online

  AN ATTITUDE LIKE STUMP’s would filter down through the staff. Max feared the prison employees would get lax, especially if they thought they could get away with it. Missing keys was a major security breach and should have been dealt with swiftly.

  “Not my problem, not my problem,” Max told himself as though reciting a mantra. Yet he envisioned the worst—the prison gradually being controlled by the inmates, unless Eagle could manage the troops without stepping on Stump’s toes. Walla Walla in Washington and the Texas corrections system came to mind. Though cleaned up today, they had fallen into an unimaginable depth of mismanagement years ago when inmates had a free hand in running the prisons.

  Max’s own territorial needs were trying to take over again. Hawk Haven was his prison, after all. He had not only gotten it accredited, but now the well-trained staff worked together, like a perfectly choreographed play. He looked at Celeste’s picture. “I need to talk with you.” He reached for the phone, but stopped when he saw what time it was. Celeste would be in the middle of preparing dinner. Not the hour to cry on her shoulder. Besides, it wasn’t his prison anymore. Once more he had to remind himself to let it all go.

  He lifted the arm with the IV and glared at the instrument as though it were human. “I’m feeling sorry for myself, Celeste.” He grabbed the TV remote with his free hand and surfed through several channels. He settled on CNN to let his mind drift to the troubles of others.

  Chapter Four

  SETUP

  CHAD LISTENED TO LIZZIE Chatfield jabber away. Most everyone enjoyed her, constant, upbeat prattle. To Chad, though, she sucked the air from any room she entered.

  “You know, Chad, I feel like we already live together, working like we do in the kitchen.” Lizzie giggled like a teenager. “I hope you’ll still wanna help with the dishes when you get out.” The brown mole above the upper right corner of Lizzie’s mouth moved up and down frantically with every word she spoke.

  Chad checked to see where Mackey, the food service officer, was. He shaded his eyes with his hand. The harsh light reflected off the stainless steel stoves, refrigerator bank, and prep tables, creating a painful glare. The kitchen seemed brighter than even the prison’s infirmary.

  Fortunately, Mackey wasn’t close by. Chad lowered his hand to glower at Lizzie. “I’ve told you a hundred times that you have to be careful what you say around here.”

  “Oh, Mackey can’t hear anything even if he’s standing in front of us. That’s why he’s in here and not in the yard or cell block. And you know how Jones is.” Lizzie nodded toward the office. The food service and kitchen supervisor usually stayed put, keeping busy with paperwork—whether needed or not. “I think he’s afraid of prisoners anyway.” She smiled at Chad, her eyes clearly showing she adored him. “You’re gorgeous, ya know? Even in those kitchen whites.” She flipped the collar of his uniform. “You could’ve been a model with those brown eyes and dark hair. They could stop a girl’s heart.” She placed her hand over her chest in an exaggerated gesture.

  Although Chad smiled to acknowledge the compliment, he made no comment. He’d heard the same thing from many women. And he had other concerns at the moment. “It’s not just Mackey I’m worried about.” Chad nodded in the direction of the two other prisoners in the area. “It’s them.”

  Lizzie shrugged. “Charlie and Lou? They aren’t going to say anything. They’re scared of you.” She ruffled his hair. “I do love that darlin’ lisp of yours.”

  Chad batted her hand away. “Stop that.” He wondered if someone had once told her that jumping from subject to subject was charming. It annoyed him beyond measure.

  Chad hated anyone touching his hair or drawing attention to his little speech impediment. He also hated how she didn’t pay any attention to his reprimand. He didn’t like anyone messing with his appearance. Furthermore, since Lizzie knew all this, why did she still do it?

  “You’re in prison because you’re a convicted serial killer, remember?” Lizzie continued. “Those two aren’t going to test you. They’re only druggies who committed armed robberies and never killed anyone.”

  Serial killer. Chad cringed. And Lizzie was wrong. Those guys couldn’t be trusted. No one could be trusted like his buddy, Tommy Johnson. His old prison mate went the whole nine yards for him. But he was dead. He had a heart attack shortly after he was sent back to Hawk Haven.

