There had been a continuing rift between the inmates who were actually learning a trade and the grunts, like me, who were doing the mindless heavy labor. A group of media people were being given a tour. They were taking pictures of the contractors instructing the inmates on how to do electrical work, drywall, and wood-trim work. It was all for the cameras. Even the inmates had on clean uniforms, and they were all smiling. It was all a ploy to make the governor look good on his promise to be a more caring, compassionate leader to the inmates.
I’d had enough. “Hey! Why don’t you come over here and take my picture? We’re busting our asses over here! We’re not learning anything! Why don’t you ask the governor about my job and how it’s gonna help me when I get out!”
A guard approached me and raised his night stick. I heard the cameras clicking.
As the media members approached our work area, the guards blocked their view.
A few of the media made it through the guard’s physical blockade and did short interviews with some of my fellow wheelbarrow comrades, and then they were hurried out of the area.
I felt I was destined for Cobb’s office, but I never got the call. Word had spread that the cameras had been confiscated and thankfully turned over to the prison board. They started investigating the work records of the inmates and found that the rotation schedule was not being followed. Cobb was verbally reprimanded. Over the next few weeks, there were all new faces on the grueling-wheelbarrow-concrete-hauling detail.
Everyone was rotated―that is, everyone but me.
***
The adage “time flies when you’re having fun” doesn’t pertain to doing time in a state prison, but somehow, someway, I found myself “celebrating” the five-year anniversary of my, hopefully, nine-year sentence. A lot had happened since I walked through those doors. I was known as “The man Cobb couldn’t break.” Raphael had been right about Cobb. With him, it was all about the power.
My quarterly physicals were always enjoyable. In five years, I had gone from 5’9” to 5’11” and weighed 160 pounds―a gain of over 20 pounds since I had entered, all of it muscle. I was twenty-four years old and in the best shape of my life.
Mentally, I was becoming a man with an “axe to grind” against all who had deceived me, and I had Cobb to thank for it.
My every-three-month meetings with Jake were pretty straightforward. He felt he failed me in not getting me off the wheelbarrow detail. My letter had been confiscated.
“Not a problem,” I said.
Being more than halfway done, there were no more appeals filed. We were just biding our time for a chance of parole. Jake had also noticed my gain in stature and that my confidence level had blossomed.
“Prison’s been good to you,” he would say.
One day, he did have a surprise for me.
“I got you a day out of here. Well…eight hours anyway.”
A date was set, and I readied myself for a brief glimpse of freedom.
It was a Sunday. The guard unlocked my cell, and Raphael gave me a casual wave. I was led to a waiting room where Jake greeted me. He signed a release form, and we headed outside. Only fifty feet from the prison entrance waited a huge luxury motor home. I could smell Don Karcher’s money. Jake followed me inside to find Don and Judge O’Neil.
Scotch was ever present when we all got together, but I opted for iced tea. There was casual conversation as the motor home exited the prison. The driver soon pulled over in a secluded area. He and the servant staff exited.
After the had trio refilled their tumblers, Don spoke. “We’ve found Miguel.”
He proceeded to lay out several national and world newspapers. They all had the same picture on the front. It was Miguel dressed in a military uniform adorned with medals of courage. He stood defiantly on top of a tank.
Don continued: “Steven, right now Ecuador is a democracy. It’s been that way for forty years, and President Santiago was elected in a popular vote. Miguel has begun a military coup. He’s using the armed forces to take over the country. He is in the south, marching north on the capital city of Quito. That’s where the Ecuadorian presidential palace is. He’s burning fields and gaining followers. Anyone who doesn’t cooperate is executed in a public square. It’s either pledge their allegiance to Miguel or die.”
It was my time to speak. “Well, what do you want me to do? I’m stuck here for another five years…minimum.”
Jake spoke up: “I can’t emphasize enough that you have to stay out of trouble. The disorderly conduct and inciting-a-riot charges are on your record. And the fiasco with the media is too. I had to answer to the governor on that!”
I felt agitated with Jake’s words, as he had no idea what I was dealing with. “You in your goddamn suit and tie! Why don’t you go in there and push around concrete twelve hours a day and see how you feel!
Don took charge, “All right, you two, settle down! Steven, do you have access to television, radio, or newspapers?”
“Yeah, Don,” I replied, the whole time glaring at Jake. “There’s a TV and newspapers in the library.”
“Try and keep up on the situation, and Jake will see you every three months. And like Jake said, keep out of trouble!”
Don continued lecturing us on our behavior and motioned the servants and the driver to reenter the motor home. It was a quiet trip back to the prison. I exited the motor home and was escorted back to my cell.
***
Being on a twelve-hour work schedule made it impossible to make it to the library. I reserved my Sundays for trying to find out as much as I could about Miguel’s progress. The library was always near empty, and the librarian always seemed to pick up the phone when I entered. One newspaper said the same as the next, but the best coverage was on the television. Visually seeing Miguel made my blood boil. I became entranced when he appeared on the screen with his followers. All were heavily armed and pledging their loyalty to him.
