they’re questioning Parker and the other men we’re holding. I thought you might like to listen in, Inspector.”
“Is that usually allowed?”
“No. But so long as you promise not to interfere, we’ll be glad to have you. It might help convince you we’re trying to do something to get your wife back.”
Now, as they crossed the sidewalk to the entrance of the detention house, Jefferson said, “You’re not gonna be impressed by this place. We got no excuses - except lack of money. We’re the richest country in the world, but we never
seem to have enough money to solve our worst problems. There are worse prisons in the world than this one, I guess, but that doesn’t excuse what you’re gonna see now.”
Malone had never been in a jail in which one stepped immediately in off a city street. Jefferson tapped on a door and it was opened by a uniformed guard. Malone at once recognized the sour smell that was prison stink and felt the tension; yet behind him a boy and girl were passing by, arms wrapped round each other, and across the narrow street two old women, eyes rejuvenated by malicious envy, went clucking by like ancient fowls. The guard clanged the door behind Malone and Jefferson and opened another door to allow them into the main lobby, a narrow hall crowded with guards who had the same air about them as Malone had seen on prisoners, a boredom laced with tension. The guards in this crowded building were as much prisoners as the men they guarded.
“You carry a gun?” Jefferson asked.
Malone, surprised, shook his head. “This far from home?”
“I’m never without mine. That’s what life’s like nowadays - I put it on before I put my pants on.” He checked his gun with the duty officer in the tiny cubicle in the corner of the lobby, signed a book, introduced Malone to the duty officer, then stepped up to the bars that separated the entrance lobby from a second, inner lobby. A guard opened a door in the bars and Jefferson and Malone stepped through.
“Hi, Jack. How’s it been?”
“Same old routine, Captain.” The guard, like most of the men in uniform in the cramped lobby, was black. Though he could not have been more than thirty he had the battered, slightly abstract expression that Malone had seen on the faces of old prize-fighters, men who had spent all their lives having hell knocked out of them in the preliminaries. This guard would never rise above his present job, would never get higher billing, and he knew it. “We had another two suicides last night. Maybe if enough of ‘em did that, we could solve the accommodation problem.”
“This place was designed in 1933 to hold 900 inmates,” Jefferson explained to Malone. “It was designed in the immediate post-Prohibition era, when the whole approach to crime was punitive and when practically all criminals were white. Today the average day to day population is between fourteen and fifteen hundred. It’s an overloaded pressure cooker.”
“How long do you keep men here?”
“It varies. Some guys come and go in a day, depending on their charges. Others - ” Jefferson shrugged. “If they got smart lawyers, ones who can keep getting remands, they can be here a year, maybe two. Only thing is, the lawyers prove too smart - their clients usually go crazy.”
The guard came back and led them into a side room. It was the sort of room familiar to Malone, designed to eliminate all cheer and encouragement, sterilized even of hope. Three men were there, two of them sitting on the metal chairs, the third resting his behind on the bare table. They all stood up as Jefferson and Malone entered; but Malone had the feeling they had not done it out of deference but only to relieve the tedium of whatever they had been doing for the past hour. They were introduced to him as Captain Lewton and Lieutenant Markowitz of the Police Department, and Special Agent Butlin of the FBI.
“We’re getting nowhere so far, John.” Lewton was a tall, thin man
“Is that usually allowed?”
“No. But so long as you promise not to interfere, we’ll be glad to have you. It might help convince you we’re trying to do something to get your wife back.”
Now, as they crossed the sidewalk to the entrance of the detention house, Jefferson said, “You’re not gonna be impressed by this place. We got no excuses - except lack of money. We’re the richest country in the world, but we never
seem to have enough money to solve our worst problems. There are worse prisons in the world than this one, I guess, but that doesn’t excuse what you’re gonna see now.”
Malone had never been in a jail in which one stepped immediately in off a city street. Jefferson tapped on a door and it was opened by a uniformed guard. Malone at once recognized the sour smell that was prison stink and felt the tension; yet behind him a boy and girl were passing by, arms wrapped round each other, and across the narrow street two old women, eyes rejuvenated by malicious envy, went clucking by like ancient fowls. The guard clanged the door behind Malone and Jefferson and opened another door to allow them into the main lobby, a narrow hall crowded with guards who had the same air about them as Malone had seen on prisoners, a boredom laced with tension. The guards in this crowded building were as much prisoners as the men they guarded.
“You carry a gun?” Jefferson asked.
Malone, surprised, shook his head. “This far from home?”
“I’m never without mine. That’s what life’s like nowadays - I put it on before I put my pants on.” He checked his gun with the duty officer in the tiny cubicle in the corner of the lobby, signed a book, introduced Malone to the duty officer, then stepped up to the bars that separated the entrance lobby from a second, inner lobby. A guard opened a door in the bars and Jefferson and Malone stepped through.
“Hi, Jack. How’s it been?”
“Same old routine, Captain.” The guard, like most of the men in uniform in the cramped lobby, was black. Though he could not have been more than thirty he had the battered, slightly abstract expression that Malone had seen on the faces of old prize-fighters, men who had spent all their lives having hell knocked out of them in the preliminaries. This guard would never rise above his present job, would never get higher billing, and he knew it. “We had another two suicides last night. Maybe if enough of ‘em did that, we could solve the accommodation problem.”
“This place was designed in 1933 to hold 900 inmates,” Jefferson explained to Malone. “It was designed in the immediate post-Prohibition era, when the whole approach to crime was punitive and when practically all criminals were white. Today the average day to day population is between fourteen and fifteen hundred. It’s an overloaded pressure cooker.”
“How long do you keep men here?”
“It varies. Some guys come and go in a day, depending on their charges. Others - ” Jefferson shrugged. “If they got smart lawyers, ones who can keep getting remands, they can be here a year, maybe two. Only thing is, the lawyers prove too smart - their clients usually go crazy.”
The guard came back and led them into a side room. It was the sort of room familiar to Malone, designed to eliminate all cheer and encouragement, sterilized even of hope. Three men were there, two of them sitting on the metal chairs, the third resting his behind on the bare table. They all stood up as Jefferson and Malone entered; but Malone had the feeling they had not done it out of deference but only to relieve the tedium of whatever they had been doing for the past hour. They were introduced to him as Captain Lewton and Lieutenant Markowitz of the Police Department, and Special Agent Butlin of the FBI.
“We’re getting nowhere so far, John.” Lewton was a tall, thin man
Similar Books
