Caged

Chapter 10

Rule on prison gangs: they are tolerated because they exert control over other misbehaving prisoners in a way guards cannot. They bring order to chaos.

Despite the scorched earth attitude Todd carried around like a machete at his side, he did have moments of calm. Mostly with Odell, the Jamaican. The two of them often cut away from the crowds in the yard, sitting in the furthest corner, backs against the barbed wire, right beneath the furthest guard tower. Odell always broke out a joint and shared it with Todd, who never really had a taste for weed but did it anyway out of "friendship," and because it reminded him of Jedediah.

On this particular day, the ache of vengeance was beyond tolerance and Todd had snorted a lot of dope, a lot early. Odell and he were laughing like they were on a stoop in the city on a sunny summer day, instead of under a grey sky in the furthest reaches of Statesville. Laughing over nothing, old jokes, past experiences, a guy who threw up his lunch on a guard.

In the midst of the laughter, Odell commented, "People is talkin' mon, talking 'bout you and da MK. Some kinda hassle, yah?"

"Yeah...they're not liking me doin' dope..." He burst out in laughter and the two cracked up to the point of falling over. Sniffling, getting over the hysteria, Todd said, "I don't give a shit,...ain't my problem."

Odell chuckled, breathing in a toke, "It's a big problem, mon. Rolon...he's in the middle. Be careful, yah? Don't piss 'em off, yah? Der ain't not'ing we can do to help."

"Yeah...MK don't like you guys."

"Yah, but we stay respectful, keep our distance. You gotta stay smart, mon."

Todd looked across the yard, seeing his boys in a pickup game. Having fun, feeling right.

Odell commented, "Dey playin' good today."

"Yeah," Todd murmured, sucking in some of that Jamaican weed, watching that dusty red ball, watching those boys. He had five "kids" working for him, some in the library, others working the information circuit in other ways. They were all vulnerable in Statesville, delicate, slender, some pretty. He'd had six, but one got out on parole, Kenny McNair. The kid had gotten taken up by the Northeastern Aryansand had been severely mistreated. Ever since Diego, folks understood Todd would take "desirable" kids in exchange for hot information, particularly the kind of info that people got killed for. Kenny was a trade, and like the others, Todd had been rough on him at the beginning. But...the kid learned to behave proper. Even became Todd's cellmate after Brayden got switched to another cell.

On his last night before Kenny left on his parole, in a late hour, some time before lights went on in the morning, Todd had woken to a warm hand on his bare belly, the hand attached to a prayerful Kenny on his knees next to Todd's bunk. Todd was still high and didn't have the energy to get all medieval on the kid. He touched the boy's hand, feeling the heat on his cold skin. Todd closed his eyes and imagined, tried to remember, the feel of Téa on him. He took the kid's hand and held it to his face, placed it on his heart. It had been so long since someone touched him affectionately. Lovingly. It tasted, sounded, felt...bittersweet.

Just as he was about to push the kid away, Kenny moved into the bunk and kissed Todd on the mouth. Soft and yielding, tender as a woman's kiss. The kid whispered, "Thank you for saving me," staring right back at Todd's wounded expression.

Because the boy was leaving, because there was no longer any threat, Todd put a hand on the kid's head and gently pushed him away.

"Had you done that a week ago, I'd have done something horrible to you."

"I know. That's why I did it today." The toe-headed kid smiled a little, shrugging, "I'm leaving."

Todd nodded, his eyes sleepy, his voice ragged, "You're not scared."

"Not of you, no. I know you, I think. For some time now, glimmers here and there - when you talk to some of the others, when I see you writing your letters. I've even seen you smile and laugh a little - I mean, in a real way, not a fucked-up way. And when you ARE high, you look at me like I'm...just a kid, not a con, not one of your...'subs.' You look at me like you have love to give somebody and there isn't anywhere for you to put it. I don't know how you got to Statesville...but I'm really hoping you got some real love waiting for you outside. Hoping those letters aren't from some lunatic who's got a thing for cons."

Todd swallowed hard, the ache to be someplace else cutting him like a jagged rock in the center of his being. All the heroin in the world couldn't ease this pain.

