The state prison at Fenton was an hour and a half northeast of Los Angeles. A maximum-security facility, it housed nearly four thousand hard-core felons. A year ago the National Guard had to be called in to put down a riot that left one guard and seven inmates dead.
A racial thing, the news said. Steve knew how true that was. As a deputy district attorney, he’d seen the full racial spectrum pass through the court system and into the jails and prisons. And despite the best efforts and intentions of everyone involved, from the ACLU to the governor of the state, racial separatism was endemic in corrections.
He thought about this on Saturday morning as he drove up Highway 14, got off on the hot flats where he could see the forbidding brown walls, razor wire, and guard towers of Fenton. As far as he knew, he had only one client here. A three-striker named George Clarke who went down for the full term for stealing a CD player. Steve was hoping he wouldn’t see Clarke in the attorney room. Clarke hadn’t been too thankful for the legal representation he got.
Steve completely agreed with Clarke. Steve was on the candy back then, and it showed. Clarke had a review pending in the appellate court for ineffective assistance of counsel. He was likely to prevail. Then he’d be out for another trial. And Steve’s name would get speckled with some more mud.
The price you pay. His last foster father, Harley Rust, used to say that. No free meals in this life. Well, the meal had been served. Plenty of crow. And Steve was still paying.
How long would it last? Who knew? But you had to start someplace, and maybe this would be it. Maybe Sienna Ciccone was some kind of good-luck charm. She’s in the office and you get a phone call that has some good money on the other end.
Steve pulled up to the gate and gave his name, driver’s license, and bar card to the guard, who checked Steve off a list and told him where to park. He took a spot next to a black SUV, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. The case had nothing in it but a pad and pen and an apple, but it gave a lawyerly illusion. Steve didn’t want to hand his potential new client an instant reason to say, “No thanks, I was actually looking for somebody who seems to know what he’s doing.”
Steve was buzzed in and escorted through a heavy steel door, then down a yellow corridor to the attorney room of the prison. It was a rectangular chamber containing four heavy desks with aluminum benches. The beige linoleum floor was well scuffed, testimony to the heavy steps of overworked deputies and midlevel lawyers.
The room was empty as Steve entered, except for a deputy sheriff with arms like rolled-up sleeping bags sitting at a special desk with a single, multiline phone. He looked at Steve and made no attempt at conversation. Not that Steve expected any. Here, criminal defense lawyers were considered on the same level as stuff scraped off a farmer’s shoe.
Steve sat at one of the tables, opened his briefcase, and pulled out the pad and pen. He wiped a film of sweat off his forehead. At the top of the page he wrote Johnny LaSalle and the date. The scratching of the pen seemed all the louder for the silence in the room.
For the next five minutes he jotted random notes, so it looked like he was thinking about the situation.
Actually, he was. Johnny LaSalle was finishing a seven-year stretch for armed robbery. According to the research Steve had done the night before, LaSalle had some sort of white supremacist record. Not much more on that, except that he was allegedly a pretty violent guy. Once beat up a Vietnamese busboy in a bar, sending the kid to the hospital. Was charged with a hate crime. Pretty easy to prove when you’re shouting racial slurs as you stomp a guy’s head.
The record didn’t deter Steve in any way. He knew that when you rep criminals you’re not going to get the Vienna Boys’ Choir. The most important thing was the criminal defense lawyer’s number one rule: Get the fee up front.
A rule he’d forgotten in his representation of Carlos Mendez. But Steve was more than a little desperate at the time. Sort of like now.
Finally the gray interior door opened and a deputy sheriff walked in. Behind him jangled the prisoner.
Johnny LaSalle wore prison whites and had shackled hands and ankles. His hair was cut short. No skinhead. They didn’t allow that here. His forearms were covered with dark blue prison tats. Blue eyes in deep sockets made him seem older than he was. The effects of a hard life were inscribed in lines and crags on a face that, in other circumstances, might have been angelic.
The entire effect, from the very start, was electric. Almost mesmerizing. LaSalle had that rare face that could command —demand — attention just by showing up. A dangerous kind of face to be around for any length of time.
As he slid onto the opposite bench, LaSalle kept his eyes trained on Steve. Disconcerting to say the least. A typical prisoner’s move, Steve knew. Trying to capture the high ground. But even though Steve had seen the move before, it was never as effective as this.
Steve gave him a casual nod. He wanted to make it seem like he could take this case or leave it, even though the thought of a ten-grand retainer kept nibbling at his cerebral cortex, causing twitches.
Steve waited until the deputy attached LaSalle’s wrist shackles to the desk and then left through the same door.
“How you doing?” Steve said.
“The scent of hope slips through my fingers,” LaSalle said with the hint of a smile.
“Excuse me?”
“The scent of hope.”
“Is that Shakespeare or something?”
“Jessica Simpson. You like her music?”
Okay. Weird. Steve had not driven all the way up here to engage in a colloquy about the merits of airhead music. “Mr. LaSalle, you asked to see me.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“It’s good to see you.”
Good to see you? What was that supposed to mean? It felt for a second like the guy wanted to sell a used car or something.
