don’t want to treat anyone different because of some goofy accoutrement,” Jane said.
“Gotcha.”
“Hey Duff, you could do me a favor. I’m going to send you Sherrie tomorrow for follow-up. Will you take her on your caseload? I think she’d work good with you.”
“Sure. How bad is it at home?” I said.
“Bad. Douchebag boyfriend is some sort of macho shithead who gets off on the whole power thing.” Jane put her feet back on the floor and picked up Sherrie’s file. “She gets high and makes being under his control easy.”
“I’ll make sure she gets on my caseload, and I’ll see her tomorrow,” I said. “Hey, if you hear anything about Walanda, give me call, okay?”
“I will, but I doubt I’ll hear anything in here, Duff.”
I headed back to the office not sure if I learned anything. My gut told me that the three women Jane threw out of group knew something or did something, but that was only natural because they acted so evil in the group. Jail was full of evil people and not all of them necessarily had something to do with Walanda’s death.
Not necessarily, anyway.
10
Jail just plain sucks. The handful of times my job brought me there I always felt like it gave me a hangover. Part of it was that it was such an obvious failure as a system for the people incarcerated and part of it was some of the pure evil that lurked in there. I’m not naïve enough to believe we don’t need jails or that jails should be philosophical retreats where everyone gets hugged all day. People like Jane seemed to have the right mixture of common sense and the desire to help the problem. She didn’t spend time trying to figure it out. She kept her world and her goals small and focused. I guess it’s what the twelve-steppers call “Keeping it Simple.”
I headed to AJ’s to drink Schlitz and think deep thoughts. If Kelley was there, I figured I wouldn’t bring up anything deeper than the Yankees’ middle-relief issues. The Fearsome ones were in and tonight’s intellectual foray was on the subject of popular music.
“He had his stomach pumped,” Rocco was saying. “It’s a known fact.”
“Hold it,” Jerry Number One said. “Rod Stewart or Elton John?”
“I always heard it was Rod Stewart,” TC said.
“Nah,” Jerry Number Two said. “It was Elton John—haven’t you ever seen the hats that guy wore?”
“What the hell does that have to do with getting his stomach pumped?” TC said.
“A man’s haberdashery says a lot about him,” Jerry Number Two said.
“What does that say about Sinatra?” said Jerry Number One.
“Be very careful,” Rocco warned. “This conversation is over.”
Everyone knew you just didn’t disrespect the Chairman of the Board in Rocco’s presence. There were very few things held as absolutes at AJ’s, but holding Sinatra in the proper regard was one of them. Never mind the general theme of the conversation, you just didn’t disrespect Frank.
The stuff I love with the brown-and-white label was slid in front of me. Kelley wasn’t around, which was good because even if I was tempted, I couldn’t bug him for details on Walanda, Shony, Mikey, or Eli. Tonight it was just me, the Foursome, and the Yanks on the tube. Tonight, Mussina was pitching and Alex Rodriguez was in the middle of twelve-game hitting streak. A-Rod was making about twenty-five million a year and I was trying to figure what his weekly paycheck looked like. Even without the Schlitz that was tough to do, but after slamming three on an empty stomach, my desire to figure it out slipped away. I did wonder if he had to go to the business office and see a guy like Sam who wouldn’t give him a check until he got told a Polish joke—or in Rodriguez’s case a Mexican joke, or was it a Dominican joke? Ahh—fuck it.
Matsui had just bounded into a double play when I heard Rudy come in. Rudy wasn’t a regular-regular, but he came in often enough to have earned his AJ’s stripes, which meant his
“Gotcha.”
“Hey Duff, you could do me a favor. I’m going to send you Sherrie tomorrow for follow-up. Will you take her on your caseload? I think she’d work good with you.”
“Sure. How bad is it at home?” I said.
“Bad. Douchebag boyfriend is some sort of macho shithead who gets off on the whole power thing.” Jane put her feet back on the floor and picked up Sherrie’s file. “She gets high and makes being under his control easy.”
“I’ll make sure she gets on my caseload, and I’ll see her tomorrow,” I said. “Hey, if you hear anything about Walanda, give me call, okay?”
“I will, but I doubt I’ll hear anything in here, Duff.”
I headed back to the office not sure if I learned anything. My gut told me that the three women Jane threw out of group knew something or did something, but that was only natural because they acted so evil in the group. Jail was full of evil people and not all of them necessarily had something to do with Walanda’s death.
Not necessarily, anyway.
10
Jail just plain sucks. The handful of times my job brought me there I always felt like it gave me a hangover. Part of it was that it was such an obvious failure as a system for the people incarcerated and part of it was some of the pure evil that lurked in there. I’m not naïve enough to believe we don’t need jails or that jails should be philosophical retreats where everyone gets hugged all day. People like Jane seemed to have the right mixture of common sense and the desire to help the problem. She didn’t spend time trying to figure it out. She kept her world and her goals small and focused. I guess it’s what the twelve-steppers call “Keeping it Simple.”
I headed to AJ’s to drink Schlitz and think deep thoughts. If Kelley was there, I figured I wouldn’t bring up anything deeper than the Yankees’ middle-relief issues. The Fearsome ones were in and tonight’s intellectual foray was on the subject of popular music.
“He had his stomach pumped,” Rocco was saying. “It’s a known fact.”
“Hold it,” Jerry Number One said. “Rod Stewart or Elton John?”
“I always heard it was Rod Stewart,” TC said.
“Nah,” Jerry Number Two said. “It was Elton John—haven’t you ever seen the hats that guy wore?”
“What the hell does that have to do with getting his stomach pumped?” TC said.
“A man’s haberdashery says a lot about him,” Jerry Number Two said.
“What does that say about Sinatra?” said Jerry Number One.
“Be very careful,” Rocco warned. “This conversation is over.”
Everyone knew you just didn’t disrespect the Chairman of the Board in Rocco’s presence. There were very few things held as absolutes at AJ’s, but holding Sinatra in the proper regard was one of them. Never mind the general theme of the conversation, you just didn’t disrespect Frank.
The stuff I love with the brown-and-white label was slid in front of me. Kelley wasn’t around, which was good because even if I was tempted, I couldn’t bug him for details on Walanda, Shony, Mikey, or Eli. Tonight it was just me, the Foursome, and the Yanks on the tube. Tonight, Mussina was pitching and Alex Rodriguez was in the middle of twelve-game hitting streak. A-Rod was making about twenty-five million a year and I was trying to figure what his weekly paycheck looked like. Even without the Schlitz that was tough to do, but after slamming three on an empty stomach, my desire to figure it out slipped away. I did wonder if he had to go to the business office and see a guy like Sam who wouldn’t give him a check until he got told a Polish joke—or in Rodriguez’s case a Mexican joke, or was it a Dominican joke? Ahh—fuck it.
Matsui had just bounded into a double play when I heard Rudy come in. Rudy wasn’t a regular-regular, but he came in often enough to have earned his AJ’s stripes, which meant his
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