Breakout

by Paul Herron

  Not that breakfast is anything to look forward to. Oatmeal, usually. Sometimes with peanut butter. If I’m feeling rich, then maybe some honey. But that’s it. The eggs make me sick and everything else tastes like cardboard.

  Work starts at eight. Not everyone has a job. You have to prove yourself worthy, show that you’re a model prisoner, something I’ve done by mostly keeping my head down and minding my own business. And trust me, that’s hard to do when you’re an ex-cop. Every inmate wants a piece of you. Every CO wants to make your life hell.

  I work in the maintenance shed with Henry, one of those old guys who knows how to fix everything. It’s Henry’s job to make sure all the machinery in the prison keeps going. That’s a full-time job in a dump like this.

  I earn seventy dollars a month, almost double the average income of the other inmates. That means I can indulge in my vices, chocolate and coffee, both of which I buy from the commissary. The coffee is shit, though. It’s instant. Not even granules, but a fine powder. I don’t even think there’s any caffeine in it. You could mix that stuff with hot water and inject it into your eyeballs and it wouldn’t even kick.

  After lunch I hang out in the yard. Just to feel the sun on my face. I used to love the beach. Would go there every weekend with Amy. We lived pretty close and I could smell the salt on the air when the wind blew in the right direction.

  Not now, though. When I’m in the yard, all I can smell is the chemical stench from the laundry. Just steam escaping from the vents adding to the wet humidity that already clings to my skin like a coating of oil.

  After that, it’s back to work until five, supper in the mess hall, then rec time, where we play pool, watch television, chat, play cards, or use the phones in the common area below the cells.

  At eight o’clock it’s the final roll call before bed.

  Wash, rinse, repeat.

  I lean over the railing, see two guards handing mops and buckets to a few guys from the lower cells.

  “The infirmary is flooding,” says Nick, the guy from the next cell over. “Whole place is under a foot of water.”

  “So they’re taking a couple of mops?” I say. “That’s going to do a lot.”

  Nick shrugs. “Heard the storm’s getting real bad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Was watching the news last night.”

  “What did it say?”

  “That the storm’s getting real bad,” says Nick patiently.

  I wait. He doesn’t seem inclined to add anything else. “And?”

  “And nothing. COs shut the television off before the report finished.”

  “Was rec time over?” asks Felix.

  “Nope.” Nick taps his nose. “Control the flow of information. See what I’m saying?”

  I don’t even bother to suppress a sigh. Nick is convinced everyone in authority is involved in some kind of conspiracy, usually directed against him personally.

  “Don’t need the news to tell us the storm’s bad,” says Felix. “You hear it last night? That wind? Jesus, I thought the whole place was going to come down on top of us.”

  A loud bang echoes through the wing. I look to the right and see Evans standing at the top of the metal stairs, his baton raised to strike the railing a second time.

  Typical. It would be his shift. Right when I’m tired and not in the mood to take his shit. I hate Evans. Seriously. I’m not talking like he irritates me. It’s deeper than that. I despise everything about him. His face, the way he breathes, the little twitch in his eyelid when he tries to intimidate prisoners. He’s a bully, simple as that. A bully who managed to get himself placed in a position of power.

  If I’d ever met him on the outside, I would have made it my mission to get him thrown in prison. Maybe pulled him over, “found” some coke in his car, enough that he went down for dealing, not just possession.

  Most of the other screws are okay. They come in, do their jobs, they go home. But Evans… the first time I laid eyes on the guy, I knew he should be on the other side of the bars. I’ve seen killers. I’ve seen rapists. There’s always something in their eyes. Evans has that look.

  And he doesn’t like me because… well, I’m not sure about that. I think it’s because I don’t back down and I don’t play his games. What’s the point? I’m not a career criminal. I don’t see myself as a murderer. Sure, I killed someone, but killing someone who killed your wife—that’s not murder. That’s revenge. Justice. Besides that, I’m just a normal guy. I was married for two years. Wanted to start a family. My wife was a nurse. I was a cop, then I signed up for the army, then became a cop again when my tour was done. That was it. Nothing interesting. Nothing spectacular.

