“Yes, sir,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll file a complaint.”
The Warden gave her a funny smile then. He was proud of her. Like she was his daughter, and she’d passed a difficult test. It warmed her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Good. You’re going to have some company for a while.”
The Warden started the next day. With Ms. Darcy on the night shift, and the big Bohunk guard, Lindestrom, keeping watch for the day shift, the Hole was deemed the safest place to gather testimony. A court stenographer and a prosecuting attorney, both women, were brought in, dressed in prison issue. They were each assigned their own cell in the Hole, and the interviews began. Taneisha turned out to have an excellent memory for names and details she’d overhead or been told. Working from the list she provided, under the cover of real or imagined infractions, six other women prisoners were brought to the Hole to be interviewed.
This was where it could have all gone very bad. If any of the women retained any allegiance to their “boyfriend” guards, word would be out. If rumors started to fly about the investigation, then Taneisha had better hope Sister had been praying hard enough for her. Accidents can happen very easily in prison.
There were no accidents. Ms. Darcy spirited away the lawyer and stenographer late one evening. The evidence was presented to a special grand jury, and one morning a squad of eight sheriff’s deputies appeared outside the prison. Taneisha and the other women watched it that night on TV in Ms. Darcy’s office. The deputies, white, black, Hispanic, all had a similar look about them: thick neck and shoulders, hair cut high and tight, well-tailored uniforms, shined shoes, sparkling belt buckles, and grim expressions on every face.
“Jeez, who are these guys?” one woman wondered out loud.
“They’re Devil Dogs,” Ms. Darcy said. She had a wicked look of pleasure on her face. “Former Marines, girl! Warden picked them special. That’s my Henry,” she said, pointing to one of the black deputies as his fierce image crossed the television screen.
“How’s the Warden know them?” another, older, prisoner asked.
“He’s been a lot more than a Warden,” Ms. Darcy said mysteriously.
Warden Gutierrez had planned this like a military campaign; it made sense he would call upon ex-servicemen. They learned later that other squads of equally grim deputies had descended upon three off-duty suspects at the same time the Devil Dogs were walking through the prison. No one had a chance to alert the other guards.
Each guard was read their rights and arrested. The prison rumor mill circulated a story that before he’d perp-walked the disgraced guards out the front gates to the waiting police cars, the Warden had had a private word or two with the offending officers. More than one of the former guards, even the hulking ones who’d spent half their shifts in the weight rooms working out, had walked from the Warden’s office strangely subdued.
At the sight of their persecutors’ faces on the evening news, the party atmosphere in the guard shack shriveled and disappeared. “They could still get us,” a skinny, nearly toothless young woman whispered. “They have friends.”
“They could get you,” the older woman said to Ms. Darcy.
“Warden won’t allow that,” Ms. Darcy said, getting to her feet. “Almost lights out. Time to go back to your cells. You ladies were brave for what you did. It was the right thing to do. Always pick the right thing, girls, even if it’s tough.”
Just before she closed her eyes that night in the Hole, Taneisha thought, Ms. Darcy always tells us something simple, but so hard. Can’t anything be simple and easy? If she got an answer, she didn’t remember it the next morning.
Warden Gutierrez held a short meeting with the entire prison the next day, announcing the arrests of the officers and introducing a hand-picked crew of new guards to supplement those who remained, those he trusted. After the cheering of the prisoners had subsided, he added, “The rules apply to everyone, equally. Guards will follow the rules and inmates will follow the rules.” There were groans and catcalls at that. The Warden turned to face the prisoners directly. “You men and women have a choice. You can continue to make the kinds of decisions that got you here, or, you can make new decisions about how you’re going to live your life. Only you can put your mind in prison.” He dismissed them after that.
In spite of the women prisoner’s fears, no one was “got” by anyone. Five of the six guards were convicted for violating the civil rights of the prisoners under their care, and one, Owens, was convicted of two sexual assaults. The Warden had wanted the hammer to come down on the disgraced officers, but witnesses for the worst offenses had not been available or breathing at the time. While some of the guards remaining at the prison were convinced an insurrection was imminent, Warden Gutierrez was as good as his word. The rules were applied equally to the inmates and the guards. The population of the Hole briefly increased as the usual con artists in the prison tried to take advantage of perceived weaknesses in the authority of the guards. These prisoners were summarily presented with some time in solitary, giving them the opportunity to meditate upon their sins. Once the corrections officers saw that the Warden was still ready to back them up on righteous calls, they, and everyone else, began to settle down.
Riding a certain wave of public outrage at the abuse of the women, Sister was able to pull in more rehabilitation volunteers, some from as far away as Phoenix. The state was still parsimonious with funds for additional programs, but as long as they were largely self-funded, the Warden, or Mr. G as he was becoming known, encouraged self-improvement of all kinds. Taneisha found herself completing her GED, and then she enrolled in two community college classes.
