Authoring The Conyers Deception

AUTHORING

THE CONYERS DECEPTION

By George J. Corbett

AUTHORING THE CONYERS DECEPTION

Copyright © 2015 by George J. Corbett

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are totally from the imagination of the author and depict no persons, living or dead; any similarity is totally coincidental.

Self-Published at Smashwords with assistance from

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This book is dedicated to the memory of George Joseph Corbett-a beloved Husband and Father. You were taken from us too soon. Your smile lives on in our hearts.

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A project such as this could not be accomplished without the help of many supporting individuals. From friends who offered extra sets of eyes, to those esteemed colleagues who wish not to be named but took time out of their day to assist with research.

I’d like to thank my friend Steve for his assistance and direction. I also wish to thank my friends Fred, Rocky, and Bill for the hours they contributed to making the book better.

There is one person who was instrumental in getting the project off the ground. If not for Patrick, the book would have never seen the light of day. You’ve provided inspiration and direction. You were a sounding board when I had become stalled and a mentor when I became lost. I could have never done it without you.

Thank you all for your help! You all share in my achievement.

CHAPTER ONE

Just as McGinn laid his head down on the pillow to relax, he was startled by a familiar yet irritating noise-a whooping sound meant to mimic a police siren. A sound prisoners make to alert other prisoners that something on the housing unit is amiss: a ranking guard coming in to tour the area and cause havoc, a group of guards coming to search the area or just any bull who would not normally be in the vicinity.

The code of conduct dictated that the convicts pass the word so others wouldn’t get caught out there doing whatever dirty deeds they may be engaged in.

Every housing unit has its hatch-dwellers, sometimes called peepers. They’re the prisoners who spend most of their days peeking out of the lockable steel hatch used to pass trays of food into their cell. Be it paranoia or some other inexplicable reason, they keep this vigil and very little escapes their prying eyes.

Most of the time, the usual disturbance on the unit would be just a sergeant walking through to do their daily inspection: keeping a sharp eye out for privacy curtains, photos taped to the wall or any of a number of meaningless infractions that would ruffle his or her feathers. But this time it was different. The whooping didn’t stop after two or three calls. It continued ten or twelve times. McGinn could hear men banging on the walls to alert others, as well as shouts of, Here they come, here they come!

After eighteen years behind the wall, Jimmy McGinn knew the routine. Hope for the best but expect the worst, as they say. The guards could be coming to search a cell or two. They could be coming to administer a few urine tests. They could be coming to escort someone to lock-up. Since it was late in the day, though, it was unlikely they were doing one of their standard surprise shakedowns.

A standard shakedown was when a group of screws would clear all of the convicts from a unit and then spend six hours going through the cells like a tornado. Because they usually came in the early morning hours in order to catch prisoners asleep, McGinn knew it was unlikely the current disturbance had anything to do with that.

Still, he sat up and buckled his watch on his wrist. If they did empty the wing, he wanted to take it with him and not leave it behind.

There was a rush of boots on the stairs leading to the top tier. A wave of concern descended into the pit of his stomach. It could be any one of the other nine men on his tier. It could even be one of his buddies for whom they may be coming. At the very least, whoever they may take would upset the tier’s dynamic and there would have to be an adjustment period.

The average individual would be surprised by the way one man could affect the whole flow of a prison’s housing unit. He may cause strife and dissension, or conversely have a calming effect. He may bring new avenues of illicit goods and services, or he may drain the area of existing resources. Then again, if he’s a plant for the prison’s Internal Affairs investigators, he may stem the tide of contraband and put the source of said contraband in a world of hurt. It is one of the many reasons prisoners cling to the status quo and resist change.

Suddenly, there was a cacophony of familiar sounds that immediately brought concern to McGinn. There were the sounds of the door slamming and more people entering the area. The electronic, static-induced crackle of walkie-talkies sliced through the air like thunder. Mixed in with the other sounds, there was the babble-superior officers shouting unintelligible commands at subordinates. Then, he heard the unmistakable sound of dogs barking, which could only mean one thing: The Crisis Emergency Response Team was in his unit.

The CERT team is a correctional system’s quasi SWAT team whose function is to manage major disturbances in prisons and county jails throughout the state. CERT teams were created in the early 1970’s in the wake of the Attica prison uprising. After Attica, corrections officials across the country began to prepare in hopes of avoiding similar carnage.

Federal funds and seized drug trafficking proceeds allowed the states to provide their elite shock troops with the fancy tactical gear, the ersatz-military uniforms and the demeanor to go along with it. CERT team members look down on regular prison guards in the same manner special operations troops view the rest of the military and it made them look at inmates as something significantly less than human.

However, major prison disturbances were extremely rare. Just like every other long-serving convict, McGinn knew the CERT team had never actually been used for its intended purpose. Usually, they would just come and do searches that could have been done by any other guards. The only difference was, they would come in with a heavy-handed demeanor and get their kicks by making a mess out of the convicts’ property. It was overkill, but that is what the Ohio State Department of Corrections did best.

