Martinis and Mayhem Read online

  We reached the door at the end of the hallway. Yet another guard was there to greet us. He started to pull out his keys, but Pratt stopped him. The warden turned to me and said, “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I wasn’t especially keen on your visiting. Frankly, I don’t see much good coming from it. These may be women, but they’re hard as any man. Some of them are murderers. Bank robbers. No pleasant talk about writing is going to change them. They have criminal minds, and they’ll always have criminal minds.”

  “I really don’t know enough to debate it with you, Warden Pratt,” I said, forcing a smile. “All I know is that I’m here, and I presume the women I’m to speak with are there, behind that door. My suggestion is that we get on with it.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting we not go through with it,” Pratt said, gesturing to the guard to open the door. “Not my call anyway. Damn Department of Corrections in this state has its own agenda. Rehabilitation, they call it. Fat chance of rehabilitating these women.”

  I thought of Mort Metzger, who probably would agree with Warden Pratt. None of it mattered, however. My earlier apprehension was now replaced with determination to give the best presentation I possibly could to this audience, which represented a first for me. I didn’t doubt for a moment that Pratt was right. The women were in prison because they’d committed crimes, and had been convicted by juries of their peers. They were also human beings.

  The door swung open to reveal a fairly large room in which two dozen women, wearing drab prison-issue dresses the color of dishwater, sat on black folding metal chairs. There had been obvious attempts at sprucing up the room. The walls were painted seasick institutional green, matching Warden Pratt’s suit. The floor was a hard yellow linoleum torn in many places. Two pots of dusty dried flowers sat on a low table, which I assumed was where I’d be sitting. These attempts to provide a more human atmosphere were valiant, but failed. The stark reality of the place negated any such attempts at injecting false humanity into the room. It was prison, pure and simple. It was depressing.

  Even if there had been music piped in, and clowns running through the halls, there would be no escaping—literally—the hard fact that this place, not too far from one of the most beautiful cities, was home to mothers, daughters, sisters, and grand-daughters. Women. I felt a sudden sense of kinship because, after all, I was one of them.

  But I knew that it would be a mistake to lend too sympathetic an ear to their stories. Like a seasoned physician, I would have to put the brakes on my emotions and carry on like a professional. Because the fact was, our bond ended at womanhood. They were prisoners in a state institution. They’d committed crimes. And I was a writer who’d committed no crimes, except perhaps to fail my readers now and then with a misleading red herring, or a character whose voice wasn’t true to his personality.

  Most important, I was free.

  Camille and I stood to one side as Warden Pratt asked for everyone’s attention. Not that he needed to. Most of the women in the room sat quietly, some with arms crossed, their heads cocked in angry defiance of what I had to say before I’d even said it. They looked defeated, which struck me as ironic because I assumed that most of them would never never admit being guilty of the crimes for which they were being punished.

  I’d been told that those attending my talk had volunteered to be there. But I began to wonder. Maybe only a few had signed up, and the majority had been pressed into service to fill the room. It really didn’t matter. It was my experience that in every group, there would always be one or two who showed genuine interest in what I had to say, and I expected that to hold true even though the audience was made up of prison inmates.

  As Pratt read from a piece of paper on which my background and credentials were listed, I took the opportunity to take in each person before me. Most faces were hard, but there were a few who exuded a gentleness, a sad softness. The body language of those women reflected it, too. They sat demurely, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in their laps, their faces open to what they were about to hear. I decided to focus my attention on them, hoping that others would pick up their receptive spirit.

  Pratt finished my introduction. Usually, audiences applaud. In this case, only two or three quietly clapped their hands together.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, coming around in front of the table and leaning on it. It suddenly occurred to me that the position I’d taken, and my posture, rang of authority, something with which these women had to deal on a daily basis. It wouldn’t win me any friends. I spotted an empty chair, pulled it to a spot a few feet in front of the table, and suggested they form a semicircle around me. A few women snickered, but they all adjusted their positions. I took note that they’d arranged themselves into two factions: the hardened cadre, and those women whose faces were not quite so defiant.

  “That’s better,” I said. “Much less formal. And a perfect segue into what I am about to discuss with you today. I imagine you were told I’d be talking to you. But I much prefer the word discuss, because I encourage each of you to talk as much as I do. To exchange thoughts with me. If you do, you’ll help save my voice, and I think you’ll find it a more interesting hour.”

  The twelve angry women on one side of the circle stared at me, their faces hardened and weather-beaten, although the pallor of their skin said they haven’t seen the sun very much.

  I continued: “Of course, if you choose not to talk, and to just listen, that’s certainly your right and choice.” I turned to the “softer” side of the circle. “As you probably already know, I am a writer. I write mystery books.” I deliberately chose not to use the word murder.

  “I’ve written more books than I can remember—some I choose not to remember. The reason I’m here today is to share with you what I know about writing, and the positive effect it can have on a person’s life.” I paused. One young woman with frizzy brown hair smiled at me. I smiled back. “Let me begin by asking all of you if you write in a journal, or keep a daily diary.”

