He runs a $100-a-week tab at the Anchor Bar, keeps in touch with a friend who dealt weed in the Sixties, and sips bourbon from a Styrofoam cup on his drive home to the 'burbs. Now, Judge Nelson Connor of the Third Circuit Court is about to pay for his sins--big time. A fast-talking criminal has found one of His Honor's personal checks in the wrong place. Baiting his trap with a dead body, the con-man is going to shake down the judge. But Nelson Connor, a man on the brink of losing it all, will pull a surprise of his own. He's going to fight back.
He runs a $100-a-week tab at the Anchor Bar, keeps in touch with a friend who dealt weed in the Sixties, and sips bourbon from a Styrofoam cup on his drive home to the 'burbs. Now, Judge Nelson Connor of the Third Circuit Court is about to pay for his sins--big time. A fast-talking criminal has found one of His Honor's personal checks in the wrong place. Baiting his trap with a dead body, the con-man is going to shake down the judge. But Nelson Connor, a man on the brink of losing it all, will pull a surprise of his own. He's going to fight back.
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Overview
He runs a $100-a-week tab at the Anchor Bar, keeps in touch with a friend who dealt weed in the Sixties, and sips bourbon from a Styrofoam cup on his drive home to the 'burbs. Now, Judge Nelson Connor of the Third Circuit Court is about to pay for his sins--big time. A fast-talking criminal has found one of His Honor's personal checks in the wrong place. Baiting his trap with a dead body, the con-man is going to shake down the judge. But Nelson Connor, a man on the brink of losing it all, will pull a surprise of his own. He's going to fight back.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466860889 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Press |
| Publication date: | 03/14/2025 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 319 |
| File size: | 373 KB |
About the Author
Rolling Stone and the Detroit News. In 1988, he entered the world of true-crime writing, publishing his first book, Masquerade. He later went on to write the New York Times bestseller House of Secrets. More recently, he has begun writing and producing crime documentaries and made his directorial debut in 2012 with the film Men in a Box.
Read an Excerpt
Marker
By Lowell Cauffiel
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1997 Lowell CauffielAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-6088-9
CHAPTER 1
The word was proactive. Lawrence Gary decided he needed to go proactive, the revelation coming the day he asked Tino Dentz if he knew the thinking behind those two signs hanging in the mess hall — two giant smiley faces with HAVE A NICE DAY! Right there in the State Prison of Southern Michigan.
"I'm down with you, man," Dentz said. He dipped his spoon into red beans and rice. "Maybe they gonna cook us Big Macs in here one day."
Gary pointed with his fork, staying with the subject. "No, Tino, I'll give you a clue. Those signs do dictate the mood in here, but not in a way you might think."
Dentz looked up, seeing now what Gary saw: One sign on the east wall, the other on the north. Both four by four feet, black outline on chalk white, no yellow fill-in on the smiley face. Both in six-inch-deep frames, bolted to white cement block, a good ten feet above three hundred level-four prisoners eating at small square tables, another fifty cons still in line.
"You saying they really one-way glass?" Dentz asked. "Like in the county?"
Gary pointed over his shoulder. "No, dig, Tino. Behind me. That skybox with the slits. That's where they're checking you out."
Dentz glanced up, seeing the gun turret.
Gary said, "Guy on my rock says they've got a correction officer in there with a thirty-aught-six while we chow."
"It's prison, ain't it?" Dentz said. "So what?"
"So, I'm saying the gun, the skybox, the smiley faces, they're all part of the same thing. They all go together. Can't you see it?"
Dentz pushed his stainless-steel tray to the center of the table. He thought about what Gary was saying for a good half minute, his tongue searching for bean skins in his teeth.
"People who run this place put the signs up there to fuck with us, Gary," Dentz finally said. "That's all those signs are for. To fuck with us. Every time we eat."
"You sweethearts always chow down alone?"
Gary looked up. The lifer was standing over them, his hands squeezing his tray. His chest and arms looked as if they still had a good pump from the weight pen in Building 19.
Gary motioned. The lifer sat down between them. Gary watched him carefully open his milk carton, his closely trimmed nails and stubby fingers struggling a little with the seal. He saw two tattoos: A winged Harley wheel on his left forearm, a burning cross on the right, on Tino Dentz's side.
