by Brian Shea
Nick sat on his cot allowing the sweat to drip freely from his face, forming a small pool in the space between his white sneakers. There was no clock in any of the D Wing cells and no clocks on any of the walls. Inmates were not permitted to have watches and therefore had no reference for the passing of time. The only discernible timeline came in the way of the light and bell system. The lights came on every morning, announcing the start to a new day, and turned off after the lights-out warning every night, signaling its end. Each meal was announced by loudspeaker after a buzzer sounded. It was a recorded message and therefore never deviated in tone or content. Breakfast’s and dinner’s message directed prisoners to turn from the door and place their hands on the wall. If you complied, the meal slot, located at the base of the heavy steel door, would lift and the beige tray would slide into the cell. Inmates were not permitted to move until the meal door was closed. Anyone that refused to put their hands on the walls or failed to hold their position didn’t get fed.
In the early days of his confinement, Nick tested the waters by not complying with the recorded directive. He lost many meal opportunities in those first months, which was one of the reasons he’d lost so much weight. The guards did not treat him differently from the others in D Wing. He respected the principle of that, but also came to the realization he was by all accounts a prisoner. Nothing more, nothing less.
The lunch wave and recreation block had a different announcement. The buzzer sounded and the announcement to hold the wall was given, but unlike the click of the meal door during breakfast and dinner, inmates had to wait for the loud hiss and clank of the cell door to release. The doors would then slide open and inmates would be instructed to release their hold and step outside their cell. Guards would line the octagonal balcony at strategic points. The cells were housed on the second tier of D Wing, approximately ten feet above the space below, used for lunch and the board games hour of recreational time. The area used for lunch and games was adorned with heavy aluminum tables and chairs bolted to the poured concrete floor.
The buzzer sounded and was quickly followed by the announcement. Inmates, step up and place your hands on the wall. Keep your eyes facing the wall until told to move. Nick took up his position, placing his hands on the gray wall. He had done this so many times, he’d become convinced his hands had weathered a divot out of the rough concrete.
The next command given was fifteen seconds after the first. Inmates, turn and face the open door. Keep your hands at your side and exit your cell. Nick turned to face the open door and then upon direction, stepped to the landing outside his cell. Head straight and body rigid, in a prison version of the military position of attention, Nick waited until told to move. The robotic command was given, Face inward and maintain your interval. The remaining instructions would be provided by the guards evenly spaced along the tier, shepherding the convicts.
Nick wondered what today’s mystery meat would be. Food no longer carried any semblance of taste. It was now only fuel for his body, for the machine.
He maintained his place in the line. Each inmate was to move through the chow line with no less than three feet in front and behind, shuffling slowly forward. This was to prevent the accidental bumping or proximity to others, which typically led to violence, and on the rare occasion—death.
Nick stepped up to the serving line. Unlike gen pop, meals served in D Wing were done by the guards. Everything was controlled and everything was monitored. Nick raised his beige plastic tray to chest level and began sidestepping along. No choices were given. Each compartment on the formed plastic tray was filled by the guard in front of him. Talking was not permitted. One meat, one starch, one fruit, and one dessert. At the end of the line was a clear plastic cup with water. Nick completed his stutter step routine and moved to the table he regularly occupied. Soon the only inmate he’d connected with took a seat across from him.
Sherman Wilson was taller than Nick by two inches, but his six feet four inches appeared even taller due to the man’s rail thin frame. Sherman wore thick coke-bottle glasses that gave him an innocent, almost nerd-like quality. He was anything but.
In the outside world Sherman Wilson had been an enforcer for a powerful street gang with ties to founding members of the Black Panthers. Sherman had been labeled a serial killer by the Department of Justice due to the number of bodies he had under his belt. Nick knew this to be an incorrect tag. Wilson wasn’t a serial killer, he was a hit man. The only reason he’d been caught was because of a person he didn’t kill. The irony of which was not lost on Wilson. He had refused to kill a witness to one of his executions.
Sherman had told Nick the story in a rare moment of openness. He was on a hit. Without going into too much detail, he’d explained that another crew had moved in and was taking up some of the trade in his gang’s area. Sherman delivered the message with a bullet to the back of the dealer’s head. A twelve-year-old girl on a back-porch landing had seen him carrying out one of his assignments. He saw her too, but refused to put a bullet in her.
The girl later positively identified him out of a lineup and bravely testified to it during the trial. Sherman said he respected the girl’s strength of character and accepted his fate. The gang, however, did not, and Sherman found out his replacement had sent a message to the neighborhood by killing the girl and her grandmother. That was the last time Sherman Wilson claimed any affiliation to the gang.
It was because of Sherman’s moral code Nick had come to trust the man. That and the fact that Sherman had stepped in and stopped a brutal attack on Nick when he’d first arrived at D Wing.
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About the Author
Brian Shea has spent most of his adult life in service to his country and local community. He honorably served as an officer in the U.S. Navy. In his civilian life, he reached the rank of Detective and accrued over eleven years of law enforcement experience between Texas and Connecticut. Somewhere in the mix he spent five years as a fifth-grade school teacher. Brian’s myriad of life experience is woven into the tapestry of each character’s design. He resides in New England and is blessed with an amazing wife and three beautiful daughters.