Prisoners
by Allie
Hutch regretted it already. First day undercover in a prison work gang, and he already knew he'd regret it for every day he was here.
"I have to send you," his boss had insisted. "I need a competent officer whose testimony will be believed. And I need someone strong enough to be able to handle the work. You can do it, for a few weeks anyway—long enough to get the evidence we need to shut these man away."
Hutch tried protesting that they should just use the testimony of prisoners who'd been mistreated or witnessed mistreatment.
"Judges and juries would rather hear a policeman's testimony."
And so his boss had sent him in. Hutch stared at the cruel overseer. He looked wicked. That couldn't always be a sure sign that someone was, but somehow his face seemed marked by the evil deeds he had done. He was chewing on a cigar and sort of smirking, watching the men walk past and counting them, looking like he enjoyed knowing so many people were under his power—and that they seemed afraid of him. Hutch notice how heads went down, or eyes looked straight ahead. Nobody met that man's gaze; nobody. He followed suit hastily. He could be punished the same as anyone else. In fact, he probably would be. The warden had no knowledge that he was undercover. As far as he knew Hutch was somebody else for whom the key had been thrown away, and he could have him beaten, starved, kept in the hole—whatever he wanted, if previous prisoner testimonies were anything to go by.
Obviously Hutch's boss was hoping that he would do some of these things, either to Hutch or to someone else while Hutch was there and could testify.
He wondered for the hundredth time if there wasn't a better way. Some other way to get the information for testifying. One of the guards. Couldn't they have turned one of the guards or let Hutch go undercover as one of the guards?
Maybe my boss hates me, thought Hutch. He shuffled past, his legs shackled together as were the other new prisoners' so they couldn't run, only walk at this shuffling half pace, humiliated and restrained.
Hutch felt Alvin Thaspur's gaze on him, heavy and hot. It seemed to burn like a brand. He kept shuffling forward, wishing the line would move faster.
Soon they were all in place, called to attention by the man who barked orders (Hutch's mouth had gone dry, and he couldn't remember what title the man held, simply that he'd become like a god to the men on chains, a wicked and all-powerful god). Then the boss of the prison, the man of the hour, the dangerous one who Hutch was here to get evidence again, Alvin Thaspur, faced them. He removed his chewed-on cigar, and spat.
"Round here," he said in a slow, ringing voice. "Round here, you'll learn I'm the boss. I'm the boss and if you cross me, you'll pay. Ask anybody round here. They'll tell you a few stories." His smile was truly frightening. "But more than that. Everyone else here who works for the state, you call him Sir. You speak when you're told to. You keep quiet the rest of the time. You obey any order, no matter how foolish it seems to you, or you'll pay for it. You obey like good men, pay your debt to society, and you can rejoin it when you've served your time. You can't have it easy. It's too late for that. You can have it hard, or you can have it damned hard. It's your choice."
He turned and walked away.
And the man who barked orders was back at it. "You'll wear these here prison clothes. Strip down and put them on now. You don't get no civilian clothes in here. You change clothes twice a week. Some of you men will have laundry duty along with your regular work. You get two minute shower every other day. You work in the fields every day but Sunday. You get two meals a day. Now we're taking your chains off. You won't have to wear them anymore unless you're being transported or unless you cause trouble."
Trying not to glance at the men on all sides of him, Hutch shucked off his clothes as hurriedly as he could and stepped into the unfamiliar, raggedy prison garb. The legs were too short and the arms didn't quite reach his wrist. He didn't want to speak up and ask what if your clothes don't fit. He wanted to keep his head down as long as possible.
#
Everything felt strange here, the strange-fitting black and white striped clothes, the food that didn't taste much like food. The angry, sullen people. The constant fear. It seemed to bleed from everyone's pores, filling the air, constant...
The work was hard and the sun beat down hot and angry. But Hutch had been a farm boy; hoeing for hours in the hot sun didn't really hurt him. In fact, when the overseer wasn't walking closely past, keeping a judging eye on him and those near him, he could almost enjoy it. The pace was rhythmic, hard work that filled the hours, a pace set for all-day work.
Every half hour, two prisoners brought water round. Everybody drank their fill. The overseer (named M. Larry) was braying and obnoxious some of the time, but seemed to be so in a routine way. He and the men were comfortable with each other, as much as prisoners and bosses could be. After while he retreated to the shade and drank sweet tea and watched them through his sunglasses, fanning himself with an old funeral home fan. The men worked, the boss watched, and the day slid by slowly.
