It was this lawsuit that brought Karen Stolis to a visiting booth across from Quill ten months into his fifth year in prison. Stolis met a wild array of obstructions at the hands of Quill’s legal team the moment she reached out to them. Three years prior, Stolis had wasted months investigating Tommy the Jaw’s murder in hopes the details would reveal some phantom mastermind behind the entire Calvary affair but all evidence pointed to random prison violence. During the waning days of her pursuit, Stolis spent hours on her phone discussing Quill’s manslaughter case with local law enforcement, newspaper reporters, Timothy Allen Teague’s scattered employees and Quill’s uncooperative defense attorney. Finally, Karen Stolis ran out of time. She took a job in San Francisco and that would have been the end of her involvement if a certain item hadn’t popped up in a strange report in several El Paso media outlets. The years had not stymied Stolis’ curiosity.
Hello, she said into the receiver. Quill nodded, his receiver at his ear with a curl of silver conduit resting somewhat inflexibly against the thick partition glass. I don’t have much time, had to call in quite a few favors to make this meeting happen, Mr. Everett; can I call you Quill? Sure. Stolis nodded and slipped an 8x10 sheet of paper from her leather briefcase and pressed it against the glass. Ever seen this thing? Quill gave the photo a quick study. Nope. That’s a Faberge Russian Egg, made for the tsar of Russia before the communists took over about ninety years ago. Uh-huh. You’ve never seen it? I told you. Okay. She thumbed within the zippered edge of her case then pushed another photograph against the glass. You know this man? A few seconds passed before his goofy rictus took form. Quill? Stolis said, you know this guy? Without a single movement of his head, Quill’s eyes found Karen Stolis at the edge of the photograph and he said, Lawyer.
You don’t have to play that game anymore, Quill. See, I saw that you settled with the county over that brutality thing a few weeks ago—that took long enough, eh?—which works out great for me because the statute of limitations just passed on the Calvary Fellowship robbery. I don’t talk about this stuff, Quill told her, this is lawyer stuff. What I’m trying to tell you Quill, her hand still pressing the photograph against the glass, is that you don’t have to hide any of this, anymore; they can’t do anything about it. Who? The state, the cops; you can’t get in trouble for telling your story anymore. Quill’s grin straightened.
Look, she placed the two photographs on the small linoleum counter so Quill could see both of them and she agitated the one of the egg with a wiggle of her finger. This and like $70,000 was found under the seat in a Ford Ranger in Big Bend National Park, apparently three or four months ago, but the truck had been there for years, hidden in the desert; that truck was last registered to, Stolis moved her finger to the other pic and wiggled it on the counter, this guy; Marcus Hatchet. Quill couldn’t peel his eyes from the picture of Hatchet, clean shaven and smiling like Christmas, a camera in his hand, a storm cloud rising pocked and gray behind him. I did the math, Quill, she said, he literally disappears the day after the Calvary Fellowship heist, poof, gone like something just snatched his ass up; you can tell me, Quill. Where is he? I don’t know, no one knows, not his friends, not his enemies, not a trace.
You can tell me, Quill, we both know Clancey Anderson wasn’t the Calvary Thief like everyone is saying; you can tell me.
She sat for a moment dissecting Quill’s expression, excogitating her approach. She knew Quill’s history, his mental capacity, had seen his medical records and she felt helpless having calculated his abilities and now witness to the construction of loyalty deep within his eyes. He’s not gonna tell me a damn thing, she thought to herself, because he’s stupid. I wonder where he is, he told her, peering into Hatchet’s face. So you do know him? Do you know him? No, Quill, I’m asking if you know him. Uh-huh; how old you think he is in this. Umm, she said, staring at his tattoo, the lightning bolts and the dragons, I’m almost certain he’s 34 here.
She found his face again where his eyes grew softer the longer he absorbed the photo. There was a crescent shaped scar across his left temple, a gift from one of his first attackers in prison. He lost the entire brachioradialis muscle in his right arm, leaving a deep valley of skin near his elbow while he held the receiver to his ear. Three of the knuckles in his left hand, shattered countless times over the years, gave the hand an anvil shape, heavy and dangerous. She could see the grotesque finger of a meaty burn stretching up through the collar in his shirt, creeping around his neck like lichen on a stone. A fellow inmate had doused him in gasoline one night while he slept. The subsequent struggle smothered the flames and broke his attacker’s back.
Quill, she said, did you know your parents? Huh? oh, naw. Been on your own your whole life? Yeah, I guess. I’ve read your history, Quill—does that bother you? Naw. Well, I know what you’ve been through in this place. Uh-huh. And it seems to me you gave up a lot for this guy; you gave up your freedom; you gave up safety; one look at your records and it’s obvious how dangerous this place has been for you. Uh-huh. Why? why give up so much? She waited for his unrelenting daze to betray some thought, some sort of calculation. His eyes met hers and she caught the slightest hint of humor seeping from their dark teardrop shapes. Everything’s the fuckin same, he said. How so; what’s the same? I feel like laughing. Stolis squinted in confusion. It makes me laugh when people ask me why I’m here. And genuine bowling laughter tumbled from his mouth and he had to put the receiver down.
When he finally brought the microphone back to his face, she was smiling at him, not a smile designed, not faked but a natural reaction to the joy she saw in his face. Why? she asked, why is it funny? Because everything is the fuckin same here as it is there, and he pointed through the partition at the door in the wall behind her. She wanted to correct him. She wanted to list all the things on her side of the glass that he didn’t have on his, all the places she could go that he never had the choice to see. But she didn’t. Is it funny because no one believes you when you tell them, Quill? Ya know sumpthin? that might be it. I don’t get it, I gotta be honest, I don’t get it. Quill, lifted his face to the ceiling. You know what he would probly say? he told her and she could see him rummaging the inventory in his head, let me think a sec, then he faced her again. He would say, We all live in the past—Stolis could see him imagining Hatchet’s voice--so every time I find myself in a new moment I wanna know I made interesting choices to get here... I think that’s what he would say.
