Shaved and showered, dressed in a fresh set of inmate whites, Axel lingers in his open cell. For the past weeks he and Cacho have made it a point to wait until the last half hour of the breakfast period before meeting in the dining hall. By then most of the cons have eaten and left the hall and it’s easier to have a degree of conversational privacy. Already gone to breakfast is his cellmate, a beefy, silver-haired man named Duke Jameson doing seventeen years for robbery plus an eight-year jolt on top of that for bigamy. Jameson thought the bigamy sentence both unwarranted and severely excessive, and has said so to Axel on more than one occasion. “As if I hadn’t already punished my own ass enough by bein married to two never-shut-the-fuck-up women at the same time and both of em spendin my money fastern I could steal it!”
He’s been thinking hard since the block lights came on, especially about something Cacho said during supper last night, after they’d reviewed the plan yet again. “Hey, man, what’s to sweat? The worse that can happen is they kill us.” He had chuckled along with the kid, but the thought had stayed with him.
Because, as he saw it, getting killed wasn’t the worst that could happen. Getting caught and having years added to his sentence—that was the worst. He had of course considered that risk from the start and had even emphasized it to the kid at the very beginning, wanting Cacho to understand clearly what they stood to lose if the plan went to hell and they were caught and not killed. He had pointed out that if Cacho kept his nose clean he’d be eligible for parole in less than five years. He’d still be a young man with his whole life ahead of him. But the kid had said, “Five years?” like it was eternity. He wanted out now and would run any risk to get free, even the risk of lengthening his sentence. But not until the first of his multiple wakings last night had Axel suddenly realized that it’s a risk he himself cannot afford. What had ever made him think he could? Better to play it safe and serve out the eleven years he’s got left.
Just tell the kid first thing, he thinks, as soon as you see him … count you out. You can’t do it, you can’t risk more time. He’s young and has a life waiting for him out there and can afford the risk and has good reason to take it. You’re not so young and you’ve got nobody waiting but your little brother, but better to go out to nobody but Charlie in eleven years for sure than in however the hell many more years it’ll be if you get caught. And it’s not like you’re queering the thing for him, because the plan doesn’t require more than one guy. He doesn’t need you. You’ll wish him all the luck in the world and tell him if he makes it you’ll be happy for him and kicking yourself in the ass for not sticking. But if you stick and get caught you’ll be kicking yourself a lot longer. So … count you out.
The kid will call him a pussy, a scared old man. That’s okay, let him. There’s really no way to tell him the truth about why he can’t chance the added time. He’s never told him about Jessie, never spoken about her to anybody inside the walls. She’s never been to see him or ever written to him and that’s her choice and there’s nothing to be done about it. He wrote to her once, when she was fourteen. A letter of three pages in which he told her he was sorry he’d been a bad father and knew he didn’t deserve her love but he wanted her to know he loved her very much and always would.
On his next visit, Charlie sadly informed him that she said she had burned the letter and did not want him to write to her again, and if he did she would burn the letter without even opening it. Still, not a day passes that he doesn’t think of her. He has seen her grow up in the photographs Charlie has brought him over the years—pictures he now regrets having cut up and flushed away a few days ago rather than leave them behind for his cellmate and the COs to gawk at—but he aches to truly see her. See her in person. Even if she won’t speak to him. Even if all he can do is look at her from a distance. He wants to see the woman she’s become. There isn’t much he wants anymore, and nothing he wants more than that. And eleven more years is long enough to wait for it without taking a chance of catching even more time. Never mind the chance of getting killed.
So count him out.