“What can I do for you?” Steve said. “I understand you’ll be paroled in a couple of weeks. You need representation on another matter?”
“It’s much deeper than that.”
“How deep?”
“Real deep, Steve.”
Calling him by his first name. A familiarity the prisoner hadn’t earned. Cynicism crawled into Steve’s gut. This whole thing was starting to feel like a very bad idea.
“I’m not really in a mood to guess what you want,” Steve said. “Can you tell me in twenty-five words or less?”
“Easy,” LaSalle said. “Let me ask you something first. It’s important. I think you’ll see why. Do you believe in God?”
The sharp blue eyes, which seemed to have halcyon sources, bore into Steve. He shifted a little on the hard chair.
“I don’t see how that has anything to do with anything,” Steve said.
“Maybe it does. Maybe it is everything.”
“LaSalle, why don’t you drop the games? You’re starting to hack me off. I can get up and leave, right now.”
A corner of LaSalle’s mouth went up. “Wait, Steve. Wait. You have to believe in God. Life has no meaning without that. Because if you don’t believe in God, you’re not gonna believe the rest of it.”
Steve looked at his watch. “Suppose I give you five minutes to get to the point?”
“Steve, the heart is deceitful above all things.”
“Jessica Simpson again?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Jeremiah?”
“In the Bible.”
“Look — ”
“Do you believe people can change?” LaSalle said. “I need to know that.”
“Sometimes,” Steve said quietly. He was not exactly Exhibit A in the character-formation department.
“It’s harder than you think,” LaSalle said. “But it happens. It’s a miracle when it does. Do you know about me?”
“Some.”
“You know that I used to walk in the darkness?”
“Sounds like a reasonably good summary.”
“It’s biblical. Listen, the Word of God says if you hate your brother, you walk in the darkness. That’s what I used to be like, Steve. I hated. People who weren’t my color, I hated. People who were against me, I hated. That’s what gave my life meaning. Hate.”
“What gives it meaning now?”
“Jesus.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe that?”
Steve knew only too well that hard-core prisoners often jump to Jesus as a way to show the parole board what nice little citizens they have become. As soon as they get out, many go back to their merry ways. What Would Jesus Steal?
“Listen,” LaSalle said: “ ‘And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.’ I was in love with my evil, you see? It took a shank to the ribs to get my attention, but God got it. Boy, he dialed me direct.”
Steve said nothing.
“It was right here, in the infirmary, where I saw an angel of the Lord. I don’t know if I was out when it happened or wide awake. All I know is there was an angel in the room with me and he looked like, I don’t know, he looked big and perfect. Scared the living — I was scared, boy, but then he spoke to me. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Did you know angels say that right out of the box?”
“Never talked to one myself.”
“Yeah, they say, ‘Don’t be afraid,’ because man, you will be. But his voice calmed me down and he called me Johnny.”
“Had your file, did he?”
LaSalle narrowed his eyes. “This is not something to mock, my man. I’m telling you about a visit from a heavenly being, coming to me to tell me my life had been given back to me, but I had to follow the living Christ from now on. I was given a choice, don’t you see? And I knew even if I stayed in prison the rest of my life, I was going to follow Jesus. Right there in that bed I confessed the name of Jesus to the angel.”
“Is that all you confessed?”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Sure.” The word didn’t sound the least bit convincing, not even to Steve.
“Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
Steve placed his palms on the desk for emphasis. “Mr. LaSalle, let me give you one more shot at this. Why did you call me up here?”
“To save you.”
“To save me?”
Johnny LaSalle nodded.
“I don’t need saving,” Steve said.
“You know you do.” LaSalle’s eyes burned with an inner fire, like a prophet or madman or murderer. Maybe he was all three.
Steve put his legal pad back in his briefcase, snapped it shut.
“You do need to be saved,” LaSalle said. “I know it.”
Steve turned to the desk guard. “I’m through here.”
“And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind, not seeing the sun for a season.”
The guard picked up the phone and said something.
Steve started to get up.
“Don’t go!” LaSalle said.
“Good luck.”
The interior door opened and the same deputy returned, looking like he’d just been disturbed from a nap.
Steve was on his feet when LaSalle said, “You won’t stay and talk to your own brother?”
The deputy approached LaSalle.
“Wait a second,” Steve said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your brother. He was lost. And now is found.”
Steve’s chest tightened. The fact that this man would say that, that he knew Steve had a brother at all, needed explanation.
“I’m here for the prisoner,” the deputy said.
“I’m not through,” Steve said.
“You called it,” the desk deputy said. “That’s it.” He started unlocking Johnny LaSalle’s desk cuffs.
LaSalle said nothing, but his face was almost glowing.
“You’re one sick puppy,” Steve said.
“You just finding that out?” the escort deputy said with a laugh. He pulled LaSalle to his feet. The shackles jangled like loose change.
“Don’t believe them, Steve,” LaSalle said. “I bless the entire world. I need you.” Just before he turned his back he added, “My true name is Robert Conroy. I am your brother!”