Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [1]
It was a whisper but Boggs heard it. Glass. Ascipio’s friend would mean a glass knife, which was the most popular weapon in prison because you could wrap it in tape, hide it in you, pass through the metal detector and shit it out into your hand and none of the guards would ever know.
“Give it up, man. We gonna cut you one way or th’other. Give us you blood….”
Boggs, thin but not in good shape, ran like a track star but he realized that he wasn’t going to make it. The guards were in station seven—a room separating the communal facilities from the cells. The windows were an inch and a half thick and someone could stand directly in front of the window and pound with his bleeding bare hands on the glass and if the guard inside didn’t happen to look up at the slashed prisoner he’d never know a thing and continue to enjoy his New York Post and pizza slice and coffee. He’d never know a man was bleeding to death two feet behind him.
Boggs saw the guards inside the fortress. They were concentrating on an important episode of St. Elsewhere on a small TV.
Boggs sprinted as fast as he could, calling, “Help me, help me!”
Go, go, go!
Okay, he’d turn, he’d face Ascipio and his buddies. Butt his long head into the closest one. Break his nose, try to grab the knife. Maybe the guards would notice by then.
A commercial on the TV. The guards were pointing at it and laughing. A big basketball player was saying something. Boggs raced directly toward him.
Wondering: Why were Ascipio and his buddies doing this? Why? Just because he was white? Because he wasn’t a bodybuilder? Because he hadn’t picked up a whittled broomstick along with the ten other inmates and stepped up to kill Rano the snitch?
Ten feet to the guard station….
A hand grabbed his collar from behind.
“No!” Randy Boggs cried.
And he felt himself start to tumble to the concrete floor under the tackle.
He saw: the characters on the hospital show on TV looking gravely at a body on the operating table.
He saw: the gray concrete rising up to slam him in the head.
He saw: a sparkle of the glass in the hand of a young Latino man. Ascipio whispered, “Do it.”
The young man stepped forward with the glass knife.
But then Boggs saw another motion. A shadow coming out of a deeper shadow. A huge shadow.
A hand reached down and gripped the wrist of the man holding the knife.
Snick.
The attacker screamed as his wrist turned sideways in the shadow’s huge hand. The glass fell to the concrete floor and broke.
“Bless you,” the shadow said in a slow, reverent voice. “You know not what you do.” Then the voice snapped, “Now get the fuck outta here. Try this again and you be dead.”
Ascipio and the third of the trio helped the wounded attacker to his feet. They hurried down the corridor.
The huge shadow, whose name was Severn Washington, fifteen to twenty-five for a murder committed before he had accepted Allah into his heart, helped Boggs to his feet. The thin man closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then together they silently started to the library. Boggs, hands shaking desperately, glanced into the guard station, inside of which the guards nodded and smiled as the body on the operating table on the TV screen was miraculously revived and the previews for next week’s show came on.
FOUR HOURS LATER RANDY BOGGS SAT ON HIS BUNK, LIS-tening to his cellmate, Wilker, James, eight years for receiving, second felony offense.
“Hear they moved on you, man, that Ascipio, man, he one mean fucker. What he want to do that for? I can’t figure it, not like you have anything on him, man.”
Wilker, James kept talking, like he always did, on and on and goddamn on but Randy Boggs wasn’t listening. He sat hunched over a People magazine on his bunk. He wasn’t reading the periodical, though. He was using it as a lap desk, on top of which was a piece of cheap, wide-lined writing paper.
“You gotta understand me, man,” Wilker, James said. “I’m not saying anything about the Hispanic race. I mean, you know, the problem is they just don’t see things the way normal people do. I mean, like, life isn