Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  "Yes, it's the formula by which the board figures a candidate's eligibility for parole, based on prior criminal activity, the nature of the crime, and other criteria." He had memorized this.

  "Very good. If you don't mind, we'll quickly verify your Salient Factor by asking you to confirm certain criteria.”

  Adrian nodded. His palms were perspiring, and he felt a mild constriction in the pit of his stomach. His primary aim, however, was to remain calm and answer their questions as intelligently and concisely as possible.

  The woman began the questioning. "This is your first period of incarceration?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "These are also your first criminal charges?"

  "Yes."

  "The charges are those of Drug Conspiracy?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the use of firearms part of your conspiracy?"

  "No, they were not."

  "Stolen vehicles?"

  "No."

  "Yours was the sole name on the indictment, therefore you were not a member of any criminal organization?"

  This surprised him. He had been told he’d be charged under the RICO Act, used for organized, ongoing criminal conspiracies. But if they weren’t going to say anything, he wouldn’t either. "No, I wasn't."

  "Acts of violence connected to your conspiracy?"

  "None."

  She broke off the questioning, and made a series of notes and computations on a form in front of her. Meanwhile, the other board members simply sat there, staring at him with poker faces.

  She finished her computations, and said, "Mr. Cabraal, you have a Salient Factor of nine. According to that, the recommended period of incarceration is twenty to forty months. According to our records, you have been imprisoned for twenty-four months. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  She made another notation, and handed it to the man beside her - the younger man. He studied it, then put it down and looked at Adrian.

  "You've been sent here on drug charges, Mr. Cabraal," he said. "An unflattering business, wouldn't you say?" Adrian tensed at the man's distaste. He had hoped they’d be more understanding and therefore lenient.

  "Yes sir, it is," he said, trying to remain calm.

  "Please explain to me then, why we should grant you parole with only twenty-four of a possible forty months served?"

  The question caught him off guard. The man seemed cold; so did the question. Suddenly, he felt like he was freefalling backwards from an open window. For lack of a better defense, he turned to his Salient Factor, hoping to buy time while he scrambled for something better.

  "This is my first period of confinement. I've never been in trouble before, and I feel I've learned a great deal from it."

  "Everyone tells us that. What makes you different?"

  "It's my understanding that almost all men and women who are sent to prison generate long criminal records before finally being sent away. As the record shows, I've had no prior involvement with the law. I also wish to appeal to you on the grounds that I've served twenty-four months of incarceration on a first offense. That's almost unheard of, except for crimes involving extreme violence or death."

  The man pursed his lips, and nodded slowly. "Points well taken, Mr. Cabraal." He turned to the middle-aged man next to him, saying, "Mr. McLaughlin?"

  McLaughlin took Adrian's folder, opened it, and sifted through it for a moment before putting it down. "Your file seems rather sparse, almost as though some of its contents have been gleaned. It would seem you've been a model inmate while you've been here. I find it odd that a man with no previous prison record would be so jail-wise. How do you explain that?"

  At first, Adrian couldn't believe this. Then he realized that Billings must have screened the folder and removed any damaging evidence. If not, his recommendation for Adrian would have made Billings look like a fool, and this parole hearing would have been over before it began. Billings had covered his own tracks, not Adrian's.

  "I stay to myself," he said. "I only have a couple of friends that I associate with, and I spend a lot of time in my cell reading. As my appearance might indicate, I also exercise a lot. I came here with the intention of serving my time, then going back to my family."

  "What are you going to do if you're paroled?"

  "I have a friend who owns a small toxic waste disposal company. I'll go to work for him and start putting my life back together."

  "What guarantee do we have that you won't resume your criminal activities once you get out?"

  "None, really. I think we both know that. However, I have a wife and son who I love very much, and I can't provide for them from behind the walls. I doubt my wife would go through this with me again, and I don't want to lose her."

  The man nodded, asking the other board members, "Anything else before we deliberate?" There were none.

  "Do you have anything to say?"