"Just hope by the time you get out," Kenny sighed, "you haven't totally killed all that's good about you."

Those last words exploded inside of him, sharp burning pellets. Todd could only look at that kid and choke out, "Good luck out there." Turned over onto his side, facing the wall and pulling his knees up because the pain in his gut was too much. He breathed hard, fighting, fighting that hurt.

After a few minutes passed, the kid crawled into the cot and lay right behind Todd. He tentatively placed a hand on Todd's waist, finally pressing up against him and wrapping his arm around him. He hooked his leg over Todd's, and Todd just let him because he needed somebody, something, anything to keep him from flying apart.

Beneath the kid's soft pulling back of his hair, he slipped back into a heroin trance. There, he felt more touches by this boy on the bare skin of his back, gentle kisses in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Warm words flowed in his ear, let me love you, let me touch you, let me...let me...just tonight...and a young body began to move gently against him, then...loving him as easy as a rolling sea. Todd turned towards the warmth and let himself be loved, swimming with the waves, part of the deep blue, far, far away, in and out of the water he moved, beneath a moon's light filtered through wired glass and shadowy bars. The culminating sound of his own desperate, quiet gasp echoed in his head a long time.

When morning came, the kid was gone and he was alone in the cell, fully naked under a loose sheet, his chest bearing the remnant of a bruising kiss. He couldn't remember what was real and what wasn't, but he could still feel the heat of love, still taste deep kisses, still sense skin against skin, still smell the sweat of lovemaking, and he sobbed silently into his pillow with the most painful ache for home and love that he'd felt in the three years since he'd first come to Statesville.

Thing is, it didn't matter what parts were real, what wasn't, it all hurt so fuckin' much just the same.

Odell slapped Todd's face, waking him up, an act that might have gotten Odell hurt bad any other time, "You noddin' out, mon. You better fuckin' cut it out or da gaurds, dey put you away again."

Todd gazed at Odell a moment, lost in a heroin dream. Then he chuckled, mimicked Odell's accent, "Yah...mon...can't have dat, can I?" Laughed a little more and before long he and Odell were both laughing again like a couple of drunk hyenas.

But soon, they spotted Rolon huffing it across the yard, heading towards them. Todd glanced at Odell, the fun disintegrating into air like fine mist.

"Manning, private word with you."

Odell put his hands up, "Later, mon." Fell over, rolled to his knees, and got to his feet before walking away.

"Nice support there, 'dell. Fuck." Todd struggled to his feet, hanging on the fence for balance. Kept his back to the fence.

"Yah...dat's how I roll," Odell yelled back. "You die alone, my friend! I say a good obit for you, mon! Only good 'tings! Yah, I lie like a dog so your family still love you!"

Rolon sighed, "I'm not here to kill you."

"The fuck ever...you don't mean shit to me, 'friend.'"

"You're talking about the seizures...look, I had to explain. Ernesto is not exactly into rapists, especially active rapists, and you got quite the stable, man. He didn't want shit to do with you and...so I told him the truth."

"Great...really fuckin' appreciate it. You know what, I'm outtie." Tried to get away, but Rolon stopped him, grabbing Todd's upper arm.

Todd whipped around at that, his defenses firing up like a goddamn race car and holding a pretty bad-ass shiv to Rolon's throat.

"Whoa!" Rolon stepped back, his hands up, eying a very lit up man, a very dangerous one.

"Don't touch me," Todd growled, "I will fuck you up."

"I'm sorry, hermano. Okay...okay."

"I'm not your brother, Rolon! The fuck you want with me anyway! I got nothin' to give! I'm all out, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Look, I want to say... Can you put that thing away before you hurt yourself?"

"You gonna be cool? You ain't here to kill me?"

"No, man, I'm not."

Todd calmed a little, his eyes constantly checking Rolon for that surprise attack, constantly looking around him for surprise troops. He shoved the thing away in his waistband, and Rolon breathed in a bit of relief, looking around, too.

"Fuckin' spit it out," Todd grumbled.

