by Sean Black
It was not yet five a.m., and all the inmates were showered, dressed and having breakfast. Byron had already worked out that the dawn call wasn’t in place so that they could sit around doing needlepoint or watching TV. He dug into the food in front of him. Years of military issue MREs (meals ready to eat) had conditioned him, in certain circumstances, to switch off his taste buds. Sometimes food was nothing more than fuel. This was one of those times. He ate mechanically and kept his head down.
He sensed other inmates sneaking glances at him from every corner of the mess hall. It was not a good feeling. Byron’s working life had been predicated on being a ‘grey man’, someone with a particular set of skills who managed to blend into the background to the point of anonymity, and he’d had to work to develop the ability. His height and build had made it more of a challenge than it was for other operators. Contrary to popular mythology, men who did this work tended to be shorter and more compact than a regular special-forces soldier. Now, having done what he had to Franco, he could have been five feet zero and a hundred pounds and he would still have been the center of attention.
Perhaps he should have stayed in his bunk and let the law of the jungle run its course. After all, everyone else had. Last night probably hadn’t been the first time that Franco and his two buddies had attempted to rape another inmate. Byron guessed that Franco used violent sexual assault as an instrument of control. The threat of being beaten or shanked was one thing. Rape was violence of a different order. It was as close as one human being could come to taking another’s soul. That was its power, and also its horror.
One of the other inmates at Byron’s table finished his meal. He pushed away his tray, reached into the top pocket of his prison blues, took out two cigarettes and palmed them across the table to Byron. Glancing up, Byron said, ‘Keep them. I don’t smoke.’
The man seemed puzzled. ‘Franco didn’t either.’
‘Tell you what,’ Byron said, ‘if I need a favor, I’ll expect you to oblige. But until then …’
The inmate seemed discomforted by this new regime. ‘What kind of a favor we talking?’ he asked.
‘One that won’t involve anyone putting something in their mouth they don’t want to.’
Red laughed. The other inmates sniggered. Whatever tension had lain like a thick blanket of smog over the mess hall seemed to evaporate. The chatter at the other tables turned from whispers to the usual level of conversation.
Normal service had resumed.
Byron was dumping his tray when Mills walked over to him, thumbs dug into the belt loops of his khaki pants. ‘Davis, warden wants to see you in his office now.’
The tray clattered onto the stack, and Byron followed the guard out of the mess hall and across the yard.
19
Mills led Byron into the main administration building. They passed offices occupied by a mix of guards and civilian workers. Left-turning down a long stretch of corridor, they emerged into a small reception area. Byron was told to take a seat.
Mills fell into a conversation with the warden’s secretary, a woman in her mid-forties with auburn hair cut into bob. Byron tuned into their conversation just long enough to work out that the topic was their kids’ little league baseball teams.
A few moments later, the warden’s office door opened and Castro’s head appeared round the frame. ‘Come on in, Davis. This won’t take long.’
Byron stood up and started towards the office. Mills threw an arm over his chest, barring his way. ‘You want me too, Warden?’
The warden smiled. ‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary, Billy. Will it, Mr Davis?’
Byron shook his head. ‘No.’
Castro held the door open. Mills stepped back. He sat down in the seat that Byron had occupied. ‘I’ll be here if you need me, Warden,’ he said.
‘Appreciate that,’ Castro said.
Byron walked past Castro into the office. Castro motioned him to a seat in front of the desk, then closed the door.
The warden’s office was about two hundred square feet of grey carpet and plain grey walls. Besides the desk and chairs, there was a small couch with a coffee-table covered in magazines about sport fishing and hunting. A credenza was topped with family pictures. A wife, two daughters as kids, then grown-up, grandchildren . . .
Castro followed Byron’s gaze. ‘You have any family, Davis?’
Byron looked back across the desk to him. ‘No,’ he said flatly.
‘Not much of a man for small-talk?’ Castro asked.
Byron shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘All depends on the company.’
Castro got up from his seat and stood, knuckles on his desk. ‘You don’t like me? That’s okay. I don’t much like lawbreakers. But seeing as we’re both here . . .’
Byron stared at him. ‘I don’t think of myself as a lawbreaker, Warden.’
That earned a smile from Castro. ‘Sure. Sure. This is all one big misunderstanding. Hell, the jails in this country are full of innocent people. Anyway, I guess we’ll both find out which side of the line we’ve fallen on when we go to meet our maker.’
‘I expect we will,’ Byron said. He was careful not to make any claims as to where he’d end up. Heaven and Hell held little promise or threat for a man who had already been condemned to a living form of purgatory. As for other people, Byron didn’t presume to judge, though he suspected that the warden’s heavenly seat might not be quite as secure as the man’s apparent smugness seemed to suggest. Unless they guarded against it, high rank could have that effect on people.
‘Should we talk about last night, Davis?’ Castro said.
Byron smiled inwardly at the warden’s choice of words. It sounded like the opening line of a romantic comedy. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
Castro sat down. He let out a sigh. Byron could sense a speech coming down the track. He wasn’t to be disappointed.
‘What happened last night has been coming for a while now. Long before you ever set foot in Kelsen County,’ Castro began. His eyes narrowed. ‘Not that I can condone it, you understand?’
