Warning(s): Some violence, language, sexual assault.
Chapter 7
Twenty-four hours later Chase's mind was still spinning. He'd been booked, finger printed, even had his picture taken with one of those little boards with his name and some numbers on it. They'd interviewed him again, for hours. The sun went down and then came back up and the detectives were still throwing questions at him, trying to get him to admit to it. He didn't. Reprieve finally came when another detective came into the interrogation room and announced that he'd "lawyered up". According to the TV shows that meant they couldn't speak to him anymore without his attorney present. He didn't have anything to hide so he wasn't sure a lawyer would help or hurt his chances.
They eventually took him back to the lock-up to get some rest. He didn't sleep a wink. His mind churned with worries and disbelief. This was the kind of thing you read about or watched in a movie. This wasn't supposed to really happen to people.
Chase kept silent and still in the corner of the holding cell. Next to him, in the other cells he could hear others moving around, some of them talking to each other and other were sleeping. Too wired to sleep despite the weariness Chase could only think. They'd checked with the hospital. He had been working the night of May 18. Apparently that wasn't enough to get him off the hook. The hospital security tapes from that far back were gone and he couldn't prove he hadn't slipped out during his shift.
This whole thing was ludicrous! Nobody would buy this, Chase thought. His frustration was getting the better of him. He held on to this renewed fire because it was all he had. He couldn't prove his innocence but anybody with sense could see that he wouldn't have killed two people he'd never even heard of before yesterday. At least that's what he hoped.
Chase met his attorney Timothy Washington, a mulatto man with green eyes and hair cut short to his scalp, for the first time just minute before his case number was called in arraignment court. His sharp suit reminded Chase that he'd been wearing the same clothes for over a day and that he really wanted to go home and take a long hot shower. He didn't have time to do more than shake his attorney's hand before it was his turn to face the judge.
"Docket ending three-nine-seven-oh-one, people versus Robert Chase. Charges are two counts of murder in the second degree." The court officer's voice boomed over the general noise of the crowded room. The judge on the bench, Callister according the plaque resting before him, eyed the defendant as he took the file that was handed to him.
"How do you plead?" The old man asked.
His lawyer prompted him with a nod. "Not guilty."
"Why am I not surprised?" The judge made a notation in the file and then turned his lacklustre gaze to the Assistant District Attorney standing at a small table off to the side. "The people on bail?"
"We request remand, your honour," he said.
"That means I can't go home right?" Chase asked quietly to his attorney. Mr. Washington nodded quickly before interjecting, beginning the rapid discussion of bail. Chase barely kept up as facts about him were thrown around and he was left trying to determine how exactly they knew all this and how it would all fit together.
"Your honour, Doctor Chase is a respected physician, he doesn't pose a flight risk."
"I beg to differ, your honour. He's not an American citizen. He holds citizenship in both Australia and the Czech Republic."
"Doctor Chase," Washington stressed the doctor, "Is willing to surrender his passport. And considering the weakness of the prosecution's case remand is unfounded."
"Given the heinous crime, which left two little girls without a family, and the possible connection to a known member of an organized crime syndicate, remand is necessary." The ADA glared at Washington. Washington didn't sink to such petty gestures. He kept his gaze on the judge.
The wrinkled man hunched over in an attempt to lean forward and pierce the defendant with his gaze. The glare off his glasses from the harsh ceiling lights and the tired body ruined any effect Judge Callister was looking for.
"He doesn't look like much of a threat."
Chase's brows drew closer together. He remained quiet though, hoping that the judge was leaning his way.
"But I've got to go with the Mr. Harper. Bail is denied. Doctor Chase is remanded to the custody of the state."
"Don't worry. I'll come see you and we'll get this sorted out," Washington assured the young doctor who was looking at him with worry. A court officer came and guided Chase out of the court.
A double murder case and he was working pro bono? Stacy owed him big for this.
Washington sighed and stepped aside for the next and attorney in line and her client.
"You ready to take a deal?" the ADA asked Washington as he fell into step with the defence attorney on his way out.
"No. I'm ready to talk about dropping the case." He handed the paler man a folded, blue sheet of paper.
Harper unfolded and read aloud the legal sheet inside. "Motion to dismiss charges."
"I'll see you in chambers."
H
Cameron returned from her dreary shift in the clinic to the conference room. She glanced at House who was on the phone in his office looking as nonchalant as ever. Foreman was working on a crossword puzzle from the newspaper. That was usually Chase's thing but the other man wasn't here today. He'd left early yesterday and Cameron, though curious, hadn't pried. Now she was too curious not to.
"Have you seen Chase?" she looked at the coat rack but his bag wasn't dangling there the way it would have if he were around.
"No. What time is it?" Foreman had lost track of the hours. With Cameron on clinic duty for the morning, House being a jerk as per usual and Chase being late he'd turned to the crossword for some company. He'd expected an irritated Chase to walk in some time soon and Foreman had been looking forward to grilling Chase about what was probably his first run in with the cops. He thought it'd be funny to listen to the Aussie cursing about cops with his usual Aussie-isms. And it would be nice to have someone in the group who had the same irritation for the bullies of law enforcement as he did.
