The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  I know I wouldn’t survive long in this place. Here, muscle is king, and strength—both mental and physical—is what you need to survive. My strengths would be useless.

  But all that’s still general population territory. Where we’re heading is not what you’d call “general population.” Our destination is a place where solitary confinement reigns supreme, and I think I could do that. In fact, on some level I think it would be almost enjoyable; to be away from people, away from the world. But I’m naïve and talking as someone who’s never seen the inside of a jail. Hell, I never even got detention as a kid.

  Regardless, I’m sure my money and status would keep me out of any hard time, no matter what crime I got pinged for. People like me—white, wealthy folk—well, we just don’t go to jail. I’d pay my way out, maybe get a slap on the wrist. I guess I’ll just have to take my solitary confinement in the south of Italy.

  As we march down the corridor, the police transcripts flash through my mind. I’ve heard the tapes, memorized them—every word, every utterance. I even have copies at home. The undeniable evidence. Grant’s unwavering commitment to his story. Even with everything stacked against him, he still went down swinging. The prosecution’s case was solid and straightforward—about as straightforward as you could ever hope to have. No deals were offered; they didn’t need to consider anything like that. After all, they had the murder weapon. And a motive. And the means.

  The defense had nothing but a conspiracy and an insanity plea. It was laughable, really. The jury heard everything: the evidence, the motive, the gruesome details of how it all went down. Took them half an hour to come up with a guilty verdict and recommend the death penalty.

  It happened that way because that’s how I orchestrated it.

  After a maze of somewhat soothing, cream-colored corridors, we reach a door that has “Meeting Room 3” stenciled on it. Carl looks at me then to a small keypad on the wall next to the door.

  “You want to enter this one in?”

  I stare at him.

  “Pardon?”

  “The code,” he says. “You can enter it in here.”

  I shrug. “What are you talking about? What code? I don’t know any code.”

  Carl sighs, heavily. He reaches out and punches in random numbers—ten total, no pattern. There’s a short period of white noise before the door lock responds, then an irritating electric buzzing sound. Carl yanks the door open, then runs his eyes over me.

  “I can’t believe he’s letting you do this. Damn waste of time if you ask me,” he says, his voice deep, hardened.

  “The warden and I are very good friends,” I say with a wink.

  It’s mostly true. The warden owes me. More than he cares to admit.

  Carl sighs and then launches into a spiel, talking in a disinterested tone as if he’s reading through the terms and conditions of a warranty. “The inmate will be secured to the table. No touching the inmate, no passing anything to the inmate. If you feel threatened by the inmate, hit the panic button by the door. When you want to leave, knock on the door and wait for me to come get you. Do you understand these rules as I’ve explained them to you?”

  I nod and take a step inside. Then I turn back toward him. “I trust you’ve deactivated the recording equipment for this meeting?”

  Carl cocks his head to one side. “I don’t know, Mac.” With a blank look, he reaches for the handle.

  “You know,” I shout at the closing door. “I’m sure we’re going to be great friends one day!” My sentence concludes with the door’s metal locks sliding into place.

  I turn and take in the windowless room. The walls are plain, the interior the same cream color as the walkways. There’s a door at the other side of the room where I’m assuming Grant will enter. In the middle of the room, bolted to the floor, is a table. Three metal chairs are positioned around it. I don’t know who the spare one is for. A set of handcuffs, secured to the surface, will be attached to Grant when he arrives. I take a seat and wait, taking the opportunity to rub my hand against the side of my head. It’s tender, and the more I push the more it hurts, so I push against my forehead instead to try to relieve some pressure.

  I’m not used to waiting, and the chair is as uncomfortable as waking up in a gay brothel with your pants around your ankles. Ah, Mexico. Sweet memories of Dave’s bachelor party. But I digress.

  Just then, a buzzing noise, and the door in front of me opens. I stand and watch as an almost six-foot tall, orange-garbed prisoner shuffles in. A chain connects his wrists and ankles to his waist. Just in case he tries to make a break for it. Two guards escort him in. I can’t read their names, but I don’t care what their names are. They’re inconsequential to the story, although I will say one’s Hispanic and the other is African American. But then again, maybe they aren’t, and I’m a racist asshole. Anyway, they’re both barrel-chested and keep their gazes on their subject. For the sake of the story, let’s call them Santiago and Darnell.

  The prisoner takes a seat. I’m guessing it’s Grant, even though it sure as hell doesn’t look like him. I guess that’s what eight years of solitary confinement does to you. Limited exercise, non-existent natural light. Grant used to have GQ looks and a lifestyle to match. How the tables have turned. His perfect blond hair has withered away, his California-tanned skin lightened, now akin to egg whites. A week’s growth has overtaken his once smooth jawline. His once powerful and composed stature now hunched over. Face devoid of emotion. He looks like someone who’s come to terms with death row. Accepted his fate. He looks over me with dead eyes but neither says nor shows anything. He’d be one hell of a poker player.

  Santiago stands back, his hand on the butt of his taser, while Darnell speaks to Grant.

  “I trust we aren’t going to have any troubles here today, are we Grant?” It’s more of a direction than a question.

