Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tawny stared at Stoltz, mouth agape. “You investigated my lawyer ?”
“Out of concern. After your bad experience with your public defender, I wanted to protect you.”
“ Protect me? You invaded my privacy.”
“For a good reason. There are so many unscrupulous people nowadays just looking for an opportunity to scam somebody. I checked the visitors’ log. She hasn’t been to see you once.”
The salacious gleam in Stoltz’s eyes alerted Tawny to the fact that he enjoyed his control over her. “Okay, fine. Let me confront her and prove you’re right. If TK Winchester can’t convince you to return our privileges, I’ll fire her and drop my appeal. I’ll be yours for the duration of my sentence.”
Tawny knew she hadn’t misinterpreted the gleam in his eyes. They turned dark with undisguised lust. His lips parted, and his tongue flicked over them. She shuddered with distaste.
“All right. You may call Ms. Winchester from my phone.”
Tawny pressed the number. Stoltz yanked the receiver from her hand and punched the speaker icon. After several rings, Teagan answered the call.
“Yes, hello. This is TK Winchester. Warden Stoltz, has something happened to my client, Tawny Westfall? I’ve been following the news about Bette Simpson.”
“Tawny is fine,” he snapped. “She’s here with me.”
“Tawny, are you okay?”
“No. None of us are. Warden Stoltz is holding our privileges hostage. No TV or recreational time, no exercise in the yard, and worse, he’s suspended classes and tutoring until Bette Simpson is apprehended.”
“Give me ten minutes to take care of this.” Teagan disconnected the call.
Stoltz snickered. “Need any more proof?” His gaze focused on the curves of her breasts.
“She said to give her ten minutes. It hasn’t even been one.”
But Teagan didn’t need ten minutes. Within six, Stoltz’s phone rang. When he recognized the caller ID, the color drained from his face, and his eyes widened in dismay. He picked up the receiver but didn’t put the caller on speaker. It didn’t matter. Tawny could hear both sides of the conversation.
“D—Director Dickinson, g—good evening,” Stoltz stuttered.
Tawny almost chuckled aloud. No wonder Stoltz trembled, for he spoke with the director of the Department of Corrections, Jerry Dickinson.
“No, Warden Stoltz, it most definitely is not a good evening. You’re running quite the shitshow over in Chino. One inmate is on the run, and another is making a serious accusation against you, which I have no reason to doubt is true. As of right now, you will reinstate the women’s privileges. Your job is to rehabilitate them, not to heap more punishment upon them. You can expect a visit from me tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp.” Director Dickinson ended the call without giving Stoltz an opportunity to defend himself.
“Need any more proof?” Tawny mocked him.
Hate replaced the lust in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Get on the intercom and make the announcement.”
Stoltz sputtered with indignation, followed by a string of vile expletives aimed at her. The veins in his neck and temples popped and pulsed with his rage. As he struggled to breathe, Tawny thought he might drop dead from a heart attack. She remained a safe distance away in case he lost his self-control and attacked her.
After drawing several deep breaths, Stoltz regained his composure. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and hit the intercom button. “This is Warden Stoltz speaking. All normal activities may resume at this time.” He slammed down the phone and glared at Tawny.
She imagined the cheers from the women throughout the prison, but they couldn’t hear them from their isolated position in Stoltz’s office. At the murderous expression on his face, Tawny sought to placate him. “You did the right thing, Warden, to avoid further alienating the women. This couldn’t have gone on much longer without a full-scale rebellion.”
“Led by you?”
She shook her head. “No. Not by me. I want to start fire classes and earn my way out of here.”
His anger abated a little, though he regarded her with suspicion. “That’s good to hear. Now, get out of here.”
Whitcomb waited for her. “That was some magic you pulled off.”
Tawny waved an invisible wand. “Warden Stoltz was the magician. He wanted to prove my lawyer was a fraud, so he allowed me to call her. He proved otherwise. It may not seem like it, but my lawyer has powerful connections, like the director of the DOC, for one.”