Cameron glanced at her watch. The small and big hands of the silver timepiece told her "Eleven twenty-six."
"He should have been here by now." Foreman put the crossword down thinking that the damn puzzles really did make the time go by. No wonder Chase always had one. He'd been the first of them to start their fellowship under House. Passing the boring hours alone must have made puzzles a necessity.
"House, have you heard anything from Chase?" Foreman called. He'd informed House about Chase's run in with the detectives yesterday. His immediate reaction had been a laugh but an hour or so after that House had vanished and Foreman had only seen him again this morning.
"He's in jail."
Cameron and Foreman thought they'd misheard. They glanced at each other and then went to House's office.
"Could you repeat that?" Cameron asked.
House briefly took in their expressions. He picked up his gameboy and turned it on. "Mr. Washington just called to inform me that Chase didn't get bail. He's in jail."
Several seconds of silence filled the room. Cameron and Foreman looked at each other with equal measures of shock on their face. For Cameron this was the first she'd heard of any lf this. For Foreman it was the last thing he'd expected. What could Chase possibly have done to get himself thrown in jail. Foreman broke the silence and asked for details.
House rattled off what he knew without looking away from his gaming unit. "Apparently they think our guy from down under killed two people a couple of months back. They don't seem to care that he was working a shift here at the time the killings occurred. But I've got it covered. My lawyer buddy hooked me up with her lawyer buddy and I hooked him up with Chase."
"If he has an alibi then they have to dismiss the charges against him."
"Alibi? Dismiss the charges?" House looked up from his game to eye his black neurologist. "You really did go through the system."
"House!" Cameron was sick of his joking and had already begun to worry herself sick about Chase.
"Don't work yourself in to a snit," House admonished in difference to the expression he could already see taking over her face. Once she started worrying he'd never get her mind off of it. "Washington's got as many lawyer tricks up his sleeve as I have lawyer jokes up mine. Your playmate will be back before I can even miss him."
"Are you sure his lawyer is that good?"
"I asked him how much he made a year," House announced unapologetically as he executed a little move to pass the rider in front of him bringing him into first position. Foreman couldn't help but cast his eyes to the ceiling. "For that many digits he better be good." House paused the game and turned to pin his gaze on the two underlings that were still looking somewhat worried –Cameron just because she was Cameron, and Foreman because he knew the legal system. "Oh, go do something useful. The legal system is practically designed to keep rich, white people out of jail." He waved a dismissive hand at them and went back to his game. If they left him alone for long enough he was feeling lucky enough today to beat his high score.
Chase and Washington weren't at all lucky that day. While Chase's move to a real prison was being organized Washington was in the Chambers of Judge Callister trying to convince the jaded, old judge that Robert Chase couldn't have possibly done what the prosecution was accusing. He told him about Dr. Chase's alibi and the fact that they had no direct evidence of his client's guilt. The judge couldn't deny the weakness in the case. Still he was reluctant to let the suspect go. Callister's career on the bench was littered with tarnishes. Those who accused him of being harsher on minority and working class suspects dogged him relentlessly. He worried that soon they'd get the attention of his peers or worse the Bar Association. This case was the perfect chance to show them that he wasn't biased.
"You want direct evidence then tell your client to give us a DNA sample. We can test it against a hair found at the crime scene," suggested Spencer. He was working this case too as well as House's shooting. As one of the lead prosecutors in the DA's office and given the severity of the crime, his expertise was sought.
"I'm not going to do your job for you. You don't have enough evidence to even compel a sample," Washington stated. "It follows then, that they can't meet the burden of evidence for these charges."
"Your honour-"
Callister cut him off.
"I think they have met the burden for at least a DNA sample. And while the DA's case is shaky I'm not going to release a potential murder back on the streets." Callister signed the warrant for a DNA sample.
"Your honour-" Washington's outrage was evident even as he spoke two words of reverence. Callister didn't let him finish.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm needed in court." Callister's old legs took him from the room as quickly as he could without making it look like he was running.
Spencer knew he'd just skated by on this argument. Nine out of ten judges would have dismissed the case and told him to shove the DNA warrant up his ass. It was very lucky for him that Callister fell under the last one of ten.
As soon as he was outside Washington made a call to Dr. House who'd asked to be informed of the goings-on. He wouldn't break and confidentiality clauses, just give him the general facts. He could already hear the acerbic voice in his ear ridiculing him for not getting the case dismissed. "I deserve double my fee for putting up with this guy," the attorney mumbled to himself. He'd already agreed to take this case with no charge, so double of his fee for this case still got him a big fat goose egg.
"What?" the clipped greeting had Washington briefly closing his eyes and asking for strength. Maybe God would ignore his numerous little sins if he put up with this ass.
H
"Well?" Wilson asked anxiously.
House slowly closed his phone, slipped it carefully into his breast pocket and re-settled himself in his chair in the cafeteria. Wilson was about to ask again but House spoke first. "Didn't work. Didn't get bail and he's still going to jail." House tilted his head to the side as he replayed his last statement in his head. "You think I could get a contract as a rap artist? I've got the subject matter down pat and I'm all about the hoes."
"I'll make sure Billboard saves a spot for you on the 'top ten who should have kept their day jobs.'"
"Now you're just being cruel."