Byron gave a solemn nod, which, he hoped, communicated that he regarded the event with equal gravity.
‘Violence of any kind is not something I like to see here,’ Castro continued. ‘Unfortunately, with so many men living in such close proximity, separated from the calming influence of their families, it’s almost inevitable. But I like to keep a lid on it. Minimize it, if you will.’
Byron said nothing. There was nothing to say.
‘I know it was you, Davis,’ Castro said. ‘I’m not asking you to admit it. I don’t need you to. But I want you to understand that I know you’re guilty. There’s nothing that goes on inside these walls that I don’t know about. I make it my business. So don’t think you got one over on me.’ He coughed into his hand.
Byron braced himself. He assumed this was Castro’s lead in to telling him that there was no alternative bar a week in solitary for such a brazen infringement of the rules.
Castro went on, ‘I guess old Franco had outlived his usefulness. It was always going to happen. But it kind of leaves me with a dilemma. You see, I like to have one man inside every unit to make sure I don’t have any problems.’
Of course, thought Byron. He should have seen this coming. Punishment would have been swift and sudden. It wouldn’t have required a trip to the warden’s office for the metaphorical equivalent of coffee and cake. Castro wanted Byron to pick up where Franco had left off. ‘What kind of problems are we talking about, Warden?’
Castro positively beamed. He stood up again. ‘See?’ he said, jabbing a sausage-shaped finger at Byron. ‘Franco would never have thought to ask me. I had to pretty much tell him exactly what I needed from him.’
Byron wondered if the warden’s instructions to Franco had extended to the attempted rape of young inmates in the showers after lights out. Probably not, but if they had, Castro wasn’t about to admit it in front of another inmate. Byron allowed the question to g
o unasked. There was no need to spoil the warden’s good mood.
‘Let’s not think of them as problems, Davis. Let’s just say that I like things to be orderly. To run smoothly. For there to be as few interruptions to the smooth running of this facility as possible,’ Castro added.
Byron allowed a smile to cross his face. He chose his words with care. ‘Franco has a couple of buddies still in the unit. I don’t think they were too happy about what happened last night.’
‘They give you any trouble, you can deal with them. I doubt they will, though. One of the men you’re talking about was the shot caller before Franco. They know how this place operates,’ Castro said.
Byron wasn’t sure he shared the warden’s optimism. A former shot caller was more than likely to see Franco being deposed as an opportunity to assume his former position. ‘Why didn’t you ask him to take over?’ he asked.
‘Pretty simple, ain’t it? Franco kicked his ass. You kicked Franco’s ass. That leaves you in the catbird seat,’ Castro said. ‘Anyway, like I said, that’s all up to you.’
‘Anything else I should know, Warden?’ Byron asked.
Castro studied the corners of his office, as if trying to conjure up something important that he had forgotten. As a piece of acting, Byron wasn’t buying it.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Castro said, when he was done ruminating. ‘Matter of fact, there is.’
Byron waited.
‘There’s a Mexican gentleman who’s currently thinking about things in our secure housing unit.’
The secure housing unit, or SHU, was solitary.
‘Goes by the name of Romero. He’s what you might call an agitator. Communist agitator would be more precise. He’ll be back in your unit in a few days. If he starts any more trouble, stirring things up with the beaners, well, I’d like you to …’ Castro trailed off. ‘I’d like you to speak with him. Perhaps persuade him to keep his views to himself. Save them for back home where his kind of talk might be better received. Remind him, if you need to, that this is America.’
20
With Red and a dozen other inmates from the unit, Byron clambered into the back of a pickup truck driven by one of the guards. His head was still reeling from the meeting with the warden. He had gone in expecting to face further sanctions but had come out as the unit’s shot caller. The only conclusion he could draw was that, sadly, Kelsen County Jail, like so many other places on earth, prized violence more than kindness, brutality more than compassion.
Two long metal benches holding work tools ran along either side of the truck’s flatbed. Byron took a seat next to Red and grabbed at the lip of the truck to steady himself as it pulled out of a side yard where they had assembled after breakfast.
‘You’re the shot caller now, huh?’ Red said to him.
Byron glanced at his bunk mate.
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ Red told him.
‘That’s good,’ Byron said.
A few more moments passed. They were reaching a main gate. Beyond it lay the wide-open scrub desert of southern Texas. It was just a shame that all of the men had been issued with longer-chained cuffs and shackles, which would allow them to swing a pick or dig, before they had left the jail. Byron had watched the guards hauling out the irons with a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach.
The truck joined a long line of others on a service road leading from the jail complex. Heavy-duty Ford SUVs, with Kelsen County Jail markings, led and brought up the rear of the convoy. The SUVs each held two guards armed with pump-action shotguns. If the shackles didn’t slow down a fleeing prisoner then a solidly aimed shotgun blast would do the trick.
They headed south, towards the city of Kelsen. A golf course appeared to their left. Byron glimpsed a mixed foursome, made up of two elderly white couples, lining up their putts. None of them so much as looked at the prisoners as they drove past. The chain-gang convoy was a familiar sight, not worthy of notice.
