One guard waited by the door and the other stood behind Stark as he sat on the exam table. No one spoke for long moments.
Frankie took a step forward, Stark’s thin medical file in her left hand. He had been incarcerated for eight years, all but two of them in the SHU. Frankie had done her homework on the man and learned that he’d risen from obscurity in a level four ward – having been convicted of second-degree murder – to the SHU when admin realized he’d been running his white gang ruthlessly and efficiently.
Prison administration, not the courts, assigned inmates to the SHU. Strong gang activity had landed Stark there, where he’d subsequently murdered two cellmates. The medical record described Stark as a psychopath with no apparent affect toward others. Looking at his impassive face, Frankie believed the assessment.
She cleared her throat. “So, Mr. Stark, what’s troubling you?”
The eerie eyes, so pale blue they were almost albino, narrowed while he ran them contemplatively over her body from head to feet and back again, lingering on her breasts beneath the medical jacket. She struggled not to flinch.
She saw the door guard nod slightly and a second later the other guard smacked his baton down hard on Stark’s cuffed hands. The inmate blinked twice rapidly, but Frankie had the feeling that he’d braced himself for the blow because he smiled at her as if he’d just proved an important point. She felt her face lose color and her hands go numb. After nearly a year at Pelican Bay, she hadn’t gotten used to the casual brutality of prison life.
She addressed the guard who’d struck Stark. “Could you please lift up his shirt?” After a moment she began the exam, listening to his heart, lungs, feeling his throat for lumps or swollen glands. “Open wide and say ‘ah,’” she instructed. His throat and ears seemed clear of infection. She noticed Stark had remarkably little dental work done, but an amazingly sound set of teeth.
This close to his face she smelled the scent of peppermint on his breath. She shivered slightly, half expecting him to chew off her ear with those sturdy teeth.
“Cold, Dr. Jones?” Stark asked.
“Shut up, Stark.” The guard behind him prodded him in the back.
The whole domination thing suddenly irritated Frankie. “I can’t treat him if I don’t know his complaint,” she snapped.
The correctional officer by the door – his name badge said Mahoney – shrugged and nodded.
Frankie stepped back and crossed her arms. “What’s bothering you, Mr. Stark?”
Stark coughed, leaned his mouth into his shoulder, and eyed her darkly from under lowered brows. He was angled so that neither guard could see his face clearly.
“I’ve got this pain, Dr. Jones.” His voice was low and cultured. She remembered that he’d been a college teacher.
“Where?”
He coughed again, and she clearly saw him mouth the words: You. Here. Watch your back.
Not only the words implied a threat. The vicious look on Stark’s face was pure intimidation.
“Answer the doc,” Mahoney commanded.
“Here,” Stark said, jutting his chin toward his forehead. “In my head. A sharp pain. I can’t seem to get rid of it. What do you think I should do?”
The message was unmistakable.
Chapter 19
Santiago Cruz’s new parolee stopped by the county office just barely within the deadline of his release from Pelican Bay State Prison. He’d signed in and taken a seat, gotten jittery, and stepped outside for a smoke when Cruz called his name.
As Cruz shook his hand and offered Cole Hansen a chair in his office, he knew from the moment the man opened his mouth that he wasn’t going to make it. A wave of despondency gripped his gut.
Christ, it was like a revolving door. Inmate released. Inmate on parole for a month. Inmate violated and returned to jail or prison.
Bound by parole guidelines, Cruz only had so much latitude with parolees. If they attended AA or NA meetings – most of his cases were addicts – went to anger management classes, got a job, a place to live, they just might make it for a few months.
But the slightest setback moored them, often a girlfriend with the same negative history with cops, but just as often family who got sick of seeing the continual backslide. The road to recovery was two steps forward and one step back. And those were the lucky ones.
Recidivism rate for California parolees was sixty-one percent. Cruz took a deep breath and gave his normal spiel, ending with, “I won’t pee test you this time, but expect one every time you see me.”
He gave Hansen a hard stare. “Don’t let me find out you have a dirty pee test when I get the report,” he warned. “I don’t like surprises. If you hit a bump in the road, get out in front of it by telling me, okay?”
Hansen nodded, but had a distracted air that made Cruz think he wasn’t really listening.
“Hey, man.” Cruz raised his voice and rapped his knuckles on the desk. “This is important. You’ll end right back in jail real quick if you don’t listen up.”