"You need help with Horenda."

"Nah...I got it all locked up. Don't need anything from you."

"I know, you're the fuckin' lone ranger...I'm just here to say that, uh, when you decide you DO need help, MK will back you up. You got a way in. You just have to ask."

"The hell are you saying?"

Rolon looked hard at Todd, glanced up at the guard hidden in his tower, whispered harshly, "You want help killing that motherfucker Horenda and MK will support you. We'll bring you in. How much clearer I have to be?"

"You want me...in MK. To help me off Horenda."

"Santo madre de dios...do you want a fuckin' written invitation?"

"I ain't Cubano, maricón."

"Not in skin or blood, but you got heart." He thumped his chest, "You a Cubano in soul, man. Ernesto says yes. Special shit from even higher up than that. You're proven gold with us. You just have to ask when you get tired of fighting on your own."

"Fuck you, bitch. FUCK you." He hit his chest with splayed hands, "I don't need shit from anybody! You hear me?! Fuck you!" Punched the air as punctuation.

Todd walked away, backwards a bit, then turned and found himself walking into a current of wind, the breeze pushing against him...and he was tired. Very, very tired. Instinctively, he scratched the long-gone kiss on his chest, feeling more alone than ever.

"Blanco," Rolon cooed from the fence, "El Diablo Blanco. That's you, brother. You been named, man. You just have to ask."

On that day, no amount of heroin helped.

Todd had stayed home at the direct order of George Strauss, his lawyer, who grumbled across the airwaves, "You're not walking into that station and getting all up into Brayden's grill the way you're likely to do. Last thing I need, Manning. And further...I heard shit from your people. You're probably looking like you got into a brawl...another reason I don't want you around the cops."

"Fine, whatever."

"It's true? You actually fighting?"

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Forever the bulldog. Stay off the booze, too. You catch a DUI and I'm not fuckin' defending you."

"Yeah, yeah...whatever."

Téa had peeled herself away from Reese who was sunk deeply into his morning nap, smelling her hands, breathing in the sweet scent of her boy. Todd plopped back onto the bed, kicking off his boots, snuggling against Reese.

Shaking her head, Téa said, "I'm going down there. Tired of not being your lawyer."

"You're not divorcing me?"

"I told you, I'm processing."

From the bed, he looked vulnerable, child-like. Wounded. Téa walked fast, needing to get away from his scars and needy expression. Those things trapped her, condemned her. She showered fast, and when she came out, wrapped in towels, covering up her bruises from her daughter, Todd was out cold, having tucked himself away back into the safety of sleep right along with Reese.

Lucia stood in the door to the bedroom with her hands on her hips.

"Why, Mami, is Papi sleeping again?"

"Long night, mijita."

Whispering, she asked, "Is it the war?"

Téa smiled, nodding, hugging Lucia close to her, "Yes, I think so. Takes a long time to get over a war."

From behind the mirror, Téa and George looked at Brayden Armstrong sitting in the interrogation room, his foot tapping, his fingers tapping. Brayden had been convicted of felony vehicular manslaughter in the killing of a mother of three when his souped-up truck hit her car as she left her house, headed to the market for a last-minute purchase before dinner. She was probably thinking onions, tomatoes...and pow. The world ended for her in mere seconds, her soul flying upwards into the heavens, never to touch earth again.

Brayden had been paroled about six months after Todd had been released. He was a good-looking White guy, all-American, medium build, sandy blond hair. He wore it short, was clean-shaven, and had no jewelry anywhere. No wedding ring. His jeans, collared shirt, and loafers told Téa he worked in a low-level business office of some kind. There was no indication that this kid had ever been in Statesville except for that convict sheen. His eyes were suspicious, he watched all around him, listening for the door, and studied the mirror, as if he could see Téa and George. His expression was serious, giving away nothing.

The door opened and Bo walked in, dropping a file on the table. Brayden watched Bo carefully, knocking his head back, waiting.

"So glad you could join us once again, Mr. Armstrong, to replay the information you gave my detective earlier."

"Don't have a choice."