Coming back from the fields, they walked under the dark and dangerous eyes of Alvin Thaspur. Hutch kept his head down.
The end of the day brought cornmeal mush for supper, a tasteless and bland. There were overcooked greens on the side. No meat. One piece of bread graced each tray. Sometimes beans.
Hutch was so hungry he ate every bite. Everyone was wolfishly silent during the meal. Then they were sent to the bunks and the lights were turned off. There were no pajamas to change into, only filthy, sweat-smelling and dirt-stained clothes to wear to bed, or do without. Hutch kept his clothes on and climbed to the top of an empty bunk. He lay down under a blanket that smelled faintly mildewed.
He didn't think he could sleep in this strange place surrounded by so many strangers, but he closed his eyes and dropped into sleep immediately, didn't toss and turn once.
#
Morning roll call; breakfast; shouted orders from the strutting boss who yelled a lot (Jameson, he was). Then the fields. Hoeing. Hutch's hands were beginning to blister. He hadn't done work this hard in years; his hands weren't as tough as they used to be. He didn't dare speak up. One of the men showed him how to wrap his hands up with strips of cloth so he wouldn't hurt so much. They had the same field overseer today, M. Larry. By the end of the day, Hutch began to think he might just make it through this.
At the end of the shift, he got a two-minute shower. It wasn't long enough, but it felt wonderful, even though it took place in a makeshift, outdoor stall and he had to wait half an hour for his turn. It was very hard to step back into his filthy clothes afterwards.
He ate; he slept; he ate; he worked. He took care of his blisters the best he could; they healed up. He was going to make it.
Then the dark-haired man entered his life.
Starsky, the name was. He appeared one day, pale and blinking hard at the sight of the sun. His ankles were manacles. His wrists were cuffed. His prison garb was filthy and he smelled really, really bad even from a distance.
"Starsky's out of the hole," said someone.
"Shh," said someone else. It seemed as though the prisoners all held their breath as the man was returned to them—none too gently.
Jameson undid Starsky's handcuffs but not his ankle manacles. Then he gave the blinking man a shove. Starsky landed on his knees in the bunk room. Jameson kicked him. "You all see Starsky here? You try being disrespectful and you'll earn the same."
The lights were due to go out for the night any second, but the moment Jameson left, the men all crowded round Starsky. "Two weeks," said someone in awe. "You got out of work for two weeks."
"Shut up," growled the figure still on the floor. He lifted himself to his feet slowly. Hutch got a glimpse of fierce blue eyes burning with anger and pain. He saw rough, curly dark hair and beard and a too-slim body that shook a little as the man stood.
Someone elbowed the man who'd spoken. "It ain't a cake walk in the hole."
"Did they feed you this time, Starsky?" asked someone.
"Not much." He spat blood on the floor. "Gimmee a bunk."
Nobody offered the man a hand; they just stood back, gesturing to a bottom bunk that was free. "Need help?" offered Hutch. His voice sounded quieter and more diffident than he liked. He hadn't spoken much in the last few days, to anyone.
Blue eyes shot up and glared at him. "New boy, huh?" He spat blood again and shouldered his way past, his chains clanking. Starsky lay down slowly on his chest and didn't pull the blanket over him.
Hutch startled when he saw the marks of fresh, red blood through the filthy uniform. Starsky had been lashed, and recently. His back must be raw.
"You need to get that off and get washed," said Hutch, moving towards him.
Each of the other men was moving towards their bunk.
"You volunteerin'?" Starsky growled with almost a laugh behind his defiant words.
Hutch swallowed. "Yeah." Heaven help him. He couldn't let Starsky die from infection.
"Then hurry up before the lights go—"
They snapped off overhead, as if fate had decreed it. Hutch stood in the dark, alone. All the other men had found their bunks.
"—Out." Starsky laughed, a hoarse, hard sound. "Get a load of Mr. Bleeding Heart."
Hutch swallowed, hard. He didn't have water. He didn't have a clean cloth, much less any bandages. He stood in the middle of the floor feeling foolish and then felt his way back to his bunk, counting the other bunks he passed.
"He don't mean nothing," whispered old Floyd on Hutch's way past. "That's just Starsky's way."
Hutch reflected that if the man died of infection he'd certainly have something to testify about. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.
#
Starsky was in his work group the next day, still wearing manacles, still wearing his filthy uniform. Hutch watched him from the corner of his eye. The man moved wearily, slowly. He didn't seem very strong. He had to stop often and lean on his hoe.