Three Sundays in a row I sat in the library at the designated time that the world news was on. Miguel’s march was rapidly advancing. He was wreaking havoc. News commentators spoke of genocide and mass graves. I felt that he would take over the world before I had a chance to leave prison. On the fourth Sunday, I found that the television had been removed and the national newspapers were nowhere in sight. I inquired about the lack of each to the librarian.
“Warden’s orders.”
It was as if Cobb knew of my eventual plan, or like Raphael had said, “He’s a control freak.”
The only other link to the outside world was Raphael’s transistor radio. I attempted to find some news programs, but the static was overbearing and annoying.
I felt that the only other way to find out what was happening in Ecuador was to befriend some of the Ecuadorian inmates. Maybe they had received some information from relatives in their homeland. I remembered Raphael mentioning that they were some of the meanest inmates in the prison and generally kept to themselves.
I spoke to Raphael about being a liaison for me, as he spoke Spanish. At first, he refused, but when I talked about this possibly being an important part of the puzzle of my preordained journey and my destiny, he agreed.
We nervously made our way, entering what the Ecuadorian prisoners considered their own turf. Raphael gave an introductory statement, and we were invited to sit. The leader offered us both cigarettes. Raphael complied, but I motioned that I didn’t smoke. Raphael smacked me in the arm and apologized to very large man.
He turned to me. “It’s a sign of trust! Take the damn cigarette!”
Once again, I had showed my lack of prison etiquette. I smiled and took the cigarette, fumbling it and awkwardly placing it between my lips. The rest of the prisoners chuckled. As he lit the end of my ciggy, I choked and gagged. Our hosts seemed amused. Raphael spoke as I sat quietly, nauseous from my first taste of tobacco. From what I could tell, he mentioned Miguel’s name numerous times, and the Ecuadorians nodded in agreement. He then excused us and motioned for me
to follow. We returned to our cell.
“They know all about Miguel. It’s what most of their letters from home talk about. The whole country is scared. They think he is headed to the Garcia Moreno Prison to release five thousand of the most bloodthirsty, hardened criminals. They have all pledged their loyalty to Miguel. They speak like Miguel has some sort of spell over whoever he touches.”
“Any talk of Miguel being a demon or an agent of the Devil?”
“No, as far as they know he’s just a crazy gringo that wants to take over Ecuador. I told them you were going there to help regain democracy.”
“Why did you tell them that?”
“You’ve got to tell them what they want to hear if you want their help.”
The next day one of the Ecuadorian prisoner gave me a book about his country. He spoke to Raphael. “He keeps this with him and enjoys looking at the pictures to remind him how beautiful his homeland is, and he hopes you can use this to help defeat Miguel.” I thanked him, and Raphael thanked him in Spanish for me.
He and Raphael spoke a few more words, and Raphael chuckled. “He wants it back when you are done.”
I smiled. “Of course.”
I thumbed through the pictures and was amazed at what a scenic country Ecuador was. I had always thought of it being a third-world country with rampant poverty. I then started reading the text. That was a totally new story. It spoke of the occult and voodoo being very prevalent in its culture. It spoke of a place called the Devil’s Nose and an ancient trail ride outside of the capital city of Quito that was haunted by the Devil’s demons. It mentioned a celebration called the “Day of the Dead” where they decorated graves and celebrated death. An annual six-day “Dance of the Devil” was held in Pillaro where everyone danced in Devil masks. No wonder Miguel resided there. It was full of Evil.
It even had a picture of the Ecuadorian presidential palace. It looked very elaborate, with 16th century architecture.
I jotted down some notes and returned the book to my newfound Ecuadorian friend.
I returned to my cell after another grueling day on wheelbarrow detail. I borrowed Raphael’s Bible to peruse to kill time. I came across many pictures depicting warriors battling demons. They all had these magnificent, armored breast plates, gleaming swords, and wings protruding from their backs. I lay on my cot lamenting the loss of my Holy Stick. I felt that, without it, a part of the puzzle was missing.
Raphael entered our cell, snatched the Bible from my hands, and placed it back on the shelf. When I confided to him about all that I had been through, I told him of the loss of my Holy Stick and speculated that it must have gotten tossed out when the police searched my dad’s car.
“I need a weapon. All great warriors have a weapon,” I said. “Maybe I can have someone make one like I had before. Damn, it felt good in my hand.”
He seemed amused. “Steven, you can’t just go buy a two by four and whittle it down and kill Miguel. A weapon has to have some religious history to it. Besides, if this is all destiny and fate, then just keep your eyes open, and if it is meant to be, a weapon will present itself.”
I also expressed my concern to Raphael about Miguel making it all the way to Quito and taking over the presidential palace.
“The place is like a fortress. There will be no way I would be able get past his guards to kill him.”
Raphael countered with a psychological profile of Miguel. “From what you have told me, Miguel―human or not―has narcissistic, egomaniac tendencies. That kind of person thrives on attention. He’s not going to conquer Ecuador and then become a hermit. He will take any chance available to bask in the glory that is him. Trust me on that.”
He seemed very sure of himself.
