Blood Cell

by Shaun Tennant

  So Quentin had made good. That was the first thing that had to go right. Josh untucked his shirt as he ran down the empty hallway. He slowed to walk past a guard station, where the guard was busy watching the monitors. From his pocket, Josh produced a small strip of his own hair. He peeled the plastic off the back of the strip and stuck the hair beneath his nose, creating a thick moustache. It was lame and looked fake, but it was memorable, and that was what mattered.

  He turned into a new hallway, after checking that it was clear, and made his way to the door at the end. Reaching back to his waistband, Josh pulled out a small nail file and a pair of small alligator clips. With the file, he opened the keypad next to the door. He attached the clips on two well-chosen wires and created a new circuit, then dragged the end of the file across a couple other wires. There was a flash of sparks, and the red light at the top of the panel turned off. Josh reached for the doorknob. This was the second thing that had to go right. Not only did he have to open the door, he needed for there to not be a guard on the other side. The knob turned, and the door opened.

  Another hallway, without guards. This was a service area, where the prison’s garbage was loaded once a day into a garbage truck. Josh headed down the hallway and followed his nose to the loading lock. Outside, he could see two trucks. One truck was dropping a dumpster, having just lifted it to empty it into the compactor. The other was a recycling truck, into which a pair of garbage men were tossing bags filled with bottles and cans. Josh pulled off his orange pants and turned them inside out, making sure to pull a small plastic badge out from the pocket as he went. Where a usual uniform would just be orange fabric, Josh had sewn blue fabric on the inside of his pant legs.

  This had been tricky, because Josh had had to gamble on escaping this week. Uniforms are washed weekly, and prisoners don’t have their own pair of pants—they get whatever’s their size after the laundry’s done. That meant that Josh had to wait until his laundry was delivered on Friday before he could alter the pants, which meant he had to be certain that he could lure in a guard to help him escape this week. Fortunately, it had worked out.

  Now wearing blue pants, or at least what would look that way from a distance, Josh didn’t bother to change his orange shirt. The garbage men were all wearing orange. He walked along the back wall of the loading dock, to the hooks where hard hats were hanging. Josh put one on, along with a reflective vest. The two men with the recycling truck finished their work and climbed into their truck. Josh took that as his cue.

  The recycling truck drove off first, and the garbage truck shifted into gear behind it. Josh ran up to the garbage truck, grabbed onto the hand bar and swung up into the little cubby-hole at the back where the garbage men would ride on residential routes so they could hop on and off the truck. Of course, this truck really didn’t need anyone in the back, and a good guard would realize this. Josh was counting on not having to deal with a good guard today. He remembered to clip the plastic badge onto his vest. The badge was more than a little suspect. It featured a photo of a man who looked vaguely like Josh with a moustache, the logo of the township, and a fake name. Josh had no idea what the garbage men’s real ID’s looked like, but if anyone was close enough to see it, Josh would be screwed anyway. He enjoyed the fresh air, the rush of busting out of jail. He had been caught in mid-jailbreak before, and knew that he should appreciate this ill-gotten fresh air now, because he might not get off the grounds.

  The guard station was to the right of the road before the gate, and Josh was hiding on the right side of the truck. The truck stopped, Josh tucking himself deeper into the hole. If the guard decided to do a visual inspection of the truck, Josh would be caught. But after a few seconds, the truck started moving again. Josh held the hand bar with one hand, and put the other to his ear. He nodded his head like listening to music. As he rode past the guard he flared his fingers out in a half-assed wave to the guard.

  And the truck drove him through the gate. Just like that.

  After ten minutes, Josh jumped off when the truck slowed to turn at the edge of town. Santa Maria is in the country, but there are a few small towns, including this one, nearby. He kept the vest on and tucked the hard hat under his arm. He wanted to look like a construction worker. With his orange shirt, if he didn’t have the hat and vest, the locals would peg him as an escaped convict the moment they saw him. They still might, thought Josh. He peeled off the moustache and tossed it.

