May 10, 1889
Louisiana State Penitentiary
Angola, Louisiana
Detective
William Jefferson Tucker of the Criminal Investigations Division, London
Metropolitan Police, stepped across the threshold of the sewer pit known as the
Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola with one purpose in mind. To see his
brother, also named William.
William
John Tucker.
His
twin. His polar opposite.
With
his first order of business being an explanation of exactly what John had done
this time, he turned toward Major Samuel James’s office. When in doubt, go to
the top, that was his motto. And Major James was the top dog around here.
“Hold
on there,” someone called. Jefferson turned to see a uniformed guard coming
toward him, one hand on his holster and the other pointing in his direction.
“Just
paying a visit to the warden,” he said with all the charm his mother had taught
him. “Nothing to get upset about.”
“We’ll
just see about that,” the guard said as he nodded toward the other end of the
dimly lit hall. “Just come on back here and sign in, and then we will see if
the warden’s interested in visiting today.”
Shaking
his head, Jefferson tried not to show amusement at the man’s pompous behavior.
While he had seen the other side of a jail cell on many occasions, it had
always been in the position of arresting officer and not prison guard. To spend
day after day in this place would cause anyone to own an ill temper.
When
the papers were produced, Jefferson signed them. “Anything else you need?” he
asked as politely as he could manage.
“Any
kind of proof you are who you say you are would be appreciated,” he said in a
tone that just barely toed the line between polite and sarcastic.
“Gladly.”
“And
I will be needing your weapon.”
Routine
procedure in prisons, and yet Jefferson hated it. Reluctantly, he removed his
revolver and handed it to the guard.
“That
all you got?” He gave Jefferson a sweeping look. “Nothing else you can hurt
anybody with?”
“Just
a folding knife.”
“Hand
that over too.”
Jefferson
offered up his knife and then reached for his identification, carefully
selecting the papers that would not give away his current undercover role in
London. Placing what he had on the rough slab of wood that served as a desk
between them, he stood back and waited while the guard examined the documents.
“And
what brings you here?” The guard took in an exaggerated breath and then
pretended to cough. “Sure can’t be the fresh air and sunshine.”
Jefferson
played along, pretending to find the gag amusing. “I am here to see my
brother.”
“Your
brother?” The guard clutched the papers as he looked up at Jefferson. “And just
who would your brother be?”
“John
Tucker.”
“John
Tucker,” the guard echoed as he opened an oversized leather book that sent a
cloud of dust into the already rancid air.
The
odd idea that this process was beginning to feel very much like checking into a
hotel occurred. Jefferson decided he would keep that thought to himself.
“Don’t
see any John…”
“William
John,” he amended, irritated not for the first time that his father had
insisted on giving both his sons the same first name and then calling them by
their middle name.
The
guard’s grimy finger paused below a line of scribbling. “Tucker. Well, here we
go. William J. Tucker.”
He looked up at Jefferson, his face now unreadable.
“Wait here.”
Without
another word of explanation, he hurried off down the hall, Jefferson’s
credentials still clutched in his hand. A door shut somewhere off in the
distance and then opened again.
“Initial
for your property here,” he said when he returned.
Jefferson
noted the date and the items he had just surrendered and then placed his
initials on the line beside them to indicate agreement.
“All
right. Come with me, Mr. Tucker,” the guard said, not quite making eye contact.
Detective Tucker, he almost
said. Instead, Jefferson kept silent. Better not to make enemies of anyone in
this place. “Yes, of course.” He followed the guard past the warden’s office
and around the corner, stopping at an unmarked door.
“Right
in there,” the guard said as he used a key from his vest pocket to open the
door.
The
room was dark, but a lamp in the passageway sent a weak shaft of light across
what appeared to be a table and a bench. “I would be much obliged if you would
turn on a light in here,” Jefferson said, the last of his patience with the
ridiculous situation disappearing fast.
“Just
go on in and a light will come on.”
He
was about to protest when the guard shoved him inside and turned the lock.
“Open
this door!” Jefferson demanded. “This is not funny. I demand to see either my
brother or the warden immediately.”
“You
just wait right there, Tucker. You will see the warden for sure.”
Jefferson
felt along the edge of the wall, his fingers sliding across a combination of
dirt and slime held together by something so foul smelling he refused to
contemplate its source. A moment later he found the bench and managed to sit.
Outside
the door footsteps approached and then halted. He heard voices arguing, their
words indistinguishable through the thick walls.
Finally,
the door opened and a man whose attire told Jefferson he might be the warden
stepped inside. The guard shadowed Major James, as did another underling of
some sort.