  Grant shakes his head. Compliance. Beaten into him physically, mentally, emotionally. He holds up his cuffed hands and gazes at me as he waits for Darnell to attach the table restraints. They lock into place with a menacing clack. Grant is a seasoned professional. Not that he grew up with a life of crime or visited family members in prison. He may have started with nothing, but this guy used to be the owner of a global tech company, had an IQ that was off the charts, was married, had a pigeon pair, even planned to run for mayor. He had his path all figured out, all the networks and connections—all the way to the White House. That’s an important piece of information; that’s why he stood out. Let me come back to that.

  Satisfied by Grant’s security, the guards walk to the back wall and flank the door they had entered through. They fold their arms like a pair of nightclub bouncers.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I believe the warden assured me we could talk alone.”

  The two guards look at each other and then down to the prisoner.

  “Come on guys, don’t make me call the warden.”

  With a sigh, they shrug and depart the room. “We’ll be right out here if you need us,” Darnell says.

  Grant and I look at each other in silence for a long time, each of us waiting for the other to make the first move. He looks me up and down, but I’m not sure how much of that information is going to his brain. His eyes glaze over. It looks like he hasn’t smiled in years. But why would you when death is so imminent, the reaper just around the corner sharpening his sickle?

  “Mr. Taylor,” I venture, “you don’t know me—”

  “You a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “A journalist?”

  “No.”

  “From the mayor’s office?”

  “No.”

  “From the marshal’s office?”

  “No.”

  “Detective?”

  “No.”

  He leans forward on the table. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here because the state is going to execute you.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of that.” He looks away. “I’d ra
ther they just get on and do it already.”

  “I want to tell you a story.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sorry, very rude of me. My name is Atlas Jones.” I hold out my hand. We both stare at it for a moment before I awkwardly retract it. “I want to—”

  “Guard!” Grant yells, and then turns to me. “I’d rather spend the last few hours of my life thinking about my family, not listening to your sorry ass. Guard!”

  The door opens.

  “Grant, please. I have information for you. I know what happened to you.”

  Santiago puts a key into Grant’s chains.

  “Stop!” Grant yells.

  The guard looks at him. Grant looks at me, a spark in his eyes—as if the rain clouds had parted to reveal a glowing sun.

  “Sorry, guys,” Grant softly apologizes. “I might’ve been a bit hasty. Give me a few more moments with this Mr. Jones here.”

  “Grant, don’t piss me off. Not today,” Santiago says. “You’re either coming or staying. None of this flip flop shit.”

  “I’m sure you can appreciate my mental state on a day like today.” He shakes his head. “I just need to get my head right. This man here will help me.”

  Darnell eyeballs me, his eyebrows raised.

  I nod. I don’t know exactly what I’m agreeing to, but it had the desired effect.

  Santiago sighs and heads for the door, slapping his partner’s shoulder on the way out.

  When the door clicks shut, Grant talks. “Listen here. You better not be jerking my chain, or God help me, I will rip this bar off the table and beat you to death with it. I’ve got nothing to lose today. You said you had information. I can tell you I was set up. I didn’t do it. I never killed my family.”

  The way he’s talking strikes me. It’s not emotional; he’s not breaking into tears. It’s factual, hard. He isn’t rushed—he’s measured. I had often wondered what his first days here were like. Did he cry himself to sleep? If so, was it because his family was dead, or because he knew he was destined to receive a shot of lethal chemicals? Those are the thoughts I had mulled over when I couldn’t sleep, when I sat in my penthouse apartment and looked out over the New York City skyline.

  “Please, Grant,” I tell him. “Let me explain everything, and this will all become clear.”

  “Are you a private investigator? What’ve you found out?” Again, no urgency in his voice.

  “No, I’m not a private investigator.”

  “Well, if you aren’t a lawyer, journalist, or anyone, how the hell did you get in here?”

  “It’s amazing what someone will do for a few bucks. You should know that. You know, back in the day.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. A lifetime ago.”

  “So, who are you?”

  “Let’s go back sixteen years.” I clear my throat. “Back then, I had finished top of my class at Harvard, blitzed my internship, aced my licensing exams. I became the youngest, hottest investment banker at Wakefield & Gold. I don’t want to brag, but I had this knack to read the markets, and everybody wanted a piece. Money, cars, girls. More than I could handle.”

  “Sounds great, kid. Impressive. But I don’t see why any of that matters. Not here. Not now.”

  I hold up my hand. “Stay with me, Grant. I want you to understand everything. Usually, I can’t remember what the hell happened yesterday, but I sure as hell remember this. It’s all so clear in my head.”

  I tap my temple. It hurts.

  I look him in the eye. “I want you to appreciate that nothing is ever as it seems.”

  Chapter 3

  2003

  Eight years ago, I was sitting at a desk, staring at a computer screen, in a boxy office with no natural light. The fact I had an office at all was because my employers saw a future in my talents and my ability to see the market’s peaks and falls coming from a mile away. I was an expert in saving companies making millions for our clients—even as millions drowned in the flood of bad debt. But let’s face it. My business partners were mainly interested in my ability to make them money. They didn’t really have any desire to nurture my abilities. But I didn’t mind. My world was a far cry away from the chaotic mess that was “the field”: an open space filled with tiny cubicles and people running between desks, phones ringing nonstop, monitors displaying real time information.

