The Almighty Part 7

'Death Row is on the third floor of the Hospital-Segregation Building. It's actually the wing called 35 K gallery. The cell I was in, the one Yinger is in -well, what's to say about it? A cell's a cell. You've seen plenty of them in prison movies.'

'Yes, but I'd like you to describe it.' 'It's a small, gloomy room. There's a cot. There's a toilet with no seat. There's a sink on one wall. Also a water fountain. There's a peephole in the ceiling so the guard on the walkway above can check you out from time to time. You don't get what the other cons get.' 'Meaning what?'

'Meaning you don't get to eat in the mess hall with the rest. You get your rations in your room. You can have cigarettes, but no matches. You want a light, a guard lights you up. Your pants better fit, because you can't have a belt. Same with your shoes. No shoelaces. You can borrow a safety-lock razor, but you've got to give it back after shaving.' 'Do the guards ever let you out of the cell?' 'One hour a day, for supervised exercise. And when you have visitors.'

'You can have visitors?' Victoria asked.

'My old lady used to visit me, and my older sister. Also my lawyer. Also a doctor, and my old lady's priest. Anybody else has to have a court order.'

'How did you spend your time, Mr. Pagano? I mean in the days before your proposed execution date.'

'Me, I was different. I read books, mostly legal books. I kept writing up briefs, appeals, letters to the press. I had no time for nothing else. But Sam Yinger - naw, no chance he'd ever crack a book or write a single thing.' 'Would he read newspapers?'

'No newspapers allowed. My guess is he's probably watching television most of the time.'

'Television?' said Victoria. 'You mean they let you have a television set?'

'Yeah, sure. Didn't I tell you? Green Haven's a so-called civilized slammer. But Yinger's never going to know how the characters in his favorite soaps make out.'

He grinned at Victoria, and she tried to smile back. Gus Pagano appraised her awhile as she wrote.

After she had finished writing, he said slyly, 'Of course, I didn't tell you how I spent all of my spare time.'

She knit her brow. 'I'm not sure I understand you. I thought you had no spare time?'

'I had some,' he said mysteriously. 'Hey, mind if I smoke?' She pushed an ashtray toward him as he put the flame of his lighter to a cigarette.

He inhaled deeply once, seemed to consider saying something, and finally said it. 'Tell you a funny thing,' he said. His demeanor and tone were serious. 'The funny thing is, I could have got him out.' 'Got whom out?'

'Yinger, Sam Yinger. I could have got him out of prison, saved him at the last minute from getting fried, but I didn't do it because he doesn't deserve to live. Anybody that kills six poor little children - anybody like that deserves to die. But I could have got him out if I wanted.' 'You could? How?'

Pagano reconsidered briefly. He drew on his cigarette in silence, then gave Victoria a wink. 'Just between us, for the h.e.l.l of it,' he said quietly. "Off the record. Do I have your word?' 'You have my word,' she said wonderingly.

'Just to show you what goes on that people don't know about, not even Yinger. I can trust you?'

36.

'I promise.'

'Okay, I'll tell you.' He waited for Victoria to put down her pad and pen.

Rapidly, in an undertone, he began to talk again.

Two hours later, just before lunch, Victoria sat tautly in front of Ollie McAllister's desk and strained to catch a flicker of reaction on his face as he read her feature story on Sam Yinger's Death Row cell.

The managing editor was a veteran nonreactor. There was no expression on his face as he continued reading Victoria's story to the end and put it down.

'It's well written, of course,' said McAllister, 'but -'

The 'but' hung ominously in the air.

'- I don't know,' McAllister concluded. 'Basically, the piece is weak. No human information.'

'I used everything Pagano gave me,' said Victoria defensively, 'only he wasn't able to give me enough. He hardly knew Sam Yinger at all, let alone knowing anything about Yinger's feelings and emotions. Their cell, well, what's to say - there was nothing personalized about it. Pagano's smart all right, but he simply didn't have anything more to give. The best information he had was something we can't use.'

"We can't use? Why not?'

'Pagano said it was not for publication. He made me promise not to use it.'

'Promise not to use what?' McAllister asked mildly.

'The story about the escape tunnel that's been dug below Yinger's maximum security cell across the prison yard and under the concrete prison wall.'