"Right. Look, I'm going to keep it simple. A little over three years ago, you claimed that you were with Todd Manning on the afternoon of March 18, mere months before he was released, that you were on the basketball court with him. That day happens to be the day of Jessie Horenda's murder near the laundry in Statesville. Thing is...no guard remembers him there, no other inmate remembers him there...but they do remember you, Tomas Flora, Ty Jerome, and Royce Jimenez. All of you said Todd was there...but nobody remembers him. They remember YOU guys, his workers,...but not him."

Bo opened the file and Téa flinched at the fourth year shot of her husband, the one that she did not recognize as her husband. It had been blown up.

Brayden turned his head, obviously not wanting to see that man again. Téa eyed George who was too focused on the kid to say anything.

'So...was he on the court?"

Brayden flipped the picture over, shook his head.

"What does that mean, Mr. Armstrong?"

In a voice anybody could barely hear, he said, "He wasn't there."

"I'm sorry, our friends in the back can't hear you."

"He wasn't there! He wasn't on the court. We had to say he was because that's what he told us to say!"

In the observation room, Téa flopped down on a chair, and George shook his head, putting his hand out on Tea's shoulder, saying softly, "Ain't over yet, counselor."

"Brayden, who else is going to side with you?"

He shook his head, shrugging. "Those boys are fuckin' loyal."

"Why?"

Silence. The kid tapped the table, getting a bit antsy. Looked around. Bit his lip.

George whispered to Téa, "He's going to lie. Getting up the courage to lie."

"'Cuz if we don't protect him, he'll find us," Brayden said, his voice a little stronger, "he'll come to our houses, he'll fucking rape us, and kill us. Ask any of 'em."

Bo looked at the mirror, then turned back to Braydon. "I promise you, he will not ever hurt you again. We'll make sure of it."

"I dream of him, sir, dream of his hands on me, around my throat, his fists smashing my face. I wake up screaming. You can't take that away. Nobody can."

George shrugged, "That...well, that's probably true. Your husband made quite the impression on those kids, God bless him. Even I have fuckin' nightmares about him."

Téa sighed, shaking her head, "This kid has it out for Todd."

Her detachment was fading fast, her shock at the past few days. Brayden blew the alibi, but he did it out of hate, and THAT was easily dismissed. Bo got lucky. It wasn't going to happen again. Téa dug into her purse...and pulled out that list of workers. Like Todd said, she WAS going to hunt each of them down. But she was going to do it before Bo could get to them. Horenda was the real monster...another Phillip Manning, Peter Manning. Worse than that even. God damn it, Todd wasn't going to pay for this. No, sir, no he wasn't. Some things...well...that had been justice. That had been...a good kill.

Detached? Not so much.

George nodded, in agreement with Téa. "Oh yeah, easy to impeach."

In the meantime, Bo looked at Braydon and asked sincerely, "Did Todd Manning rape you when you were his cellmate?"

"He's lying again," George interjected.

Brayden rubbed his lips, his face. He licked the sides of his mouth. Finally, in a soft voice, he said, "Yes. Several times. Many times. He had other people do it, too, to punish me." He looked down, looked sad, "He hurt me. A lot. He needed me to cover up the fact that he had epilepsy. It was a reality that could have him gotten him killed. So he beat me...to keep me in line. He did that to all of us. Every single one of his workers."

Téa didn't like hearing this. She knew there was truth there...it's what Todd had been trying to tell her.

"Why didn't you report any of this? His record is totally clean with regard to you guys."

"You mean...why wasn't I a snitch? Because he would have FUCKING KILLED ME! ANY OF US!"

George interjected again, "Well...that's probably true."

"Shut up, George," Téa grumbled.

"Thank you, Mr. Armstrong, you can go now. After you sign the recant docs."

Téa stood just as Bo poked his head into the observation room, a serious expression on his face. "Another innocent got murdered today, Téa ...George. You really ought to be considering Manning's 'alibis.' He could make a real difference in this Serrano-Irish fight."

