Michael Brodin, author of “Doing The Right Thing”, is a physician who spent his most formative years in Brooklyn, New York.
Ray Trinidad and Harley Jenkins were playing chess in the recreation area of the Fishkill Correctional Facility in Beacon, New York.
The name “Correctional” was somewhat incongruous for these men, since both were serving life sentences, and any hope of correcting them had long since passed. Nonetheless, they had mellowed over the years and were well behaved model prisoners, trustees is what they call them. The only fighting they did was over the chessboard.
“I see what you’re doing,” said Harley, as he jotted down the move he had just made with his bishop. Unlike Ray, Harley kept a meticulous record of every move in every chess game he had played during his incarceration.
“What am I doing?” said Ray.
“Letting me win, as usual.”
Unlike Ray, Harley kept a meticulous record of every move in every chess game he had played during his incarceration.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ray as he moved a pawn.
Harley smiled, showing his missing front tooth, and wrote down the move. He said, “There you go again.” He moved his knight, forking Ray’s king and queen.
“Damn,” said Ray. “Didn’t see that.” He tipped over his king, signifying he’d resigned. “See, it’s not me, it’s you… you’re the one getting better.”
“No,” Harley said. “That’s not it. Look at this.”
He turned to the back of a notebook where he’d drawn a graph. “See here, how in the past month I’ve been winning much more? I can’t figure it out. Something’s up.”
“I can explain it,” Ray said as he examined the graph. “You’re following my advice, going over your games and identifying your mistakes. You don’t do stupid shit like you used to. You’ve made your breakthrough. Congratulations.”
“No,” Harley said, “see, right now, with this win we’re exactly even, 47 wins apiece and 63 draws, yet we both know you’re way better than me. It can’t be coincidence.”
Ray thought about this, then said, “In other words, if we never play again, we’ll be even.”
Harley gave him a questioning look.
“I mean, like we’re square, you and me.”
“Yeah,” said Harley. “Guess so.” But he looked troubled.
Just then one of the C.O.s came over.
“Trinidad,” he said, “you got visitors.”
Ray wrinkled his nose. Harley looked puzzled too, for it wasn’t visiting day. The guard shrugged his shoulders as if to say, beats me, but he looked somber.
They took Ray to a room with peeling paint, a table, folding chairs, and an old file cabinet. Seated were a woman of about sixty and a priest.
The woman was Ray’s ex-wife, Olga. The priest was the prison chaplain.
They both got up when Ray came in.
He nodded to Olga, barely acknowledging her.
“Padre,” he said to the priest, nodding to him as well, and sat down.
Olga began to cry.
“What’s up?” said Ray.
“Nicky,” said Olga, choking up.
Ray opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, then pulled himself together and was able to speak.
“When?” Ray asked.
“Yesterday,” Olga said.
“How?”
“Shot,” she mumbled.
Ray’s expression didn’t change, but he put his face in his hands and his hands on the table and stayed that way for a long time.
“When’s the funeral?” Ray asked, his voice muffled by his hands.
“Thursday,” Olga said.
Ray uncovered his face. He looked at the priest.
“Think you could put in a good word — to let me… attend?” Ray asked.
“Certainly.”
“Much obliged,” said Ray.
He got up and left without another word.
*****
The warden granted permission, and on Thursday they transported Ray in an unmarked black Chevy Yukon. One of the Fishkill C.O.s drove while a U.S. marshal sat next to him. There was another marshal in the back since Ray still had federal charges pending against him as well as those from New York State.
He wore civilian clothes and they had his wrists cuffed and his ankles shackled.
As they crossed the Hudson River the marshal in back said, “How many kids you have?”
“Just the one,” Ray said. “Nicky. Now he’s gone.”
“Tough break,” said the marshal. “Parents shouldn’t outlive their children.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “He was a good kid.”
The church was in a remote area in the foothills of the Catskill mountains. When they got there a large crowd was lingering outside, chattering and smoking. Everybody was in black and wore sunglasses. The women were all well-dressed while many of the men were husky with close cropped hair.
The marshals waited for a good half hour until everyone had entered the church, then they brought Ray in through the front doors. The three of them sat in the back row, Ray in between the marshals.
The priest said the mass for the dead, gave a short sermon in which, among other things, he said we all die, we just don’t know when, or how, or where. After a few more insights into the frailty of the human condition he asked if anyone wanted to say a few words.
At first there was no response, but just as it seemed the priest was about to call it a day, Ray said, “I do,” then said it again louder. He stood up. The marshals were surprised, looked at each other.
Ray held up his hands and pointed to his feet, asking with his expression whether they might remove the restraints.
One of the marshals seemed ready, reached for the key, but the other marshal, the one near the aisle, hesitated. But ultimately, evidently feeling sorry for Ray, he gave in, unlocked the cuffs and shackles and let Ray out of the pew.
As Ray shuffled down the aisle he kept his head down, looking only at the floor. Twice he actually stopped, as if not really wanting to go through with a speech.
It took him a full minute to reach the altar. He had trouble walking up the steps and stumbled.
After he had taken his place behind the lectern he raised his head, looked around, and cleared his throat. He stared at Olga, wondering if she suspected anything, then looked around again. The congregation stirred uneasily, waiting for him to begin. But he seemed to be waiting for something, his eyes taking everything in, the people, the walls, ceiling, altar… and then the back of the church, the marshals.
And then he screamed, “Duck!”
A fraction of a second later two shots rang out, but so close together that they sounded like one.
Both of the marshals slumped forward, each with a bullet to the back of the head delivered by a pair of men in nice suits wearing ski masks.
Ray, now spry, sprinted out the exit nearest the lectern while the men in the masks ran out the front of the church where they shot out the tires of the Yukon and fired a few rounds at the windshield in case the driver had any ideas about being a hero. Then they circled around to the side of the church where they piled into a stretch limo which said “Farley’s Funeral Home”. Ray was already in the back seat.
The limo took off, the assassins removed their masks, and everyone except the driver helped themselves to a drink from the bar.
“So far so good,” said Ray, looking back through the rear window just to make sure.
They drove north through the Catskills taking the back roads until they reached Kerhonkson, in Ulster County, where the limo pulled up to a house in the woods which had three cars parked in the driveway.
All the men got out and went into the house bringing the liquor with them.
Ray went to a safe in one of the bedroom closets and opened it, extracting several large bundles of bills. He gave a stack to each of the three men.
“That’s for today,” Ray said.
Then he took two more stacks and gave them only to the gunmen.
“That’s for Nicky,” he said.
The men took the money.
One of the men remarked, “This is too much. More than we said.”
“I put in a little extra. Buy something nice for your girlfriend.”
Then Ray said, “By the way, Nicky, he give you any trouble?”
“Piece of cake,” said one of the gunmen. “Pop pop pop. Never knew what hit him.”
“Gotta hand it to you, Ray,” said the other. “Whacking your own son. Jesus.”
“You would of too, if he’d a double crossed you,” said Ray. “Kid was a prick.”
“My kid’s a prick too,” said the driver. “Maybe I should whack him. Teach him a lesson.”
Everybody laughed.
“Wanna hear something funny,” Ray said, “Nicky wasn’t even mine.” The men stared.
“His DNA. I had it tested. Olga, she was always sleeping around. Ever notice he didn’t look like me?”
The men thought about this, then drank, then nodded to each other in unison, tacitly agreeing that Ray had done the right thing.
*****
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