  Until that night.

  So Evans can’t figure me out, and that annoys him. He pushes and pushes, trying to provoke a reaction from me. I think it’s what gets him up in the morning. The desire to break me.

  I watch him make his way along the walkway. He moves slowly, with a rolling gait that speaks of an old leg injury. He likes to build up a rhythm with his counting. Left foot forward, click, right foot forward, click. He hates it when anyone breaks his pattern.

  No one speaks as he does his count. On the walkway opposite, I can see Martinez doing the same thing. She always finishes ahead of Evans. Evans likes to linger, staring at each inmate until they look away. Sometimes it happens fast, sometimes it doesn’t.

  I look straight ahead. Evans’s face slides into view, his watery eyes staring directly into mine. There’s a sheen of sweat covering his face. Sure, it’s as humid as the ass-crack of Satan himself in here, but Evans sweats regardless of the weather. He always looks greasy, like old cooking oil.

  He waits for me to look away. Or better yet, down, a sign of total subservience. Dream on, fuckface. I keep staring straight ahead, my eyes not even flickering.

  We stand like this for a long moment, neither willing to back down. Nick can see where this is going. He tries to head it off.

  “Hey, Evans,” he says. “What’s the word on the storm?”

  Evans grabs the opportunity for a graceful exit and turns his attention to Nick.

  “The word is mind your own business.”

  He moves on, clicking as he goes.

  “That’s not a word,” says Nick. “That’s five—no, wait. Four! That’s four words, Evans! Four!”

  After head count, we’re allowed to mingle in the dayroom, which is a fancy—and totally inaccurate—name for the un-evenly shaped wedge of floor space outside the cells. It’s like calling a dingy motel in the backwaters of Alabama a five-star luxury resort.

  As always, it’s a mad rush for the phones. They’re everyone’s lifeline. Their connection to the outside world. I don’t know why they bother. About seven out of ten phone calls end up with the inmate slamming the phone down in frustration.

  See, that’s the thing. Being in prison regresses everyone to the mentality of teenagers. Everything is blown way out of proportion. Your whole world—your whole universe—shrinks down to the equivalent of high school, just with killers and gangs instead of cliquey cheerleaders and jocks. A perceived slight becomes a deathly insult. A sidelong look proof that someone is going to attack. It’s just the way the mind changes when you’re inside.

  But that change in thinking carries through to your connections with the outside world too. The tiniest pause on the other end of the line, the slightest hesitation, breeds paranoia and anger. Because every single inmate who’s still in a relationship has only two things on their mind: when is she going to leave me, and who is she cheating on me with? It could’ve been the strongest, most loving relationship ever on the outside. Childhood sweethearts, the first person you had sex with—whatever. It all crumbles to fear and insecurity as soon as the prison gates close.

  The six hexagonal tables bolted to the floor are already full. Inmates claiming their spots, decks of cards appearing, commissary food changing hands to pay off debts. As with everything in prison, there’s a pecking order.
No one sits down until Leon, the pod boss, decides where he’s going to sit. Then his lieutenants and bodyguards take up the chairs around him. Only then do the empty tables start to fill. Those currently in favor with Leon take the closest, leaving the unpopular tables next to the door for the other inmates.

  I never bother with the seats. I prefer to pace the perimeter of the block, round and round. It has two benefits. It keeps me fit and sane, and it makes the others wary of me. Anything out of the ordinary singles you out, either to be taken advantage of, or to be avoided. Walking around and around—jogging sometimes, depending on how much nervous energy I’ve built up—not talking to anyone, for some reason marks me as unreadable. Unpredictable.

  A few inmates did try to cause shit with me once, when I first came in and they found out I was a cop. I had to put them in the infirmary. One of them nearly died from internal bleeding. Another had a broken jaw, a broken wrist, and three fractured ribs. I had no choice, though. I had to make an example of them. You don’t do that, you let them push you around, then you live with a target on your back. And the target on a cop’s back is pretty fucking big, let me tell you.