"What are you going to do to help Chase?"
"Why is he my problem? What are you going to do to help Chase?"
Wilson slapped away the hand that was attempting to steal his lunch. "You don't have to pretend in front of me, Greg. I know you care about him." Wilson smiled knowingly at him, masking the small part of him that frowned. House had made Chase his problem when he went to the police station and tired to get Chase out. He went further by getting Chase a lawyer.
"Have you been watching The View again? I'm going to have to lock out that channel on your TV."
"Like you did last time? I really appreciated all the Playboy channels you replaced it with. Julie thought they were great too."
"You still sore about that? That was ages ago." House took a bite of his rueben. "Anyway, if we can stop talking about you for a second," he wiped his lips free of a piece of food that escaped when he attempted to talk and chew at once, "I'm going to call my mob connection, get his buddies to look out for my jail-duck."
"The mob guy? The one who slapped Chase?"
"It wasn't anything personal," House shrugged. Bill Arnello was just misunderstood.
Wilson shook his head. He hoped it wasn't personal because Chase would be very vulnerable in prison. He didn't even want to think about it. What he did think about was an anonymous message House had received in his email.
"What about that threat?"
"What threat?"
"I know you get a lot of them," Wilson deadpanned, "but this one may have stood out because it was pretty specific. Particularly in the part where it tells you that they're going to make you suffer even if it means hurting everyone you care about."
"What did you, do memorize it?"
"House, it may have made a reference to Chase!"
House took another bite of his sandwich to save him from having to respond. He needed a second to think. When he swallowed again he told Wilson in no uncertain terms that he was an idiot for worrying about a dumb letter. He'd barely managed to keep the oncologist from calling the cops when they'd first read the message Cameron had found delivered to his email inbox. He didn't want to think that his disregard had lead Chase to jail.
When he went back to his office later, House fished out the crumpled printout from his trash and reread the last line several time.
"I know how much you like your pretty play-things so I'll be sure to send you the pieces that are left."
The vagueness of the statement was making sense now. The problem with vague statements though was that they could make sense in too many ways. You think people would have learnt their lesson after Nostradamus.
House sat the edge of his chair and scrunched up the already creased paper. His thoughts were heavy for a few seconds but he brushed it off and picked up his phone to make a call. He dialled the number he'd scribbled down on a small piece of paper many months ago and waited for someone to pick up. After several rings there was silence and then just a beep. He took that as a cue to leave a message and he did.
"It's Dr. House, the guy who saved your brother and then you gave that sweet car to. I need you to do me a favour. If you've got any friends in Trenton Prison have them keep an eye out for Robert Chase. You might remember him as the pretty-boy doctor you assaulted." House paused thinking about making a joke or a rude comment but he thought better of it. He needed this guys help after all. "Thanks." He hung up.
H
Correctional facility. It's a bit of a misnomer. People don't usually go to prison and come out months, maybe several years later a better person. People, who for the most part are average people (just made an error or two) end up here and come out worse than they were. If it wasn't the oppression, then it's the violence, or simply being unlucky enough to be placed in the wrong cell. You talk to the wrong people, get the attention of the wrong person and all you get is grief. If you're lucky, you get out of everyone's way and you can serve your time with a modicum of peace. Others can't blend in so easily. A big mouth, a big attitude, the wrong connections and you're in for a lot of trouble. Or, in the case of Robert Chase, just the way you look could have everyone's eyes following you.
"Here you go," a uniformed man handed him a stack of clothing, and the few toiletries afforded to inmates.
Numbly Chase took them and followed the line of other men who were also going through processing. They'd taken everything he'd had with him and stored it in a small box to be returned to him if he were ever released. "You'll get it back if you get out of here," where the man's specific words. "If" not "when". He tried to play it off as only a minor difference, just one word, less letters than the average word in the English language. It wasn't important. Then why did he keep hearing the words echoing in his head, at times drowning out the directions the other correctional officers were giving him?
He'd made it this far physically unscathed. Mentally, well let's not get into that quite yet. The strip search and cavity search had been uncomfortable but he'd endured with a straight face and detached countenance. He'd put on the prison uniform with no external complaint and remained silent while he waited in line. He didn't make a fuss like some of the others, some who were so familiar with the prison they greeted the prison employees by their first names. Chase hoped that between the big attitudes and the big mouths he wouldn't be noticed.
"Hey, Pretty," the man in line behind him nudged Chase, trying to get his attention. "You wanna be my cell buddy?" He laughed. Chase ignored him.
"There a problem here?"
"No sir, no problem?" The man behind answered jovially to the security officer. The man in the prison guard uniform glanced briefly at Chase who didn't move to either confirm or deny anything. The guard moved on.
Chase's shoulders dropped in a small amount of relief as the man behind him didn't continue his crass attempt at conversation. He, however, was not the last one to engage in a conversation about him. Messages drifted to his ears, stories about what happened to people who looked like him in prison, even a couple of the guards quietly got in on the bashing. One in particular had taken a keen interest.