George got in Bo's face, "This is bullshit. You tried this once before and Manning folded. He isn't folding again. You're going to have to have a HELL of lot more than one or two recanted alibis to get him on Horenda's killing." George pointed at the window, "And that guy, he's a goddamn liar. And you goddamn well know that. Todd Manning would never rape a MAN. EVER."

"We'll see," Bo said. "Statesville does things to a person. Changes them. And your client...was CHANGED. And you...my friend...god damn well know THAT."

Téa couldn't talk to Bo...she simply glared at him. Turned and walked out the door. She had an address. Her first person, Ty Jerome, a small-time thief that had caught a big-time felony. He was still on probation. Easy to find, so Bo would definitely be on his trail. She had to get there first. She had to test him, had to see if the alibi would hold. See how many of those kids would still stand by Todd.

When she reached her car, George caught up to her. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Ty Jerome."

"Not alone you're not."

"Why the hell not?! I can take care of myself!"

"Jesus, you're sounding more like him everyday, Téa Delgado-MANNING."

She was about to say, "Fuck you, bitch," but stopped herself, hating to confirm George's notation. Clearing her throat, she smiled, "I'm fine on my own."

"Okay, truth is your husband is on the line and he says, 'Like hell she's going alone.'" He handed her his phone and Téa took it. She'd been ignoring his calls on her own cell.

"What?"

"Téa, those kids..."

"I know, I know...they're going to say horrible things about you. I'm over it. Brayden said you raped him. How much worse could it be?"

"No...it's not that. They're dangerous, Delgado. If they feel threatened, scared, they will hurt you. These 'kids' weren't in prison by accident. Please take George with you." His voice sounded tired, serious. Sad. She sighed. God, how she wished for detachment.

Said softly, "All right, I'll take him."

They were both quiet a moment, before Todd said, "I didn't rape anybody in prison."

"Did you have other people rape your kids? 'Cause that's what Brayden said you did." George sort of nodded, mouthing, "Probably true." She wanted to kick him.

"Be careful," was all Todd said.

Back at his desk, Bo Buchanan sat reading the report from the tattoo analyst, commenting to Henry who just walked to his door, "Got nothing. Those tats are clean. No cross-refs. Goddamnit."

Nodding, Henry smiled, "The report doesn't have anything, but I have something for ya'."

Looking up, Bo said, "Hit me."

"A photojournalist studied Statesville about four years ago, did a pretty in depth analysis of prison gangs. Took a bunch of photos, took interviews, surveys...all kinds of stuff. The guy donated his work to the Statesville historical society after he published his article."

"Okay."

"Look at this. Never published this photo...nobody giving permission and all that. It's not much, but it's something. Gives us places to search a little deeper."

He plopped a photo on the desk and Bo looked at it, whistling at first, "Well. This IS interesting."

Right there in black and white was a candid shot of about twenty-odd men sitting up and down the bleachers in Statesville. The shot didn't mean much until you noticed that two or three were subtly flashing their MK symbol, three fingers on each hand, pointed in different directions, all towards the camera. The rest looked elsewhere, some men sitting closer together than others. Scrawled across the bottom of the photo was a note, "Puro Mambo Kings, Cubano." Bo knew enough to understand that the journalist had written "Pure Mambo Kings." Bo figured that meant...these were ALL MK guys. They were quite the collection of Latino warriors. Nobody wanted to come across these guys in a dark alley.

But...but...here was the rub: right there on the bleachers, in the midst of these warriors, looking all pissed off in all his macho glory, squinting at something in the distance, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and that fuck-you-in-your-face long hair...sat Todd Manning.

He sat back, looking at Henry. "Holy crap. The Mambo Kings..." Bo chuckled. "Nah...wouldn't have guessed that. He's not Cuban. Jesus...what did he do for them, for them to let him in? How the hell did you find this?"

"Dumb luck, sir. Came across it in the Statesville archives."

"Okay...we missed something in those tats. Three fingers...three fingers...making something look like the letters MK..."

He pulled out the shots of the tattoos that Todd got at Statesville, flipped back and forth between them, rotating them, and finally laughed. "Unbelievable. Here you go, Henry...how the hell did I miss this? We're firing that tattoo analyst."

