 PROLOGUE
There is nothing worse than being locked up, but by the age of 32, I'd pretty much gotten
used to it. Theft, possession, under the influence, assault-I was arrested all the time,
put away for the same things over and over again. For me, it wasn't just a losing streak;
it was a way of life.
So when I woke up one night-or maybe it was morning, I sure didn't know-in a cell at
Newark's Green Street jail, I wasn't too surprised to see the concrete walls surrounding
me, the bars locking me in. I took a deep breath and smelled the familiar odor that only a
basement penitentiary could cultivate: moldy, sweaty, rank. Everything was just as it
should be. I felt like I'd come home from a short vacation.
I sat up in the bunk where I'd passed out, and I held my head in my hands, wondering what
I'd done to get locked up again. For the life of me, I couldn't remember, though I guessed
that it must've been something pretty bad-my whole body ached, and I was covered in
bruises. The cops had probably roughed me up, sure, but this kind of hurt only came from
someone who was really angry, someone who wanted me to pay for what I'd done to them.
There were the usual guards outside my cell-I knew them all by name-and for a minute, I
considered calling one of them over and asking him just what the hell I was doing there,
but then I stopped myself. I was afraid I'd done something terrible; I was hoping that I
hadn't killed anyone. This wasn't the first time I had blacked out.
So I just sat. And sat. And waited and waited. Not that I had much of a sense of time
anyway-all I did those days was wander the streets, fucked up and looking for money that
would help me stay fucked up-but I knew for sure that inside a jail cell, time ceased to
exist. Seconds became hours; minutes turned into months.
I guessed that I'd only been there half a day or less, but checked myself for signs of
gray hair and a long beard, just in case.
After listening to more than my fill of howling, mumbling and pleading from the cells
around mine, I was relieved to see a man in a suit come into the jail. I didn't recognize
his face, but I knew his demeanor: this was a public defender, coming to hear my side of
the story and decide the quickest way to make me less of a burden on the court system.
I laughed. My side of the story doesn't exist, pal, I thought as a guard let him into the
cell.
The guy was looking at some papers in a folder, not really paying attention to me and kind
of talking to himself. I guessed he was reading up on my illustrious criminal career and
my preferred customer status at Green Street. I stayed sitting on the bunk, looking up at
him sleepily, wondering how long the meeting would take. I wanted to get back to bed.
Nothing else seemed to matter.
Finally, he looked at me-in fact, he did a double take. He sort of grinned, and that
immediately pissed me off.
"What the fuck are you smiling at?" I asked him, starting to stand up, my sore
legs wobbling underneath me.
The guy held his hands up. "Relax," he said. "I'm not laughing at
you."
I hesitated for a minute and then sat back down slowly, keeping my eyes on him the whole
time.
"I just-" he went on, looking almost disturbed, and then he stopped and put his
hands down at his sides. "You're Steven Della Valle, aren't you?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. "That's what it says on those papers there, genius,"
I answered. For a man with a big college degree, he wasn't impressing me.
"Well, yeah, but we went to grade school together, too. I thought the name sounded
familiar, but then when I saw you-well, I recognized you."
I stared at his face; it wasn't ringing any bells. "Sorry," I said. "I
don't remember you at all."
"That's okay, man," he said, "that's okay. Just…wow. I can't believe
it, it's been so long. What the fuck happened to you?" |
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