To Byron’s surprise, the convoy slowed. The lead SUV peeled off with two of the trucks and turned down a road that led into the golf course. Byron nudged Red. He’d been trying to avoid conversation but curiosity had finally gotten the better of him. ‘They use us to maintain the golf course?’ Byron said. He caught himself. Why had he said ‘us’? It had slipped out. It was a reminder of the danger, if one was needed, of how easy it was to become institutionalized. He would have to guard against it and keep at the front of his mind that his task was to escape, not to settle into the routine of jail life.
Red put up a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing Texas sun. ‘Golf courses. Roads. Sewers. If there’s a shitty job that the locals won’t do, you can pretty much guarantee that we’ll catch it.’ He began to regale Byron and the rest of the prisoners with an elaborate story about a sewage blockage. Byron tuned out. Slowly, piece by piece, he was beginning to work out how, and more crucially why, Kelsen County was starting to make sense.
As the other prisoners howled with laughter at Red’s tale, Byron watched the rear SUV close up, then overtake the rear of the convoy and slot into the middle. Another half-mile down the road, the work trucks that were left began to slow. The lead truck turned off the road.
There were four trucks left now. They drove on. After a further quarter-mile they, too, slowed and turned off, heading down a dirt road towards a row of low farm buildings. They stopped outside a large barn. The guard drivers clambered up, dropped the tail gates and ushered the prisoners down.
It was no easy task getting off the back of a truck with leg irons. Byron watched the others’ technique, which involved clasping the rear edge of the truck until the last moment and then jumping. Byron took his turn, stumbling slightly. He had yet to do a lick of work but already the oppressive heat had begun to sap his energy. The guards ordered the men into a line while they climbed onto the back of the trucks and collected the tools, which they laid on the ground. The guards stepped back. The men were ordered to step forward and collect the spade, pick or hoe in front of them.
Depending upon what they had picked up, they were ordered into gangs of four, then led in single file beyond the farm buildings. More guards followed them, each holding a pump-action shotgun.
The prisoners were set to work on a large open expanse of rough ground. Byron’s new rank as bunkhouse shot caller hadn’t saved him from drawing a gig on the pickaxe gang. He and the other three men were told to begin breaking ground.
Unlike golf-course maintenance, Byron couldn’t see the purpose of breaking the hard, dry ground. It didn’t look like land that would bear any kind of a crop. He worked anyway, finding a steady rhythm with the pick, pacing himself as best he could in the suffocating heat. He watched the other men. He made sure to match his pace to a little above the slowest man. He would need all the energy he could conserve if he was ever going to get the hell out of here.
21
Every half-hour the men were allowed a five-minute break and given water. A half-hour at a desk, doing a job you didn’t much care for, might seem to some like a long time. A half-hour swinging a pickaxe was an eternity.
When they stopped working and took their break, there was no talking. They caught their breath, massaged burning muscle with their fingers, and drank as much as they could.
They went on for three hours, then Mills called lunch. Brown bags were produced from the front of the trucks and handed out, along with fresh water.
Byron looked around. ‘How long do we get now?’ he asked the man standing next to him.
The man shrugged.
The man on his other side said, ‘He doesn’t speak English. We get forty minutes.’
‘Be good if we could get some shade. Maybe in one of those barns over there,’ said Byron.
Mills was passing and Byron called to him. ‘Hey!’
Mills turned, a sour expression on his face. Byron was way too hot and exhausted to care. ‘Couldn’t we have our lunch over by the barns? Get some shade.’
Mi
lls’s response was to rack the shotgun, dropping a round into the chamber. He brought the weapon up to his shoulder, pointing it straight at Byron.
Byron didn’t flinch. He’d had guns pointed at him before. Many times. Sometimes by people who actually planned on pulling the trigger. This was not one of those times. Not that Byron wanted to push the point. ‘I guess that was a bad idea,’ he said.
Mills lowered the barrel. His glare was replaced by a smirk. ‘You guessed right. Now finish eating and get back to work. All of you.’
As Mills wandered out of earshot, one of the other men turned to Byron. ‘You got lucky there. The last time a man on a work crew spoke to Mills like that they got pistol-whipped and thrown into the hole.’
Byron thought back to his morning meeting with the warden. ‘The guy’s name wasn’t Romero by any chance, was it?’ asked Byron.
The inmate’s eyes fell to the ground. He looked over to the guards and back to Byron. ‘Don’t say that name round here either. Not unless you really want to see them lose their shit.’
22
Prison blues soaked through with sweat, Byron lowered his pickaxe as Mills called time on the day’s work. He rested on the handle for a moment as he caught his breath.
He stared down at his hands, bloodied from the pressure blisters that had burst sometime in the late afternoon. Blood and sweat had made the handle of the pickaxe slippery. Tightening his grip to retain control of it had completed a loop of pain and discomfort.
He’d tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that the first day of any heavy labor was always the worst, then remembered that the second day, with muscles aching, was probably going to be worse. Whoever had coined the phrase ‘the dignity of labor’ had clearly never spent a full day under the unforgiving Texas sun, breaking bone-dry ground with a rock-like crust.