Karen Stolis sat stunned for a moment. You’ve been carrying that around with you a long time, haven’t you?
He looks happy, Quill told her again.
Hello, she said into the receiver. Quill nodded, his receiver at his ear with a curl of silver conduit resting somewhat inflexibly against the thick partition glass. I don’t have much time, had to call in quite a few favors to make this meeting happen, Mr. Everett; can I call you Quill? Sure. Stolis nodded and slipped an 8x10 sheet of paper from her leather briefcase and pressed it against the glass. Ever seen this thing? Quill gave the photo a quick study. Nope. That’s a Faberge Russian Egg, made for the tsar of Russia before the communists took over about ninety years ago. Uh-huh. You’ve never seen it? I told you. Okay. She thumbed within the zippered edge of her case then pushed another photograph against the glass. You know this man? A few seconds passed before his goofy rictus took form. Quill? Stolis said, you know this guy? Without a single movement of his head, Quill’s eyes found Karen Stolis at the edge of the photograph and he said, Lawyer.
You don’t have to play that game anymore, Quill. See, I saw that you settled with the county over that brutality thing a few weeks ago—that took long enough, eh?—which works out great for me because the statute of limitations just passed on the Calvary Fellowship robbery. I don’t talk about this stuff, Quill told her, this is lawyer stuff. What I’m trying to tell you Quill, her hand still pressing the photograph against the glass, is that you don’t have to hide any of this, anymore; they can’t do anything about it. Who? The state, the cops; you can’t get in trouble for telling your story anymore. Quill’s grin straightened.
Look, she placed the two photographs on the small linoleum counter so Quill could see both of them and she agitated the one of the egg with a wiggle of her finger. This and like $70,000 was found under the seat in a Ford Ranger in Big Bend National Park, apparently three or four months ago, but the truck had been there for years, hidden in the desert; that truck was last registered to, Stolis moved her finger to the other pic and wiggled it on the counter, this guy; Marcus Hatchet. Quill couldn’t peel his eyes from the picture of Hatchet, clean shaven and smiling like Christmas, a camera in his hand, a storm cloud rising pocked and gray behind him. I did the math, Quill, she said, he literally disappears the day after the Calvary Fellowship heist, poof, gone like something just snatched his ass up; you can tell me, Quill. Where is he? I don’t know, no one knows, not his friends, not his enemies, not a trace.
You can tell me, Quill, we both know Clancey Anderson wasn’t the Calvary Thief like everyone is saying; you can tell me.
She sat for a moment dissecting Quill’s expression, excogitating her approach. She knew Quill’s history, his mental capacity, had seen his medical records and she felt helpless having calculated his abilities and now witness to the construction of loyalty deep within his eyes. He’s not gonna tell me a damn thing, she thought to herself, because he’s stupid. I wonder where he is, he told her, peering into Hatchet’s face. So you do know him? Do you know him? No, Quill, I’m asking if you know him. Uh-huh; how old you think he is in this. Umm, she said, staring at his tattoo, the lightning bolts and the dragons, I’m almost certain he’s 34 here.
She found his face again where his eyes grew softer the longer he absorbed the photo. There was a crescent shaped scar across his left temple, a gift from one of his first attackers in prison. He lost the entire brachioradialis muscle in his right arm, leaving a deep valley of skin near his elbow while he held the receiver to his ear. Three of the knuckles in his left hand, shattered countless times over the years, gave the hand an anvil shape, heavy and dangerous. She could see the grotesque finger of a meaty burn stretching up through the collar in his shirt, creeping around his neck like lichen on a stone. A fellow inmate had doused him in gasoline one night while he slept. The subsequent struggle smothered the flames and broke his attacker’s back.
Quill, she said, did you know your parents? Huh? oh, naw. Been on your own your whole life? Yeah, I guess. I’ve read your history, Quill—does that bother you? Naw. Well, I know what you’ve been through in this place. Uh-huh. And it seems to me you gave up a lot for this guy; you gave up your freedom; you gave up safety; one look at your records and it’s obvious how dangerous this place has been for you. Uh-huh. Why? why give up so much? She waited for his unrelenting daze to betray some thought, some sort of calculation. His eyes met hers and she caught the slightest hint of humor seeping from their dark teardrop shapes. Everything’s the fuckin same, he said. How so; what’s the same? I feel like laughing. Stolis squinted in confusion. It makes me laugh when people ask me why I’m here. And genuine bowling laughter tumbled from his mouth and he had to put the receiver down.
When he finally brought the microphone back to his face, she was smiling at him, not a smile designed, not faked but a natural reaction to the joy she saw in his face. Why? she asked, why is it funny? Because everything is the fuckin same here as it is there, and he pointed through the partition at the door in the wall behind her. She wanted to correct him. She wanted to list all the things on her side of the glass that he didn’t have on his, all the places she could go that he never had the choice to see. But she didn’t. Is it funny because no one believes you when you tell them, Quill? Ya know sumpthin? that might be it. I don’t get it, I gotta be honest, I don’t get it. Quill, lifted his face to the ceiling. You know what he would probly say? he told her and she could see him rummaging the inventory in his head, let me think a sec, then he faced her again. He would say, We all live in the past—Stolis could see him imagining Hatchet’s voice--so every time I find myself in a new moment I wanna know I made interesting choices to get here... I think that’s what he would say.
Karen Stolis sat stunned for a moment. You’ve been carrying that around with you a long time, haven’t you?
He looks happy, Quill told her again.
Edit 1.7.2019