It was a short walk to the library. A guard standing outside the door checked my name and number on a clipboard and motioned me inside. It was surprisingly well-lit and comfortable, air conditioned in the summer and heated in the winter. The walls had fresh paint, and the flooring looked relatively knew. Generic music played over the intercom, and a television graced a reading area.
Not bad, I thought to myself. A male voice called out, “Are you Steven?”
“Yes.”
In a matter of five to ten minutes, this male guard/librarian gave me my job duties, which included checking books in and putting them back on the shelves. “You get a half hour for lunch. Take it when you have time.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded and returned to the main desk. My first day, there were seven books to check in and to be put back on the shelf. I was done within the hour.
The day dragged on, as I had nothing to do. I acclimated myself to the surroundings. I found out how to change the radio station and fiddled with the rabbit ears on the television to get a local station. All in all, a very calm day. I thought to myself, I can do nine years of this.
After my first day, I retraced my steps back to my cell. There were no insults this time, and I made it a point to not make any eye contact. I laid down feeling exhausted from doing nothing.
Raphael came in a sometime later. His orange jumpsuit was sweat stained, and he looked exhausted. He peeled back the top of his prison wear and groaned. “Man, I’m beat.” He said, “Steven! How was your first day?”
“Brutal,” I answered.
I found out that prisoners were only allowed to bathe every four days and, with that, receive a clean jumpsuit. Raphael would wash himself in the sink and wring out his jumpsuit and hang it to dry every night. My first shower and every one after that was quick and without incident. I realized, without trying to look, I was the only one lacking in body hair.
Everything about this place was regimented. There was a time to rise and a time to go to bed. Your time at your job was down to the minute. There were eight cell blocks, arranged according to the severity of the crimes of the inmates. Each cell block had a common area, but the outside recreation area was shared by all. The only day off was Sunday. Religious services were mandatory. The only excuse would be if you were in a coma or dead.
Whoever designed this schedule was very organized.
I asked Raphael about the warden.
“I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard he attends mass regularly. I attend a different service on Sundays. The guy is just a figurehead; Cobb runs everything.”
Strange, I thought.
I was in my second week at the library, and one day, upon reaching my workplace, there was a note stating that the library was closed. I looked at the guard, and he motioned me in.
The head librarian was gone. There was no music playing, and the television was off. I was glad to see nearly thirty books to be checked in. This ought to keep me busy for a couple of hours, I thought.
I was halfway through my chore when I heard a door close at the back of the library. I stopped and saw a man in a three-piece suit, vest and all. He was very proper, with horn-rimmed glasses, and had an effeminate walk. I stood when he reached me.
He spoke with a British accent.
“Steven, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Warden Jackson Thorpe.” We shook hands, and he continued. “How are you enjoying yourself?”
I didn’t know the appropriate answer, so I just said, “Fine.”
“You know, we just had the library painted and some new flooring put in just for you. We want you to be comfortable during your stay.” He milled about the room, running his finger across the table and then giving a disgusted look at the dust.
I was confused, and he knew it. He instructed me to sit.
“Let me start from the beginning. Have you ever heard of Thorpe Industries?”
I shook my head, remaining silent.
“It’s my family’s company. They design machinery for the oil business. We’re big in the UK and Central America. Upon graduating prep school, I obtained a degree in geology to join my family’s business. All was going quite well until one night I was visited by a very scary fellow by the name of Miguel.” He looked at me for a response. I sat up and listened.
“Of course, I refuted all of his advances. My mother was very religious, and she would have rolled over in her grave if I would have conceded. I expressed my concerns to my father, who told me that he and my grandfather were both disciples of Miguel and demanded that I join their ranks. I was appalled at their behavior and refused.” He spoke with much drama.
“But the whole ordeal interested me, and I sought a degree in theology from Oxford University. Upon completion, I traveled to your country to seek employment. I was hoping to obtain a spot in a seminary college to teach young men who have chosen to join the priesthood. That opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet, but I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Donald Karcher, and he took one look at my resume and hired me on the spot. I didn’t know what he wanted a theology major for, but soon I was in charge of several television stations. I took the ones in trouble and made them profitable. Kind of a knack I have.
“We would usually meet monthly to go over the budgets and the scheduling, but one day all we talked about was religion and my degree in theology. I never kept my visit from Miguel a secret. In fact, that was one of the reasons my family had dismissed me from the business. I was too upfront about it, and I was deemed crazy. But Don told me of his connection with Miguel.”
He stopped and looked to the ceiling. “The more I travel this earth, the more I realize how Evil it is and that if someone could kill this demon named Miguel, a better world it would be.”
He then sat next to me. “Although I have no ties to Miguel, I have a son who has become a very successful businessman. He’s totally different than the boy I knew and raised. I feel he has complied with Miguel’s demands. And not only that, he has three boys, all of them I’m sure will be targets of Miguel. If you could kill him, that would satisfy any qualms that I might have.”