  Lizzie turned to the other prisoners. “Hey, Lou, Charlie.” Both were lifers and had been at Hawk Haven for more than fifteen years. They were so familiar to everyone they seemed more like staff. Both had been in and out of prison since they were in their teens. Now they weren’t ever getting out. As part of the prison majority—African American—they probably were more at home at Hawk Haven than a white boy like Chad.

  The two inmates stopped chopping onions and faced Lizzie as Officer Mackey, tall, pale, lanky and quiet, strolled through the area. He checked everyone’s work without saying a word. He nodded his approval and walked back to his post at the other end of the kitchen.

  Lizzie opened the walk-in refrigerator door. The cooler filled one end of the kitchen. “The three of you get the hamburger from that shelf.” She pointed. “Charlie, you and Lou brown it with the onions.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charlie and Lou answered together and moved quickly to do as ordered. They were always willing to do as they were told. They were always cheerful. Neither one wanted to blow the opportunity the kitchen gave them—to get out of their cells to work at an easy job in a clean environment. It was probably better work than they could have found on the streets. Besides, working in the kitchen was all that enabled them to face the rest of their lives behind bars. All except Sister Susannah, who came for Bible study every Monday night.

  Pathetic fools, Chad thought. Chad wanted more from his life than meeting with some Bible thumper trying to look like Tammy Faye.

  Chad hesitated for a moment. When finally he passed Lizzie, he whispered, “I don’t like being ordered around by you.”

  “It’s part of the game. I can’t show any favoritism and spark suspicion about us, can I?” Lizzie sounded sarcastic, rather than sincere. She lifted her hand to tousle Chad’s hair. He whacked it aside.

  Chad knew she was right about picking favorites. Still, he couldn’t bear a woman pushing him around.

  It’ll all be over soon, he told himself.

  Lizzie wasn’t the kind of woman he liked. An image of Pilar flashed into his head as he watched Lizzie scurry around the kitchen like a nervous mouse in search of peanut butter. Pilar had been more his type—tall, slender, long auburn hair, and brown eyes. Actually, Pilar’s eyes were better than his usual woman’s. Her eyes were cinnamon. Lizzie, on the other hand was cute enough. But she was too short and not classy like his other girls. At least he had convinced Lizzie to grow out her platinum punk hairstyle and get rid of the black streaks. Her appearance had become more appealing, although it wasn’t great. Her natural auburn hair more closely resembled what he desired. Plus, the shade was now a better match for her deep-chocolate-colored eyes. Still, her hair would take months to get to shoulder length. Well, beggars can’t be choosers, his mother always said. He couldn’t wait months. Lizzie was what Chad had to work with.

  “You’re in deep thought, Mr. Wilbanks,” Lizzie said as she returned to setting out ingredients for the Chili Mac that was on the menu for dinner. “Oh, and Mackey only needs to make sure all the sharps are accounted for at the end of his shift,” she said as if they were still talking about the officer.

  Lizzie could jump from one thought to another faster than Chad could say her name. Nevertheless, once he had decided she would be the one to get him out of Hawk Haven Prison, he had to get used to her nonstop mouth and her often senseless conversation. She sure didn’t have all her lights on, either. Yet that was exactly what he needed—a woman who would do anything for him and didn’t have the brains to know better. He’d also have to put up with her looks, at least for a little while. He only hoped her loo
se tongue wouldn’t give away his plans. He’d spent six months, since shortly after Lizzie arrived, cultivating the perky girl, and he wasn’t about to let anything or anyone get in his way—not like what happened with Pilar.

  When Chad confirmed that Mackey and the prisoners weren’t in the immediate area, he leaned over and squeezed Lizzie’s tight ass. She’d better not forget he wore the pants in their relationship and that he was strong enough to prove it. How many times had he reminded her?

  “Ummm,” Lizzie gushed as she thrust her butt further into his hand. Then, without warning, she shoved his hand away and turned to him. “Like you said, we gotta be careful.” Her eyes roved the kitchen. The other prisoners were too busy sautéing to pay attention to her or Chad. Mackey sat in his office with his back to the area, chatting with Jones. “Some watchdogs they are.”

