The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,99
the way.
“For chrissake, Jan,” he’d said in the beginning, “even those damned do-gooders call it a ‘preserved ruin.’ If we have to, we can play the eminent-domain card and say it’s a neighborhood hazard, a danger that needs to be condemned. Who the hell wants something that ugly in their neighborhood that’s not even being maintained? Not when we can take federal funds and build housing for our voters.”
To fight the battle for possession, Badde had educated himself about the property. And knew far more than he really wished he did, like that the prison’s Gothic architecture was intentionally harsh. The medieval style of the dark ages was meant to intimidate those incarcerated—as well as anyone who might consider committing a crime.
Which, he thought, staring at it, damn well may be why it’s bothering me right now.
The prison had been conceived in Ben Franklin’s house in 1787 and opened in 1829. It promoted a new type of incarceration, one encouraging rehabilitation by locking up prisoners by themselves. It was believed that being alone in the cold, hard cells would force inmates to consider their crimes, and perhaps find God as they sought penance—thus the word “penitentiary.” The cells each even had a small skylight, a simple glass pane—the “eye of God”—that was meant to remind the prisoners that they were always being watched.
Probably the only thing about the place that Rapp Badde really found fascinating was that at one time it had housed the infamous Al Capone. Badde appreciated that, even behind bars, the ruthless gangster broke rules. Thumbing his nose at the system, Capone had packed his cold hard cell with creature comforts from woolen rugs to fine linens, even a small library with reading lamps and a wooden secretary desk for his writing.
The prison started going downhill after being abandoned in 1971, when prisoners started getting sent to the new Graterford facility outside of Philly.
“Then some moron gets it made a national historical site?” Badde had said to Jan incredulously. “It’s controlled by a nonprofit organization. What part of not-for-profit doesn’t anyone understand? Rather than subsidizing a damned ancient eyesore that’s taking up valuable land in the middle of the city, we can put the place to good use for our citizens. Which means for us, too.”
And, against the odds and the protests, he’d flexed his considerable political muscle to make the People’s House a reality.
At least this far, he thought.
Which could all fall apart if I don’t make these problems go away.
Badde’s office cell phone rang, and the caller ID announced JANELLE HARPER. Since leaving the basement of the West Philly row house, Badde had been using both cell phones almost constantly. At one point he’d been on both at the same time, requiring him to manipulate the Range Rover’s steering wheel with his left knee.
First he’d had a long talk with Janelle Harper, then an even longer one with his personal lawyer, then another call with Jan to report the gist of what the lawyer had said, which basically had been next to nothing—he’d said he was going to have to think it all over thoroughly. Then, as Badde pulled ten grand in cash from his office safe and stuffed it into a black duffel bag, he’d set up the rendezvous here at Eastern State Penitentiary.
And now Jan was calling again.
“Yeah, honey?”
She said: “The Russian just called and said now that the Diamond property is cleared, it’s time to talk. What do you think he meant by that? I mean the ‘cleared’ part?”
Badde said: “I don’t know what he meant. Just that he was pissed it’d taken so long with those holdouts. We’ll be there. Where and when?”
“He suggested Vista Fiume at ten-thirty,” Jan said. “That’s the nice new five-star. Make sure you change into nice clothes.”
“Ten-thirty? Damn, that’s late! But okay. I’ll pick you up.”
Rapp then heard his Go To Hell cell phone ring. The caller ID read: JACK JONES.
About damn time.
“Honey, I’ve got to take this one. I’ll call you back when I can. Meantime, you get ready for dinner, okay? We need our game faces on for this one. And I think the Russian really likes you.”
He broke off that call, then in his smoothest politician’s voice said into his Go To Hell phone, “Thanks for calling back, brother.”
He wanted to add: And thanks for taking your sweet goddamn time.
“Whut up, Rapp,” Jack Jones replied, his tone depressed. “You know all about Reggie, right?”