Tino Dentz waited until the man put the milk to his lips, then stood up slowly, rising six feet in his black prison shoes, the corrugated Vibram soles giving him the final inch. Dentz reached down and scratched his balls, making sure the lifer had an eye-level view.
When Dentz sat back down, the lifer said, "So what you sweethearts in for?"
"Armed robbery," Gary said. "Plus, a mandatory two."
Dentz folded his arms, his eyes on something distant, his tongue back to work in the crevices in his teeth.
The lifer motioned with his head at Dentz. "What about your boyfriend here?"
"We came in together," Gary said.
"Same case?"
Gary nodded.
"Same bit?"
"That's what the man said, didn't he?" Dentz said, still staring off into space. "And he ain't my fucking boyfriend, you dig?"
The lifer looked over, shrugging as if it didn't matter. "So what you rip?" he asked.
"A Knights of Columbus hall," Gary said.
The lifer squinted. "Man, they don't keep a fucking thing in those."
Gary, lifting his eyebrows, said, "When there's a big wedding inside they do."
The lifer thought about it, nodding a couple times, as if to say, Yeah, that wasn't a bad idea.
He began eating his rice.
This, Gary later decided, was an important juncture. If he'd been proactive — if he, as the Webster's defined it, had been "serving to prepare for, intervene in or control an expected occurrence or situation" — he would have changed the subject right then and there.
But he didn't.
He turned to Dentz and said, "And there was supposed to be a big wedding in there that night."
Dentz said, "Don't you fucking look at me. You should have checked it out for yourself, Gary. Before me and Bobby hit the door."
The lifer glanced up from his tray.
Gary thought about the smiley faces. He was thinking that maybe Tino Dentz just didn't have the cognitive ability to interpret detail, see it as part of a larger scheme.
"You know I've been thinking," Gary said. "Did you happen to notice all those sweaters when you and Bobby got inside."
"Sweaters?" Dentz said.
"There were what, a hundred men in the hall?"
"Maybe a hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty. So what?"
"Maybe half them were wearing sweaters, right?"
The lifer chewed, his eyes were following their words.
"I wasn't looking for sweaters, Gary," Dentz said. "I was looking for the wall you wanted us to find."
The way Lawrence Gary remembered the job, he wanted Tino Dentz and Bobby Tank to find quite a bit more than that. He'd cased the hall three straight weekends. Observed three wedding receptions, taking his cameras into the last one, moving easily through the crowd. He'd photographed the general layout and the exits and the little stage. He'd shot damn near everything, even the bride and groom. Then he showed Tino and Bobby all the views, emphasizing the wall where they could line everybody up and pass the trash bag. And since it was a wedding, Gary remembered telling them, You search the groom. You check between the bride's tits, a move that intrigued Dentz from the start. Gary waited in the car. He'd always waited. And he never left the crew, even on that Saturday night.
Gary said, "Let me put it this way. Did you see a tux?"
Dentz blinked.
"Did you see one woman in a white dress or any bitches in matching gowns?"
Dentz still was unaware of where Gary was going, but the lifer was catching his drift.
"You see a lot of guys in sweaters," Gary continued. "Maybe a few in sport coats. But no formal wear. Doesn't that tell you something, my man?"
The lifer's eyebrows went up.
"I was inside," Dentz said. "You were outside. At the time, the party looked real fresh. The way I was seeing it at least."
"All right," Gary said. "That's fair. So fucking tell me exactly what you did see, Tino. I'd like to know."
Dentz began going over it for himself now, as if he was there again. " ... So we hit the door. We're not showing them anything. Not right away. We're checking it out. I'm checking out the deejay. Bobby, checking the exits. Like we agreed. I see the wall. The bar's on the right, just like you showed us in the pictures. And most the guys were at the bar. I mean lined up, thick."
"Then?" Gary asked.
"Bobby says, 'Let's do it.' Once we open our coats, we are committed. You pull out a twelve in a situation like that, you are committed, Gary."
The lifer looked up, saying, "I'd have to agree with the man on that."