He continued: “Steven, Don has told me of your predicament, and using the knowledge that I have accumulated over the years, I have given him my views on the ring you received and the journey you might embark upon. It’s all speculation on my part, and I will be anxiously awaiting the results.”
“When he found out that you were headed to a state prison, we lobbied and bribed our way to see that you were sent here to serve your time safely.”
I had just one question. “How did you end up a warden in a state prison?”
“Good question, Steven. I get that all the time.”
“Don and I worked on the governor’s re-election team. One of the promises he made to the public was that he was to change the prisons for the better. Because of my work, I was appointed to the rank of warden, and my duties were to oversee the reconditioning of all the state prisons. For now, I am here to start this one. Once it is underway, I will move on. To be truthful, I have no idea how to actually run a prison.”
That was obvious.
“Lieutenant Cobb runs the day-to-day operations, and I am advised on all major decisions.”
He continued: “We have begun remodeling this prison, using the inmates as part of the construction crew. Hopefully, many of them will learn a trade to use when their time here is up. I have also implemented the work and eating schedule, quarterly physicals for all inmates, and the mandatory Sunday service. I feel religion is important in the rehabilitation of hardened criminals. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I responded, “Yes, very important.” Although I had no use for religion, I felt I needed to cozy up to the man who was helping me stay safe.
“I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for the 9:30 to 10:30 service. That’s the one I attend.”
“Yes, sir.” A question entered my mind. “This protection program, are you aware of it?”
He smiled. �
��Don’t you worry, Steven. Yours is being taken care of.”
And he left.
I finished out my day and returned to my cell. I was still apprehensive about entering the common area, as I didn’t want a reoccurrence of my first trip through. Soon, Raphael showed up, exhausted, followed by Beauregard Stinson. Bo smiled and initiated a handshake. I complied and saw my hand disappear in his palm.
“Welcome aboard,” he said and left.
Raphael spoke, “I see you found someone to front you the money for protection. Who is it?”
“I have no idea.”
I asked Raphael how the protection worked. Did I stay close to Bo? Did I call him if I was being picked on?
“Bo will make it known that he is your protector. That alone will keep you safe.”
From then on, it was smooth sailing. Although I probably wasn’t well liked, I felt safe. And my days were pretty uneventful.
***
The following Sunday, I attended Church. It was held in the auditorium that was used for parole hearings. Warden Thorpe acknowledged me with a smile and an invitation to sit next to him. I reluctantly agreed, amid nasty looks from some of the attendees. The pastor officiating the sermon had a bit of a dry wit about him. It was a very nondenominational service that left most of the inmates, including myself, struggling to stay awake. The organist was one of the inmates who played surprisingly well as it overshadowed all of our horrible singing voices. Through it all, Warden Jackson Thorpe listened intently and stood steadfast during the hymns. His voice was definitely the best and the loudest of all of those in attendance. The more I was around this English gentleman, the more I was amazed at his strong belief in God. The story of him refusing Miguel’s advances was something I could relate to, and the fact that his family was heavily entrenched in Miguel’s “family of souls” made it even more amazing.
***
I was fighting sleep at my job when two guards appeared
in the doorway. One motioned for me to come over. “You’ve got a visitor.”
With one guard in front of me and one trailing, I found myself in the visiting area, sitting in a cubicle across from an empty chair. A partition of glass separated the area.
In walked Jake, briefcase in hand, with that ever-present smile.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good,” I replied.
“I heard you drew some pretty cushy duty.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I talked to Don.”
It was all a very casual conversation until he reached for an envelope from my mom. Since there was to be no exchange of papers or anything else, Jake held the letter up to the glass for me to read. First of all, the handwriting was awful. My mom had always had such beautiful handwriting; now it was hardly legible.
She wrote that she had forgiven me for all the trouble I had caused her and that she was sure that the death of my father had something to do with all of this misbehavior. She included that she prayed for me daily, that I shouldn’t worry about her, and that Reverend Randolph was taking good care of her.
I was angry and disturbed with the fact that she was forgiving me. I still felt I had done nothing wrong. But saying she forgave me meant that she felt I had sinned and that I had broken the law. It was obvious that my own mother thought I was guilty.
Jake could see the anger in my eyes and put the letter away. He changed the subject back to prison life.
“Jake,” I said, “this is not what I expected. I thought after nine years in a state penitentiary, I would come out hardened, with calloused hands, a strong back, and with an axe to grind against society. I thought I would come out of here a real badass, ready to kill Miguel. All I’ve gotten so far is a paper cut.”
Jake looked confused that I was complaining about being treated better than the rest of the prison population. “Well, maybe you can do some pushups or some jumping jacks in your cell.”
I rolled my eyes.
With my mom’s letter and the ridiculous advice of exercising in my cell, Jake felt he had worn out his welcome and left, saying, “I’ll see you in three months. Make sure you mark it on your calendar.”