“No kidding. Well, no one’s gonna mess with you, then, Ginger.”
“My concern is for the inmates who were being unfairly punished.”
“Touching.”
He escorted her to the common room where she found Yolanda and Jo. They rushed toward her.
“T, you okay?’ Yolanda asked. “Old Stoltz sounded madder than a hornet on the loudspeaker.”
“Yeah, he did not want to do that.”
“So, what did you say to him to change his mind?”
“I called my lawyer, and she called the DOC.”
“Man, that took guts. Now what? Are we still goin’ to fire school?” For the first time since Tawny told her that she’d arranged a spot for her, Yolanda sounded excited about it.
“Oh, yeah. Stoltz wouldn’t dare rescind his offer. He doesn’t want to tangle with my lawyer. Plus, the director of the DOC will be here tomorrow in the morning. So spread the word. Everyone needs to be on her best behavior. And if he asks you anything, anything at all, you tell the truth. Got it?”
Yolanda and Jo nodded, and they split up to spread the news.
Later, in her cell, Tawny recorded the latest events and expressed her concern that she was drawing too much attention to herself. It was an innocuous reflection with a huge underlying meaning that no casual reader could interpret beyond the literal. Tawny wondered if Director Jerry Dickinson had any inkling of the true nature of the situation here at CIFW. In her journal, though, she wrote, Maybe things will improve after the director’s visit…
Tawny stopped writing mid-thought when a shadow fell over her journal. She glanced up and met the ramrod-straight figure of Grandma Mo, with whom she’d never spoken. She waited for the older woman to address her.
“It’s not wise to kick the hornet’s nest.”
Tawny shrugged. “It’s unintentional. You’re a lifer, right? No chance of parole? Why is it, then, that you’ve turned a blind eye to what’s happening in here?”
“And what do you think is happening?”
“Sexual abuse. Drug overdoses. Intimidation.”
Grandma Mo’s pale blue eyes narrowed speculatively behind a cheap pair of silver-framed glasses. “You don’t belong in here. And whatever change you’re hoping to effect won’t last after you’re gone. What’s worse is the hope you’re raising in these women that will be ripped away from them when you leave. Nothing will be left but their empty hearts.”
Tawny had nothing to say to that. She couldn’t erase the mistakes they’d made to land themselves in prison. But she could help Jo and Yolanda get released if they were victims of a conspiracy. And she could get justice for Lucy.
Grandma Mo pointed a bony finger at Tawny before she shuffled down the cell block.
As soon as their cell doors slid open the next morning, the women set about making the prison sparkle without being told to do so. They cleaned, scrubbed, straightened their messy cells, and hid contraband. On her hands and knees, Tawny scrubbed the bathroom floors and shower stalls. She hummed her and Finnigan’s favorite song, and others followed her lead. Soon, their humming accompanied the sounds of their cleaning. They spoke, when it was necessary, in quiet and respectful voices instead of the usual shouting. They cooperated with one another because they feared the consequences if they didn’t.
At precisely nine a.m., the atmosphere changed—charged with expectancy and trepidation. Tawny was in one of the classrooms conducting extra tutoring sessions to make up for lost time when an excited inmate burst through the door.
“He’s here!” she declared breathlessly.
“Okay, thanks.”
The inmate rushed off, and one of Tawny’s pupils asked, “What do we do now?”
“We keep on with our normal routine.”
Tawny deliberately kept herself hidden in the classroom as those who needed tutoring filtered in and out. Almost two and a half hours had passed since Director Jerry Dickinson’s arrival, and all remained quiet. While assisting Andee with one of her adult education classes online, Tawny’s worst fear materialized when Pomeroy entered the classroom.
“Director Dickinson wants to see you in the greenhouse.”
Tawny’s heart dropped into her stomach. The other women gazed at her with quizzical expressions on their faces.
“You gonna be okay?” Andee asked.
“Of course. Don’t worry about me. Worry about writing that essay for your American History class.”
