off to Otisville and leave him there. But then, at trial time, as though it wasn't tough enough to be on trial in a federal court, they'd throw in this commute, just to help you keep on your toes.
Meehan packed everything into his ditty bag, put on the zippered cotton jacket he'd worn when they'd picked him up, and left his little cell for the last time. Out in the star chamber, Johnson sat at a plastic table, cheating at solitaire. Looking up, eying the guards, he said, “Hey. Where
you
going?”
“Otisville.”
Johnson made a face. “Fuck me,” he said.
“Yeah, well.” Meehan saw no point in mentioning his suspicions of Johnson.
He and the guards went out to the elevators and rode down to 2, for his check-out, which consisted of impersonal clerks, a lot of paperwork, and a moment where, under everybody's indifferent eye, he changed out of their brown jumpsuit into his own gray work shirt and black chino pants.
At the end came the shackles. The shackles was a loose chain around the waist, with a short chain linking it to handcuffs and a longer chain linking it to ankle cuffs. Dressed like that, you shuffled, with your hands at your belt.
Another elevator took the three of them down to the loading dock and departure area, with a big broad opening onto St. George Place, the narrow one-way street at the back of the MCC. The Otisville bus was there, a dozen guys on line, shuffling forward with their hands at their belts, going through the cumbersome motions of climbing up into a bus with shackles on, looking like elephants climbing into a treehouse.
Meehan turned in that direction, the ditty bag bouncing against the front of his thighs, both hands holding the handle. He just had time to notice that all those guys were still in their orange or brown jumpsuits when the guard on that side of him gave him a poke on the shoulder and pointed. “That way.”
What way? What other way was there? There was never anything but one way.
But why had they put him in civvies? Meehan looked where the guard pointed, and a small anonymous black sedan was there, within the loading area but pointed out, exhaust puffing from its tail pipe.
The devil you know. Meehan looked over his shoulder at what looked now like the safety of the Otisville bus, but shuffled the other way instead, toward the black sedan, trailed by the guards.
They approached the sedan from its right side, and as they got near, the front door on this side opened and a very tall skinny guy in a dark suit and tie and black topcoat got out. Not quite looking at Meehan, he opened the rear door, and Meehan understood that was where he was supposed to go. He shuffled to the car, paused to figure out how to get into the back seat, and the tall skinny guy took the ditty bag from his hands, saying, “Allow me,” still not exactly looking at Meehan.
“Thanks.”
Meehan bent down, to judge his approach, and was not completely surprised to see Jeffords in there, smiling a welcome at him from the far side of the back seat.
4
O NCE MEEHAN MANAGED to get his shackled feet into the car and flat on the floor, the tall skinny guy shut his door and carried himself and Meehan's ditty bag to the front seat, where he put the bag on the floor next to his own feet, then shut his door. A solid
clunk
sounded inside the door beside Meehan, and, he realized, the same sound came from all the other doors as well. “So we're child-proof now,” he said, and Jeffords chuckled.
They were four in the car, the other being the driver; what Meehan could see of him was meaty shoulders in dark wool, flat ears, fat rolls on the back of the neck, and a Dick Tracy hat squared off on his head. He lifted that head to look at Jeffords in the mirror and say, “All set?”
“Ready to roll,” Jeffords told him.
The driver put the sedan in gear and drove out to St. George Place, where there was never any traffic, because it was a one-way street, it was one block long, and it went from nowhere to
Meehan packed everything into his ditty bag, put on the zippered cotton jacket he'd worn when they'd picked him up, and left his little cell for the last time. Out in the star chamber, Johnson sat at a plastic table, cheating at solitaire. Looking up, eying the guards, he said, “Hey. Where
you
going?”
“Otisville.”
Johnson made a face. “Fuck me,” he said.
“Yeah, well.” Meehan saw no point in mentioning his suspicions of Johnson.
He and the guards went out to the elevators and rode down to 2, for his check-out, which consisted of impersonal clerks, a lot of paperwork, and a moment where, under everybody's indifferent eye, he changed out of their brown jumpsuit into his own gray work shirt and black chino pants.
At the end came the shackles. The shackles was a loose chain around the waist, with a short chain linking it to handcuffs and a longer chain linking it to ankle cuffs. Dressed like that, you shuffled, with your hands at your belt.
Another elevator took the three of them down to the loading dock and departure area, with a big broad opening onto St. George Place, the narrow one-way street at the back of the MCC. The Otisville bus was there, a dozen guys on line, shuffling forward with their hands at their belts, going through the cumbersome motions of climbing up into a bus with shackles on, looking like elephants climbing into a treehouse.
Meehan turned in that direction, the ditty bag bouncing against the front of his thighs, both hands holding the handle. He just had time to notice that all those guys were still in their orange or brown jumpsuits when the guard on that side of him gave him a poke on the shoulder and pointed. “That way.”
What way? What other way was there? There was never anything but one way.
But why had they put him in civvies? Meehan looked where the guard pointed, and a small anonymous black sedan was there, within the loading area but pointed out, exhaust puffing from its tail pipe.
The devil you know. Meehan looked over his shoulder at what looked now like the safety of the Otisville bus, but shuffled the other way instead, toward the black sedan, trailed by the guards.
They approached the sedan from its right side, and as they got near, the front door on this side opened and a very tall skinny guy in a dark suit and tie and black topcoat got out. Not quite looking at Meehan, he opened the rear door, and Meehan understood that was where he was supposed to go. He shuffled to the car, paused to figure out how to get into the back seat, and the tall skinny guy took the ditty bag from his hands, saying, “Allow me,” still not exactly looking at Meehan.
“Thanks.”
Meehan bent down, to judge his approach, and was not completely surprised to see Jeffords in there, smiling a welcome at him from the far side of the back seat.
4
O NCE MEEHAN MANAGED to get his shackled feet into the car and flat on the floor, the tall skinny guy shut his door and carried himself and Meehan's ditty bag to the front seat, where he put the bag on the floor next to his own feet, then shut his door. A solid
clunk
sounded inside the door beside Meehan, and, he realized, the same sound came from all the other doors as well. “So we're child-proof now,” he said, and Jeffords chuckled.
They were four in the car, the other being the driver; what Meehan could see of him was meaty shoulders in dark wool, flat ears, fat rolls on the back of the neck, and a Dick Tracy hat squared off on his head. He lifted that head to look at Jeffords in the mirror and say, “All set?”
“Ready to roll,” Jeffords told him.
The driver put the sedan in gear and drove out to St. George Place, where there was never any traffic, because it was a one-way street, it was one block long, and it went from nowhere to
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