One day, working in the library, she remembered she had just two years left on her sentence. The mandatory drug sentencing laws of the state decreed she would serve five years and a day. While she chafed against the time spent locked up, she had finally come to accept that it wasn’t bad luck or the stars, or the nefarious Man that had gotten her into prison. It was her.
Other girls had come from those same sewers where she grew up. Other girls had been neglected, barely teen-aged girls subjected to the attention of adult “uncles” when no one was around. Not all of those girls were in prison. Some of them got out, married decent men, went to school, and left the asphalt-covered, soul-killing ’hood behind. Some of them didn’t hook up with a man (who was just an overgrown boy) with a habit. Her hookup was doing fifteen years, since he’d had the majority of the speed stashed in his car. She had only been carrying her personal supply. She was no longer in touch with him; he’d rolled over on her as soon as he was popped by the Arizona State Police.
A sound roused her from her musing. It was Mr. G, checking out the books on the shelves. “Nice job,” he said.
“Sister helps,” Taneisha said.
“Not to hear her tell it.” He turned to face her. “Today’s your birthday.”
“Not even, Mr. G. Not for months.”
“You’re three years old today,” he told her. “Coming here…it could be the birth of a new Taneisha Porter, if you let it. Or, it could just be a continuation of the old Taneisha.”
Birthday. Okay, she was down with that. “Yeah. Yes, sir. I’d like a new birthday.”
He put his hands behind his back, rocked on his heels a little. “I need an assistant, to help with filing and general correspondence. Sister Anita and Ms. Darcy both recommend you for the job.” His eyes crinkled. “I don’t think I’m man enough to resist the full court press from those two ladies. Would you be interested? It would look good on a resume when you get out.”
As was her new habit, she was quiet for a moment, thinking, and then she answered. “Yes, sir, I would like that.”
“Happy Birthday, Ms. Porter. You start tomorrow.”
With less than six months to go on her sentence, she found herself in Mr. G’s office at just past midnight. Mr. G was wearing dress slacks, a white shirt, and a plain, dark blue tie. Taneisha had showered and dressed qui
ckly in the guard’s locker room. Ms. Darcy had even found a fresh toothbrush for her. “I hate to go anywhere without brushing my teeth,” she declared before leading the young inmate through the series of stairs and locked doors that led up to the Warden’s office.
Now Taneisha sat at her desk, waiting. The Warden was at the window, looking down on the sleeping prison. “Mr. G?” she asked, after a few moments of the strange silence. “You needed my help?”
He turned to her. “Yes. The files for Building 29.”
“We did those already, sir.” This she knew. Nearly all of the first three months she had been working for him were dedicated to organizing the files on each prisoner—old-fashioned paper files, the prison system not having the funding to upgrade to computers like everyone else in the world. Usually, they were a mess of photos, Federal and State prisoner reports, sometimes along with court documentation. Some of the files had been nearly three inches thick. Those files were not filled with good conduct reports. Building 29, though. That was death row. Over thirty men and one woman were there now.
“And Protective Segregation.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, standing and moving toward the files. Protective Seg was where they put those persons most likely to have their lives endangered just by breathing in a prison: snitches, former law enforcement, and those who abused children. She hated even handling their files…somehow it seemed like she was touching those men and their crimes whenever her fingers made contact with the manila folder records.
“Just open them to the F-47,” he said, “and hand them to me.” The F-47. The sentencing form, which contained details about a prisoner’s crime, and the penalty they were to pay.
Taneisha did as she was bid, asking, “Sir, why are we doing this now, in the middle of the night?”
“Ms. Porter, we have work to do,” the Warden said by way of reply, glancing reproachfully at her over the top of his glasses. She passed him the first file.
For the next hour, they worked in silence. When it came time to look at the files from the molesters, Mr. G seemed to sense her discomfort. “You want to take a break?” he asked. She nodded. “Can you make us a fresh pot of coffee? I think the stuff out there is probably pretty wretched by now.”
She scampered out to the small canteen quickly. She didn’t really want any coffee, but with nothing better to do, emptied the old pot and made a new one. After it had brewed, it didn’t smell half bad, so she poured two cups and carried them back into the office.
The Warden now had two distinct piles of folders on his desk. He stood when she walked in and took the cup from her. He held it in both hands, savoring it as he walked back to the window to stare down at his slumbering prison. “There have been studies,” he said without turning around, “that nine out of ten women in prison were addicted to drugs at the time of incarceration. Thirty percent of them are believed to be mentally ill.” He took a sip of his coffee.
“That’s hard,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Over sixty percent claim to have been abused by a male relative or friend before they were fourteen.” He shook his head, possibly not noticing how she tensed slightly when he said that. “Lord Almighty. No wonder they end up here.”
He walked back to the desk, considering the two mounds of files. “Most men in prison had no consistent father figure when they were growing up. Many were also abused sexually or physically when they were children.” Another longer swig of his coffee. “You don’t have any children, do you, Ms. Porter?”