"Don't worry. I've already gotten you a nice cellmate. I made a pretty penny auctioning off the pretty boy." The CO gave him a rough pat on the shoulder and a malicious smile. His name was Theriault and he pretty much ran the prison. Sure Warden Stevens was the guy technically in charge but the day-to-day happenings filtered through Theriault. He had power over just about everything including inmate placements. He'd seen a picture of Chase twenty-four hours ago and he did what he usually did. He made his money. Cheap photocopies of the DMV picture were passed covertly throughout the prison and the bidding had begun at two hundred dollars. It escalated leaving many of the lower prison population in the dust in a matter of minutes. Guards loyal to Theriault passed the bids from the inmates to him, leaving him far removed from the situation should an undesirable person catch wind of the operation. It had never happened before since Theriault paid well for loyalty and it didn't happen this time either.
The final two bidders for Chase were Yarrow and, surprisingly to Theriault, Montrose. Montrose was a man who, despite his power, lived quietly in the prison. His interest in Chase made Theriault interested in Chase. Not interested enough to pull his offer of the new inmate but interested enough to begin watching more carefully.
In the end Theriault made over eight-grand even after the minor cuts were given out for the other players in his scam. Given the money those two cons had at their disposal and their apparent desire to have Chase as a cell mate Theriault knew that if he'd had more notice of Chase's arrival he'd easily have been able to double his take.
"You'll be in holding for twenty four hours. Tomorrow afternoon you're moved to your cells in the general population. If you have friends in there I suggest you find them quickly." Theriault's words echoed down the long wing lined with cells on each side. The new inmates walked into their cells, for most it'd be the last time they'd sleep in a room alone for several years. Theriault gave a nod of his head to the control both separated from the holding wing by a wall with a large window for viewing and a heavy set of doors. In the booth the woman nodded and pressed two buttons. The barred doors of the cell slid closed and locked simultaneously with an ominous and nerve-wracking clack.
Rob looked down at the metal toilet at the far right corner of the room and the cot with a thin mattress next to him. Still holding the paltry belongings designated to him he sat at the edge of the bed. His stiff posture eventually relaxed and he slumped forward to rest his head on grey shirt topping the stack of clothes in his arms.
A faint breath was pushed out of his nervous body, a shiver making the flow of air turbulent. He was scared, he wasn't afraid to admit it. This had all happened so fast. He would never have believed a story like this if it weren't happening to him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing, hoping, begging that this was a dream and that he'd wake up in his bed at home with nothing but his regular problems to worry about. When he opened his eyes he was still locked in a six by nine foot cell grey walls on three sides and steel bars to keep him in. Through the bars, across the hall to the cell on the other side he saw the inmate in there shake his head with and expression of what looked like pity on is face. The man lay down on his cot. Chase decided to do the same.
His arms still didn't let got of the burden he'd been given and he lay down to stare blankly at the equally blank wall not five feet from his face. He couldn't think, could only worry. He'd seen the movies, read the books, watched the shows. He knew what could happen to him. What would likely happen to him. It was bad enough day to day. The looks, the comments, the scorn for features he didn't choose and didn't expect.
Chase had been small and awkward as a child. Too smart to fit in with the kid his age he'd been put into a higher year and he'd been too small and too young to fit in with them. He lived a fairly solitary childhood with only a few friends until he was fifteen and his growth spurt hit at long last. Disappointed to reach only five feet and ten inches and drained by his mother's failing health he'd been blindsided by the attention he'd started to receive from perfect strangers.
As the cute, rounded face of quiet Robbie matured into the handsome face of Robert (even though he still felt like Robbie inside) the attention increased. Women and men began to talk to him with more than just innocent interest. His looks, he quickly realized, gave people the impetus to talk to him or more often just to stare. He really hated the stares, the jibes about his looks, but he'd learnt to deal with them and eventually to work them to his advantage. Still, some days it was easier to just ignore the looks and pretend that he was invisible again. In New Jersey's Trenton Correctional Facility he knew that he'd never see the return of his precious invisibility.
H
"I delivered the information you wanted. Now I want what you promised."
Yarrow gave a vague head motion and the men at the front of his cell let the relatively unknown jack Moriarty in.
"Yeah, I got him and you get to watch your buddy squirm. What did he do to you anyway?"
"That's not your concern."
Yarrow smiled enjoying the other man's insolence. "Alright. No need to get bitchy. You've got my protection. The others will leave you alone. You've also got a cushy job in the tuck shop, all care of yours truly."
"What about the lawyers?"
"They're looking into your shit but they aren't miracle workers. You really fucked yourself over in this one. Shooting a guy in broad daylight, in front of numerous witnesses, getting caught by the hospital rent-a-cops with the gun still on you, and to top it off you leave your victim breathing."
"I wasn't trying to kill him," Moriarty defended tersely.
Yarrow clapped his hands together in exaggerated remembrance. "Right. You were trying to make him suffer –that's what it says in the police report anyway."
"Well you know a lot about me. So, what about you? What's Dr. Chase to you?"
Yarrow stood, nonchalantly brushing off some debris from his thighs. "I'll tell you what he isn't. He's not your concern. You and your demented friends had your chance. You fucked it up. Twice. You stay away from him or you'll be a stiff before lockdown. Clear enough?"
Moriarty nodded.
"Good! And make sure your people stay away. I don't want to hear anything about them snooping around. They do and I'll end them myself. Their work is done. And while I am grateful that doesn't guarantee anything."