  I haven’t even finished one lap of the pod before my name is called over the speaker.

  “Constantine, Manuel, Perez, Stevens, Deacon, Murphy, MacLeod, Felix, and Nunes. Line up.”

  This gets everyone’s attention. Anything different from the normal routine is a source of interest.

  We line up outside the door that leads from the block. There’s a loud buzz and Evans enters, standing to the side and holding the door ajar. I don’t even bother asking what’s going on. I know he won’t answer.

  Deacon is the one who speaks up. “Hey, Evans, what’s up? We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  Evans just stares at his clipboard.

  “Come on, man,” says Deacon. “I got low blood sugar. I need food.”

  Evans finally gives him a bored look. “You’ll be fed later. You got work to do.”

  “What work?” asks Nunes.

  “Cleaning out the old prison.”

  “The Glasshouse? The fuck for?”

  That’s a very good question. The Glasshouse was put in mothballs about thirty years ago. The place is totally old-school. About seventy years old, I think. No electronic locks. All cells opened with a key. Barely any light. Cramped. Claustrophobic. More like an asylum than a prison.

  “Why we being punished, man?” asks Manuel.

  “You remember where you are?” says Evans. “You don’t get to ask questions. You do what you’re fucking told.” He hesitates. “But I’ll tell you why. Only because I want to tell you, understand?” He waits until Manuel nods in agreement. “Some of the other prisons are being evacuated because of the hurricane. We’re using the Glasshouse as temporary accommodation.” He turns and addresses the rest of the inmates watching us from their chairs. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be bringing most of you across in waves. Busy day today.”

  He gestures with the clipboard and we all file slowly out of the pod.

  ADVISORY BULLETIN

  Hurricane Hannah Advisory Number 6

  NWS National Hurricane Center Miami FL

  2 A.M. EDT SAT AUG 28 2021

  DISCUSSION AND OUTLOOK

  Tropical Hurricane Hannah has fluctuated between Categories 2 and 3 for several days due to a series of eyewall replacement cycles. She has traveled through the Gulf of Mexico and has made landfall at Johnson’s Bayou, Louisiana. Her path will take her through Alabama, where winds will reach 190 mph (305 km/h) as she passes into Georgia. The cyclone is forecast to increase from Category 3 to Category 4 by Saturday, August 28. Hannah will negatively impact any Josephine-related evacuation plans of the states to the east and south, including Florida. Those remaining are advised to wait for her to pass into the Atlantic before attempting evacuation.

  WARNINGS

  If not already evacuated, find shelter immediately.

  $$

  Forecaster Mills

  Two

  Friday, August 27

  7:00 a.m.

  Keira Sawyer sits in a hard plastic lawn chair, the kind usually found out in the garden. Her hands twist nervously in her lap as she listens to the wind raging outside the office window. The blinds are closed. She’s not sure if it’s because whoever’s office this is doesn’t want to see the weather, or just because they haven’t settled in for the day yet.

  It was a mistake to come in. She knows that now. Hell, she knew it this morning as she was driving through flooding roads, passing lines of traffic going in the opposite direction. Stupid. Dangerous. Insane.

  But she had no choice.

  The door opens abruptly and a short woman wearing a CO uniform enters. She’s holding a clipboard and looks stressed and annoyed. Even more so when she sees Sawyer sitting there.

  “I thought he was messing with me.”

  Sawyer hesitates. “Who?”

  “Wilson. He said the new girl was here. I said don’t be crazy. No one’s stupid enough to start their first day during a hurricane. And yet here you are.”

  Sawyer lets the insult slide. The woman has a point. “I… didn’t think I had a choice. I mean, no one told me not to come in.”

  The woman stares hard at her. “You must really need this job.”

  Sawyer nods. “I do.”

  The CO sighs. “Fine. I’m Martinez. Looks like I’ll be your tour guide today. Come on.”