At this point, McGinn was expecting to have a line of guards fan out and position themselves so there would be one in front of each cell door on his tier. Then, when the door opened, there would be a series of instructions to follow: Turn around, remove your clothes and pass them back behind you one article at a time. Raise your hands, step back out of your cell. That would be a typical encounter with a squad from of the CERT team. After that, the convicts would each be instructed to move to another location with their hands in the air and their chins tucked into their chests. But what came next was nothing like Jimmy McGinn was expecting.

While he sat calmly on his bed, a sea of black uniforms amassed directly outside his door. There were at least three people screaming contradictory commands at him all at once: Don’t move, keep your hands in view, turn around.

It was exactly the sort of senselessness that pushed McGinn’s buttons. Don’t move or turn around? Take your time, I’ll wait while you guys figure it out, he said. It was probably not the best time to crack wise, but he had always had a smart mouth and throughout his life it got him into more than his fair share of trouble.

As he looked through the door’s safety glass window he could see the CERT team members were wearing Kevlar helmets and gas masks. One was holding a large shield and there were three men pointing guns at him. He had no way of knowing they were .68 caliber paintball guns loaded with capsaicin pepper rounds. Still, seeing the weapons caused him concern because it was way, way out of the norm. McGinn quickly grasped the seriousness of the situation. Each of the weapons had a flashlight attached to the foregrip and he was soon blinded by their beams.

B-two-fourteen, open it, said the ranking guard of the team. As the electric lock engaged and the motor churned, the door slid open. The sergeant from the CERT team began to shout orders to Jimmy McGinn, Stand up, turn around, hands in the air! Remove your shirt and toss it on the bed! Now the shoes, one at a time, on the bed! Your pants next, followed by your drawers! Now the socks, on the bed!

McGinn felt both disgusted and humiliated as he complied with the instructions, but to resist would have just caused greater problems.

Get down on the ground. Lie face down with your arms extended and your palms up, DO NOT MOVE, the voice ordered.

In an instant, McGinn was pulled out of his cell by the ankles. He felt a boot on his neck and a knee in his back. His hands were cuffed behind his back and shackles were placed on his legs. McGinn’s mind was racing. He couldn’t imagine why he was being treated worse than if he had committed the most serious of infractions. This kind of nonsense would have been laughable if it hadn’t been happening to him. In all of his time in prison, this was more extreme than anything he’d ever seen or even heard of.

McGinn was pulled to his feet by two members of the CERT team. As he glanced around there were no less than a dozen team members on his tier-all clad in black uniforms-and all donning helmets and gas masks. The guards were also wearing knee and elbow pads along with riot type body armor with heavy padding. The three with the paintball guns on tactical slings held them trained on their target-as if a cuffed, shackled, naked man could pose some sort of threat.

One of the guards held a can of pepper spray that could easily have passed for a large fire extinguisher. McGinn looked toward the sergeant and asked, What’s all this about? I ain’t done nothin’. He was met with silence. Throughout the years, McGinn had questioned himself and second-guessed his decision to transfer into the Ohio Prison system. As he reflected on the choice he asked himself under his breath, Why did I make this move?

*****

James Collin McGinn Jr. stood five feet ten inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He kept his light, red hair short and had a fair, freckled complexion. He kept a close-cropped beard, making his Irish ancestry clearly evident.

Physically, he was rock solid and took the Fighting Irish stereotype to heart. Much like Clancy, if you got his Irish up, he’d lower the boom, as the old song went. Jimmy McGinn was quick with his mouth and, as a result, he had become quick with his hands. He may have referred to himself as a dumb Mick, but he had the wit and witticism of James Joyce or W.B. Yates. At times, he was down right arrogant, and at times, it took you a minute to realize you’d just been insulted.

Jimmy was an under-achiever and could have gone far with his education if he had applied himself. Instead, he preferred to work with his hands and started pursuing a vocation at an early age. By doing so, he emulated his dad who worked himself to exhaustion as a result of a tenth grade education.

So, just like many other McGinns who came before him, Jimmy started working odd jobs at the age of ten. He and his older brother, Dermott, would stand outside the corner grocery store in Hell’s Kitchen and offer to carry neighbors’ bags for small change. A child could do that in the 1970’s and not have to worry about ending up on the back of a milk carton.

His father, Jimmy Sr., was as Irish as they came. His mother Dora was only half Irish and half German. Needless to say, St. Patrick’s Day was one of the biggest holidays in the McGinn household. It was almost as big as Christmas. Jimmy Sr. could not be made to work on St. Patty’s Day, as it was his day.

While Dora kept the apartment, Jimmy Sr. drove a truck between the city and the ports in Jersey. On the weekends, he worked in a factory driving a forklift. Money was tight, but they had enough to get by. Not by much, but they got by.

Like his father, Dermott became a gear-jammer driving long-haul coast-to-coast. He would stay on the road ten months out of the year and that suited him just fine. Jimmy Jr. followed in his father’s footsteps by not following in his father’s footsteps. McGinn graduated high school somewhere in the middle of his class.