  Adrian smiled passively. "Only that my incarceration has been a memorable experience in more ways than one, and I've no desire to repeat it." Then, almost having forgotten, he reached in his pocket and produced Billings' letter of recommendation. Rising, he approached the board and handed it to the middle-aged man.

  "I’d like to present this if I may. It's the personal recommendation of Mr. Herbert Billings, the warden of this institution."

  The middle-aged man took it, studied it, and gently set it before him. After staring at it for a moment, he looked up at Adrian, a distant look in his eyes. Adrian noticed the subtle change.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked. "I was told to present it."

  "Nothing's wrong, Mr. Cabraal. You're well within your rights. I was thinking about the man who wrote it. I've known him over twenty years and he's been one of the best. I can't imagine how he and Jim Atkins could simply vanish like they did. I seriously doubt they planned it. Hopefully, the investigation into their disappearance will provide an explanation."

  Adrian wanted to steal a line from an old TV commercial: Maybe they did it the old fashioned way, maybe they earned it.

  "Two weeks and not a word from either of them," he continued in a forlorn tone. "I find that difficult to understand."

  Said the younger man, "Please wait outside. We'll consider your case and notify you when we've reached a decision."

  Adrian went outside, trying desperately to convince himself that he'd make parole. Still, the words of the young board member kept ringing in his ears -- what made him any different from all the others? Many of the men they saw had served more time than he had; they had families on the outside, too, and wanted out as much as he did. His might be a long wait for freedom.

  The door to the law library opened before he could contemplate any further. The woman in the blue suit nodded to him, and he followed her inside.

  As he sat before them, he was sure parole had been only a dream. Their decision had come far too quickly. They would have deliberated much longer to make sure that he was an appropriate candidate. He tried not to show his disappointment while waiting for their decision.

  The middle-aged man studied his folder one last time. Billings' recommendation had been filed with his other papers.

  His review complete, the man looked up at him and said, "Mr. Cabraal, based on all relevant data, recommendation, and other criteria, we’ve reached our decision. This board is granting you an early release from your scheduled period of confinement. Congratulations, Mr. Cabraal, you'll be going home early."

  ********

  Adrian went about the business of preparing the noon meal. His thoughts were constantly drifting to his release. He'd be going home soon; he’d be reunited with Andy and Jennifer. But there was a measure of fear connected with those thoughts. The penitentiary was a place filled with hatred, resentment, envy and bitterness, and not everyone viewed parole from the same perspective. Nazareth had warned him not to show any signs of happiness over his impending release. Better yet, don’t let news of it get out. There were those who, if given the chance, would instigate an incide
nt that would get his parole revoked. Better to think about it, but not speak of the matter. His other fear was handling life on the outside once he got there. He had gone from one world to another, and would soon go back to that original world, but this time his perception of it would be entirely different. The thought of facing an uncertain future was a recurring distraction from his day-to-day regimen.

  His contemplation was interrupted by the arrival of his boss, George Donovan, the kitchen steward. "Another week and you're out of here, Adrian." Donovan seemed genuinely happy that Adrian would be going home.

  "Yeah," said Adrian, smiling. "Think there's still time for me to talk them out of it?"

  Donovan laughed. "Probably, but I wouldn't recommend it. What I would suggest is going to the freezer and breaking out another hundred pounds of beef. We're running low."

  "Got it, Mister D."

  Adrian stripped off his apron and headed for the large walk-in freezer. When he entered he was relieved by the burst of cold air that greeted him. It was a welcome relief from the incessant, merciless heat radiating from the huge industrial grilles.

  He walked among the large slabs of beef hanging on their hooks, and began rummaging through the many rows of wooden crates which contained frozen chicken, pork chops, veal, lamb chops and the like. Preoccupied with his search for the frozen hamburgers, he wasn't aware that he had company until the freezer door softly closed behind him. Surprised, he turned to see who had entered, then stiffened. It was Benton Fulmer.