M. Larry pretended not to see most of the time. When the water came by the first time, Hutch moved towards Starsky. "We can pour mine over your back and switch shirts," he offered. He'd been thinking long and hard about the best way to help Starsky's back.
Starsky's gaze cut to him, heavy and suspicious, glazed with pain. "Go ahead," he growled. "If you can get it loose."
"Help me," whispered Hutch to the men surrounding them. They pried Starsky's shirt off; it had stuck in places. Starsky stiffened, couldn't escape giving a hiss of pain. "Sorry," said Hutch.
"Hurry," whispered Floyd. They poured water down Starsky's back. It was black and blue beneath the stripes. Some of the wounds still bled. He'd be scarred for life by them even when they healed. Starsky stiffened and arched against the feel of the water hitting his back. Hutch shrugged out of his shirt—it was clean from the wash just since yesterday—and many hands fitted it quickly onto Starsky's back.
"Back to work," called M. Larry just as they finished, and Hutch moved away dry-mouthed and thirsty to his hoe.
The water-bringers gave him an extra-long drink next time they came round. Hutch saw a couple of nods of approval sent his way by some of the men. Others avoided him carefully as if fearing his decision would rub off on them.
Starsky's shirt was too small for Hutch, unlike the one he'd traded, which had fit him halfway decently. The back was crunchy, and it smelled worse than pig excrement. He wore it with him into the shower that night to try to get some of the filth out, and it dried on his back, slightly less smelly and less crunchy—but still stained.
Hutch noticed that Floyd walked close behind him, as if guarding his back when they were in line for the meal. But he couldn't guard Hutch's back while they ate, hunched ravenously over their food.
Starsky had fallen asleep, his head hitting the table with a thump, and someone nudged him awake quickly.
But the damage was done. Jameson was walking through the hall, and he caught the movement. He slapped his stick down on the table. "What's this? Falling asleep during supper? Starsky, you should have better manners."
He walked around the table behind Starsky as if looking for some other problem. Starsky sat with a very straight back and stiff shoulders, his head held high. Hutch winced inwardly at the defiance he read in that posture. How could Starsky still have defiance…?
"What's this here?" asked Jameson. "You seem to be wearing a clean shirt. My, how industrious you are to get it clean. Or did someone change with you? We can soon solve that. Prisoners, on your feet!"
There was a low-grade grumbling and a lot of unnecessary bench-scraping while the men rose. Hutch gazed longingly at his only halfway finished tasteless mush.
"Line up and turn around so your backs are to me." He walked down the line. His footsteps drew nearer. Hutch felt his heartbeat triple.
Sure enough, the footsteps stopped behind him.
"What's this here?" asked Jameson, almost quiet, almost gentle, but somehow it made Hutch shiver inside in fear. "Looks like your back got hurt somehow. Or else you changed shirts with Starsky back there. Well, I can fix that."
The stick landed hard against Hutch's back—and again—and again—
He stiffened against the blows, biting his lip to keep from making a sound. Five hits, so hard he saw stars, with that heavy stick. Then Jameson's steps retreated. "Dismissed, men. You're all are done eating, obviously, if you have the time to spare for shirt trading."
The supper overseer shooed them to bed early. Nobody made a sound until the door was shut.
"Great work, Starsky and Hutchinson," said somebody sarcastically.
"I knew it," said somebody else. "As soon as Starsky's back out of the hole, there's trouble again. We should kill him ourselves and save them the trouble."
"See you try," growled Starsky.
"Now, they never did that before," said Floyd. "We couldn't know they would."
"You shoulda known. That's the last time anybody helps Starsky, or they'll answer to me."
Hutch tried to pinpoint the voice and then saw it came from a heavy-set man with powerful arms and a mean look on his face. He didn't know the man's name.
"I hate mush anyway," said another of the old timers. Hutch cast him a grateful look at the attempt to stick up for them. He couldn't be sure, but he thought most of the men, while irritated, didn't blame Starsky or Hutch for it. He received a couple of swats on the arm as men walked past, gestures of solidarity, and Floyd checked his back for him.
"It'll be sore, son. I wouldn't try to sleep on it for a few days. But you all right."
"Thanks," whispered Hutch and went to lie down. His eyes closed and he drifted into sleep before the lights went out, despite the pain.
#
Hoeing was hard the next day with his back still hurting, but he managed somehow and made it through.
The hard-faced server gave Hutch extra food when he stood in line for his share of supper. The server gave him a barely perceptible wink. Hutch's eyes widened as he moved on, staring down at the reward, extra mush and beans. His hungry belly was very grateful. He ate it all, ravenously and quickly.