Bo took a pen and outlined the letters in the snake tattoo, and the spider. Clear as mud. M. K. The letters swirled into the design, blended into the lines, but once you saw it, you couldn't STOP seeing it.

Clever guy.

"Let's run 'em down again," Bo murmured. Breathed hard and sat back. "And search Horenda's autopsy report for ANYTHING that shows those sons of bitches were involved in the murder. Manning did it, Henry, and with that little...act...this one kill...he started a goddamn war. Damn it!"

George and Téa headed to the countryside, where Ty Jerome lived according to his last known. The day was beautiful, the light snow having melted, the sun high above in the grey-blue sky. There was a cold breeze blowing from the north. Smelled like more snow. George drove his long black Cadillac, Téa riding shotgun.

On the way, Téa said she needed the addresses for the other kids and George chuckled, reached into his coat pocket, and tossed a sheet of paper with addresses of all the kids that ever worked for Todd in Statesville.

"And I was so proud of myself having the one address."

"I'm his lawyer, Téa. You're out of practice." He glanced at her, his long grey hair tight in a ponytail, his fair skin now lined with the weight of hundreds of criminal clients over his long career. "You think I'm not going to keep tabs on his alibi witnesses?"

"No, of course you are. Good. Makes my job easier."

Téa felt out of touch, that feeling bubbling up again that she'd been living under a rock. She hated it. The road got bumpy and they slowed to a crawl, passing lots of small, old houses on large, fallow plots of land. The black Cadillac hopped as they moved toward an old broken down ranch-style house at the end of the road. All by itself it stood, like the bottom of the barrel. It looked even worse the closer they got. Paint was peeling, roof was patched, the garden was dormant, and dogs were barking like mad. Looked like a kennel, sounded and smelled like one, too. Trash had built up on the side yard, an old car, old furniture pieces upside down and right side up on each other. Sure enough, a sign at the gate said, "Terrier Rescue."

"Why exactly did Todd say these kids were dangerous?" Téa studied the house, listening to those dogs, barking, howling. One sounded inconsolable.

George stopped the car, kicked on the emergency brake. His hands were still on the steering wheel and his eyes roved the property in front of them. "Because by being an asshole to these kids, he taught them to fight for their lives. Because Todd turned them into snakes. Little...dangerous...snakes." He hissed for effect before he opened the door and stepped outside, Téa following him.

George walked with a cautious step, as if there really were snakes on the ground. Téa found herself watching the ground as they walked closer to the gate. George rang the bell and it was loud, seeming to bang against those dogs, the painted siding, that furniture. The barking got louder, more intense and frenzied. George instinctively reached for Téa.

Soon, there was a shadow coming around the corner and then Téa saw the double-barrel of a shotgun pointing at them. She backed up.

A young man with black hair cut short to his head stalked towards them. He had a loose black jacket on, long-used sweater underneath, ragged jeans, and dirt-encrusted boots that looked like they'd seen a lot of walking. The double-barrels were cocked and ready, tight to his shoulder. She was about to dismiss this as Ty, thinking it wasn't, when he growled, "The fuck you want?"

Statesville's greeting.

George snapped, "Interested in adopting one of your fine terriers."

"They don't get adopted." He lowered the weapon, just a little, eyed Téa and George. Statesville was present in his sharp gaze, eyes that took in everything about his visitors.

Téa swallowed and said, "Why not?"

"They're retired fighting dogs, pit bulls on kill lists 'cause they don't work real well with people."

George nodded, asked, "This your place? Or you just work here?"

"My place. My business."

"You Ty Jerome?"

The gun went back up. Took steps forward. With the way he held that gun, there was no doubt he knew how to use it. This kid was going to go down fighting, just like his dogs. Growled like them, too, "You cops?"

George snapped again, "Well, if we were, you'd be dead now with all that waving around of an illegal fuckin' gun in our faces."

The kid kept that gun tight, nodded to George, "You got a card or somethin'?"

Téa, tired of the circular dance, "Look, we're lawyers, we represent Todd Manning and he's in trouble. So we're just trying to see if you're on HIS side, or on the side of the goddamn cops."