  She nudged Chad into the storage room and closed the door. She pushed him against it, raised onto her tiptoes, and drew his lips to hers. Their kiss deepened as Chad turned Lizzie around so that her back flattened against the wall. Their mouths never separated as each groped the other’s body.

  Lizzie abruptly pushed Chad away. “You can grab more than my ass in due time.” She breathed each word and placed his hand on an ample breast. “We’ve got to get back to work.” Her chest heaved.

  “Damn, Lizzie, you’re such a tease,” Chad panted, out of breath. He slapped a hand on the wall near her head to steady himself. Lizzie was a tease like Susan Mitchell. And look what had happened to her. Chad gave Lizzie a tight smile. Susan’s murder was what got him sent to Hawk Haven. Bitches.

  “Keeping you hungry is the only way I can hang on to you, for the moment. I don’t want you to fall for some woman who found you on prisonpenpals. com.” Lizzie slid her hand down his flushed cheek. Her mocking smile held tenderness. “I’m not about to share you with anyone.” She poked his chest.

  Lizzie’s possessiveness no longer surprised him. Lizzie was capable of threatening any woman who tried to write or visit him, although whether or not she’d make good on those threats, he couldn’t say. She couldn’t stop all of them, but she sure could keep the numbers down. She actually got hold of one prison visitor’s list and contacted each woman who came to Hawk Haven to see Chad. She wasn’t surprised that none of them actually knew him. They had only seen his Web site, which he, like hundreds of inmates, paid an outside agency to maintain. She confessed that kind of contact didn’t shock her because she herself had written prisoners with similar Web sites. She even told Chad that he had been one of the reasons she had chosen to work at Hawk Haven. She’d read his plea for a woman friend on his site, had memorized the words, and recited them to Chad early in their relationship: “Ever dream of that special man who knows what’s on your mind? Who knows how to listen and converse? Who remembers the little things, like your favorite color, food, or movie? And who can enjoy the small pleasures of life with you, like sunsets, walks in the rain, reading poetry together?”

  Chad occasionally wondered if he’d met his match. Not possible. Lizzie might be feisty, even pushy, but she had given in to all his demands even if she did throw her weight around on occasion. He had to remember she was a prison employee and couldn’t let on that she belonged to him.

  Lizzie ducked under Chad’s arm and inhaled deeply several times. She turned to him and snapped, “Grab that case of tomato sauce, and take it to the kitchen. When that’s done, come back and get the kidney beans.” She opened the door to let Chad out.

  Chad eased away from the wall, clenching his fists tightly against his sides. He wanted to pound the bossiness out of Lizzie. Instead, he lifted the case of sauce and stormed out of the storage room.

  The sound of meat and onions sizzling in large pans greeted him. The aroma wafted across the area, making him long to eat the everyday dinner so he could get out of the kitchen and to the privacy of his cell, far from Lizzie’s voice scraping at his thoughts.

  Not quite yet. Lizzie was trotting after him. “Are the onions and beef brown yet, Charlie?” she shouted.

  Charlie turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. All ready for the other stuff.” He and Lou dumped the meat mixture into a huge, stainless steel mixing vat.

  “Good. Help Chad open the cans of tomato sauce and add them. And, Lou,” Lizzie directed, “open the beans and drain them. Then add those to the mixture, too. I’ll get the seasonings.” She handed Chad a hairnet. “Regulations, ya know.”

  Chad grabbed it from Lizzie with such force her hand hit her face.

  “Careful,” Lizzie admonished.

  His eyes narrowed into angry slits. He wasn’t cut out for this grunt work, and certainly not for prison regulations in general. Even in his prison blues or kitchen whites, he wanted to resemble someone from an upper-class neighborhood, a man heading out for a sail, or perhaps to play tennis. He had perfected that image. He had his hair cut regularly. It always looked as though he had just left a salon, rather than a prisoner-run barbershop. He had trained the inmate barber to cut his hair to resemble JFK’s. Several strands often slipped down on his forehead.

  All his women said it was sexy.