But the next day when they were coming in from the field, someone tripped Hutch. His legs tangled and he fell, right in front of Alvin Thaspur.
It was like a scene of horror from a movie. You could see it coming, and couldn't avert it. Jameson was there as well, his enemy.
"Well well, looks like the troublemaker's back," he drawled, standing next to Alvin.
"What'd he do last time, this troublemaker?" asked Alvin in a way that let Hutch know he already knew and was enjoying this.
"He traded shirts with Starsky without permission," said Jameson in a smirking voice, as if that were a horrible crime.
"I think we ought to punish him for that, don't you?"
"Yes sir," agreed Jameson fervently.
"Larry—you bring us a pair of manacles. Not the regular, the long ones."
Hutch swallowed hard. Starsky's had been removed just yesterday. But in the time he'd worn them while working, Hutch had seen how difficult they made moving and how they could cut into your ankles and hurt you. Luckily Starsky had skinny ankles and had wrapped them in rags inside the manacles, to keep out the worst of the hurt.
"Starsky, you get up here," ordered Alvin.
Starsky moved forward sullenly, his face blank, his eyes defiant.
"Now, since you two are such good friends, you might as well stick together. Put them on them both, Larry," ordered Alvin, and watched while the overseer knelt at their ankles and obeyed, fastening one of the manacles to each man. On Hutch, it was his left ankle. On Starsky, his right.
"Now go on, men. You don't want to be late for supper or you might just miss out."
The line hurried one. The chain rattled and dragged between the two men. When they didn't move in synch, Hutch felt the manacle bite sharply into his ankle. He heard Starsky hiss in pain as the same thing happened to him.
"Stand close to me," said Hutch. He kept one eye on the ground and tried to walk in step with Starsky. After a few minutes, it seemed easier.
They had to stand in line together. And sit together at the meal, close together. And at bedtime, they had to lay next to each other in the same bunk. It was a bottom bunk, because there was no way they could climb higher, chained as they were, without hurting each other.
There were a few guffaws and laughs about their predicament, but Hutch sensed more friends than enemies in the group and was comforted that most seemed to feel angry towards an unjust punishment, not see humor in their suffering.
He found himself face to face with Starsky in a tight, cramped space, facing the dark, angry eyes of the man who hadn't spoken to him in days. Starsky looked at him defiantly, as if challenging Hutch the way he seemed to have to challenge the rest of the world. Starsky lay there very still and skinny, radiating tension.
At least the pressure was off their ankles, though the chain felt uncomfortable even when not tugging against them, the weight heavy and unwelcome.
Hutch wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. Apologize? Try to comfort Starsky? He had a feeling anything he said would be unwelcome.
Starsky kept his angry gaze on Hutch till the lights went off, not saying anything, not looking away once. Even when the lights were out and Hutch began to drift off, he felt Starsky's gaze there, watching him, distrustful and angry.
#
They awoke somewhat tangled, trying to get away from each other's hot, smelly bodies, making faces of discomfort till the manacles bit in and reminded them, and they woke up enough to coordinate.
They even had to go to the outhouse together. He could feel Starsky's resentment rolling off those shoulders, aimed at him. It wasn't till they were alone in the outhouse, Hutch turned away as best he could to try to give Starsky his privacy, that he dared bring it up.
"I'm not enjoying this either, you know."
"You sure?"
He heard Starsky beginning to urinate and clenched his fists at his sides, trying to hold back his impatience as he waited for his turn. "Uh huh. Why would you ask that?"
"Last time they tried this, they chained me to Big Jack from the other work team. He made a move on me during the first night. I broke his nose. That's why they put me in the hole. Your turn." Starsky stepped away and they traded places.
Hutch held his breath as best he could in the smelly air. "Well, I didn't, and I won't. Whatever game they're playing with us, let's not fall for it."
"You keep your hands to yourself and we won't."
Hutch sent him an annoyed glare on the way out. What did Starsky think, Hutch liked molesting skinny, smelly prisoners?
This job was just not worth it.
He reflected that he had more things to testify about all the time. Somehow, it brought him little comfort.
As they worked through the day, he found himself constantly adjusting to Starsky, slowing down as they hoed to match Starsky's weaker pace. Starsky still had to rest more often than Hutch, and Hutch tried to cover for him. M. Larry didn't say a word about it.
Hutch didn't complete as much as he usually did between each water break, but that didn't matter. Starsky stayed utterly silent, keeping at mid-chain length distance from Hutch, not extremely close, not so distant he risked his manacle biting his ankle.