“Look,”
Jefferson said, “all I wanted was to see my brother. Is this how you treat all
your visitors, Major?”
“The
major isn’t here today, but I am the man in charge. You can call me Butler.
Won’t need any name other than that. And as to your question, no. This is the
way we treat those who belong inside a cell.”
“Inside
a cell? What are you talking about?”
Butler
thumped Jefferson’s credentials with his free hand. “These here papers say you
are Jefferson Tucker. Is that correct?”
He
gave the man a curt nod. “It is.”
“So
what you’re saying is that you are indeed the man whose name you have given to
the guard?”
“Yes,”
he said, this time with far less respect.
“And
that you have a brother currently incarcerated in our fine facility.” When
Jefferson nodded, he continued. “And what is that inmate’s name?”
“His
name is John Tucker,” Jefferson snapped as he sensed a shakedown of some sort
in the offing. It was time to tell them who he really was. “William John
Tucker. Look, I know how these things work, and I am not someone you can play
around with. I have credentials that prove I am a detective with the London
Metropolitan Police.”
The
man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I would believe that. You certainly don’t
sound like no foreigner, so I suggest you change your tune and own up to the
truth.”
“Here’s
the truth for you. Either let me see my brother or the warden, or you can give
me the reason why.”
Butler
chuckled. “Oh, we will do better than that.” He nodded to the two men, who
approached Jefferson. Though he tried to resist, they slapped handcuffs on him.
“We are going to put you in his cell.”
“What
are you doing?” he demanded as the two men jerked him out into the passageway.
“Taking
you to where you belong, Jefferson Tucker,” said the guard who was still in
possession of his revolver and the folding knife.
“I
do not belong in a cell!” Jefferson protested even as he was being dragged
through the doors into a cellblock that smelled worse than it looked. And that
was saying something.
Instantly
a deafening noise began as prisoners shouted and banged whatever they could
grab against the iron cell bars. The guard took out his pistol and fired one
shot.
Silence
quickly reigned.
Up
ahead a door swung open. “Looky here, Tucker,” the other guard sneered. “Your
room is ready. Welcome home.”
“Wait,”
the man in charge said. “Let’s let these boys say their howdys first.”
A
prisoner stepped out of the cell. He was dressed in clothing so dirty that
Jefferson could not discern a color or what kept it from shredding into rags.
Legs shackled, the prisoner shuffled toward them. And then Jefferson knew him.
“John?
Is that you?”
His
brother heaved himself against Jefferson. Though the smell caused Jefferson’s
eyes to water, he stood his ground as John held him tight.
“What
have you done, John?” he said to the man who, under different circumstances,
would be nearly a mirror image of him.
“Just
what I had to,” was John’s quiet reply. “I hope someday you will forgive me,
Jeff, but I wasn’t built for a place like this.”
“Neither
of us were. And rest assured Mother has no idea her boy’s in trouble. It would
kill her if she knew.”
“She
always did see the good in me,” John said.
“She
still does.”
“Even
though she never could see to give me Father’s gold pocket watch when I asked
for it first.” John looked down at Jefferson’s vest. “I see you’re wearing it
now.”
He
glanced over at the man calling the shots. It took Butler only a moment to
reach down and rip the watch from Jefferson’s pocket.
“Neither
of you’ll get it now.”
“The
major will hear about this,” Jefferson said, earning him a punch in the gut
that took his breath away.
The
warden’s underling fixed John with a glare that shut him up quick. “All right,
Will Tucker,” he said to Jefferson. “Are you verifying that this man is your
brother, John Tucker? And that he is your twin?”
“I
am,” Jefferson said through the pain in his gut as he took in the sight of his
always well-groomed brother with streaks of dirt on his face, his hair coated
with grease and, from the look of this place, thick with lice.
“Well,
I believe that is proof enough for me.” Butler tapped John on the shoulder.
“You were right in saying you were not Will Tucker, John. On behalf of the
state of Louisiana, I hereby declare you to be a free man.”
John
grinned like a fool and then nudged the bully. “Does that mean I get the watch
that is rightfully mine?”
“Don’t
press your luck, son. Just get yourself out of here while I am still in a mood
to let you. Major James might insist on a trial to settle the facts, and you
know how long those things take.”
“I
know when I’ve been bested, so you can keep the watch.” John shuffled off
behind the guards without so much as a backward glance.
A moment later, the cell door clanged shut
behind Detective Jefferson Tucker of the London Metropolitan
Police, leaving
him once again in the middle of a mess his brother had created.
