but then there are almost two thousand inmates at Garvin.
Though they know very little, they are enjoying the importance of being vaguely connected to such an exciting event. I confide in them that I believe the attack was ordered from the outside and that Quincy is now an even easier target. He must be protected.
When we return to ICU there are two uniformed hospital security guards milling about, frowning at everyone as if the President was back there on life support. There are now four young men with weapons on duty, and while none of them could sprint to first base without collapsing, their presence is comforting. I chat with a doctor who says nothing has changed, and I leave the hospital before anyone can ask me if Quincy’s machines should be turned off.
I find a cheap motel, shower, brush my teeth, do a partial change of clothing, then race away toward Garvin. Susan Ashley has been hounding the warden’s secretary without success. My plans to barge into his office and demand answers are blocked at the check-in office where I am denied entry to the prison. I hang around for an hour and threaten everyone who will listen, but it’s futile. Prisons are secure for many reasons.
Back at the hospital, I chat with a nurse I’ve been flirting with and she says his vitals have improved slightly. His brother, Marvis, can’t leave his job in Miami. No one from the prison will take or return calls.
For lunch I flip a coin and Mosby wins. Crabtree orders a ham-on-rye and stays behind to protect Quincy. Mosby and I stroll down to the cafeteria and load our trays with leftover lasagna and vegetables straight from the can. There’s a crowd and we squeeze into the last table, one that presses against his stomach. He’s only thirty, grossly overweight, and I want to ask him how large he plans to be in ten years. Or twenty? Does he realize that at the rate he’s expanding he’ll be diabetic by the age of forty? But, as always, I keep these questions to myself.
He is intrigued by our work and keeps looking at the collar. So I regale him with slightly embellished stories of the men we’ve walked out of prison. I talk about Quincy and make the case for his innocence. Mosby seems to believe me, though he really doesn’t care. He’s just a kid from the country working for twelve bucks an hour because he needs the job. He hates it—hates the fact that he works behind fencing and razor wire; hates the danger of herding criminals who constantly scheme of ways to escape; hates the bureaucracy and endless rules; hates the violence; hates the warden; hates the constant stress and pressure. All for twelve bucks an hour. His wife cleans offices while her mother keeps their three kids.
Vicki has found three newspaper stories about corrupt guards at Garvin. Two years ago, eight were fired for selling drugs, vodka, porn, and the favorite—cell phones. One inmate was caught with four phones and was retailing them to his customers. He confessed that his cousin stole them on the outside and bribed a guard to sneak them in. One of the sacked guards was quoted: “We can’t live on twelve dollars an hour so we gotta do something.”
Over dessert—chocolate pie for him, coffee for me—I say, “Look, Mosby, I’ve been inside about a hundred prisons, so I’ve learned a few things. And I know that someone saw Quincy get jumped. Right?”
He nods and says, “More than likely.”
“For something really bad, a rape or a knifing, you have to find the right guard who’ll look the other way, right?”
He smiles and keeps nodding. I push on, “Last year there were two murders at Garvin. Either on your watch?”
“Nope.”
“They catch the guys?”
“First one they did. Second guy got his throat cut while he was asleep. Still unsolved, probably stay that way.”
“Look, Mosby, it’s important for me to find out who jumped Quincy. You and I know damned well that there’s a guard or two involved. I’ll bet one was looking out during the attack. Right?”
“Probably.” He takes a bite of pie and looks away. After he swallows he says, “Everything’s for sale in prison, Post. You know that.”
“I want names, Mosby. The names of the men who beat Quincy. How much will it cost?”
He leans in lower and tries to adjust his stomach. “I don’t have the names, I swear. So I’ll have to get them