Jack Moriarty just stared at the other man wondering about the wisdom of his choice. What had he gotten himself into? When he exited the cell under the watchful gaze of Yarrow's henchmen he knew he'd stumbled into something much bigger than the grudge he held against Dr. House. He still wasn't sorry though.
H
"Here he is. I hope he's worth it," the corrections officer said as he left Chase standing on the tier in front of his new home. Chase stared down the narrow metal walkway, at the uniformed man who had abandoned him to the mercy of the prison population. His view of the guard was blocked when an inmate wearing the prison uniform with the sleeves torn off stepped in to his line of sight. Chase's eyes naturally went up to the man's face. The calculating look had Chase turning away but not before he noticed similar looks in the eyes of other prisoners.
"You just going to stand there?" The voice came from the man inside the cell. He was leaning against the discoloured grey wall facing the entrance, arms crossed. Chase estimated maybe mid-fifties for his age. His head was shaved but the shine of his scalp at the top and the dark shadow at the side told Chase that the man was another victim of androgenetic alopecia –male pattern baldness. Yet despite his years, his physique was powerful and well maintained. He could only see the man's forearms as his sleeves were rolled up, yet the definition there alluded to the same highly trained musculature over the rest of his body. "Well?" The prompt came after a few more seconds of the shorter man standing motionless.
Chase took a tentative step into the cell, which was bigger than he'd expected. It was about ten feet high with a width of seven feet and a depth of fifteen. Bigger than he expected but still small for two people to share.
"I have top bunk," his cellmate stated without moving from this position on the wall. Chase nodded and dropped his stuff on the bottom bunk. He turned back to the other man. After a moment of indecision Chase held out his right hand in a gesture that was far too friendly considering where he was now.
"Robert Chase," the younger man introduced. The older man managed to hide most of his surprise. Then his expression changed to an amused half smile as he righted himself and reached out for the hand.
"Emmanuel Montrose."
Chase expelled a breath of relief. Perhaps this man wouldn't be the brute the prison system made out of most inmates. His relief was short lived. The grip around his hand became a vice and before his eyes could even widen in surprise, he was swung towards the wall and pinned their by Montrose's solid bulk. Chase brought his left hand up to push Montrose away. Montrose caught the other hand and pinned it by the wrist above Chase's head. At the boundary of the cell several inmates had gathered and were laughing at Chase's predicament.
Montrose held his face less than an inch from his new cellmate's. The surprised expression was the first thing he wanted to wipe from that face. Never let them see weakness was the first rule he'd learnt here. He knew enough about prisons even before getting stuck in one that hadn't learnt it the hard way. He wanted to make sure Chase got the same advice the easy way too. There were many unwritten rules here.
"Never offer any part of yourself to anyone. Give an inch an' they'll take everything. Clear?"
Chase swallowed to clear his throat. "Perfectly. You want to get off me now?"
The taller man's dark eyebrows climbed up his forehead at the bravado. He tilted his head just so to the right. "I suppose." He pulled back a little removing some of his weight from Chase's chest, allowing him to breathe more easily. Carefully, taking care to ensure that his new cellmate wasn't about to retaliate, Montrose released the hand he'd pinned to the wall and brought it down to run through Chase's hair. The vibrant, sea-coloured eyes closed and he turned his head away but couldn't escape the touch. The bright, soft strands slipped through his fingers, caressing his skin like a delicate summer breeze and vaguely scented of freedom and sunshine.
The touch ended, much to Chase's relief. He turned to Montrose. "Do I pass inspection?" He asked with bite as he tugged the hand Montrose still held, the one Chase had stupidly offered.
A strangely soft smile briefly pulled Montrose's face. Quietly he told Chase: "I can see why he liked you." He pulled completely away and the expression vanished. "Hey! This isn't a fuckin' peep show!" He yelled at the inmates still crowding the front of his cell. They didn't seem to take offence. A few crass comments were thrown at the new kid and they left.
"Don't know if you heard but I paid quite a bit get you in this cell. Used to have it to myself so you're quite the sacrifice."
Chase wanted to ask if he was expecting a 'thank you'. He held his tongue.
"Your face is going to attract a shit-load of trouble. Make sure you don't bring any of it here." Montrose went for the single exit. "Oh, and don't touch my shit." He left Chase alone in his almost tastefully decorated cell, heading into the unrestrained and dangerous crowd of the prison.
Chase didn't dare follow or venture out. He sat down on his bunk, ducking his head not to knock it on the rail of the upper one. Sliding back to rest against the wall pulled his slightly too big prison-issue slacks low on his hips. He quickly pulled them up but not fast enough to prevent a wolf whistle from a passing inmate.
He sighed shakily and rested his heels on the edge of the bed. The underside of the top bunk provided no answers to the desolate man. His eyes weren't focussed on the old springs and supports anyway. For some reason he was worrying about his apartment. He laughed shakily at his own strangeness.
Across the atrium one tier up another inmate looked into cell thirty-four on 4-EE, plotting.
Leaning on the guard-rail a bald inmate followed the plotting man's gaze to the other cell "How much did you offer? Ten grand? I guess he might be worth it." He laughed. "Probably the most expensive piece of ass this half of the country."