'A tunnel, did you say?'

'A tunnel that goes from Death Row to the outside.'

'A real tunnel?'

'According to Gus Pagano, it's there and it's real. After Green Haven was built and became operative, one of the first Death Rowers discovered a vent cover that could be detached in this particular cell, and there was room enough for a man to squeeze into the vent shaft and lower himself down a pipe to an abandoned subbas.e.m.e.nt. He calculated that a tunnel could be dug from this room to a place just beyond the prison wall, but it would take a number of years. Using some old tools that he found in the room, he started the tunnel. He desposited all dirt in that little-used storage room. He was executed before he got very far. But he was able to pa.s.s on word of it to the next occupant of his cell. So each occupant. dug further, hoping to be the one to use it. When Gus Pagano was thrown into the cell, he soon learned about the tunnel. There wasn't too far to go to complete it. With all the delays and postponements that Pagano got, he was able to finish the job. He planned to use the escape route if he didn't receive a reprieve. But he did get the reprieve and he had no reason to escape. When he heard that Sam Yinger was to replace him in that cell, he decided not to tell Yinger about the tunnel. Because he hated Yinger and didn't think he should be free.' Victoria 37 caught her breath. 'Yinger has the means to escape, but doesn't know about it. What a great story!

What a pity we can't use it.'

McAllister's eyes held on her. 'It is a shame,' he agreed. 'And you promised Pagano we wouldn't use it?' 'Yes. I gave a solemn promise, I swore to it.' He sighed. 'Then that's that.' He came to his feet.

He held up Victoria's story. 'I want to go in and show this to Harry Dietz, our publisher's a.s.sistant,'

he said. 'See if we can do something with your story, salvage it in some way. Thanks for a good first effort. We'll have something else for you tomorrow.'

After Victoria had gone, McAllister pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton on his telephone and stood by until he heard Harry Dietz respond.

'Ollie here,' McAllister said. 'Could I come over and see you for a moment?'

'Can it wait?' Dietz asked. 'I'm really busy.' He paused. 'Is it urgent?'

'It's urgent.'

'Okay. I'll see you now.'

When McAllister entered Dietz's office, he found Dietz standing before a wall mirror combing his sandy hair. Once he was satisfied, Dietz pocketed his comb and returned to his desk.

'What is it, Ollie?'

The managing editor handed him Victoria's story. 'It's from Victoria Weston. Her first piece for us.

She got the material from Gus Pagano. I'd like you to have a look at it.'

Dietz gestured McAllister to a chair, sat comfortably in his tall suede-covered swivel chair, and skimmed the story. When he finished, he handed the typed pages back to McAllister with a show of disgust. 'It's a piece of s.h.i.+t,' Dietz said. 'She can write, but Pagano gave her nothing to write about.

You didn't come here to bother me with this story, did you?'

'No, I didn't,' said McAllister calmly. 'I came to tell you something she didn't put in the story.'

Dietz was instantly attentive. 'Go on.'

'Pagano told her he was one of many who had been digging a secret escape tunnel from beneath Sam Yinger's Death Row cell to the outside. Yinger doesn't know about the tunnel. Of course, Pagano told her about it off the record.'

Only Dietz's small eyes reacted, narrowing. 'Tell me more, Ollie.'

In an effective, contained monotone, McAllister related the details of the Green Haven prison tunnel. When he had finished, he shrugged his shoulders. 'I thought this was something you should know,' he said casually.

Dietz sat up. 'You've told me everything?'

'Everything I know.'

'Very interesting,' said Dietz. He tendered the managing editor a tight-lipped wisp of a smile. 'That was smart of you, coming right in here with that.'

'I thought it was something you and Mr. Armstead would want to know.'

'Yes, I'm sure he'll be interested. He'll appreciate your -your sharpness - and your loyalty.'

38.

'I know you can't do anything with it,' said McAllister, 'but I thought you should be informed of every tidbit.'