Dentz ignored the lifer.
Gary nodded. "So, you did look around? That's good."
"Yeah, I looked around. I can't speak for Bobby. But I fucking looked around."
"And you said you saw a deejay."
"Saw his sign, too."
"A sign?"
"Yeah, big one."
"You never said anything about a sign before. What sign was that?"
"Hanging behind him on the stage."
"You mean a banner?"
"Like I said, a sign. Deejay had a fucked-up name."
"Fucked up how?"
"Wayne Fope."
"What?"
"Wayne Fope."
"Spell it."
"F–O–P. Fope. 'Cause I remembering thinking before I pulled the twelve out of my coat, That gotta be the most wack deejay name I ever seen."
"Wack?" the lifer asked.
"Yeah, fucked-up," Dentz said.
The lifer began laughing, the bald spot on his head turning a freckled red.
"Yo, what you laughing at, motherfucker?" Dentz asked, reaching for his tray to leave.
The lifer caught his breath. "Wayne is Wayne County. You stupid fucking nigger, F–O–P is the Fraternal Order of Police."
Gary later thought what Tino Dentz did next was like the trick where a guy pulls a tablecloth out from under china and candelabra. He thought that because when Dentz removed the tray, his plate and utensils stayed on the table. One smooth move, coming up and over with both hands, putting his body into it.
The tray slammed hard into the lifer's face.
The lifer on his feet now, but blinking like somebody with sand thrown in his eyes.
Gary jumped up and backpedaled.
Dentz up now, swinging the tray again, finishing off the lifer, then turning the tray sideways and landing it just under the chin of a con who charged from the adjacent table. The con on the floor. The other table, Gary later realized, manned by the lifer's block crew.
Another con on his feet now, juking a little.
"Yo, motherfucker, you want some?" Dentz barked. "I got plenty to go around."
The entire mess hall up now, yelling.
But not long. The third and final shot from the thirty-aught-six in the gun turret was followed by dead silence. Jesus, Gary thought, that fucking rifle was loud.
His eyes went to the east wall, the debris floating down from HAVE A NICE DAY. Three chunks blown out of the smile, simply confirming what he was trying get Tino Dentz to see, the smiley faces being bullet backstops.
Later, Gary decided it would be fruitless to try to explain. At his disciplinary hearing, he simply maintained that he was not the source of the trouble. He just happened to be around it. The story of his life, really. But the hearing officer didn't see it that way. Everyone who left a table got ninety days in administrative segregation.
That's where going proactive came in. In the hole, Lawrence Gary began thinking about all those signs nobody was reading. He told himself, shit, if he was taking the rap anyway, maybe he ought to be calling the moves.
As far as he was concerned, the writing was on the wall.
* * *
They did most their time in Eleven Block at SMPC. Few people called the prison SMPC. They called it Jackson, the name of the Michigan city where it was located. Or Jacktown. Gary learned that Jackson was the largest walled correctional facility in the world. And it had that Cagney flick look. Built in the twenties. A dozen five-tier housing units on fifty-seven acres, the place shaped liked the Pentagon, with industrial buildings, guard towers, the whole ball of wax.
Gary consoled himself with that at first, looked forward to being able to say it when he got out. Lawrence Gary, twenty-eight, doing three to five, his first bit, at the biggest walled prison on earth. Two years mandatory, for use of the firearm. They'd stuck Gary with that, too, being they'd found Tino Dentz's Ruger under his car seat the night all those sweaters charged out of the Knights of Columbus hall, their sidearms drawn.
But in the final analysis, Lawrence Gary would have to say Jackson fell short of his expectations. He'd heard before going in that the tiers in the housing units were painted different colors, that the warden believed pastels kept prisoners calm. Instead, there was a new warden, and the entire block was painted sandstone. The warden's staff claimed it was beige. But Gary knew his colors, and it was fucking sandstone. Sandstone, black-and-white TVs, and noise, all the six-by-nines with open bars. No doors like the new prisons. Niggers yelling and talking trash twenty-four hours a day. And Gary, being a former student of the fine arts, had trouble tuning it out. The right side of his brain, the creative side, was hardwired, he believed. The noise. The lack of color. His brain. The combination sometimes made him feel as if he was doing time on bad acid laced with speed.