  He walked down the sidewalk in this costume, until he spotted a restaurant. Going inside, Josh saw that there were only a few people eating. The lunch rush must have just ended. He sat at the counter, putting his hard hat down. The waitress smiled.

  “I’ll have a coffee, three creams, and I’ll order food when I get back from the can.” The waitress nodded. Josh left his hardhat behind, and headed to the back of the restaurant. He walked right past the men’s room and into the room marked “Employees Only.” This wasn’t the kitchen, but a small room with coat racks a couple folding chairs. Josh quickly dug through the coat rack, finding a nice hoodie that he slipped over his orange shirt. Digging through the coats, he found one that had heavy pockets. It had a man’s wallet in one pocket, and car keys in the other. He slipped the coat on, left the wallet behind containing nothing but photos, and went out the back door.

  The keys featured the logo for Mercury. A quick scan of the back parking lot revealed just a single car of that make, a rusty old Mystique.

  That night, a few hundred kilometres away, Josh checked the website of a local news station. They called him Houdini.

  He checked out one of his old drops, and found his cash was still hidden. He took out twelve thousand dollars and a few IDs, and left the small amount of remaining money exactly where he’d left it.

  Josh checked into a suite at a luxury hotel, and after a room-service dinner and a shave he went down to the lobby bar. He spotted a group of women who looked like they were on a business trip. One of them returned his gaze on her way to the bar, and he was quick to follow her. Her name was Cassandra, and she was drinking Vodka Crans.

  The next morning, Josh checked out, took a cab to the nearest Fed-Ex store and asked for a small 9x12 box. Business size. He was sending a stack of cash, so he figured it might as well feel like a stack of papers. He went outside to swap the money from his bag into the box. Ten thousand dollars. He was a man of his word. He sealed the box and headed back into the store. He had to wait in line before he could hand over the parcel and have it weighed for shipping. Altogether it took about five minutes. When he was done mailing his bribe, be stepped outside just in time for the police cruisers to pull up.

  It seems that old Quentin had a crisis of conscience and confessed that he was the one who helped Farewell escape. He also told the cops that the money was coming through Fed-Ex. The cops sent out descriptions of Josh to all the outlets within a day’s drive. The girl behind the counter, Good Samaritan that she was, pressed her panic button as soon as Josh told her Quentin’s address.

  So after six months of work, Josh escaped Santa Maria for one night. And this was his third escape. So now, instead of paying for his crime in a nice, easy, medium-security prison, Josh Farewell got shipped to Pittman to serve out his time with the violent offenders in maximum security. Still, Josh was happy for the fresh air and freedom, however brief.

  Next time, he’d escape for good.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Now

  Maurice Quinn laid his hands flat on top of his new desk, sliding them out until his arms were fully extended. His desk was wider than his wingspan, and he loved that. It was imported, of course, mahogany, and was big enough to impress just about any dumbass inmate who had to sit on the other side. More importantly, especially to Quinn, was the impression it would give whenever he had politicians in for a visit.

  Quinn was a small man, only five feet, but everything in his office was chosen to emphasize his power. Sure, he might have looked small compared to his desk, but the point was that no
one could ignore a desk like this. Nor could one ignore his pinstripe suit, his pocket square, or the collection of man-eating animal busts that hung from his walls. Even the hardest convict was uncomfortable when he had to walk past a snarling lion at eye-level. Quinn expected fear in those who came into his office, and that was what he got.

  The problem was, today he had to deal with not one, but two inmates who didn’t fear him at all. The first was Santos Vega, the Latino gang leader who liked to tell people he was in charge of C Pod. The little shit even told the guards once that he could control who got hired and fired to work at the prison. Maurice Quinn had to put up with Vega, because his influence seemed to control literally half of the inmates in his highest security pod.