  Encouragingly, several hands rose from women on both sides of the semicircle.

  “Good. Then, I assume you know the benefits of doing it. Writing down our thoughts is a healthy and therapeutic way of dealing with our emotions. Sometimes, by writing, we discover emotions we didn’t even know existed until we see them in black and white.”

  There were a few nods of recognition.

  “Would anyone care to tell those who don’t keep a journal why they might enjoy doing so?”

  Several of the women spoke at once. I was relieved. Let them do the talking. I’ll moderate.

  “I write every day,” said a middle-aged black woman, expressionless. “I write for my children. In a way I’m talking to them through my writing. Sometimes I even leave room on the page for them, like we’re really talking. I leave blanks for their answers and thoughts.” She took a long, deep breath before continuing. “Fifteen minutes through that glass window ain’t enough. So I spend hours every day talking to them on paper.”

  “That’s a lovely reason to write,” I said, swallowing against a lump in my throat.

  “I’d write if I could,” said another member of the group. I judged her to be younger than what her appearance said. The lines on her face were as deep as the San Andres fault. “But I don’t know how to write,” she said. “I mean, I can write and read, but I’m not good at it.”

  “That’s the beauty of a journal,” I interrupted. “You don’t have to be good at it. It’s for your eyes only. At times in my life, when I’ve kept a journal—and I must admit I don’t have the time to do it every day—I can barely read my handwriting, especially when I’ve written an entry late at night. But it doesn’t matter. Writing in a journal involves a process that frees your mind, and allows you to get in touch with your feelings. It is for you and no one else. In a sense, a journal is the enabler. Do you know what that means? It means it enables you to expose yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s grammatically correct, or if words are misspelled. The idea is t
o just write, and then leave it alone.”

  “It matters to me!”

  The loud voice belonged to a thick-set woman with close-cropped black hair. I’d originally pegged her as one of the more reserved ones, everything being relative, of course.

  “What matters to you?” I asked.

  Her voice continuing to rise: “When I get out of this hole, I want to publish my journal. Let the world know how we live in here. They treat us like dogs. No. Dogs have it better.”

  “Maybe that’s a possibility,” I said. “There have been books written before by prisoners. If your journal is good, then I think—”

  “You gave me a good idea. I’ll write it, and you can give it to your publisher. Tell him to publish it. Tell him—”

  “It isn’t quite that easy,” I said. “I’m really not talking about publishing the journals and diaries you write. I want you to think of them as self-therapy. As a way to vent your feelings, and to come to grips with things inside you that might have led you to do the things that brought you here.”

  She mumbled a few four-letter words under her breath, folded her arms tightly across her chest, and glared at me. I decided to try and pull her back into the group. “How long have you been keeping your diary?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m going to start writing tonight,” she said. “I have five years to go in this dump.”

  “Plenty of time to write a very good—and long—diary,” I said.

  “Don’t hold your breath, lady,” a young—too young—black woman sitting next to her said to me. “She spends so much time bitchin’, she got no time to write.” Everyone laughed, and the women continued to banter back and forth between themselves. I was happy to see it. They might have lost their freedom, but evidently hadn’t lost their sense of humor.

  After a few minutes, I decided it was time to intervene. “Let’s get back on track, shall we?” The noise didn’t let up. “Ladies, can we quiet things down a little, please?” The warden was poised to step in but I waved him away with a shake of my head.

  The talking finally stopped. “Thank you. I’ve brought some materials with me I’d like to hand out. The first page you’ll get is a copy of a typical journal entry. But remember, this is merely a sample. As we’ve already said, a journal entry is a completely private and personal thing. There is no right or wrong way to write an entry. I photocopied this just to show you one possible way you might go about doing it.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I looked up from the pile of papers and into the eyes of a thirtyish woman, with shoulder-length silver-blond hair that gleamed from a recent shampooing. Her hand was raised. Funny, I thought, but I hadn’t noticed her before. Some people are that way. They just seem to blend into the background.

  “Yes, dear?” I said, wishing I hadn’t used such a patronizing word. As I looked at her, I realized how strikingly beautiful she was despite a lack of makeup. She had model’s features—small, finely etched nose, thick, healthy hair, and impressive cheekbones. Most noticeable, however, were her large, expressive green eyes. There was a childlike innocence to them. There was also intelligence.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” she said in a husky, hushed voice. “May I change subjects for a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to ask you a question about your murder mystery writing.”

  “All right. We can discuss anything you’d like.”

  “I’ve read most of your books, Mrs. Fletcher. At the end, the murderer is always found, convicted, and jailed. But have you ever written a book in which the clues didn’t add up? Where the character you identify as the murderer couldn’t have done it?”

  The room was silent. A few feet shuffled; the hum of a motorized clock on the wall was audible for the first time.