"That's not why I wanted him," Antony Yarrow said. He didn't take his eyes off the far cell.
"Yeah right."
"I wanted him here because of Montrose."
The bald inmate, a member of Yarrow's prison grand, didn't understand. Sure he knew about the animosity between Yarrow and Montrose, being the members of rival crime syndicates ensured that they'd never be friends. What he didn't know was how the new meat was connected.
Without having to look over Yarrow knew the other man wasn't understanding. "Don't worry your tiny head over it, Vin." Yarrow walked away.
H
The prison was fairly self-contained. The different wings, each added at different eras of the prison, spread out like spokes from the main building. One prison wing had even been made into the exterior wall in the early twentieth century. A new wing now enclosed what had once been the exterior wall with the prison wing and 3rd Street ending that era and adding on a new, uninviting orange brick exterior to the main entrance of the facility. Within the seventeen acre property smaller buildings had been erected for different purposes; boiler room, showers, laundry. The prisoners provided labour and, in some cases, the necessary skill to do repairs on the aging structures.
The few jobs available were highly sought after and (supposedly) handed out on the basis of seniority and good behaviour. Other than the manual labour there were other trades available. There was a shoe repair shop, laundry service, kitchen staff, and even a barber shop. Services such as the kitchen were watched closely by the prison officials while services like the barber weren't. There was a guard nearby of course but no direct supervision. Usually nobody really cared about the barber shop. The scissors never left the small room so they couldn't be converted into weapons and hair wasn't a big deal. At least it wasn't until Chase arrived.
Foreman and House had been by the day before, each providing a bit of support in their own way. Foreman had given him some tips and told him to cut his hair. It didn't take much thought to understand why and so that's what he was trying to do. Unfortunately the inmate in charge of the barbershop had been bribed a hefty amount by another inmate (or other inmates) not to let the newbie get a trim.
"Please. I just need a pair of scissors. I'll do it myself." He hoped he'd gotten his tone right. He wanted just the right amount of desperate that the man would feel sorry for him but not so much that he'd think Chase willing to do something drastic in return for the favour. The look in the convicts eyes told Chase that he had indeed succeeded in crafting his tone but it wasn't enough.
"Sorry, kid. My deal's been made before you even got here. All the shooters have it out for ya. Hell, even Rico offered a pinkie to make sure no one touched that pretty mop of yours"
Chase wasn't down with the lingo. He wasn't sure if shooters meant drug users or something else here. He didn't know who this 'Rico' was and he certainly hoped that body parts weren't a normal prison currency.
Proctor, the inmate in charge of the barbershop, laughed briefly at the mild confusion that the new Trenton resident couldn't quite hide. "A pinkie is a fifty, kid, not a finger. Now take off." He didn't want this kid around him. He was just going to attract trouble and attention. While Proctor wasn't a terrible inmate there were still some things that required the anonymity that came with being a lowly worker. After a few seconds he heard the young man walk away and was ready to forget about the whole encounter when he heard another voice.
"No help, huh?"
Proctor walked to the single entrance of the small room and peered out into the corridor.
"I'm Yarrow." The older and taller man held out his right hand. He looked to be about early to mid forties, slender but not skinny build and a hairstyle that even outside the prison walls would have been thought fashionable. The drab grey apparel graced his body and he was probably the only man who could look dignified in a prisoner's uniform. He was about average in looks, narrow face and thin lips, eyes somewhat on the beady side, unspectacular, unmentionable, Chase envied him.
He stared at it the man's offered hand having learnt his lesson.
"Yeah…right…" the other man said belatedly as he seemed to realize that such a gesture wasn't acceptable here. That this man made the same mistake as him already put Chase somewhat at ease with this new person. Yarrow dropped his hand back to his side. "I know it's not going to be easy but just so you know not everybody here is a thug. We don't all enter these walls and become the animals they try to turn us into." Yarrow's light brown eyes stared into Chase's suspicious blue-greens as he fished an object out of his pocket. "These what you wanted?"
Chase stared down at the small set of shears. Those were exactly what he wanted. He was reluctant to take them though. He didn't know what this Yarrow guy's angle was or what he wanted in return.
"Take 'em. No charge," he said with a wry smirk but it wasn't a threatening expression. Well, Chase could see no threat in it. He took them.
"Thanks." He considered going back to his cell to cut his hair with the aid of a mirror but that would mean walking through the corridor and through the commissary with his hair still at this length and carrying a weapon that could easily be turned on him should someone bigger or meaner come along. He decided to cut it right there.
He ran a hand into his hair catching as much of it as he could between his fingers. Holding the strands taught he cut between this fingers and his scalp. It was too much hair for the small set of shears. Many attempts were required and by the end the near-buzz cut that he'd been attempting ended with a length only a scant few inches shorter than the original. He struggled trying to it shorter and was somewhat successful. When he ran his hand through his new do he was satisfied with the result. It was uneven but it was shorter than it had been.
On the old and stained floor of the building the locks of blonde hair had gathered around his feet. They caught his eye and he stared down at them for several seconds contemplating what he'd done and what the prison had already taken from him. It was just hair but it had been his shield, a barrier from gazes surer and stronger than his own, a wall to strengthen the internal ones he hid behind, and something to distract people from what might be seen otherwise. His head felt cold. He felt exposed.