  Pittman Penitentiary was divided into a shape reminiscent of an asterisk. The front prong of this six-pointed star was the admin building, of which Warden Quinn’s office consumed the entire top floor. The other five blocks were individual pods, each self-contained with its own laundry, food, and recreational facilities. Pods A and E, the two that flanked the admin tower, were only medium security, with inmates living in one-man bedrooms and working jobs in telemarketing and assembling furniture. B and D, the next two pods, were maximum security, with inmates in two-man prison cells, with three cement walls and the fourth made of steel bars. The inmates here lived structured lives, allowed to do certain activities at only the scheduled time. This included eating, working, showering, and for three hours a day, enjoying recreation. Some of the inmates used these hours to take courses for their high school diploma, but most just wasted time. B pod contained a shop where inmates could earn money building the furniture that went into classrooms in nearby counties’ schools. D pod had a metal shop where inmates could piece and weld together steel furniture units, for use in prisons. This included assembling metal tables for the cafeterias, and all-in-one toilet-sink-shelf units to fit at the end of a basic two-man cell. The tables at Pittman had been made here. Pittman did not, however, use the wall units in their cells. Those were strictly for use elsewhere.

  Then there was C Pod. This was the farthest, the pod opposite the admin tower. While technically, C Pod was the same level of security as B and D pods, it was actually much more rigid. More guards, more rules, and less tolerance. C pod was where Quinn liked to keep the worst of the worst. It had the largest solitary confinement area of any of the pods, and Quinn liked to keep a quota of how many cells should always be occupied. It kept the animals in the herd. Only about ten of the inmates in C Pod were Mexican gang members, and they undisputedly worshiped Santos as their king. Somehow, however, Vega had managed to extend his grasp to dozens of other inmates, and then to their friends. Quinn had once decided to move Vega into B Pod, only to hear of a hunger strike among almost one hundred inmates. It was four days before Quinn caved, and not a single one of those inmates gave in to their hunger. That was the power Vega had in his pod, and ever since, Maurice Quinn wanted to do anything he could to show Vega who was really in charge.

  His receptionist, Sally, a mid-twenties brunette with nice cans, buzzed the intercom. “Prisoner Vega is here to see you.”

  “Have him brought in.” Quinn pumped his chair a little higher, until his feet barely touched the floor.

  A guard, Danny Lewis, pushed Vega through the door. Vega’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Lewis, always a reliable man, walked Vega very slowly past the bear, the tiger, and the lion bust. Vega, who’d been through this office several times before, ignored them.

  “Stop,” said Lewis as Vega reached the desk. He pulled a chair behind Vega. “Sit.” Vega sat.

  “Wait at the back,” instructed Quinn. “So, Vega, what is so important that you think you can just decide to come and see me?”

  Vega held back what he wanted to say. The big, bad gangbanger chose his words carefully, making sure not to upset the more powerful man. Finally: “I would like to request that you place Prisoner Leonardo Jimenez in my Pod.”

  “Your Pod?” Quinn wasn’t happy with the phrasing.

  “The pod where I reside.”

  “You think you can just tell me to drop one of your own gang into your neck of the woods? Now why on Earth would I do that?”

  “Because you believe in justice. And punishment.” Vega was trying to sound like an educated man. He wasn’t.

  “I do, very much so. And letting you hook up with your little gangland friend really isn’t punishment, now is it?”

  Vega nodded. “That scrawny piece of shit snaked my seat at the table. Kicked me out of my own crew. I want the welcome wagon to run him over. Justice.”

  Quinn’s ears perked up. Vega was confessing to planning a murder, or at the very least an assault. Quinn could add a few years to his sentence for that, but the conversation intrigued him.

  “You’re suggesting that I place a prisoner in a pod where you can kill him? I’d be a party to murder.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to do anything. Leo has a tendency to rub people the wrong way,” Vega winked at the warden, “and I would like to watch when he inevitably gets his due.” Vega smiled, proud of himself. “He’s a cop killer. Killed his arresting officer. You know that if we had the death penalty here, you’d pull the switch yourself.”

  “Very true, Mr. Vega. But I won’t have gang activity in my prison.”

  Vega smirked, the cocky son of a bitch. “Maurice, you want gang activity a hell of a lot more than you want the news to report a hunger strike. I can cook up a reason, and you know I can alert the media. I want Leonardo Jimenez.”

