The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [45]
Sarah left New York City around quarter to twelve. She drove her Land Rover north on the nearly deserted West Side Highway, which became even lonelier beyond the twinkling lights of the George Washington Bridge. Sarah figured she would be at Danbury Federal Prison by a little past one.
Sarah had recognized Nicky Wilson the moment Stefanovitch showed her the videotape. She had already interviewed Wilson several times for The Club. Wilson had done business with Alexandre St.-Germain; Wilson had once been the most powerful black crime boss in New York.
One of the interviews had been conducted at Danbury, so Warden Glen Thomas remembered her when she called. Because of the earlier book interviews, the P.C. felt that she was the right choice to see Wilson now, the least likely to create unwanted attention. Sarah also happened to be the one Wilson consented to talk with.
The monolithic outline of Danbury Prison finally appeared against the backdrop of deep blue and moonlit sky. Bright searchlights glared out from the complex, pinpointing trees and dirt roads surrounding the prison. The silence in the night air was palpable.
Sarah had visited the federal prison twice before, but never late at night, and certainly not under the current circumstances. Massive stone gateposts, with elegant bronze plaques, flanked the entrance drive. A thick, stubby row of evergreens served as a wall between the road and the sweeping acres of lawn that rose behind. Cyclone fences appeared left and right as the Land Rover proceeded up the otherwise gracious drive. Then came decorative split-rail fences. Finally a turnaround unfolded in the driveway. Official parking stalls were labeled against a cement wall.
It was nearly impossible to prepare herself for the isolation and eerie sterility inside the prison at night. Nicky Wilson had insisted that their meeting be after lights-out. That way, none of the other prisoners would see his visitor.
Warden Thomas escorted her to the visitors’ area, which was deep inside the cream masonry central building. Sarah took out a notepad with a list of prepared questions. She heard steel bolts sliding open, then slamming shut again.
Her eyes returned for a check of the questions she hoped to ask Nicky Wilson. Then Wilson was standing before her inside the visitors’ cell.
43
THERE WAS NO Plexiglas divider. No bars separating the two of them. There was no protection for Sarah.
Ironically, Wilson wasn’t considered a dangerous prisoner. Hardly anyone at Danbury was, including mob bosses who had ordered scores of murders.
“You’re always prepared, aren’t you, babe?” A smile touched the black man’s lips. He gestured toward Sarah’s notepad.
The past few months of prison had changed him dramatically. Wilson was gaunt now, with patches of silver shot through his wiry black hair. He was wearing a loose-fitting African-style shirt over light gray trousers, and fashionable European slipper-loafers. Nicky Wilson no longer looked like a drug overlord of New York and most of the East Coast.
When she had first met him, Wilson had been on trial for murder. He’d chosen Sarah as one of the reporters he would talk to. By the end of the trial, she had written two long articles about him.
“Hello, Nicky. I thought I did okay the last time we talked, but yes, I’m always prepared. I’ve got my questions ready.”
Wilson laughed. “Write this down, then. The white media wanted a black man to atone for the sins of drugged-up America. They wanted to show how organized crime was dead. So, you tell me, is organized crime dead now that Nicky Wilson has been put away?”
Wilson smiled as he hunched down in the metal chair across from