In the county, he'd also heard that Jacktown had a prison newspaper, complete with a full photo lab, and an art deco auditorium for theater productions and guest acts like B. B. King. That was gone, too, the auditorium gutted after a woman guard was raped and murdered under the stage. The Spectator was still there, but the warden had ordered the photo lab removed. The newspaper staff no longer had run of the prison, but had to obtain a call-out to put a story together, the bulls watching them everywhere they went.
Tino Dentz snagged a job first, in the sign factory, making $2.62 a day, toting around the silkscreens and metal signs.
"What kind of signs?" Gary asked.
"Freeway signs and those little ones that go up in neighborhoods."
"Stop signs?"
"No, the ones that say, 'This area protected by Neighborhood Watch.'"
Gary thought that was a good job for Dentz, that it might do something for his power of observation. Dentz thought it was sweet, too, until they ganged him up for an outside work detail. The gang spent a day putting up street signs at a place called Cherry Hill.
"You know what that is, Gary?"
The editor of the Spectator had already told Gary. "That's where they bury the cons that don't get out of here. If the family don't claim 'em. Six hundred and fifty-seven in there at last count."
Dentz said he'd received a letter from his mother. That she had something going for him outside when he got out. But if he fucked up again ... "She disowning me," he said.
"So," Gary said. "You spend a lot of time with your mother?"
"That's not the point," Dentz said. "The point is I ain't fucking ending up out there."
Gary thought about the glossy he'd seen of the cemetery in the Spectator photo file. A bunch of stones the size of paperbacks lined up in rows. It reminded him of Arlington National Cemetery, on a tiny scale. Shit, he didn't think it looked that bad.
Lawrence Gary didn't get his bearings in Jackson until the day he came across a book in the library called The Art of Negotiation. In fact, reading that little book was a brain-balancing experience. The author laid out all the angles, his underlying premise being that negotiation was both gratifying and rewarding for opposing parties, not something to be feared, the way most people did on a car lot. The book fed right into his new proactive philosophy. He politely declined a two-buck job in the shoe factory, easily negotiating his way down to an assignment most of the cons considered chump change. He took Polaroids of inmates and their visitors, which only paid $1.26, but got him called out of Eleven Block at least three or four times a day. Soon, he was shooting for the Spectator. Then, he slid into a second position in the law library, clerking books and periodicals like Lawyers Weekly two days a week. The mobility of one job and the content of the other married into his own gig. He started a clipping service for inmates doing major time. The Detroit Legal News reported some appellate decisions long before many of the cons' court-appointed attorneys ever did. So he kept the cons in xeroxed copies, negotiating various favors — Kools for himself, other favors for Tino, mainly — in return for keeping them well informed.
Still, Gary thought Bobby Tank got the best deal. Two years mandatory, simply for coughing up a written statement for the prosecutor about the K of C heist. They sent Bobby to the Gus Harrison Regional Facility, which Gary heard looked like a community college with razor wire.
"Bobby out and back in Detroit," Dentz said one day. "That's what a guy who just transferred over from Gus said. He didn't go back to West Virginia."
Gary didn't think Bobby Tank would ever go back, not the way he used to talk about Marshall County, saying all it had was pussy that bore a family resemblance, and coal.
Tino Dentz said he was lucky RGC hadn't shipped him to Marquette, a Level 5 and 6 prison for violent offenders. But one of the paralegals in the library told Gary luck had nothing to do with it, though Dentz claimed he had a long juvenile record in Detroit. He started running scag for Young Boys Incorporated at thirteen. Ten-dollar packs, with names like ".44 Magnum" stamped on them, a marketing breakthrough in its day. By sixteen, he'd moved up to the YBI wrecking crew. Gary thought the whole chronology might be a story, until one of the paralegals said that the juvie file didn't follow you into the adult system. That was the genius of YBI, Gary decided. The brains never handled the powder, or did the heavy work. They made decisions. And at eighteen, the youngsters were free to move on to bigger and better things with a clean sheet.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Marker by Lowell Cauffiel. Copyright © 1997 Lowell Cauffiel. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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