An impish side grin broke out across his stubbly face, taking ten years off his age, "Todd Manning?" He un-cocked the gun, put it down, leaned on it like a cane, and crossed one foot over the other. Téa suddenly wondered if it was even loaded. No, it was definitely loaded.

"I'd lay my life down for that motherfucker," Ty said. "Whatever he needs, I'm there. Whatever he needs me to fuckin' say, I'll say it."

George and Téa looked at each other, and then followed the kid inside his modest house. The place was clean, but Téa could tell he lived alone. No family pictures, nothing that indicated he had anyone at all to love. People that is. There was an old doberman in the corner, hardly moving. He watched Ty the entire time and when Ty bent to him, the dog licked him gratefully, Ty softly talking to him.

All the while, though, that kid never let go of the gun. Never really stopped checking out Téa and George. When they were done talking in the kitchen, Téa and George confident in Ty's loyalty, the firmness in the alibi, they got the tour of the kennel. He finally let go of the gun, storing it away on a holder in the hallway by the outside door.

The place was just as ragged in the back as in the front, thirty kennels spread throughout the backyard on a concrete pad. The dogs jumped at the sight of Ty with visitors and made a lot of noise, most aggressive, some playful. They were all pit bull terriers, strong, meaty, short-haired dogs of medium heights with big jaws and teeth, all with scarred faces and bodies. Ty slipped into one or two of the cages, the dogs lapping his face, his hands. He petted them, loved them up. They seemed sweet.

Téa must have had a smile on her face because he shook his head, "Don't let 'em fool you. These guys will kill you just as fast as they'll kiss you if they feel threatened, or if they think you're going to attack ME."

He had snacks that he gave them. He filled up water dishes. He talked all along, chattering about his Statesville days. Téa noticed that Ty was scarred, too, just like those dogs, jagged lines running across his scalp where little hair grew, one pretty big one down his neck and disappearing into his clothes. She also noticed that he carried a hefty knife sheathed on his belt. Todd would call him, scrappy. His hands were rough, calloused. His nose looked broken, or...like it had been broken and never healed right.

He was dangerous...if threatened. But his slight build, his pretty face...Téa could see how he might have been vulnerable at one time.

As Téa walked and listened, she looked towards the end of the kennel, spotting a black pit bull alone and quiet. Pacing back and forth in the cage. He watched Téa, George and Ty. Kept his eyes on them. He drank some water and went back to the pacing. The other dogs were barking, but not this one. He was badly scarred and, while the other dogs seemed to smile when they panted with their tongues hanging out, this one didn't. No panting.

Ty shuffled up to Téa, "I call this one Breaker..."

"What's the matter with him?"

The boy got a serious look on his face, studying the dog that began to growl, the dog's lips lifting on both sides of his scarred snout, "Can't be fixed. The only time I can get close to him is when I sedate him. Put drugs in his water just so I can get inside and clean the cage. Give him the water and food through that opening there. See that notice on the door? That's animal control on my back. They say I have to kill him. And I can't, I just can't fuckin' do it."

The kid's eyes moistened. He looked down, scraping the floor with his boot. "He don't make much noise 'cause his voice box got all screwed up in a dog fight. That growling's about all he does. He was a champ in those circles, leaving other dogs in pieces, I heard...but...this last fight, he did it to the death of himself, you know? Fought everyone that tried to get him to back down until the bastard owners shot him. So I heard."

Téa realized that he was still in the information business. "They didn't kill him," she commented.

"Nope...so fuckin' strong, that bullet just pushed him to the ground, knocked him out. The owners thought he was dead so they dumped him on the highway. Humane Society picked him up, healed him. But...when they saw the nightmare that woke up after surgery, he was placed right in line for the gas chamber. They called me. Gave me a shot at him. But...nothing worked. He can't be fixed. Been a year and he's still just as pissed off as when he first got here. Still doesn't trust me, doesn't trust anybody."