  Quinn mulled it over. It was an intriguing offer. On the one hand, he really would like to toast to the death of a cop killer like Jimenez, but on the other he didn’t want to give the impression that Vega was calling the shots. He thought of a solution that he believed to would do nicely.

  “Okay, Vega. You can have your boy in C Pod. But I can’t have any gang activity. I also won’t be the warden who sent a man to die. So from now on, you are Leonardo Jimenez’s guardian angel.”

  Vega was dumbstruck. “What?”

  “You just confessed to conspiracy, Mr. Vega. So if Mr. Jimenez meets any type of a violent end, I can hold you responsible.”

  “You can’t-”

  Quinn nodded to Lewis, and the guard hammered Vega in between the shoulder blades with his baton.

  “I can do whatever I want in my pod. Have a good day, Mr. Vega.”

  Lewis grabbed Vega by the handcuffs and hauled him out of the room. Quinn checked his email then buzzed for Sally.

  “Is Lewis gone with Vega?”

  “Yes sir, down the elevator.”

  “Good. I want you to write a memo for me.”

  “Yes sir, but the new inmates have arrived.”

  “And?”

  “You asked to speak with a Joshua Farewell before he was taken to his cell. He’s waiting.”

  Quinn had forgotten. This was the second inmate who didn’t have the right attitude. “Send him in. The memo can wait.”

  The door opened, and Quinn’s most trusted C.O., John Norris, escorted in a clean-shaven young prisoner with a fresh haircut, still wearing the striped uniform of county jail. The guard walked the new meat past the open jaws of Quinn’s favourite carnivores.

  “Hey, that’s a Siberian tiger. Is that legal?” Farewell was a mouthy one. Quinn nodded to Norris, who yanked on the inmate’s cuffs, raising his arms up behind his back and forcing his face hard into the new desk.

  “Stay there!” The guard yelled, sliding the chair behind the prisoner. Before he pulled Farewell back to the seat, Norris grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the Warden’s new desk. Norris leaned in and whispered in the inmate’s ear.

  “Name’s Norris. I’m the guy you respect.”

  Then he jerked Farewell back to a sitting position and retreated to stand behind the inmate. Quinn wiped the impression of Farewell’s cheek off his desk with his cuff.

  “You’re trouble, Farewell.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t worry, sir,” Farewell seemed sheepish now that he had been reminded who was in charge, but then he continued: “I won’t be here long.”

  “You cheeky little bastard. Think this is cute?”

  “No, but I think you are. Cute as a button. You shop in the kids department?”

  “I am the warden-“

  “You’re the same warden I always had, only teensy-tiny. It’s adorable.” The smug newcomer grinned. Quinn snapped his fingers, and a second later the Norris hammered his baton into Farewell’s shoulder. He yelped in pain.

  Quinn looked at the guard. “Process him, walk him past his cell, and then put him in administrative segregation for a week.”

  “Yes sir.” The guard hauled Farewell to his feet by his handcuffs and started to lead him away.

  “And officer?” Quinn called out.

  “Sir?”

  “Make sure he’s in C Pod. This one likes to escape.”

  “Sir.”

  The guard and the new meat left. A few seconds later Sally asked about the memo.

  “Oh yes, it’s to the C.O.s regarding Leonardo Jimenez.” Quinn was quite happy with how his afternoon was going.

  *****

  Leo Jimenez was chained to seven other inmates in their fresh denim uniforms, and marched into C pod. The inmates welcomed the new fish with taunts and catcalls. They entered through a double-door that walked them through the mess hall, which was empty except for four inmates playing cards, and two guards with shotguns walking along an elevated balcony. They entered a hallway that led to both a set of stairs heading up, and the cellblock just ahead. A few inmates were removed, one at a time, from the train. They were taken to cells on the ground level. Leo and the others were marched up a metal stairway along the right wall to the next level up. Leo was stopped in front of C2-10. He was unlinked from the line of inmates and pushed past the bars with a punch to his back that was hard enough that he dropped his stack of clean uniforms. The inmates watching from across the block laughed at him. The guard locked him in and led the remaining new fish to their cells farther along.