Before he reached his eighteenth birthday, Junior was off to Ft. McClellan, Alabama on a three-year stint in the army. After he came home, he took the test for FDNY. This was in the tradition of his grandfather Big Jimmy, three of his four uncles, and droves of Irish before him.

Everyone swore that Jimmy would stay single forever. But when he met Melissa, he was smitten. She was a Jersey girl and he fell hard. They met at the Brenden Berne Arena during a Devil’s game. He was behind her in line at the concessions stand and he got her number while they waited to be served. He called her the next day. Everyone said it was too soon, but nine months later, Melissa Christine Alex became Mrs. James Collin McGinn Jr.

They set up house across the river in Hoboken, New Jersey. Missy waited tables while Jimmy risked his life doing what he loved. They were happy and, in the beginning, it was picture perfect. Eighteen months into the marriage, things started to get rocky. They argued often and it began to appear that maybe they did jump into it too soon. Jimmy was taking extra shifts so he could put a down payment on a home. Missy felt that he was gone more then he was there, and they began to drift apart. Even as they grew more and more distant, McGinn thought that all young couples go through their rough patches.

Early in his shift on a warm September day, Truck 5 responded to a two-alarm at a brownstone on the six hundred block of Grant Street. While Jimmy was running a grid search on the third floor, he was on a stairwell that gave way. He only had the wind knocked out of him and suffered a few scrapes. Nonetheless, his Captain had him taken to Columbia Presbyterian. Upon discharge, he was sent home for the day. Coming home early and catching Melissa with an old boyfriend, he had the wind knocked out of him for a second time in one day.

Blind rage, temporary insanity, call it what you will. McGinn laid into the guy like a freight train. Jimmy, no! Missy cried hysterically, as Jimmy and the interloper fought. When the smoke cleared, the man was down and he wasn’t breathing. The fact that Jimmy immediately started CPR was of no consequence.

In the State of New Jersey, there is no Premeditated Murder. They have a charge of what is called Purposeful and Knowing Murder. To be convicted of murder, there doesn’t have to be any pre-meditation, just an intent. James Collin McGinn Jr. was charged with Title 2C: 11-3a, the Purposeful and Knowing Murder of a human being, one Joseph R. D’Amato.

McGinn may have been angry enough to kill. What guy finding himself in a similar situation wouldn’t be? But killing D’Amato was not his intent. Eight months after the incident, McGinn was convicted and found himself sentenced to thirty years to life in state prison.

Dora McGinn’s parents were from Hamilton, Ohio. In late 1999 Dora’s father, Joe, became too ill for her mother Mary to handle on her own. Dora and Jimmy Sr. made the decision to move back to Hamilton County to care for the both of them. After being a New Yorker his whole life, Jimmy Sr. became a transplanted Buckeye.

With his parents out of the area, Jimmy Jr. saw no reason to remain in a New Jersey prison. It took two years of red tape, but he was finally able to move to an Ohio prison under an interstate transfer agreement. Ohio was out of his element, but it was better for him to be close to his parents. Round Valley Maximum Security Prison in Norwood, Ohio was also where Jimmy met his best friend Tice Beauregard.

*****

As McGinn was led down the stairway from his tier to the main floor, he saw black uniforms everywhere. There were far too many to count. At the landing, dog handlers were holding two German Shepherds. They were giving the dogs enough play to lunge at him and then pulled back on the leashes at the last second. There were also a large number of regular guards on the tier. They were wearing helmets and holding batons as if they were participating in a large movement of prisoners.

Quite a few high-ranking custody officials were on hand, but no one from the prison’s administration. For them, it was better not to be present so they could disavow any mistreatment during such an operation.

Like a scene out of some sort of B-flick shot in a prison, every cell door window had the curious face of an inmate pressed against the glass.

Is someone going to let me know what the hell’s goin’ on? asked McGinn.

The only thing he got in the way of a response was, Shut your mouth, convict. The end of a baton was pressed into the base of his skull in the way of a threat. Then, in an instant, a black hood was placed over his head from behind.

Having spent over eleven years at Round Valley, he knew the lay of the building in his sleep. The hood did very little to prevent him from knowing exactly where he was-as well as where he was being taken. But this was just the type of excessive behavior for which the CERT team was known.

McGinn was led from his unit down the corridor of C-Wing. He could hear murmurs and surmised that there were guards lining the halls. His escorts then took him to the elevator at the mid-point of the long corridor. The doors were held open by someone while he was pushed into the car and forced up against the rear wall.

There was no way to be sure, but by the sound of the footsteps, there could have been ten people on the cramped elevator with him. He could even hear at least one dog that was constantly growling.

It was a short three-floor ride down to the ground level. C-Wing was located in the southeast corner of the prison compound. He was led through a series of hallways. Normally, one would have had to stop at a heavy door every fifteen or twenty yards along the winding corridors. The fact that there were no interruptions in the flow of his movement told him that there were guards stationed at each of the doors to hold them open. It was standard procedure for a high-security move.

Had McGinn not been wearing the hood, he would have seen tiny flashing red and amber lights on the ceiling about every thirty feet. They were activated by the prison’s Master Control where all the