  "Heard you made parole, Cabraal." His tone was almost taunting as he slowly advanced.

  Preparing for whatever might happen, Adrian turned and faced him. "Yeah, so what?"

  "Kind of a waste, if you ask me."

  "Maybe that's why I didn't ask you." Adrian's emotional blood pressure was beginning to rise; he could feel it.

  "Actually think you were getting out of here alive?"

  Nazareth was right, lots of hate existed behind the walls.

  He tossed the crate he'd been holding onto the floor. "Why don't you carry your bullshit down the playground with your pail and shovel?"

  Fulmer continued his slow advance. "Maybe I’m not playing,” he said. “I have to live here, and that's been tough to do ever since you and your dead bud jammed me up that first day."

  "Hey, people been jamming me since the day I got here, including you. And you know what? I'm all done being jammed."

  Fulmer grinned and pulled out a knife. "That sounds like an invitation to me. Guess I'll have to defend myself."

  As Fulmer hastened his advance, Adrian reached for a meat hook. Fulmer lunged at him, and Adrian was able to deflect the blow. But Fulmer was an accomplished knife fighter, and he intuitively delivered a second backhanded slash that caught Adrian's upper chest, and sliced into it. He rued having removed his apron, which would have absorbed most of the cutting force of the thrust. Blood streamed from the wound, and the site of it infuriated him. He had overcome every life-threatening obstacle that had come his way in there, and now Fulmer's desire for vengeance and self-respect had become the latest.

  Adrian realized he had two choices: wait until Fulmer got lucky and completed the job, or try to subdue him. He decided the latter offered him his best chance. Waiting for Fulmer to come at him again, he parried the thrust, and countered with a blow of the meat hook that grazed Fulmer's shoulder, and opened it. The tip of the instrument had entered, ripped through the fleshy part, and exited again, but not until it had gotten Fulmer’s attention and produced a scream.

  Adrian squared off with Fulmer again. "You think I'm going to lay down for you just because I made parole? Got news for you, you may get out of here before I do. It just won't be like you thought. We can call this off any time you want. All I want to do is go home."

  "No way..." And he advanced again.

  Using an overhead storage shelf for support, Adrian kicked Fulmer high on his chest, driving him back into a hanging side of beef. Before he could regain his balance, however, Fulmer came at him, lunged, and opened Adrian's thigh, immediately hobbling him. He stepped back, holding his wounded leg.

  Fulmer, now aware that he had impaired Adrian's mobility, paused to admire his handiwork. "Being stabbed to death's a messy way to kill someone, but for you it'll be a pleasure." He came at Adrian again with animalistic ferocity, and as Adrian was about to fend off another of Fulmer's thrusts, his meat hook circled wide in an arc and got trapped in a metal rack containing trays of frozen cutlets. The unexpected jolt ripped the meat hook from his hand, and he was forced to parry Fulmer's knife thrust with his arm. It succeeded, but left Adrian with yet another wound. Fulmer seemed to enjoy it. He stepped forward, and came again.

  As Adrian and Fulmer collided, the freezer door opened, and George Donovan stood framed in the doorway. "Adrian, did I just hear you talking to--" Observing the blood on Adrian, and the knife in Fulmer's hand, he said, "Drop it, Fulmer! Now!"

  Seeing Donovan, Fulmer abandoned his attack and tried to bolt from the freezer. Donovan attempted to stop him, and was himself slashed across his chest, dropping him.

  Adrian, his mind a whirling dervish of fear and anger, went after Fulmer. Other than Nazareth, Fulmer had killed or maimed nearly everyone who had been decent to Adrian since the day he’d arrived. He had killed Warren and Dimbrovski, had tried to kill Adrian on several occasions, even after making parole, and had terrorized Andy and Jennifer in the Visiting Room. Now he had stabbed George Donovan, a man who - because of his fairness and friendliness - he would have worked for anywhere.