The day passed slower than normal, with the slow, tired, angry Starsky beside him, but by the end of it, Hutch found they'd fallen into a working pace, an intuitive understanding of how the other man moved and how to stay in step. When to move, when to hesitate and wait for the other man. It was a relief to not feel the manacle biting anymore, even if the chain still dragged heavy and annoying between them. It wasn't pleasant to be always in forced proximity, especially with someone so angry as Starsky, but Hutch realized he was going to make it through this, too.
That night, Starsky didn't lie staring sullenly at him. He turned on his back and stared at the bottom of the upper bunk, his gaze hard and angry, till his eyes drifted shut.
There wasn't room for them both to lie on their backs, so Hutch was stuck in a cramped, uncomfortable position on his side.
And in the middle of the night, he fell off. He woke with a yelp, hearing another yelp close by and feeling sharp pain in his ankle.
"Ahh! Hutch, get up here!" demanded Starsky, clawing at his shoulders, trying to hoist him closer.
"Shut up!" said an angry voice from nearby. Men shifted in their bunks. Some awoke and muttered.
Hutch felt another sharp stab of pain as he quickly climbed back into the bed. Starsky was shaking a bit. "Don't do that again," he whispered and punched at Hutch's shoulder.
Hutch caught the fist and squeezed, hard. "You think I did it on purpose, bozo?" he snapped, his voice low. He could feel the little ripples or shivers that went through Starsky, with his revulsion and dislike or fear of being this close.
"Shh," Hutch said. "It's all right. We'll just both stay as close to the middle as we can. You bleeding?"
"Don't you shush me!" croaked Starsky, and kicked him. The chain rattled. Then Hutch heard Starsky's shaky breath indrawn, sounding almost like a sob. "Why can't you leave me alone?"
"Why can't you share the bed?" asked Hutch. But he found he wanted to comfort Starsky, wished he knew how. "Look, just go to sleep. We'll be all right now."
"Can't," said Starsky sullenly, his voice thick. (He'd better not be crying—not after everything that had happened to him, over this, a startled wakening?)
"Why not?"
"I think it's twisted." He made that shuddering, hurt sound again, and Hutch automatically reached down to feel his ankle.
"Don't. Ahh!"
"You sprained it?"
"You wrenched it, you big cow."
Hutch laughed a little in spite of himself at the stupid insult. "Work on your insults. Let me… Here, hold still."
Starsky's foot twitched against him, but Hutch ignored it and began to work the skinny ankle carefully. Starsky's legs were slim and hairy; he felt the brush of leg hair against his arm as he worked. He also felt Starsky trembling, not just in his foot but all over, as if he couldn't stop.
"Relax. I won't hurt you. Just trying to loosen up the muscle."
"Ah. Go slower." But sure enough, he felt Starsky's muscle begin to relax. Maybe it wasn't sprained after all. He did the best he could in the dark, gave Starsky's ankle a pat, and laid back down and went immediately to sleep.
#
"Well well well, what have we here? A letter from home, it looks like."
Jameson stopped in front of Starsky, started to hold the letter out and then yanked it away again. "I believe we have it in your files that you don't read, don't we Starsky?"
Starsky stayed mutinously silently. Hutch, still manacled to him, saw the absolute rage in his eyes.
"Well, I'll just read your letter aloud here, son." Jameson ripped the envelope open with casual scorn.
Starsky stood so very straight and still as if he wasn't seeing anything. Tension seemed to thrum through him. Hutch wanted to put a hand on his back to support him, comfort him, but he knew it wouldn't be welcomed.
Jameson's fat eyes scanned the letter's lines. It wasn't a very big letter.
"'Dear David, I talked to a lawyer again…' Now you don't want to hear all that boring legal jargon, do you? Do you? Speak up, son." His eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure.
Starsky stayed silent, but his jaw jumped.
Jameson raised the letter again. "'Your brother's got work at the meat-packing plant. I know you'll be proud.' Well well. Little brother doesn't take after you, does he? He's not a law-breaker. Let's see here. Something about your favorite meal when you get out… oh, and your auntie died."
Starsky jerked forward just an inch or two. "Which—"
The back of Jameson's thick hand smacked across Starsky's face, driving him stumbling back. The chain tugged; Hutch lunged and grabbed Starsky's shoulders to keep them both from falling.
"You'll speak when you're told, boy," said Jameson and walked on, shoving the crumpled letter in his pocket.