"Proctor's gonna realize he's missing a pair," Yarrow said amiably. An easy smile softened his sharp features as he held out his hand, politely and silently asking for the return of the scissors.
Chase, somewhat flustered –he'd forgotten about the other man's presence –handed back the scissors. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Yarrow continued to look at the new inmate who quickly began to feel uncomfortable under the gaze. He wasn't sure if Yarrow was waiting for something. The kind smile increased an increment the older man having found something amusing apparently. "You should get outta here." He nodded his head in the direction of the exit. "Just…" he pressed his already thin lips into a thinner line, mulling over his words. "…just watch yourself around Montrose. He's got a lot of secrets…and so did his son."
Chase didn't show his confusion but he'd figured there was a lot about most of these people that he didn't know and, for the sake of his sanity, probably didn't want to know. He nodded. After another set of seconds under the even stare Chase took his leave. His hand absently ran through what was left of his hair as though to reassure and remind him that with this new cut things were looking up, even though he was way, way down.
"Hey Pretty-boy, what have you gone an' done?"
H
This was what he'd been worried about. He would have to go and look like that, be that young. Not even his standing threat to the other low-lives seemed to work. At every turn there was someone with an interest in his newly acquired property.
He was thankful that the prison news network was so quick and he was thankful to be nearby when the encounter descended into a fight. He kept his pace moderate as he walked out of the main building to one of the small side ones. He'd be even more damned if he drew the attention of the guards. Montrose rounded the first corner after entering the small building and after taking a second to gauge the situation and listen to the gibes he couldn't help but smirk. He wiped it away and approached.
"Shit, Connors you just got taken down by a little boy!" That one comment carried over the general noise and the laughter.
His back to the wall, Chase stood with his fists raised. Other inmates formed a semi-circle around him and the man who was trying to save face by picking himself off the floor before his head and his ears told him he was ready. The man's bloody nose left small splatters on the pale floor and elongated stains on his pants. He managed to stagger to his feet and within a few seconds was fully upright. The man was shorter than Chase but he had the advantage of a naturally muscular build further enhanced by the days upon years of weights and exercise. Beneath the dark skin muscles tensed and behind the dark eyes, anger and embarrassment provided fuel. He would not be taken down again.
Technically Chase had struck first. He'd only made it to the next building on the convoluted path to the exit created by the old and infrastructure and numerous renovations when he came upon this man Connors and one of his cronies. He didn't know anything about either of them. All his eyes could tell him was that they were inmates, they were black and they had seen him. Foreman had stressed the race was a big deal 'inside' Chase had hoped not to find out. He'd hoped the two men would continue the way there were going. They hadn't. Connors had blocked his path, cornered him. He'd tried to get by him, kept his words terse and even but he hadn't backed down and Connor's friend had only watched. He had barely hear the crass remarks over the pounding of his heart. He'd read the smile though. The last straw was when a large dark hand was passed through his short hair, around to the back of his head to end in a firm grip. Chase had shoved him away, struck first. Apparently that was all it took.
The first real hit came as a rapidly flying fist. Chase had managed to turn his head just enough that the blow was more glancing than direct, though it still hurt. He'd attacked next, kneeing the man in the stomach as his somewhat missed punch carried him past Chase's body. Shock and anger warred for dominance over the ebony skin and broad features. Hunched over he glared up at the blonde and then over his shoulder when his friend's comment reached him.
"I told you following your dick would get you in more trouble, 'Specially when Mont finds out."
Wide-eyed and still very much in fight or flight mode Chase had stared at the other man, glad to see that neither he nor the other inmates who had assembled were interested in coming after him too. He assumed "Mont" meant Montrose and wondered what repercussion there might be, both official and not for being caught fighting. He didn't have time to think anymore. Connors had recovered and announced it by delivering a blow to Chase's stomach. He didn't let Chase double over, instead held him up and sent his fist colliding in to the pretty face again.
The taste of blood had filled his mouth and an ache spread quickly through his jaw. Through the discomfort he'd seen a row of teeth as the full lips of his assailant pulled back in a harsh smile. A rushed, shaky breath steeled his nerves and fortified his anger. Chase rushed his head forward into Connors's nose. The blow had sent a ringing pulse through Chase's head as well but as the instigator he was ready for it and recovered quickly. While Connors stumbled back Chase kicked his legs sending the other man to the floor amid the cheers and boos of onlookers.
"Shit, Connors! You just got taken down by a little boy!"
Shoulders rising and falling with audible huffs of breath he looked up at the crowd, looking for anyone who might decide to take a shot at him. The angry aqua eyes fell upon Montrose.
Shit.
He knew he was in trouble but he wasn't about to apologize.
Montrose cut his way through the crowd. The recovered Connors was about to go on the offensive again and Chase noticed him too late. Before he could throw his next punch Montrose wrenched him back by the collar of his shirt.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Connors froze. The crowd settled. Chase watched with a racing heart.
"…he…he…"
"I don't care what he was doing! I asked what the fuck you thought you were doing?"
