by Jon Mills
That’s when the guy struck. He rushed over to one newcomer and before anyone knew what had happened, stabbed him three times in the side and he dropped to the ground. It was precise, fast and the entire thing was over before guards could even figure out what had happened. He slipped back into the crowd and his pal handed back his shirt.
Now perhaps that would have been the end of that, but Jack was still staring as he returned to pump iron. He scowled a little as if expecting Jack to turn away but he didn’t. Whether that was a mistake or not, he would soon find out.
Fourteen - Nightmares
As darkness fell over the compound, Jack settled in for what would be one of the most uncomfortable nights of his life. At nine o’clock two guards on the outside of the prison entered to lock up the bartolinas. The routine was the same every night. Chepe and the coordinators worked with the guards to ensure that everyone was inside their cell. Once the iron door was closed, they asked how many were inside.
“Twenty-three,” Ernesto said from inside. The guard went on his way and silence fell over the place. Jack took his place on the hard concrete floor while all the others rested on mattresses. Two men shared a small space beneath a bed. How they managed to fit under there was a mystery. Arms and legs stuck out.
Jack had no pillow, no blanket, and nothing to put between him and the hard ground. He leaned his back against the wall and sat there while others snored. Nineteen years? There was no way in hell he could endure nineteen days in here. He could understand why many men took their lives. No one cared. It was one less body to feed.
Every now and again he would hear someone sob. It was hard to tell if it was coming from one of those in the cell he was in or farther down. Alone with his thoughts he found comfort in remembering the good times with Isabel. He closed his eyes and envisioned a day in the summer with her. Waking up in a warm bed, running his hands over her soft skin and making love. He could hear the swell of the ocean waves, the sound of the birds and for a few minutes he was lost in the past until he heard a jail cell open, men speaking in Spanish and then an American’s voice.
“No. No! Get away!”
Jack went to get up and he felt a hand touch his shoulder. “Leave it.”
It was Ernesto. But he couldn’t. The screams were bloodcurdling. Were they the screams of his brother? He had to know. Jack crossed over to the iron bars and gazed out. It was hard to see anything except the silhouette of figures a few doors down.
“Make it quick,” a guard said standing watch. A cigarette was lit and in the glow of the flame he saw the bald man with the spiderweb tattoo enter a cell and close the door behind him. What took place over the next ten minutes, Jack could only imagine. Rape occurred in prisons, though usually in the showers or when inmates were singled out but this was happening while a guard stood by.
He could hear the grunting of a man, and the scream of another. Jack returned to his place on the cold ground, it felt even colder than before. He stared down and watched a cockroach rush by only to see one inmate scoop it up at the last second and pop it into his mouth.
No one was safe.
The high-pitched wailing of the American continued for what felt like half an hour until it stopped. Jack’s eyes were closed when something landed on his lap. He glanced down to find a blanket. He looked up to see Guillermo in a top bunk smiling. He gave a nod of appreciation and placed it beneath him. The temperature felt like 88 degrees inside, so staying warm wasn’t the issue.
That night Jack got little sleep. When he did, his mind replayed the events of the day, except instead of the stranger getting shanked, it was him. Like having an out-of-body experience, he loomed over his dead body as blood drained away like a river and rats feasted upon his flesh.
When his eyelids cracked open, it was Ernesto.
“Wake up. Time for breakfast.”
Jack rose and arched his back. All the muscles in his body ached. Tension had set into his neck. He handed back the blanket to Guillermo and thanked him. Even in the bowels of hell there was kindness to be found.
As they streamed out into the blazing sunshine, Jack put up his forearm to block the glare. He looked to his left and right and watched the downtrodden inmates trudge towards to the area assigned for eating.
“Guillermo,” Jack nodded. “That cell down there, is that where the American is?”
He nodded and walked on. Jack stood there for a moment until a coordinator told him to get moving. As he got in line he saw the cell door open and a beaten, bruised American stumbled out. His heart sank. It wasn’t Noah. The man could barely walk as he was guided towards the line. Further down, the bald man came into view with a smile on his face. His goons were beside him.
“Guillermo, who is that?”
“Pueblo.”
“The American. That’s not the man I’m looking for.”
He shrugged and continued to shuffle forward because the coordinators were tapping inmates on the arm to keep the line flowing. Slowly but surely, he noticed Pueblo walk over to the American and the man cowered back. They laughed and continued on, only to catch Jack’s eye. It was the second time, however this time Pueblo didn’t just glare, he strolled up and squeezed in line behind Jack. As the line came to a halt while inmates were being served what slop they had on the menu, Pueblo leaned in and whispered into Jack’s ear.
“You’re mine.”
Now whether it was the need to establish a line in the sand, or anger for what he’d done to one of his own people, or that the American wasn’t Noah and he was no closer to finding him, but Jack reacted.