  Sawyer stands up. Martinez looks her up and down. Something about what she sees makes her even unhappier.

  “What do you weigh? One hundred ten?”

  “One-fifteen. Why?”

  “Height?”

  “Five-six.”

  “Jesus. They’re going to eat you alive.”

  Sawyer straightens up slightly, defensive. “I’m tougher than I look.” She instantly regrets saying it. Even to her own ears it sounds childish and whiny.

  “For your sake, honey, I sincerely hope so. Come on.”

  She follows Martinez out of the office and into the corridor beyond. It’s empty, lit by harsh fluorescents recessed into the ceiling.

  “Stay close,” says Martinez. “Seriously. Don’t get within grabbing distance of any of the prisoners. You’re new. You’re cute. Fuck, they’re going to have a field day with you. Do not, under any circumstances, show fear. Understand? Don’t look uneasy. Or panicked. And don’t smile. Don’t try to be their friend. You do any of that, they’ll remember. Word will spread and they will use it against you.”

  Sawyer hurries to keep up with her. “How am I supposed to look?”

  “What?”

  “You said don’t show fear. Don’t smile. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I bet you get hit on a lot in bars, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The look you put on when you want to show you’re not interested? That’s how you’re supposed to look.”

  “You mean resting bitch face.”

  “I mean permanent bitch face.”

  Martinez leads her along the corridor, through a door and into an open-plan office area. There is staff here, some sitting, some just passing through, heading into corridors that lead into other parts of the prison complex. Martinez heads straight for a set of double doors on the far side and shoves the bar down to push them open. Sawyer follows after, letting the doors slam shut behind her. The corridor stretches far ahead of them, so far she can’t even see the end of it.

  “Okay, so the Ravenhill Correctional Facility is about two square miles total. It’s big. Right here we’re in the administrative building. It’s the hub of the prison. It’s way bigger than you’d normally see in modern prisons. Basically because it was left over from the army days.”

  “Army days?” Sawyer asks, confused.

  “I’ll get to that. In Admin we’ve got a couple religious resource rooms, a staff gym, warehouses for storing commissary and other supplies, a loading dock, an armory, an indoor firing range, the sheri
ff’s office, staff offices, you name it.”

  “But—”

  Martinez half turns and holds up a hand. “Just wait. Questions later. You’ll need your breath.” She turns back again, striding along the wide passage. “This right here is the staff corridor. It travels from Admin all the way to the staff section on the north side of the prison. We just call the building up there Northside. There’s a cafeteria there. More offices. Staff changing rooms. Same thing we have on the south side of the prison. Depending on where you’re assigned, you’ll either park your car Northside or down here.”

  “You said this is the staff corridor?”

  “Yeah. No inmates allowed.”

  “How do you transport them?”

  “There’s an inmate corridor on the other side of the prison. Exact duplicate of this one, travels from Admin all the way to the Northside too. Make sure they stay in the red line when you’re on escort duty.”

  The corridor they’re moving through looks like it’s never-ending. It stretches into the distance, seeming to grow narrower the farther it goes. Martinez catches her look.

  “Yeah, you’re not gonna have any trouble getting your ten thousand steps in. Not here. I’ve done forty on a shift before.”

  “Forty?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Steps? But that’s like…” Sawyer does a quick calculation. No, that can’t be right, can it? She looks at Martinez in shock.

  “Twenty miles? Yeah.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Tell me about it. Okay, listen up. I’m going to explain the layout of this place. Heading north of Admin, we have seven separate living units.” She gestures to the wall to their left. “They’re all in there.”

  “Units? Not blocks?”

  “No. Some of the older inmates still call them that, but no one else. The first four complexes are general population—Gen Pop. Just your average criminal doing his time. Not nice people, but they don’t give us too much shit. Or if they do, they know when to reel it in, because they don’t want to end up in solitary. Some of these guys—I’d say about forty percent—are working toward a GED.” She throws a look over her shoulder. “That’s a General Education Diploma.”