A few of the spectators made their escape not wanting to be around anymore. Chase wished to make his escape too.
Montrose cut off Connors's response. "You even think of touching what's not yours again and I'll make sure you loose something that you're very attached to!" He shoved the other inmate away, watching him struggle to keep from falling and, once successful, beat a hasty retreat. Montrose turned to Chase and the murmurs rose briefly then settled to almost silence.
"…I-"
"I don't want to hear it." Montrose was so calm and controlled. Chase knew that meant trouble. That was all he had time to think before two large hands grabbed him by his shirt and pinned him to the wall. "I told you to stay out of trouble."
Not exactly, Chase countered mentally. Wisely, he kept silent.
The next thing he knew he was on the floor at the feet of the spectators having been thrown there by his cellmate. His shoulder and side ached from the collision with the unyielding floor and the jolt gave a burst of discomfort to the injuries sustained at Connors's hands.
"Magger," Montrose addressed without removing his glare from the young man he'd manhandled, "get him back to my cell."
A set of large hands practically lifted him up from the floor and then marched him away from the crowd. Chase didn't dare look back. He was having enough trouble keeping up with his escort. The prison seemed to fly by him and suddenly Chase was back in his Montrose's cell. He couldn't call it his own since he clearly didn't have any rights to it, hence it wasn't much of a relief to be back there.
Realizing that the hands were still on him Chase shook them off. Or at least he tried too.
Bloody hell! Couldn't he be left alone just for a little bit?
"You've got to be more careful. Mont's pissed but more at Connors and the others. It's been made pretty clear that you're his but it ain't always that easy. You've got to stay where the guards can see you." The advice was delivered just a little too close to his ear and the strong grip on his upper arms didn't allow him to pull away from the body whose heat Chase could feel at his back.
"Let go of me," Chase demanded in a steady voice, though the hands still holding him likely felt the tremours in his body. His adrenaline high was fading taking his strength and energy with it and leaving him at an even greater disadvantage. Just from his presence Chase knew that Magger was over six feet tall and padded with thick muscle. Chase also knew that he wouldn't be able to win a fight against this guy.
Magger didn't comply with Chase's order –gave no indication of hearing it at all. One hand let go only to travel around his waist and spread out over the quivering abdomen.
"I thought you said I was Montrose's."
Magger turned his bearded face into the short yet still soft hair and inhaled, taking in the scent of the outside world that still clung to him. "I'm his right-hand man. The job comes with fringe benefits." The adventurous hand slipped under the loose prison shirt to feel the soft skin hidden underneath. That was all he could take. Chase jerked in the grasp but Magger forced him into the wall and pinned him there. The side of his face scraping against the wall and the heavy weight pressed into his back left him helpless. The unwanted hand climbed high, squeezed at his pectorals then travelled low following his nausea.
"Magger," came a lightly admonishing call.
"Just playin'," the inmate said unapologetically, his hand still on its expedition.
"Matt." This time the tone was sterner and with a sigh the inmate released Chase who wasted no time moving away from his molester. His back collided with the end of the bunk beds. He couldn't get any farther without going around the beds which would mean having to get a little closer to Magger, a man with slumped shoulders and a large head, bottom half covered with a light brown beard and the top half capped with a shaggy mop of hair. Chase stayed there in the corner, eyes bright with distress and breathing too shallow and rapid to do him much good.
Magger just smirked, the expression almost lost in the long hair around his mouth, and headed for the exit. Montrose, standing just inside, gave a few low words to his friend who nodded and then left.
"You okay?" Montrose approached and before Chase could find the right words he grabbed the bottom of Chase's shirt and raised it trying to get a look at the bruises he knew were forming.
"Hey!" Chase hit the hands away and held his shirt down.
Montrose held up his hands in a placating manner. He backed up giving his cellmate the space he so clearly needed right then.
"As I'm sure you've noticed there are no women here and no offence but you're the closest thing that a lot of these guys are going to get to one in years. Most will overlook the different plumbing."
"Terrific," Chase muttered angrily. He wasn't a girl! He didn't even look like a girl (he didn't care what House said)! He hoped he was hiding it well but he really felt sick. The nausea had congealed into a full stomach cramp as the situation sank further and further in his mind.
"And that accent of yours isn't going to help."
Chase wanted to yell at him. To tell him that there was a whole continent of people who spoke just like him and that it wasn't a big deal. In the isolated population of Trenton it was.
Suddenly all his fight was gone. Listlessly he stepped over the rail at the end of the bed and ducked his head to get onto his bunk. He laid down on his side and closed his eyes briefly. Upon opening he saw Montrose's face not far from his and what he mistakenly thought was concern in the deep eyes, familiar eyes.
Chase tensed when Montrose's hand reached up and touched him. There was nothing sexual in the touch. Confusion crept in as the touch registered and did not change. The eyes looking at him stayed soft and the lips pulled down at the corners in a worried frown. Chase was too drained to argue, or question the unexpected expression of almost paternal worry. Maybe Montrose had dissociative identity disorder. It was the only way he cold explain these flashes of upset he sometimes saw on his cellmate's face.
H
End Chapter 7
I'll try to get the next chapter up by Tuesday. I've been busy so revising has been slow going.
Sagga…