A swift elbow backwards into Pueblo’s solar plexus and a backhand to the face sent him reeling back. Inmates jeered as Pueblo rushed Jack and they hit the dirt. Jack reared back his head and headbutted him on the ground, and was about to strangle him when several hard batons rained down on his back. One struck him on the side of the ear and it was like being hit with a steel rod. A shot of pain, a blur of boots and he was hauled up by three coordinators while the others held back Pueblo. His nose was bleeding and he was spitting profanity as Jack was hauled away.
Punishment was swift.
A few of Chepe’s men handed Jack over to the guards who then took him to an isolated area of the compound. He knew what was coming. He’d experienced it in Rikers. The question was would solitary confinement be the same?
He was led down a series of stone steps, along a darkened corridor until they reached a steel door. There were several, four rooms in total that looked the same. The noise of the violent offenders banging on them echoed off the crumbling stone walls.
Once thrown inside, Jack took in the sight of his cell. It smelled dank and musty. There was hardly any paint on the walls, a single bed frame was in the middle minus a mattress. There were no blankets or pillows and a lone toilet not attached to any plumbing was off to his right. The ceiling was arched and in the center was a shaft of daylight flooding in through a small opening half his size. It was barred. The door slammed behind him and he shouted back.
“Now you give me a bed?”
Fifteen - The Hole
There was no way of knowing when they would release him. Solitary confinement was the worst place to be, no matter what prison you were in. In Rikers, Jack had been confined in a cell for twenty-three hours with only one hour a day allotted for exercise. There were inmates who had been confined for up to eight years in solitary. Never seeing another human being except a guard. Every inmate handled it differently. Some were so desperate for outside contact they hallucinated, interpreted the rush of wind through vents as whispers or resorted to feeding spiders, bugs.
Most couldn’t handle the silence, or the noise of others raging against being locked up for so long. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours, and hours like days. Routine would set in and Jack recalled waking up each day and cleaning his cell just to kill the hours. But here? There was nothing to clean. No water to clean with. It was worse than caging an animal. In fact, even animals wou
ldn’t get treated like this.
Though used by the system to discipline wrongdoers, it rarely corrected their behavior. Segregation led to mental problems. Hypersensitivity to stimuli, hallucinations, hate-filled fantasies, rage, weight loss, self-mutilation and suicidal thoughts.
Confinement didn’t calm the rage, it only intensified it, causing men to become a worse version of themselves. Slumped on the ground, Jack beat his knuckles against the floor as rage rose in his chest. He got up and slammed his fist against the door.
There was no response.
He paced, dropped and did a few push-ups just to get the blood flowing.
As the hours drifted, morning turned into afternoon and the sun waned, he heard someone approach the door. A slat was opened at the bottom and food on a tray was slid inside. An apple, a few carrots and the head of a rat. He scoffed it all down except the rat’s head.
From beyond the wall he could hear others. A man speaking in Spanish, praying over and over for God to deliver him and yet no one would save him now. The cries of another man pleading with the guards to let him out. How long had he been in there?
Solitary. He recalled it all too well. In the first few days an inmate might kick back against the punishment or do the opposite and remain calm hoping to be let out but as the days turned into weeks they would go through a whole range of emotions. Guilt, rage, desperation, hate, denial and acceptance.
Light turned into darkness and Jack glanced at the wire-framed bed. He sat on the edge and leaned back on the exposed steel springs. Each one dug into his flesh but the alternative of lying on the damp, cold ground was even worse.
Slowly but surely Jack could feel himself unraveling as the days continued to roll by. From outside his cell he could hear familiar voices and sounds. Some kicking at their doors, others beating their fists or heads against the wall. His knuckles were already raw and bloody from unleashing his anger on the door two days prior.
It was hard to believe it had come to this.
“Hello!” Jack called out hoping that the other inmates could hear him. Another one replied in Spanish telling him to shut his mouth. He continued regardless. That’s when he heard a reply. It was barely audible but it was American.
“Noah?”
There was silence, he asked again. “Is that you, Noah?”
He’d all but given up hope that Noah was incarcerated here. For a while he had thought perhaps he was dead, or Liz had been told the wrong information. But when the words came back, he couldn’t have been any more relieved.
“Who are you?”
“Noah Matthews, is that you?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
Jack chuckled a little and rested his head against the wall. He was tired, hungry and at the end of his rope. Days of being locked inside that hole had already broken him wide open like tearing the scab off an old wound.
“Hello brother!”
There was no reply.
Then, in an almost skeptical tone the voice drifted back.
“Brother? Who are you?” he demanded to know.
“Jack Winchester.”
“Jack? Jack?”
His voice got stronger and he heard him beating on his cell.
“The one and only.”
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Jack turned around and slumped down against the door with his back turned towards it. He rocked his head back and rested it.
“Would you believe me if I said I was here to break you out?”
A small laugh, then even harder. It was infectious as Jack soon joined in. Tiredness overtook and he saw the amusing side to it all.