  Management’s policy allowed me to keep a solitary family photo on my desk, but I didn’t have any family to show. As a three-year-old, I had been orphaned for reasons that were never explained to me. After that, I did the usual rounds, since my caretakers were assholes who just took in kids for the government checks that come once a month. They saw me as a way to receive some extra drug and booze money. I saw them as stepping stones, people who were helping me move to the next stage in my life. I had no connection to them, and they felt little connection to me.

  I worked my ass off through school, college, and beyond. My guardians, if you could call them that, gave me nothing more than the hand-me-down clothes on my back and some meager food rations. At times, I even had to fight for that. I worked for everything else. And from the ashes, the phoenix rose. While other kids were fucking around, I would be devouring books, making sure I knew more than the next person. Hell, the next hundred people.

  I had the opportunity to build networks in junior school and high school, meeting people who knew people. They were mainly hefty benefactors looking to donate cash in the shadow of my sob-story to help them sleep better at night. Instead of bowing down and thanking them for their thoughtful gesture, I repelled them. I didn’t need anyone else to help me through, nor did I want some significant other doting over me or even a pet dog to keep me company. I got by just fine. So, there was no picture frame on my desk, or anything else for that matter, aside from trays filled with paper, reports, and anything else the company thought I should have to fulfil my position.

  Management equipped my desk with my three monitors, which gave me all the data I could want. In a small window at the top of one screen was the view of a press conference. I could see the back of a few reporters’ heads as they whispered to each other. It was a small room—the news they were discussing would be a shock to everyone, and only the lucky few were invited. I had rolled my sleeves up past my elbows and loosened my black tie. My charcoal-gray suit jacket was slung over the back of my chair. I played with my cufflinks, spinning the toggle clasp as I perused the information flooding across my screens, all the while ignoring Elton, who was sitting across from me.

  Elton was a senior partner, as well as a prescribed mentor, principal ass kicker, and perpetual ass licker. He had made a name for himself in the early days of the company. Took a few risks, came out on top. Flew up the ladder, probably skipping a few rungs on the way. I remember when I had first met him, he was leaning back in his large leather chair, his shoes propped up on his desk. He looked over me and my cheap suit and said, “You know something kid, you remind me of me when I was your age.” What a dick. Now he was old and boring and lacked vision.

  The reason he had invited himself to my office was to berate me and watch me fail, and he wore a scowl as he did it. My announcement had yet to begin, and I wondered if it ever would. When I first shared my proposal to pull out of the renewables market with him, he responded by saying it was, and I quote, “lacking in foresight and inherently stupid.” Given that market had flourished for the past decade and generated close to fifteen percent of all power needs, the world considered it a safe bet. A steady growth field.

  Regardless, I did it anyway. I shorted the stock. It was risky, but everything is risky, and my risks aren’t as dicey as people perceive them to be. The thing was, Elton didn’t know what I knew, and he couldn’t see what I saw. The way I connected the dots was beyond his comprehension. It was 3:00 p.m. on a Friday, and he was keen to wash his hands of everything before the weekend.

  “I told ya, kid, those ideas of yours are horseshit
. I already told the directors I’m distancing myself from you, that you’re a loose cannon, that your ideas are bullshit, and you can’t be trusted.”

  “Uh huh,” I managed, watching the market fluctuate on one of my screens.

  “When this is all over, security will come in here and escort you out. If I were you, I’d be packing a box now. And this bullshit about some two-bit tech company in Japan? Man, you’ll fry for this.”

  “South Korea, not Japan.”

  “I don’t give a fuck where it is. South Korea, North Korea...it’s a goddamned pipe dream. You’ve cost this company millions, and trust me, the partners will look for blood after all this. And it ain’t going to be mine, I can damn well tell you that! I’ve built up too much stock in this company to go down in flames with some nutcase.”

  “Fuck, Elton. You’re really killing my buzz here.”

  He brushed his pants leg and stretched his neck. He was smiling—not in happiness, not because he “saw himself in me,” but because he could taste sweet victory, and I was going down swinging. Defiant.

  “Now listen here, you little shit...”

  Elton continued talking, but my focus was on the press conference, and his words evaporated into background noise. He might’ve even said something about not working in this field ever again, and perhaps even something about my mother, but neither of those bothered me in the slightest.

  “Elton, will you just shut up for a second?”

  He stood at my desk, ready to pounce, as I spun the monitor around and turned up the volume. The announcement I had been waiting for played out through the speakers. A glitch in over forty-two patents was coming to life in the Californian solar farm. The defect would not only decrease performance over the short term, but the long-term effects would also be chaotic. The electronics would basically eat themselves into oblivion. The flow on effects would be widespread. The fallout, indescribable. Fingers were already being pointed, talk of lawsuits raised. All the while, I was sure that CEOs sitting in the top ten technology companies were sweating through their Alexander Amosu designer suits.