A Handy Death Read Online Free PDF

when he was there. All little angels. But I was up there alone when the game started.”
    â€œHow about on the field itself during the game? Any non-convicts? Who umpires the games, by the way? Other convicts? Trustees?”
    â€œGuards,” Coughlin said emphatically. “They used to have prisoners as umpires—trustees—but the story is that after one bum call, or anyway one unpopular call, that trustee wandered into the Yard after lunch and was ganged up on. Damn near killed. Now they use guards.” He smiled humorously, his huge teeth showing. “The men can’t hate umpires more than they already hate screws.”
    â€œI see. And who coaches the ball club? Or ball clubs? Do they have more than one team?”
    â€œWell, sure. You ever try to play ball with just one team? They have a regular league. Six thousand men at Attica, remember.”
    â€œAnd who runs the league? Who schedules the games, handles the equipment, things like that? Other guards?”
    â€œFather Swiaki handles the whole sports program. He’s the prison chaplain. Remember Swiaki? All-American from Holy Cross about ’65 or ’66? A fabulous tackle.”
    Ross disregarded Father Swiaki’s credentials.
    â€œWas Father Swiaki present at the time of the game? And the disturbance?”
    â€œYou mean the so-called disturbance. The Maypole dance. Sure,” Coughlin said. “But he was sitting on the bench. I could see him.” He paused, leaned forward significantly, and added, “You can’t see a thing from field level. You sure can’t judge a ball from a strike sitting on the bench. That’s why I get such a kick out of a manager charging from the dugout and screaming about a call. Hell, he’s lucky he can see the batter’s shoes from there!”
    â€œBut you can see clearly from the spectator’s box?”
    â€œClear as a bell,” Coughlin said smugly.
    â€œAnd what did Father Swiaki do during the riot? According to you, the so-called riot?”
    â€œWhat could he do? Oh, he was out there trying to separate guys, but it was a joke. Like I’m trying to tell you it was a plant, a fake. It wasn’t a real riot. Five will get you ten nobody got a scratch in that Maypole dance!”
    â€œI’m not a betting man.” Ross picked up a pencil idly; he looked from the pencil to Coughlin’s face. “All right. I’ve got the scene. Now, tell me about the ball game itself.”
    â€œI told you. Dupaul purposely threw four straight balls to a klutz like Ryan to give the men a chance to yammer, and they did. And that was the cover-up for the escape try. Clear?”
    â€œClear enough,” Ross said. “In your story—or rather, the story you passed on to a staffer on the Mirror and for which you got no credit—did you mention your suspicion that the riot had been staged?”
    â€œIt was no suspicion.”
    â€œWhatever it was. Did you mention it?”
    â€œWho, me?” Coughlin assumed an innocent air, but there was a faint smile on his face. “And open myself up to a possible libel suit? Or—even worse—find myself testifying to that effect in court? Not a chance. Oh, I may have said that an unidentified guard claimed it as a possibility, but that’s about all.” He paused significantly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here doing you this favor.”
    Ross nodded. He put his pencil aside and leaned back in his swivel chair, his hands behind his head, studying the confident figure across from him. He seemed to come to a conclusion and brought his hands down, straightening up.
    â€œAll right, Mr. Coughlin. Let me see if I understand you correctly. According to you, you are the sole reliable witness as to what occurred yesterday on the athletic field at Attica Prison. The guards on the field were in no position to properly judge the pitching—other than the umpire, who agrees with