“How’s that working out?” Noah asked.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
He snorted. It was good to hear his voice even though he hadn’t ever met him in person. Though they were locked up behind thick metal, enclosed within hard stone, hearing his voice was like a lifeline.
“How’s my mother doing?”
“Right about now she is probably bouncing off the walls.”
“Sounds like her. Damn. I can’t believe you are here.”
“How long you been down here?” Jack asked.
“A week. Some asshole thought he would become my bunk buddy. I nipped that idea in the bud.”
Jack laughed. “What, you beat him?”
There was hesitation in his voice, perhaps guilt. “Killed him.”
There was silence for a while.
“Did you come in alone?”
“No, they brought me and Henry in.”
“The other American.”
“Yeah, you seen him?”
Jack didn’t reply.
“Henry’s a friend of mine.”
The sound of the American man’s cries, and the images of him the next morning flooded Jack’s mind. The horrors of prison life could break a man within days. Even those who considered themselves tough would buckle under the strain.
“Yeah, he’s still alive.”
“Good, I thought he would end up the same as me.”
It was far worse. There were many downsides to confinement, safety wasn’t one of them. Though Jack had to wonder how safe they were here after a guard had let Pueblo into Henry’s cell.
No sooner had the conversation started than he heard keys jangling and boots pounding the ground. A key was inserted into the lock of his door, it clunked and an officer beckoned for him to step out.
“Is that it?”
“You’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
They strong-armed him out. As he passed by the cell that housed his brother, Noah called out to him. “Jack? Jack?”
“It’s okay, I’ll be back.”
He couldn’t be sure about that, but in solitary, hope of getting out was the only thing that kept people alive. They marched Jack up the narrow staircase that led him back out into the courtyard. A bright morning sun blinded him. He squinted. Though the cell had light, it was hardly anything and he had sat in the shadows for far too long. His eyes stung and his mouth felt parched.
Walking through the courtyard, he got a few claps from the inmates while others jeered. He saw Ernesto and Chepe, and as he rounded the corner he spotted Pueblo leaning back against a wall. His eyes narrowed and he made a gesture with his finger across his throat to indicate what he would do. Jack winked at him to piss him off.
Guiding him out of the compound with his wrists in cuffs, he was led towards a large building in the outer perimeter. As he got closer he recognized the number plate on one vehicle. It had been parked outside Lázaro’s home.
Buzzed in through several doors, he stood before Lázaro. He had his back turned and was gazing out the window. It overlooked the prison compound. He had his hands locked behind his back and was wearing a gray suit. When he turned, he waved off the guard and they closed the door.
“Take a seat.”
“I’ll stand if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before saying anything, he went over to a small table and poured himself out a drink of coffee.
“Would you like one?”
“I’ll pass.”
He grinned a little as he filled his cup and the aroma of fresh coffee beans filled the air. Not that he wouldn’t have killed for a cup of coffee but the dynamics between the two of them had changed. No longer was he trying to bargain.
“You must excuse the delay in me getting to speak with you. I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
“Yeah, making room for that hundred thousand dollars must be real hard.”
He snorted. “About that. It’s unfortunate, I thought we could reach an agreement but fate has a strange sense of humor.”
“Where is the money?”
“Oh, let’s not discuss that. Who cares about the money? That’s not of concern to you, is it?”
Jack didn’t reply.
He continued. “Getting out of here is what matters, right?”
Jack gave a no
d.
“I hear you landed yourself in solitary for fighting. You fight well, do you?”
Where was he going with this? “Let me out of these cuffs and I’ll demonstrate.”
His lip curled up while he stirred his coffee and took a seat.
“The way I see it. You have a lengthy sentence ahead of you, Jack. The life expectancy of someone in Danlí is low. So you have a few options. You can continue with the attitude and I can have my man outside take you right back to solitary, where I believe your brother is. How is he?”
Jack ground his teeth.
“What do you want?”
“What does anyone want, Jack?” He got up and walked over to the window and sipped at his coffee. “All those men down there are just waiting to explode or implode. It will happen. It always does. The last riot we had was kicked off by the smallest thing. Would you like to know what it was?”
“A hair in someone’s food?” Jack muttered.
“Close. No, before we instituted coordinators, there were several people vying for control of the prison. Like in any village, town, city or organization there is always one that wants to rule over others. The man in charge at the time raped a visitor of another prisoner. This caused a massive riot, over eight people died and by the time it was over, Luis the man who had committed that foul act was strung up and his heart was torn from his chest and fed to the dogs. They then burned the others involved and their bodies were found in various places throughout the courtyard.”
“And?” Jack asked.
“The government doesn’t and won’t pay for more guards because in their eyes, it’s a waste. I agree. The more you hire, the more people will die. But I found a solution. Men have all this pent-up frustration. At least those inside the walls do. Unless they have a means to unleash that, it bottles up and eventually boils over. So I came up with a way to keep everyone calm and happy. The inmates regulate each other, while the few guards we have ensure that they don’t escape the perimeter.”