"I'll kill him, I'll kill him, I'll kill him," said Starsky in a low, savage voice.
Hutch kept hold of his shoulders, drawing him close, holding onto him tightly. "Shh. Don't make a sound. Don't let him do this to you. I bet he made it up."
Starsky stayed shaking blindly with fury in his grasp for several moments, till he straightened and pushed Hutch away. He sent Hutch a quick, embarrassed, grateful look though.
That night, in the dark when they were close together, he said: "I think I'd have killed him. Thanks for stopping me."
After that, without quite being aware of how it had happened, they were friends. If they had a few moments of privacy, Starsky talked to him. Hutch matched his friendliness, wary but willing to communicate, surprised to see Starsky beginning to open up…but only around Hutch.
He noticed that Starsky seemed to be making an effort not to show defiance so openly, too. At meals he hunched the same as anyone while he inhaled his food instead of trying to sit up straight and defiant. He held his shoulders a bit slumped instead of set and angry. Hutch caught his glances sometimes, saw Starsky watching him and then adjusting his posture. It was as though he was trying to copy Hutch.
The one thing they never talked of was what they were each in for. Some men bragged or complained or claimed to have been wrongly put away. Starsky never asked and Hutch never volunteered his cover story, not wishing to lie to his friend. And in return, he respected Starsky's private nature and didn't ask by word or hint for details of his conviction.
He somehow couldn't picture his friend as a criminal; but perhaps Starsky had lost his temper and hurt someone. Hutch couldn't see this proud, complicated man having done anything premeditated. But perhaps that was wishful thinking, his friendship clouding his judgment.
For he did think of Starsky as a friend now, always there and most of the time quite welcome. With Starsky's thawing, he saw the many other sides of his personality: quiet intelligence, humor—even his smile. All emerged slowly, and only for Hutch.
Somehow, it felt as though they had always been chained together, a punishment that in many ways backfired for the bosses, and instead helped both Starsky and Hutch to stay saner. They barely thought of it now, moving automatically together, so that the chains never bit into them unless one of them fell. And if he started to, the other was usually there to catch him.
Then the release came. Hutch had lost track of the days, falling asleep each night next to the warmth of his partner, working by him and eating with him each and every day. The news surprised him so much that he jumped and his heart began to beat hysterically when the warden approached him.
"Well Hutchinson, it looks like you have an early release," Jameson drawled.
Hutch's mind flew to his job, his boss, his undercover work. He'd almost forgotten.
M. Larry bent and undid the manacles, setting him free from Starsky. Then M. Larry led him away in silence. Hutch glanced back at Starsky once and saw shocked blue eyes meeting his, their expression bereft.
He tore himself away to follow the boss, feeling somehow as if he was betraying his best friend by leaving. But he had no choice; and he had a job to do.
It felt as though Hutch were entering a different world as he stepped outside the prison walls, for the first time free, not for work detail. Even the sky looked different. He turned to M. Larry.
"Is there some way I can contact Starsky?"
M. Larry shook his head. "But he's doing better now. He might've been a Jonah for a while there but I don't think he'll be sent back to the hole now." Now that he was being released, M. Larry spoke to Hutch as if he were an equal.
"You always gave me a fair shake. Thank you," said Hutch. Larry nodded. Then curiosity got the better of Hutch. "What does the 'M' stand for?"
M. Larry grinned, showing decaying teeth for the first time; Hutch had never seen him smile before. "Maurice. I know what it's like to be picked on. I don't hold with all of what goes on in here."
Hutch nodded, smiling in return, and realizing he may have just found his boss another person willing to testify.
#
He felt like he was seeing his old life with new eyes. Instead of a too-small apartment with thin walls and the train tracks too close by, he saw undreamed of comfort, a soft bed all for him, a shower as long as he wanted, once, even twice a day if he wished. And clothes. Soft, clean clothes that fit, that he could change as often as he wished.
He spoke in awkward half sentences at first, groping for words when his boss asked for details, standing awkwardly in front of his boss, feeling skin-crawlingly uncomfortable. It was as if he couldn't see anyone in charge as being different from the wardens now, and his boss's impatience shook him up, stopped up his words.
"It'll be better if I write it out, sir," he finally said, and he did, sitting hunched over a typewriter, picking out the letters till the sky was dark and he had to squint to see, since he'd forgotten to turn on a light, forgotten that he could.
He slept that night deep and dream-free, exhausted from everything. But the next night he slept restlessly. Accustomed now to physical exertion, he found sitting at his desk or answering his boss's questions tiring in a different way.