  Sometimes it took every ounce of self-control to keep from ripping out Lizzie’s tongue. Yet Chad knew he was fortunate to have the job in the kitchen. It got him out of his cell without leg irons and cuffs. And there was no one breathing down his neck, except Lizzie. But the best part about the kitchen work was it would make his escape possible.

  How lucky could he get? Lucky? He scoffed at his own sarcasm. Working in the kitchen did allow him to have a change of uniform which spiced up his wardrobe—his work whites and his “classy” navy blue pants with an orange stripe down each leg and matching shirt with an orange yoke. He snickered under his breath at the absurdity of his attire. Some day very soon he’d step out of his uniform for the last time, and never look back. Orange stripe? Orange yoke? Never again, even if his life depended on it.

  Chad believed he was always supposed to reap the same pleasures as the moneyed people. After all, hadn’t his father been wealthy? He’d spent his life cultivating that look and plotting to get what was rightfully his. His blood boiled at the thought of spending his life in prison uniforms, so different from that image, especially the silly hairnet hiding one of his best features. He touched his head.

  It was really humiliating. He had to endure such degradation to get what he wanted in the end—his freedom. In the end it would be worth it. His body tingled with the joy of what came after his freedom—the payback he would collect.

  He never had gotten used to the rhythm of prison life—the peculiar and sometimes sadistic behavior of the officers; the dank, musty, dim cells; and the constant chatter of the inmates that gave him no peace. Escape was the only solution. He couldn’t think about that now, though, or he’d completely lose all sense of direction.

  Warden Stump, unlike that asshole Whitefeather, didn’t think he was an escape risk—which probably made him more of a jerk, come to think of it. Chad shrugged. Never mind. He’d play along with Stump. It’d been over five years since he tried to tunnel out of Hawk Haven. Plus, no one could prove he had been involved in Pilar’s murder. Best of all, no one seemed to care what happened in the kitchen as long as the meals were on time and met nutritional and public health standards, and no sharps went missing. He himself always made sure that every sharp was accounted for. He didn’t want any investigation or lockdowns going on while he planned his escape.

  “HEY, DAYDREAMER.” Lizzie’s voice cut into Chad’s thoughts. “Get a move on.”

  Chad glared at her and she tossed her head. He had little choice. He did as she ordered.

  Once all the ingredients were mixed, including the cooked macaroni, Lizzie ordered the prisoners to fill several large lasagna pans and top them with cheese. The pans were put into the ovens for their final cooking. Another group of prisoners would serve the concoction and do the dishes. Trays of food would be prepared for officers to deliver to the segregation unit wher
e the problem inmates ate in their cells.

  Chad remembered when he had spent twenty-three hours a day in that cubbyhole after his escape attempt. An officer slid each meal through a door slot. Chad shivered at the thought. The slot opened with a scraping sound that could wake the dead two counties over. Chad never wanted to go back to the hole.

  WHEN THE LAST PAN was set in place, Warden Stump came in as quietly as a ghost. The prisoners actually called him the Ghost, not only because he made hardly a sound when he walked and seemed to appear from out of nowhere, but also because of his total persona. His emaciated body came together in a network of loose bones like a skeleton. His pasty skin pulled tightly across his face and hands, blue veins meandering like small rivulets crisscrossing a desert. In fact he looked as though he might have emerged from a coffin without ever stepping outside in daylight for the entire forty-five years of his life. Even his barely blue eyes were sunken into deep gray circles. Yet his coal black hair and the bushy brows that nearly touched in a straight line were an almost hilarious contrast to his nearly transparent skin. The inmates had placed bets on whether Stump ever slept or ate at all.

  Chad tried to signal Lizzie not to appear too nervous around Stump. She’d told Chad she believed the warden had suspicions about the two of them, although Chad figured the warden was probably horny and had a thing for Lizzie. After all, hadn’t Stump made a pass at her on more than one occasion? Like the time she was alone in the kitchen doing the inventory one Saturday and Stump showed up. He wasn’t even supposed to be working that day. He hung around for almost an hour asking Lizzie all kinds of personal questions: “Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? What do you like to do in your free time?” A couple of times, he slid by her so closely his body brushed against hers.