Téa walked forward a little, taking small steps, trying to get a better look at the animal. A monster. The dog came to life at that, jumping at the cage over and over, his mouth tearing open in a hideous, choked growl, biting at air, because he couldn't bark. Téa stepped back, shaking her head.

Ty sighed, "Like I said, the only time I can touch him is when he's drugged hard. And when that happens, he just looks at me with those dark, hopeless eyes...fuck. There ain't nothin' I can do to help him. But...lord knows...just as their ain't no fixing him, I cannot kill him."

Téa murmured, "He's a heartbreaker all right."

Smiling a little sadly, Ty shrugged, "Yeah. Kinda reminds me of Todd Manning actually."

Closed her eyes briefly...of course. The similarities were obvious, striking.

Ty continued. "The only time any of us could approach him was when he was fucked up. If he wasn't...he fuckin' bit your hand off. Or worse. Never could take any kindness from any of us, and God help us if we acted poorly. Not being..." He stopped, staring down that dog who'd lay down now, lazily chewing a bone. The dog kept his eye on everyone. Every so often he'd lean over and take a sip of that water. Go back to chewing...never changing his focal point of the visitors.

"Not being what?"

"Not being submissive enough. We had to show our place, pay him the right kinda respect in public. Do what he said. I didn't mind though 'cause nobody would touch us so long as we belonged to Manning. 'Cause if someone did touch us...there'd be hell to pay."

"Did that ever happen as far as you know?"

He smiled, said nothing. George was kneeling at another cage, letting one of the dogs lick his knuckles through the fence.

"I'm not sure if I should say," Ty said in a low voice. "I mean...I don't want to get him in more trouble."

"I'm his lawyer." Téa noticed he was missing a tooth. She thought instinctively of Diego.

After a minute or so of internal battle, he eagerly got on with the story, "Well, one of us got jumped one time whiles Todd was in solitary. What was that fucker's name? Vinnie...Vincent...something...oh wait...Liminski. Ha! Vlad Liminski. Russian dude took a liking to Jimenez… took him down in the showers. Put the kid in medical. Big motherfucker. When Manning got out, he heard about it. Never forget the look on Manning's face when he came back from the clinic. He walked right up to Liminski. Looked him up and down and told that guy he was gonna die for what he did. Liminski tried to get it on with Manning, made a big show, but… the thing was broken up. All that afternoon, Manning just stared down Liminski, looking just like Breaker here… the way he just watches. See?"

Ty had that right - the dog chewed away, but his intense gaze remained tight on Ty, George and Téa.

Ty turned and began walking towards the exit. "Yeah, just like that. If you ever found yourself at the end of Manning's stare… you were gonna be fucked up, gar-on-teed. Next afternoon," he said, "that asshole was shanked in the yard by his own people for snitching. Ugly, man. We all knew better. I knew better."

"Why you?"

Grinning that impish grin, "'Cause I was the one who told Liminski's people about it. That's how we got Kenny McNair. I told them we had info they'd want, but it was big. They gave us Kenny, and I told them that Liminski had ratted out one of their henchmen in a killing." Ty ran his finger across his throat, intimating the death of Liminski.

Téa knew McNair's name, one of Todd's workers. Not an alibi, low on her list. Kenny had been a "gift," then. Like Diego. My gift, my whore. My property. Téa thanked Ty for all his help. They were counting on him. George gave him more of their cards.

All the while, as they chatted their goodbyes, Téa watched that broken black dog in the back. He never let go of her gaze. Watched, watched, watched.

Right before they were about to leave, Ty pulled Téa aside, asked, "Is he still like that? Still pissed off?"

Téa smiled, "A little. But time helps...it's been three years since he's been out, and...he's okay. Maybe Breaker needs more time."

"Yeah...you tell him hi for me. Tell him to come visit." The young man who was still a boy smiled, and Téa sighed. Wished he had people to love...but in looking around, he seemed to have found a place in this world, where he could just be...and nobody could hurt him.

All the way home, all Téa could think about was how that dog could not be fixed. She had a hard time forgetting that choked, cut-off growl. She worried now...maybe her husband could never be "fixed." And if that was the case, what then?

What then.

To be continued...