Putting together the case with the D.A. for prosecution of Jameson and Thaspur proved hard work, even with all the evidence. Once his testimony was written down and gone over, he was set to sifting through old files of reports to pinpoint any that might add to the case and hold up in court. (He'd made sure to mention M. Larry and the fact that he might be willing to open up as well.)
Days stretched into a week; the hooting of the passing trains kept Hutch awake. He stared at the ceiling, watching the light make patterns on it as trains passed and cars passed and trains and cars and trains and cars kept him awake.
And he missed Starsky. He couldn't have said when or how it happened, but Starsky haunted him, haunted his dreams and his waking moments. One moment he'd be working and then with a little start, he realized Starsky wasn't next to him and fear gripped his heart. What were they doing to him in horrible place? Jameson and his grinning, evil, grudge-holding heart who seemed to hate Starsky more than he did all the rest of the prisoners combined, as if he'd lain awake at night thinking of how to torment Starsky and break him.
And Hutch wasn't there to protect him, to look after him. He'd never have thought he'd miss those restricting manacles. Or that he'd feel lonely for a criminal.
Curiosity got the best of him, of course. With free access to all those files, he looked up Starsky. He found the details of his conviction, devastating in their simple, deadly conviction: ten years hard labor for helping with a robbery. Starsky, apparently, had driven the getaway vehicle.
Ten years. Sentenced six months ago.
He'd never survive.
This was driven home to Hutch, somehow, in his gut. The night he woke screaming from a nightmare of the hole, the hole he'd never been to or even seen, he knew for certain. Starsky had been pulling out of his almost suicidal urge to be defiant, Jameson running out of reasons to pick on him. Starsky had been safer because he had Hutch, had a friend and someone to guard his back. Now he didn't; now he had no one.
Hutch had scrawled down the address of Starsky's mother, but hesitated about contacting her when he could give her only news that would cause her pain. Now he used it, taking a half day off work, putting on his best suit and sliding a comb through his hair, frowning into the mirror.
"Mrs. Starsky," he said awkwardly, standing on a front step facing a woman with a worn face and haggard eyes in a poor neighborhood even worse than Hutch's. Underwear hung strung from a line overhead, and clothes that were little more than rags. She looked as if the weight of all the world's sorrows were heavy on her.
"I'm here about your son."
She threw her apron over her head and began to cry. "He's dead! My little Davey's dead!"
Shocked at her reaction, Hutch hurriedly explained, stumbling over the words. No; he'd been in jail, undercover, and he'd met Starsky and he wanted to know more—
Once her initial fears were relieved, she poured it all out to him over a cup of coffee. He perched on her worn horsehair couch and listened, and listened, and listened.
Starsky had always been a good boy. Yes, he'd gotten into trouble after his father died. But he'd pulled out of it. He'd been working at the meat packing factory for the last three years. Times were tough; good work was hard to find. David always worked hard, never gave his bosses a hard time.
He hadn't been anywhere nearby when that robbery took place. He'd said he was halfway across town, and his mother believed him. Unfortunately, the law didn't. Since he used to know one of the men involved in the robbery ("Trouble, that boy!"), he'd been pulled in by police for questioning.
Then a man had picked Starsky out of a lineup. But he wasn't a regular in the neighborhood, and he was a stranger in the bank. He didn't know Starsky. He hadn't got a good look at the driver.
Mrs. Starsky repeated it over and over, wringing her hands, her face contorted with pain. "He didn't get a good look. He can't have seen my boy."
The jury had convicted Starsky, the judge sent him away for ten years.
"What were you writing to him about a lawyer?" asked Hutch.
"I know I can get his case fixed, if we can get a good lawyer. The trial was so fast, I know we can find someone who saw my boy, who can witness he wasn't there, or something—something. If I could only afford a good lawyer. They didn't even listen to all the evidence we had. They listened to that man from the lineup instead because my boy has curly hair and a sharp chin. And a Jewish nose," she added bitterly.
"I hardly think…" began Hutch, forced to defend law enforcement, since he was part of it.
"Yes." She nodded sharply. "We got Judge Harrison."
Hutch fell silent. His mind worked over the details. Starsky… innocent? It was just possible there was a chance. Harrison was a noted anti-Semitic.
"I'll look into it, okay? Maybe we can find a good lawyer and get it sent to another judge."
#
The next month was a whirlwind of activity for Hutch. Besides his regular work going through the files and preparing for the court date and walking his beat, he was working on Starsky's case. Every spare minute he had he went through all the details he could find. He and Mrs. Starsky between them hired a private detective to track down testimony, to talk to everyone again and get affidavits.
