Page 67 of To Have and to Hold

I re-entered the darkness the only way I knew how.

By physically traveling to one of the worst places humans could be exiled to. A location I almost ended up at to live the rest of my life, had I continued the same path as my father, as my teenage self wanted to for those first catastrophic years.

Rikers Penitentiary.

To give myself time to think, I took the city bus onto the island after leaving Jack and Perry. The afternoon was still young, and there was still a lot of evidence out there. Knox and Levi were busy with their lead—as my blank phone would attest to—thus, I would pursue my own, and this one had been gutting me since it was first realized.

I stared out the window with clenched fists, memories clashing with the present. If my father were still alive, he’d probably be here by now.

We reached the bridge to Riker’s Island. Planes took off on my right from La Guardia Airport and a sewage treatment plant chugged away on my left. The city was showcased briefly through the smog across the East River. But once at the top of the bridge, Riker’s Island rose to the forefront, its preferred welcome in the form of chains and barbed wire.

The bus was crowded when I got on, and when it stopped, it emptied almost immediately. We then transferred to a shuttle that would take us from the parking lot to the visiting center—a perk offered Friday through Sunday. After finding a seat and being warned that assaulting a bus driver was a felony up to 7 years, I stood up with the many women and children and departed the shuttle.

“Listen up,” a corrections officer said as my shoes hit pavement. “I want you all to form two lines, and my buddy Buzz here is going to sniff out any drugs you might’ve thought to bring.” He motioned to the yellow lab beside him. “We got three already today, let’s try not to make it four. I know a lot of guys who don’t want roommates.”

The dog sniffed pants, purses, and bags. A little boy who tried to pet him was yanked to the mother’s side. A few minutes passed and no alert was given by Turner or Hooch over there, so we were hustled to the visitors’ center.

Visit schedules were normally based on the first letters of the inmates’ last names. Today it was the entire alphabet, A-Z, but I’d used my prosecutor creds anyway when I scheduled this visit a few hours ago. It was last minute and it was obvious how a prison might treat such a thing. Better to cover all my bases.

I left most of my belongings in a locker provided, but could keep my notebook and pen because of my lawyer status. After a fully-clothed body search and metal detectors, I was separated from the rest of the cattle and escorted by another officer to a private interview room reserved for inmates and their lawyers.

The inmate was there when I arrived, thinner than he used to be, but still with a thick crest of graying hair swept up and away from his face.

When I sat down across from him, his ice-pick eyes lifted from the table and met mine.

“It’s been a long time,” I said.

Oak Tabernathy spoke. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Rolfe.”

#

“I’m surprised you agreed to this meeting,” I said to Oak after a few moments of silence. A guard waited outside the room, his form a black blur in the dirty window of the door, but that didn’t add anything of comfort. Oak had a way of assessing, his irises so pale they were almost as white as the rest. Usually unblinking and a lot like a komodo dragon’s. Very still, meshing exactly as part of the background, until the moment of kill.

“There isn’t much keeping me busy these days,” Oak said. “Or entertained. Your visit was an opportunity to provide both.”

He had jowls now, juxtaposed with a leaner, tanner face. Cords of his neck stood out, but his attitude didn’t make it difficult to continue to picture him in a suit lording over an all-glass conference room on the fiftieth floor in Manhattan. Fellow inmates probably attached to him in hopes of gaming whatever system they could in here. Commissary. Drugs. Protection.

If my father were here, Oak would’ve treated him like a cockroach.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I’ve been?” he asked.

I entertained, “How has your stay been so far, Mr. Tabernathy?”

“Absolutely wonderful. Exceptional structure, terrific staff, outfits of the softest polyester.” His jaw hardened. “There was a tutorial on shank making that I attended. Of course, this was after one was jammed into my gut shortly after coming here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Then maybe you’ll be happy to know that the man who assaulted me is down one eye.” Oak’s hand splayed open on the table as if he were wishing for something to lift and sip. Coffee, or more likely brandy. “Hierarchy is better quickly learned.”

No doubt he was close to the top. After the wealth of evidence against him was revealed, Oak had taken a plea deal that landed him at Riker’s for fifteen years. It was heavier than most drug trafficking charges due to Oak’s refusal to rat out anybody high up in the cartel. He played stupid, claiming he was never given names. That stupidity was probably what was giving him protection in here. Drug lords tended to protect the loyal.

“You must have a lot of time to think,” I said.

“Most especially. I ponder a lot of topics. Philosophy, psychology, read up on the law…”

“Do you ever think on what happened? What I did?”

Oak’s eyes developed a glint. “Most especially.”

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