As they strode toward the greenhouse near the flower garden, Pomeroy commented, “You’re getting a reputation in here.”
“Good or bad?”
“One that is causing Warden Stoltz quite a bit of concern.”
“He should save his concern for the women under his watch.”
“His job isn’t easy.”
“I agree. It’s also thankless. But he’s making it more difficult by his complete lack of empathy and mishandling of the prison environment.”
“That sounds like a speech you’ve rehearsed and intend to give to Director Dickinson.”
“Not really. I didn’t anticipate he’d want to talk with me.”
“You’re a complete mystery to me, Tawny.”
“Who me? I’m an open book.”
“Right. In a language no one can read.”
When they approached the greenhouse, Warden Stoltz hid his anger at this encroachment upon his authority behind a painted smile that did not reach his eyes. Tawny suspected that the morning hadn’t gone well for him.
Director Jerry Dickinson, a well-built, well-dressed man, approximately six feet tall with wheat-colored hair and brown eyes, separated himself from the warden and held out a large hand. “Ms. Westfall, hi. I’m Jerry Dickinson, director of the Department of Corrections.”
Tawny gripped his hand firmly. “Yes, sir. Hi.”
Director Dickinson turned his attention toward Stoltz and Pomeroy. “Please give us some privacy.” He opened the greenhouse door and indicated Tawny should go in ahead of him.
He didn’t waste any time on small talk. “So, you’re the pain in Warden Stoltz’s ass I’ve heard so much about.”
Tawny frowned. “I don’t understand. You sound as if you’ve heard my name before yesterday. From my lawyer?”
Director Dickinson smiled. “Oh, I heard an earful from TK Winchester, too. I’m referring to my niece, Wendy Corrigan.”
Tawny’s heart skipped a beat. “Your niece? May I ask a question?”
“Of course, but I can answer it before you ask. No, Warden Stoltz doesn’t know of our connection.”
“Then I can only assume that you’re aware of what’s been happening here.”
“I am. I’d like to hear your perspective.”
As they strolled through the greenhouse, Tawny carefully selected the details she wanted to share with the director. He listened and asked questions for clarification. He commented on the gardens and greenhouse, impressed by the inmates’ dedication to cultivating the flowers, vegetables, herbs, and plants.
“The women work really hard out here. They take pride in it,” Tawny shared.
“You didn’t say ‘we.’ Don’t you consider yourself one of them?”
Tawny halted and turned to face him. “Of course I do. It’s just that decades of care have gone into these gardens before I got incarcerated.”
“And they’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I still have business to discuss with Warden Stoltz. I appreciate your viewpoint from inside CIFW.”
They stood next to a section of multi-colored roses still in bloom this late in the year. Nearby, Stoltz eyed them warily.
“I’m surprised you shared your secret with me, sir.”
A broad smile crossed his face. He leaned closer to her and whispered, “I know yours, too, Sergeant Westfall.”
Tawny’s heart leaped into her throat.
After Director Dickinson’s visit to CIFW, the atmosphere improved. Some women courageously reported the guards who demanded sex in exchange for favors, and they were immediately suspended while the charges were investigated. Dickinson replaced them, a total of four, with two female and two male guards with impeccable reputations for fairness and following procedures. As a result, the inmates hooked on drugs brought in from the outside no longer had access to them. When they crashed, Dr. Sadler had her hands full treating their withdrawal symptoms. Warden Stoltz vocalized his concern, but his tone lacked warmth and sincerity. Most of the inmates ignored him. They recognized hypocrisy when they saw and heard it.
As the days passed without incident, news reports about the manhunt for escapee Bette Simpson died down. No one thought too much about it until Sunday, the night before Tawny and Yolanda were to begin fire classes.
They lounged in the common room, watching the newest season of one of their favorite TV shows on CBS, when breaking news interrupted the program. A news anchor narrated the horrifying scene unfolding on the screen. An LAPD helicopter shone a bright beacon down on a shadowy figure being chased into the fast-flowing Santa Ana River by several German shepherds. The figure, identified as escaped convict Bette Simpson, stopped long enough in her headlong flight to point what resembled a gun at the officers with the dogs. Everyone gasped when the officers opened fire on the figure. The picture quickly switched to the news anchor who recapped the tragedy.