  He caught up with Fulmer just before he made it out of the kitchen. Seeing what was happening, everyone scrambled to get out of the way. Realizing that Adrian was coming after him unarmed, and seeing no guards standing in his way, Benton Fulmer halted, dropped low and charged toward Adrian, his knife held low in front of him. When Fulmer made his move, Adrian deftly side stepped him, crouched, then delivered a devastating kick to Fulmer's chest that nearly lifted him from the floor and drove him backwards toward a huge vat of boiling soup. Fulmer was teetering, and on the verge of falling in. As he lost control and began to topple, Adrian grabbed Fulmer’s shirt, wrapped his arm around Fulmer’s throat, and held him over the vat.

  “If I let go, you die,” said Adrian. “I’ve never wanted that, but I’m fed up with your bullshit. It’s up to you, Fulmer. How do you want it to end, peaceful or ugly?”

  Benton Fulmer would almost have preferred death than admit defeat. Barely above a whisper, he said, “Fuck it, it’s done.”

  Adrian pulled Fulmer up from the edge of the vat and let go of him. Even in defeat, Fulmer couldn’t resist one last dig as he skulked away. “You’re not worth it anyway.”

  Sirens began, and guards swarmed in from both ends of the kitchen. Adrian paid them no heed, his attention now focused on George Donovan.

  He was yanked to his feet by Ray Fergus, then spun around and thrown against the wall. "Spread 'em!" he shouted. "Damn, Cabraal, all you had to do was behave for another week."

  "You got it wrong, Mister Fergus," Adrian said, as Fergus cuffed him.

  "Yeah, right. I’m always all wrong."

  George Donovan rolled over on his back. Cradling his chest, he weakly sat up. "He's right, Ray. It was self-defense. Fulmer started it. Remove the cuffs."

  Fergus reluctantly removed Adrian’s cuffs. "Thanks, Mister D. I thought my worst case scenario was about to happen."

  Adrian leaned back against the wall, and took a deep breath. Maybe now they'd finally let him go home.

  *********

  He waited patiently at the counter as the guard gave his papers one last review. For the first time since he had been sent to prison, he didn't have to stand in line. Even so, they were making him wait just the same.

  Finished, the guard handed him his papers. "Everything's in order. Those your belongings?"

  "Yes," he answered, trying to shake off the jitters. It wasn't every day that he got released after spending over two ye
ars in prison, and his heart was pounding.

  The guard nodded toward a large metal door. "Follow me," he said as he reached for a key ring suspended from his belt. Noting that it had no windows, Adrian viewed it as the final barrier between him and freedom.

  As he walked through, the air suddenly seemed different. So did the light, the atmosphere, and the whole world. As the door slammed behind him, he took in his surroundings, trying to absorb the reality of being there.

  Then his attention was drawn to Jennifer, who was waiting for him at the far end of the corridor. Framed in bright sunlight, and wearing a yellow cotton dress, she was beaming from ear to ear. Finally there would be no partition between them. Finally they could embrace, feel each other's warmth, kiss and hold each other close. For the first time in over two years, they were free to be in love again.

  They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, she rose from the bench. Still recovering from her injuries, she limped toward him. As though struck, he dropped his gear and rushed to her. Wrapping his arms around her, he swept her into the air. He held her like that for a moment, then lowered her and hugged her, as if wanting to pull her inside him.

  "I didn't think this day would ever come," he said. "There were so many times I thought I'd never be free again, never get to hold you, or to see Andy. This feels like a dream that took a million years to come true."

  "I love you, baby," she said, beginning to weep. "Promise me you'll never come here again. I couldn't take it a second time."

  "Trust me, there’s not going to be a second time."

  They disengaged, and he gathered his things. Together they walked outside into the cool morning air. The sunlight felt good as they walked down the steps of the penitentiary.

  Halfway down, Adrian stopped and looked around. “I hate to say it, but I keep waiting for them to come rushing out here and tell me there’s been a mistake.”

  She shuddered. “There better not be a mistake.”

  The wave of guilt and regret that washed over him almost buckled his knees. “I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted—“