Dietz considered him briefly. 'As no doubt you, and everyone else suspects, with a new management taking over the Record there will be a reappraisal of the staff. Inevitably, some major changes will be made. Mr. Armstead intends to clean house, sweep out some of the incompetents that his father kept on. When your name comes up, I'll be sure to remember this. It may be only a tidbit, as you say, but pa.s.sing it on shows a certain alertness that we're looking for and appreciate. It is also evidence you are on our side. Continue to keep your eyes and ears open for us. Of course, I'll see that Mr. Armstead is informed.' 'Thank you, Harry.'

Edward Armstead had been sitting squarely behind his ma.s.sive oak desk, staring up at the row of Yugoslavian primitive paintings on the office wall as he listened to Harry Dietz.

After ten minutes there was no more that Dietz could add. 'There it is, Chief,' he said.

Armstead continued to stare at his paintings, absorbing what he had heard. Slowly a smile opened on his face. He swung his attention to Dietz. 'Beautiful,' he said. 'Just beautiful, Harry.'

'We must keep in mind that Pagano told her this was off the record.'

Armstead's smile disappeared, and he seemed to examine his a.s.sistant's face to see if he was serious or not. 'Pagano said off the record? You're not serious, are you? Who in the f.u.c.k is Pagano? A tinhorn crook whose neck we saved. Screw Pagano. Whatever is off the record - that's what we're going to publish from now on.'

Dietz indicated his a.s.sent. 'You're going to run the story, then?'

'I'm not going to run it,' said Armstead. 'I'm going to do better than that.' He savored the information he had just heard. 'An unused and unknown escape tunnel running from Sam Yinger's cell to freedom. What if Sam Yinger knew about that tomorrow?' Armstead was all action now.

'Let's not waste any time, Harry. Find out the name of Yinger's attorney. Call him and tell him to meet me for a drink at Perigord Park at seven tonight. If he gives you a ha.s.sle about being tied up - tell him to get untied. Tell him this is really important.'

Ymger's defense attorney, George Tatum, was waiting for Edward Armstead when the publisher arrived at Perigord Park. He was seated alone in a booth to the left of the entrance in the otherwise empty room. He was a pale, middle-aged man wearing thick gla.s.ses and an unfas.h.i.+onable brown suit. He had probably not received as much attention in his entire life, Armstead surmised, as he had received in the Sam Yinger case. He certainly had never been in this fancy restaurant before.

George Tatum was nursing a drink when Armstead approached him.

Armstead stuck out his hand, introducing himself, then called over his shoulder for a double scotch and water as he pushed himself into the seat across from the lawyer.

Tatum seemed embarra.s.sed about his drink. 'I thought I'd get started,' he said. 'It's been a long day.'

'By all means,' said Armstead, unpeeling a cigar. He guessed that Tatum was impressed to be with him. Impressed, and curious.

'Do you know why I wanted to see you?' Armstead asked.

39.

'Only that it is about my client, Mr. Yinger, and - and that it is important.'

'Correct on both counts,' Armstead acknowledged, accepting his drink from the waiter. He tasted his drink, a.s.sessing his tactic with the lawyer, and swallowed slowly. Armstead put his gla.s.s down, lit his cigar, then exhaled a puff of smoke. 'I'll tell you why I wanted to see you,' said Armstead.

'You know I'm the publisher of the New York Record.'

'Yes, of course.'

'What would you say if I told you I'd like one of our reporters to have an exclusive interview with your client before his execution?'

Tatum's disappointment was immediate. 'I'm afraid,' he said with reluctance, 'I'd have to say that's impossible.'

'Absolutely impossible?'

Tatum pushed the thick gla.s.ses higher on his nose. 'Mr. Armstead, believe me, it would be impossible.'

Having expected this reply, Armstead remained nonchalant. He sucked at his cigar until it was aglow again. 'AH right, let's try it another way. How much would you like to see your client go free?'

'Go free?' Tatum was plainly bewildered. 'He can't go free. He's condemned to death. He's going to the chair the morning after next. I spent the entire day trying to get the governor to modify Mr. Yinger's sentence from death to life. The governor turned us down. It's the chair for sure.'

Armstead measured his words. 'Mr. Tatum, I'm not asking you if your client can go free. I am asking you how much you want to see him go free.'

Tatum's bewilderment remained. 'I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Armstead. I am Mr. Yinger's defense attorney. I defended him. I tried to get him free. I appealed the verdict. I went to the governor. I've done my job.'