I mumbled something and stared off into the distance so as to not make eye contact with him.
I was led back to the library and, before my shift was over, grabbed several books on Ecuador. Most of them were outdated, with torn covers and missing pages.
I entered my cell and began to read. It wasn’t long before I realized that what I needed to learn would not be printed in a prison library book. I didn’t need to know the gross national product or what their main export was. I continued to read, hoping that I would come across some snippet of information that would help me kill Miguel.
Raphael entered the cell after one of his demanding ten-hour shifts in the laundry. He began his regimen of washing out his jumpsuit and bathing at our sink. He turned on some Latin music. I was annoyed, so I left the cell and headed for the common area. Word had spread about Bo being my protector, so I knew that I wouldn’t be bothered. Even though the other inmates knew I was off limits, that didn’t mean they had to like me.
I sat alone. It was just like high school.
Other than reading, the other main activity was writing letters. Some inmates would write a letter a day, even though we only received mail once every two weeks. For security, all of the letters going out and coming in had to be opened. Some had been edited with a black marker. Every day, I would think of the letter that Jake had shown me, wishing I had it in my hands. Maybe if I had read it more, I could have read between the lines what my mom was telling me.
I felt helpless that Mom didn’t know any of what was really going on. I had never told her about Miguel being an agent of the Devil, Alexa, or what Father Patrick and I had discussed. I was confident that she had no idea that Dad had sold his soul. I knew that she had read all about the Devil and all his Evil forces in Bible class.
But what I was dealing with was something out of the back pages of the Bible―the obtaining of souls by Miguel to satisfy the Devil’s thirst for fame, fortune, and eventual control of humanity.
Maybe after I killed Miguel, she would understand.
As luck, fate, or Jake’s intuition would have it, at the next mail call, I received a copy of my mom’s letter. Each time I read it, I felt different about our relationship. I worried about her. With Dad and me both gone, she was left alone in our house. And I still didn’t trust Reverend Randolph.
I returned to my cell and saw Raphael reading some mail. He acknowledged my existence and said, “It’s from my wife and kids. Do you have a wife, Steven?”
I thought for a second and answered, “Yeah.”
“Is she going to wait for you?”
“I hope so.”
Raphael smiled.
I hung my mom’s letter on the wall so it wouldn’t look so barren.
I began asking Raphael about his family and his religious beliefs. My small town consisted of 99.99% white bread Anglos and one Asian family that lived up the block. Other than watching sports or the news, I had never been around any minorities.
“We are mostly Catholic. While my mother, father, and grandfather are very devout, the younger generation has kind of dropped the ball on everything. I love my family and my heritage. What religion are you, Steven?”
I neglected the question and offhandedly asked him if he had ever been to Ecuador.
“No, but I have family that travels there. They help with the banana harvest. Beautiful country. Are you looking to travel there when you get out?”
“Yeah, are there any prisoners from Ecuador in here?”
“Yes, a few. Most of them get extradited back home. The ones I’ve seen are mean spics.”
I had no idea what a spic was, but I think it was derogatory.
The morning regimen continued. I was getting the hang of getting up early. Due to Warden Thorpe’s organizational program, I would hear the nearest cell block being su
mmoned first for breakfast. That would slowly wake me, and then I would wait for the multi-decibel horn blow outside my cell. Raphael didn’t have keen senses like mine, so he would jump out of his cot in a blur searching for his jumpsuit.
Chapter 23
Warden Thorpe checked on me every week. It was like a concierge checking on a guest at a five-star hotel. He would stay several minutes and then excuse himself, asking me the same questions and making sure that I was doing fine.
This was highly uncomfortable, as he did this in front of the guard/librarian, who I’m sure reported back to Lt. Cobb. I wanted to just be left alone and do my time anonymously.
***
A change in the weather brought outside activities. We all had designated times that we shared with other cell blocks. I was just getting used to the faces in our section, and now I was exposed to even more diversity.
I stood outside, books in hand, as the sun shone on my pale face. The other inmates were playing football and lifting weights. They all seemed to have their own cliques. I felt secure that I was under the protection of Bo. He had a good thing going. I didn’t know how many inmates he had enrolled in his protection program, but I heard he had a thousand dollars or so sent to his wife every month. Good for him, I thought. Everyone knew who he was and what his demeanor was. And with being in the library and then having Bo’s protection, I considered myself safe but not liked.
I wandered over to the weight area. Several conversations were taking place, but none I could decipher. I sized up a bar with some smaller weights. Just as I was about to try an unorthodox clean and jerk, an inmate with a 30-inch waist and a 50-inch chest approached me. He offered me a cigarette. I declined, and he stormed off in a huff. My attempt went horribly wrong. The weights hadn’t been secured and I teetered as I tried to lift them, causing the weights to fall from one side to another. My arm snapped as I heard much laughter. I picked up my books and sulked back to my cell, totally embarrassed.
Chapter 24
The Killing of Miguel Page 10