In the aftermath of the news report, loud protests and curses erupted in the common room.
“Did you see that? The cops murdered Bette in cold blood!”
“We can’t let them get away with it!”
It took a minute or two for Tawny to register the familiarity of the scene on the news. Her heart pounded. Of course.
“It’s Fahrenheit 451 ,” she muttered. Then she shouted above the din as she became aware of the others’ agitation. “It’s Fahrenheit 451 !”
She’d snagged their attention. All eyes reverted to her.
“What is that?” Yolanda asked. “Some kind of code?”
“No. It’s the temperature at which paper burns.”
“What’s that got to do with Bette’s murder on live TV?” one belligerent woman demanded. “You all saw it! It’s time to riot!”
Some of the other inmates shouted their agreement with their hands balled into fists.
“ Fahrenheit 451 is a novel by Ray Bradbury, and it has everything to do with Bette’s murder because it was absolutely fake. The exact same scene occurred in the book when the corrupt government needed a scapegoat. Think about it. Did the camera zoom in on Bette’s face?”
“You’re trying to trick us,” the belligerent woman accused. “With your fancy book talk.”
“No, I’m not. Look, I’ll prove it to you. Yolanda, run to the library and get the copy of Fahrenheit 451 I saw on the shelf. It’s in the fiction section under B.”
The women moved restlessly and murmured threats of violence. Tawny couldn’t stop all of them from bolting from the common room to start a riot if that’s what they intended, but she’d take as many down as she could in the meantime. They heard a few shouts outside the common room, and the guards’ immediate response.
Hurry, Yolanda!
Tawny angled closer to the wide entrance of the common room as she kept a wary eye on the others whose undertones grew more menacing. The belligerent one stared at her, probably calculating whether she could beat Tawny in a fistfight. One on one? No. But if they ganged up on her…
Just as Tawny prepared to defend herself, Yolanda bounded into the common room, waving Fahrenheit 451 in her hand. “Got it!”
Tawny took it from her and quickly located the scene where the mechanical hounds beset upon an innocent man, and everyone watching the news was made to believe it was fireman Guy Montag who’d defied the government. Tawny provided context, then read the passage to the women gathered around her, who settled down and listened.
“Fuck,” the not-so-belligerent-now inmate swore. “That shit is real .”
The others murmured their agreement.
“If that wasn’t Bette, who was it?” Yolanda asked.
Tawny tilted her head. “I don’t think it was real. You can do amazing things with technology nowadays.”
“But who wants the public to think the cops killed Bette Simpson?” Yolanda voiced their perplexity.
Tawny wondered about that herself. “I don’t know. Trust me, though. Bette is alive, and she’s made someone desperate enough to fake what we saw. Now go spread the word before there’s a riot.”
“Will you read more of that book to us?” someone asked.
“Yolanda and I start fire classes tomorrow, but sure, I’ll read Part One to you after dinner,” Tawny promised.
“Good, because I like the way you read all dramatic-like.”
With a potential catastrophe averted, Tawny wearily made her way to her cell. She threw herself down on her bunk and folded her hands beneath her head. Her mind spun from the events of the past hour. Who had engineered the shooting of Bette Simpson? Since the DOC knew she was undercover, if Tawny had to guess, she would say it was a scheme cooked up between the Feds and local law enforcement. However, she questioned the wisdom of making it appear as though cops killed Bette. People who watched the event unfolding on TV would ignore the shadowy outline of a gun and only recall that a woman, whom Sheriff O’Grady described as non-threatening, was shot to death. She wondered if riots were happening outside the prison. She hoped not. She hoped a follow-up news report would clarify what happened.
But she couldn’t worry about that right now. Tomorrow would begin a new, and possibly more dangerous, phase of her undercover mission.