  I wasn’t sure where her question would lead, or was intended to lead. Obviously, it wasn’t one of your classic what-if questions that a child might ask. Nor was it one that could be answered without thought.

  She locked those big green eyes on mine and waited for my reply. I looked back at Camille, who sat at the table behind me. She smiled. I again looked at the women in my audience. Forty-eight eyes peered back at me.

  “I must confess,” I began, “that there are certain times when even I, as the author of a crime novel, question whether the clues add up and support my choice of murderer. What always concerns me is whether the reader will have found a piece of evidence that doesn’t link the murderer to the crime. Or dictates that someone else must have done it. Should have done it.”

  The woman nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said.

  “Jessica, you did splendidly. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Camille. You’re very kind. It was tougher than I thought it would be. Emotionally, I mean. It’s such a sad place, and I pity those women. Of course, I’m dealing from a handicap. I’m sure many of the crimes that put them behind bars were horrible.”

  We were in the white limo heading back to the city. I felt a fulfilling sense of accomplishment. Once we’d gotten past the woman’s question about murderers in my books, we focused for the rest of the hour on writing and keeping a journal. The group, for the most part, turned out to be enthusiastic participants. I relaxed as we went along. The only nervous person in the room seemed to be Warden Pratt. Maybe “nervous” isn’t the word. He was more annoyed than nervous, for reasons of his own. I think he was glad to escort us from the prison and see us gone. I suppose I shouldn’t be overly harsh in judging him. Spending one’s working days in such a depressing environment certainly must take its toll.

  “You, know, Jessica, I was really moved by the whole experience,” Camille said. “I’ve always thought that once you’re in prison, what’s the point of doing anything with your life? Me? I think I’d just curl up and die. But these women, at least many of them, still have life in them, and want to do something with themselves.”

  “I hope I inspired at least one of them to write her story,” I said. “If only to help come to terms with her life.”

  The music for our drive back to the hotel was another favorite of mine, Beethoven string quartets written toward the end of his life, and representing some of his finest work. I sat back, watched the scenery glide by the window, and thought back to the young blond woman who’d asked the question about whether I’d ever falsely accused a character of murder in one of my books. Did she feel she’d been imprisoned for a crime she hadn’t committed? Probably. I shuddered as I contemplated being sentenced to prison for something I hadn’t done. It undoubtedly happens. You see headlines all the time: MAN WHO SPENT SEVEN YEARS IN JAIL IS SET FREE; TRUE KILLER CONFESSES.

  I wished I’d gotten her name and learned more about her. What was the crime for which she’d been convicted? Was it murder?

  “Jessica?” Camille said as we pulled up in front of the St. Francis.

  “I’m still here,” I said, laughing. “Just daydreaming.”

  “Like a drink?” Camille asked.

  “Sounds heavenly,” I said. “But I’d like to enjoy it while soaking in a tub of hot water. Mind?”

  “Of course not. You were terrific today. In fact, of all the authors I’ve handled, you are the class act.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said.

  “You may not think so when I admit another scheduling mistake on my part.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “A photo shoot right after breakfast. Nine o’clock. Right here at the hotel. Promise it won’t take more than a half hour.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Then the lunch interview, and that’s it.”

  “Until you remember something else.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “Just kidding,” I said. “Have a wonderful evening.” I kissed her on the cheek. The driver opened the door. I dragged my heavy black bag behind me (it seemed a lot heavier than when I’d left the hotel earlier in the day), wished him a pleasant evening, and entered the busy l
obby.

  A moment ago, I’d wanted to soak in a tub and sip white wine. But the superb weather changed my mind. I thought of the heat wave I’d left back in Maine, which hadn’t broken, according to a phone call from Seth. Here, in San Francisco, there was a misty breeze that had cooled and dampened my skin as I left the climate-controlled limo. Refreshing. Invigorating. It was too magnificent a night to spend sitting inside a hotel room, even a spectacular suite like the Windsor.

  I returned to the street. “I’d like a cab, please,” I told the elegantly uniformed doorman. He blew his whistle, and a cab instantly pulled to the curb. I debated for a moment going back inside to drop off my heavy black bag. But the cab was there, and the doorman had opened its door. “Here you are, lovely lady,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I know I will.”

  “A very dry martini, straight up,” I told the waitress as I settled at a window table in the Mark Hopkins’s Top of the Mark cocktail lounge. I don’t drink martinis as a rule. Only on the most special of occasions. And I considered this one of them. The Top of the Mark has meaning for me as few other places in the world have. I’m not alone, of course. During World War II, thousands of people looked out the windows at troop ships sailing beneath the fabled Golden Gate Bridge, returning triumphantly from war in the South Pacific.

  The Top of the Mark is considered by many to define San Francisco. They get no argument from me.

  As I watched a cocoon of fog swallow the Golden Gate, and thought of George Sutherland arriving the next night, my waitress returned with my drink. She also had a copy of the book I was promoting, Blood Relations.