Chapter 27
I lay on my cot after another day of wheeling concrete. I looked at the calendar and discovered that I had a meeting with Jake coming up, and I was bearing down on eight years of captivity. Raphael and I had become best friends. We talked at length about our lives and what our plans were when we got out. It was funny; when I had first met Raphael, he spoke like he was never going to get out, like suicide might be an option. The guilt of killing his best friend was sometimes overwhelming.
Now he talked about reuniting with his wife and three boys. His family’s pictures adorned his side of the cell. He would lie in bed at night, smoking and listening to that damn annoying Latin music over that staticky transistor radio.
I envied him.
He returned from work in the laundry and took the top part of his jumpsuit off. He had red, blister-like marks on his shoulders. I inquired about them. “A steam pipe was leaking overhead and burning the Hell out of me.”
“Did you tell them about it?” I asked and then realized what a stupid question that was.
“I told the guard, and he made out a work order. He said they would have to shut off the water and the boiler. He didn’t seem to think it was a serious enough issue to mess with.”
We both agreed that inmate safety was held in little regard. And with all of the money, not to mention all of the free labor they were getting out of the inmates, we were treated like scum. Word had it that Cobb had requisitioned some inmates to carry a new mahogany desk up to his office. It was up three flights of stairs. I asked why they didn’t put it in the freight elevator.
“Too big,” was the response.
***
It was just like any other day. We ate breakfast, and Raphael and I headed for our usual daily work details.
I was only a half hour into my day. The jackhammers rattled the work area, but I felt the floor move more than usual for about ten seconds. I didn’t think much about it until a siren blew. All inmates were instructed to return to their cells, and all authorized personnel were to report to the prison laundry.
I feared for Raphael. I followed the flow of inmates past my cell and tried to make my way to his work area. I got close enough to hear desperate screams for help. I could hear ambulance sirens from the outside racing to the prison. A guard recognized that I was out of my area and yelled at me to return to my cell. I defied his orders and tried to push my way through. I took a blow to the head from a night stick, drawing blood. I headed back to my cell and placed a wet wash cloth on my bleeding skull, hoping for the best.
Word spread that a steam pipe had broken, spewing hot water onto some of the inmates. The loss of water had caused a boiler to overheat and explode. I sat back and worried that maybe Raphael had been involved.
The entire prison was on lockdown. All work detail was cancelled. The rest of the inmates viewed this as a welcome reprieve from work. They were all joking and laughing. We were only let out for meals and then hurried back to our cells. I was too upset to eat. I was sick to my stomach.
Less than twenty-four hours later, a guard opened my cell door and tossed me a box. “Put all of your cellmate’s belongings in here.”
I threw the box back at him. “Do it yourself!” He drew his nightstick. I clenched my fist and pulled back, ready to punch the guy who just had given me the news that I had been expecting all along. I looked in his eyes. He was a young kid, scared at the thought of fighting me. He resembled me when I had first entered this hellhole. The standoff ended when I remembered the promise I had made to Jake. I had to keep my focus on the bigger picture: getting out of here and killing Miguel.
I grabbed the box from him. He exited the cell and waited outside. I put Raphael’s Bible, his crappy transistor radio, and all of his family’s pictures in the box. I took my time looking at his family. I wondered what kind of excuse Cobb and the prison board would make up to not take the blame. I gave the guard the box. He still looked scared. I wanted to tell him that I knew it wasn’t his fault and that he was just doing his job. I just couldn’t find the words.
The lockdown lasted another twenty-four hours. The time was spent for the contractors to fix the broken line and for them to tap into a different boiler. Why couldn’t they have done this before it let go? I was in mour
ning but angry all at the same time. Since the television and newspapers had been taken out of the library, we were in the dark about the casualties and injured. Several of the inmates had radios and passed along information. The final total was in: nine inmates dead. Nearly forty were treated for burns. The media was calling for answers.
The work details resumed. They transferred some inmates from different areas to fill in for the injured and deceased. I walked around with a huge chip on my shoulder, missing my best friend. The ones who knew that Raphael and I had been friends consoled me. I thanked them.
Occasionally, I would see Cobb walking through the construction area with armed guards accompanying him. He walked around like he owned the place―like a king walking amongst the peasants. The first time I saw him after the boiler blast, our eyes met, and he headed my way.
He smiled, took his toothpick out, and said, “Sorry ‘bout yer friend.” He walked away.
I was in a rage! I could picture myself strangling him with my bare hands! Sweat poured from my forehead. I picked up a piece of concrete and threw it against the wall, busting it into a thousand pieces. Cobb looked back and smiled.
Jake and I were due for a meeting. I was excused from my work detail and taken to our usual meeting room. We both apologized for the flare-up in Don’s motor home. He then congratulated me, as he had received no bad reports on my behavior.
“It hasn’t been easy,” I said and referred to the boiler explosion.
“Anyone you know get hurt?” Jake asked.
“My cellmate. One of the dead.”
“Sorry.”
I nodded and wished the subject had never come up.
Jake continued talking about the parole hearing and that we were in the time frame to start the process. He seemed very upbeat about the future. I was still reeling from the past and the death of Raphael. Our time was up, and Jake again complimented me on staying out of trouble. “We’re in the home stretch to getting you out of here.”
The Killing of Miguel Page 12