In the end, Hutch felt he had enough to approach a lawyer he'd met on one of the cases he'd been involved in. The man was expensive but sometimes took cases for free. He was quirky that way, concerned about justice more than anything else.
Over an expensive steak dinner (Hutch's treat), Hutch laid out the evidence as best he could, as clearly as he could. He left the files with Mark Konrad and crossed his fingers.
"He said he'll look into it," said Hutch that night into the phone to Mrs. Starsky. She almost cried.
Five days later, Konrad called Hutch spouting with furious indignation that David Starsky had been railroaded, and they were going to prove it. Hutch agreed when he could get a word in edgewise. When he put down the phone, a happy grin spread over his face. Then he called Starsky's mother.
#
It was six months before the wheels of justice cranked for Starsky. Six months of wondering and worrying, six months of hoping he was making it and willing him not to give up.
For part of that time, the jail was under new management. A conviction was secured for Jameson. With the help of M. Larry's testimony, he was put away for six years hard labor. Thaspur got off, managing to throw all the blame on Jameson's shoulders, claiming he didn't know all of what was going on. He was fired for incompetence and barred from ever working for the government again.
M. Larry was promoted to boss of the jail, and Mrs. Starsky was finally able to visit her boy.
Non-relatives were still barred from visiting, so Hutch couldn't go. Mrs. Starsky reported back to Hutch that Davey was looking far too skinny but had hope in his eyes. Things were changing at the jail, he'd said. And he'd said to thank Hutch, for everything.
At the end of six months, Starsky was free. The gavel came down, his case was won, and Starsky was free.
His mother rushed into his arms, holding him so tight she looked as though she would crush him even though she was a head shorter than him. Starsky held her back just as fiercely, his face a crumpled expression, burying it against her head. They rocked each other, regardless of anyone watching.
The emotion was too much for Hutch; he turned aside, his throat tight, not wanting to intrude.
He started to file out of the courtroom with everyone else, keeping his head down, feeling unaccountably shy. He could see and talk to Starsky later; and he dreaded being thanked.
Let them reunite; they were family. When Starsky grew re-accustomed to a life of freedom, then Hutch could visit him. He wasn't going to let this man out of his life, not again.
But he had to be patient. Starsky was busy….
"Hey." Footsteps caught up with him. Familiar footsteps. Hutch turned at a tug on his sleeve, to see Starsky, still wearing a black and white striped prison uniform, but now a clean one. He looked and smelled clean today, from his curly hair to his worn brown shoes. His eyes were shining, blue, clear and happy.
"Hey," said Hutch, a grin growing on his face too broad to ignore, too big to push aside.
"You saved me, Hutch." And Starsky gathered him into his arms and squeezed Hutch just as tightly as he'd hugged his mother.
For a moment, Hutch stood awkward and unsure. Then he felt his arms going around Starsky in return—in public, hugging a man whose head was buried against his shoulder—and felt the perfect rightness of this moment. He had nothing to be ashamed of. And everything, finally, was all right.
After that Hutch began to sleep, despite the trains, despite the cars, despite the pattern of lights on the ceiling. He went to bed, closed his eyes and slept the sleep of the just. No more dreams about the hole or Starsky hurting and alone assaulted him.
Starsky, working once again at his meat-packing job ("But just till something better comes along, Hutch."), began to gain weight and put on muscle with his mother's cooking. He regained his confidence and seemed to readjust to society even faster than Hutch had, reveling in the support of friends, relatives and neighbors who had believed he was innocent all along—and in Hutch's quiet support.
Even his aunt was still alive, her death having been a cruel 'joke' from Jameson—and one of the things that had helped the jury decide to sentence Jameson. Apparently he had regularly lied and put down that a prisoner couldn't read to illegally keep his mail from him.
Every weekend, and sometimes on weekdays, Hutch ate supper with Starsky, his mother, and sometimes David's brother, lingering over roast beef and delicious vegetables or other homemade meals, talking late over cold cups of coffee till he finally went home, yawning and content.
He saw the gratitude in Mrs. Starsky's eyes, tried to convince her that the Starsky family wasn't in Hutch's debt. He didn't know if he'd ever succeed, but he saw in Starsky's eyes that the words weren't even necessary for him. They never spoke again of gratitude; Starsky had expressed it all already, and it no longer held importance in their relationship. They were equals, once again, no longer chained together by the law but by something stronger: friendship.