Read Online Money & Murder by David Bishop - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Bishop
Ads: Link
digs an emotional hole that refills with emptiness; ours was no exception.
Hemingway had said something like the best way to get over a woman is to get a new one. I hadn’t decided whether to take Hemingway’s advice or to write a novel, use her name, and have her killed—heinously. For a few weeks after I pulled the plug on our mutual effort, I considered both, a sort of double exorcism.
Then I met Clarice, who was bright and funny as well as passionate. The only problem, Clarice was married. I hadn’t known that, and I hadn’t bothered asking. My libido was screaming, “Any port in a storm,” and Clarice was a dock slip built to hold a good sized yacht so I powered on in.
* * *
The Long Beach jail, one of California’s largest, booked about eighteen thousand inmates annually. That seems like a huge number of bookings, but then Long Beach was California’s sixth largest city, and America’s thirty-eighth biggest with a population around half a million. To many people Long Beach doesn’t seem that big, probably because it butts up to Los Angeles without an obvious border crossing.
The chairs of the Long Beach jailhouse were all occupied with people jabbering in multiple languages. I figured all of them were talking about seeing a loved one and cursing someone else for the poor choices made by the loser they had come to visit. The air felt tight from the fear which grips everyone in a jail, even those working hard at showing tough. The mothers who had brought babies were trying to keep them from crying. But the babies had it right; a jail was a place that could make anyone cry.
For now, Clarice’s world was the place writers had given names like stir, the slammer, the joint, the pokie, and a thousand others. But not the big house, that name referred to prison not a jail. Whatever the name, except in the movies, escapes were rare. Once you went in, you stayed in until they let you walk out or they carried you out.
Eventually I was called through a heavy door and left to walk behind a row of uncomfortable looking chairs. Visitation was limited to fifteen minutes. I chose the first place to sit where the chairs to each side of me were not occupied by other visitors. A moment later, Clarice entered through a door like the one I had come through, only her door was on the inmate side of the glass partition. Her entrance started the clock on our fifteen minutes. She walked toward me behind a row of chairs on her side, forced a smile, not much of one, and sat down.
We were separated by a pane of glass as thick as old coke bottles. I picked up the dirty phone on my side. She picked up the dirty phone on her side. She put the flat of her other hand on the unbreakable glass, the pads of her fingers turning white from the pressure. I covered her hand with my own, the insulation of the cold glass denying me the heat from her fingers.
She ignored the tide of tears spilling through her black lashes. “The prosecutor convinced the judge I was a flight risk,” she said. “He denied bail. They photographed and fingerprinted me, then some dyke with a mustache long enough to curl felt me up during a strip search. After that I got shoved in the shower.”
By the time Clarice finished, her voice had raised several decibels. The visiting room guard walked over and leaned down next to her. I couldn’t see his face, but a good guess went something like: behave yourself or this visit’s over and that gorgeous fanny of yours goes back in lockup.
She lowered her head and nodded. The guard stepped back. I gave her a minute to compose herself.
I had called ahead to get the official words. Clarice Talmadge had been charged with capital murder, also known as first degree murder with special circumstances, under California Penal Code 187 (a). The fancy title meant that if she was found guilty of having murdered her husband for financial gain, one of more than twenty different situations which constitute capital murder in
Hemingway had said something like the best way to get over a woman is to get a new one. I hadn’t decided whether to take Hemingway’s advice or to write a novel, use her name, and have her killed—heinously. For a few weeks after I pulled the plug on our mutual effort, I considered both, a sort of double exorcism.
Then I met Clarice, who was bright and funny as well as passionate. The only problem, Clarice was married. I hadn’t known that, and I hadn’t bothered asking. My libido was screaming, “Any port in a storm,” and Clarice was a dock slip built to hold a good sized yacht so I powered on in.
* * *
The Long Beach jail, one of California’s largest, booked about eighteen thousand inmates annually. That seems like a huge number of bookings, but then Long Beach was California’s sixth largest city, and America’s thirty-eighth biggest with a population around half a million. To many people Long Beach doesn’t seem that big, probably because it butts up to Los Angeles without an obvious border crossing.
The chairs of the Long Beach jailhouse were all occupied with people jabbering in multiple languages. I figured all of them were talking about seeing a loved one and cursing someone else for the poor choices made by the loser they had come to visit. The air felt tight from the fear which grips everyone in a jail, even those working hard at showing tough. The mothers who had brought babies were trying to keep them from crying. But the babies had it right; a jail was a place that could make anyone cry.
For now, Clarice’s world was the place writers had given names like stir, the slammer, the joint, the pokie, and a thousand others. But not the big house, that name referred to prison not a jail. Whatever the name, except in the movies, escapes were rare. Once you went in, you stayed in until they let you walk out or they carried you out.
Eventually I was called through a heavy door and left to walk behind a row of uncomfortable looking chairs. Visitation was limited to fifteen minutes. I chose the first place to sit where the chairs to each side of me were not occupied by other visitors. A moment later, Clarice entered through a door like the one I had come through, only her door was on the inmate side of the glass partition. Her entrance started the clock on our fifteen minutes. She walked toward me behind a row of chairs on her side, forced a smile, not much of one, and sat down.
We were separated by a pane of glass as thick as old coke bottles. I picked up the dirty phone on my side. She picked up the dirty phone on her side. She put the flat of her other hand on the unbreakable glass, the pads of her fingers turning white from the pressure. I covered her hand with my own, the insulation of the cold glass denying me the heat from her fingers.
She ignored the tide of tears spilling through her black lashes. “The prosecutor convinced the judge I was a flight risk,” she said. “He denied bail. They photographed and fingerprinted me, then some dyke with a mustache long enough to curl felt me up during a strip search. After that I got shoved in the shower.”
By the time Clarice finished, her voice had raised several decibels. The visiting room guard walked over and leaned down next to her. I couldn’t see his face, but a good guess went something like: behave yourself or this visit’s over and that gorgeous fanny of yours goes back in lockup.
She lowered her head and nodded. The guard stepped back. I gave her a minute to compose herself.
I had called ahead to get the official words. Clarice Talmadge had been charged with capital murder, also known as first degree murder with special circumstances, under California Penal Code 187 (a). The fancy title meant that if she was found guilty of having murdered her husband for financial gain, one of more than twenty different situations which constitute capital murder in
Similar Books
