Equity

Chapter 2

"Sampo. Hey Sampo, c'mon get your ass out of bed. There's somebody here to see you."

"Wh-what?" He opened his sleep-rimmed eyes at the guard. "What time is it?"

"Three p.m.. Hurry up and get your clothes on; I ain't got all day," the guard barked.

Sampo thought frantically. Hadn't he just been dreaming? What was it? Something—he was trying to remember—there was something in the...trees. Yes. Something made a noise. That was all he could remember. He shook his head in exasperation and rubbed his hands over his face, massaging the sleep from his eyes. He felt the beard stubble there.

"Sampo, do I have to come in there and dress you?" the guard threatened.

"Keep your shirt on," Sampo snapped back. "Who wants to see me?"

"I dunno, probably your lawyer. I was just told to come and get you."

"Well I don't want to see anybody today." He was thinking he'd had enough of lawyers. Blood suckers.

"I came all the way up here to get you Sampo, and I ain't goin' back without you. Don't make it hard on yourself. Now, get movin'," the guard growled.

He knew the guard meant it. "Ok, Ok," he said resignedly. He slipped on his jeans and his prison-blue work shirt, and then his sneakers. He made a futile attempt at trying to smooth his hair with his hand, then signaled he was ready. He made up his mind to get rid of the visitor in short order, so he could get back and get something to eat. And he didn't relish the walk across the dreary exercise yard through the cold January snow, either.

#

The man was already seated at the far table in the visitors' room when they arrived, a tan leather briefcase in front of him. Sampo sat across from him, while the guard moved to a chair near the door, watching them impassively. There was a low murmur of conversation from the other end of the long table; a man and women, heads close to the transparent plastic partition between them, were talking through a grilled opening.

He turned to the little man in front of him. The visitor was wearing a conservative, light grey suit that matched his close-cropped hair. His mild blue eyes and white mustache belied the crisp manner and self-assuredness as he spoke.

"Ah, well then. Mr. Sampo, is it? I am Jonathan Stroud. I am here to—"

"Don't waste my time, Stroud," Sampo cut him off. "I don't need another lawyer. So you might as well be on your way."

The man gave just the slightest of smiles, as his eyes leveled with Sampo's. "Don't be hasty, Mr. Sampo. I assure you, I am not an attorney. If you could be so kind as to hear what I have to say, it shouldn't take but a few minutes of your time."

"A few minutes are all you've got. If you're not a lawyer, then what do you want?"

"Very well. I'll get right to the point. I am with Victim's Equitable, representing Mrs. Sarah Franks. Is her name familiar to you, Mr. Sampo?"

"No, why should it be? And what is 'Victim's Equitable', some kind of insurance company?"

"In a way, Mr. Sampo. Our firm assists clients, who have been directly or indirectly made the victims of violent crime, in obtaining just compensation."

"Yeah, I get it. And you guys collect a fat fee. So what's all this got to do with me?"

"On the contrary. Our firm imposes no fee on the client. We seek only to assure that justice has been served. Our members are strictly volunteers, acting as intermediaries, as it were. Think back, Mr. Sampo. Surely you recall the robbery of the jewelry store, the reason that you are here now?"

At the mention of the jewelry store, Sampo sat a little straighter in his chair. Yes—now he had it. Franks—that was the name of the guy he'd wasted. His eyes made little darting movements. He was more cautious now.

"I see that you do indeed remember, Mr. Sampo. Do you also recall that Mr. Franks left a widow and two small children? No? Let me explain. You see, Mr. Franks had very little insurance on his store, and only a small amount of life insurance. He had just started his store, and costs being what they were, nearly all of his money went back into his business. When what little money there was, ran out. Mrs. Franks had to sell their home and take a job. They now live in a small, dingy walk-up." His tone softened. "It isn't very easy for them, Mr. Sampo."

"My heart bleeds," said Sampo sarcastically, sounding bored. He scratched at a spot under his chin, wishing to be elsewhere, at the same time wondering just what this guy was up to.

"All she wants," Stroud said evenly, "is that you disclose the location of the stolen money and gems, so that they can live in some semblance of comfort, albeit without their husband and father."

"You're wasting your time."

"We know you hid it. There was not time before your capture for you to have spent it. It's a reasonable request, Mr. Sampo."

"No."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Look around you, Mr. Sampo. You've tried the parole and appeal route and failed. You're here for the rest of your life. You'll never have the chance to spend your ill-gotten booty."

Sampo relaxed slightly, in his element now. "What's in it for me?" he asked coolly.

"We surmised that you would get around to that. We are prepared to offer you something in exchange for the location of the hiding place."

"I'm listening," alert now.

"How are you sleeping these days?" A tight smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

"I don't follow you."

"The dreams, Mr. Sampo, the dreams. Do you find them...pleasant?"

"Go on," he said non-committally, while his mind leapt to the peaceful meadow and pond.

"In this prison, with no chance of physical escape, wouldn't it be nice to visit that place in your dreams any time you wished, just by merely closing your eyes? You would be essentially a free man, as it were."

"Nobody can make dreams...happen." He was almost excited, still wary.

"But that's not true. Shall I describe your dreams to you? A beautiful meadow and pond, a temperate climate. The days pass in serenity, with no one to tell you what to do. You can stroll about, or rest, however it pleases you."

"Ok, Ok. So how do I know you wouldn't weasel out of your part of the bargain?"

"You don't. You have my word, however. And I never go back on my word."

"Why is the dream red?" He was calculating, figuring now.

"Beg pardon?"

"Red. Everything's all red in the dream. And something else...I heard someth— It's a little scary."

"We provide the dream without flaw, Mr. Sampo. But it is still in your own mind, subject to your conscience, or should I say your subconscious thoughts. Your deep-seated fears or strong emotional experiences may impose themselves on your fantasy, beyond our control. Do you have any special fears, Mr. Sampo?"

"No." But he was thinking of the zoo, and the snake cages. He shuddered.

"Fine. Are we in agreement then?"

"I'll need some time to think about it."

"I'm afraid I can give you only until nine o'clock tonight." He pulled a business card from his briefcase and slid it under the partition. Sampo looked at the card, then held it up for the guard to see, which was standard practice. The guard nodded his assent. "Please call me at that number when you decide. Good day."

With that, the little man left, leaving Sampositting there, looking at the card, his eyes deep in thought.