“No, sir.” And thank Christ for that. The women in here who had children on the outside…it tore them up.
“Have you been around small children at all?”
“Not since I was about ten or so, sir.”
He sat on the edge of the desk. “You might not have noticed this, then. I have several children, grown now. Didn’t want them, at first, but you never know how life will turn out. It turned out that I liked kids…my own, at least.” He gave a slightly abashed smile. “Each of my children was different…they all had their own personalities, but when they were little, they had one thing in common. They all wanted to be heard, to be seen, and to be loved. I’m convinced that’s all anyone really wants, deep down.” He pointed the mug at the large pile of folders. “Every man in there was a baby at one time, who just wanted somebody to listen to them and love them. Yet…they ended up here. Even the gang-bangers…they were just lost kids, trying to find out how to be a man. Nobody was there to show them how, so they made it up. And it brought them years in hell.” He let his mug hand droop. “There’s a cart in the other office. Can you bring it here, please?”
She set her cup on a bookcase and quickly rolled the cart back in, hesitating in the middle of the room. The Warden was buckling on a gun belt he’d pulled from a desk drawer. The pistol in the holster was huge. The only handguns she’d been around had been smaller revolvers and the occasional semi-automatic pop-gun. This thing seemed monstrous. Mr. G settled the belt around his hips, then lifted the larger pile of folders from his desk and carried them to the cart.
“I’ll ask Ms. Darcy to take you back to your cell now,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Mr. G, what are you doing?”
He set the folders securely on the cart, then straightened and looked at her. “New York and Los Angeles were bombed this evening.”
She had heard something about that, but it just seemed like maybe another random terrorist thing.
The Warden went on. “Nobody is sure how hard, how bad. Chicago, Detroit, Miami have been hit. Other cities have reported riots, random bombings, destruction of electrical power plants and water plants. The President has declared martial law. It’s war, Taneisha.”
She was hearing the words, but they didn’t make any sense to her. This was so much bigger than she’d heard or even imagined. There was some kind of disconnect between the sounds and their meaning. “Who? Who are we fighting?”
“We don’t know. 9/11 was the opening shot in a battle. This is the real war, now, I’m afraid.”
He was afraid? Suddenly, she was terrified by him. “Where are you going?”
The Warden put his hand on the folders. “These men,” he said softly, “are the worst of the worst. We don’t know what is going to happen to the country. We’ve been invaded, Ms. Porter. There may not be a state of Arizona tomorrow morning. I won’t loose this…vermin…on the population. You’ll be safe in your cell. You don’t want to see this.”
She swallowed. “You’re going to shoot them…like dogs?”
Mr. G adjusted the holster over his hips. It was plain black leather, nothing fancy, nothing more than a tool belt. “Do you know why we shoot rabid dogs?”
She shook her head mutely.
Mr. G answered for her. “A rabid dog can’t control himself. He…or any animal…has no idea of right or wrong. Can’t understand…can’t conceive of any consequences to their actions. A rabid dog doesn’t even know enough to hide.” His voice hardened. “The…men…in Building 29 don’t even have a rabid dog’s excuse. They knew what they were doing was wrong. They didn’t care.”
Taneisha looked at the files. Those men were the worst of the worst. The F-47 told the story. None of the men on death row was a first timer…they’d all had criminal careers. Each of them was a contagion, an epidemic of chaos that had ruined lives, broken hearts, maimed families, and shattered dreams.
She took the cart handle in her hands. “I’ll go with you, Mr. G. You shouldn’t have to carry this by yourself.”
Outside Building 29, only one guard was on duty. Mr. G took the keys from him, and spoke to him quietly. “You go on home, son.”
The guard, a blondish younger man, took a long look at the Warden. The huge pistol on his hip and the cart full of files must have told the younger man everything he needed to know, because the guard shook his head and opened the door for the older man. “Nobody at home but a one-eyed cat who craps on my patio, Warden. I’ll stay
.”
“What I’m doing is against the law, Tom,” Mr. G told him.
“Uh-huh. I’ll just step inside with you, sir.”
“Thank you, Tom,” the Warden said, and the three of them passed into death row.
Inside the main guard shack, Tom switched the cell doors to “manual.” It was a backup process, in case of power failure, that would allow the corridor and cell doors to be unlocked with a set of keys. Tom took a shotgun from a triple-locked case, along with two boxes of shells.
Mr. G gave Taneisha one last chance to back out. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
She shook her head. “No, sir.” He unlocked the main corridor door, and she followed him through. Lights were on throughout Building 29; because of security regulations, guards needed to be able to see death row inmates at all times.
Warden Gutierrez stopped at the first cell. The doors were solid, with one narrow window and a slot. The Warden unholstered the pistol, and Tom unlocked the door with one hand, and stood to one side of the door, the shotgun ready in both hands.
The inmate was asleep, a pillow covering his face against the light. Mr. G said, “Winston.” He inclined his head toward the files. Taneisha found it, handed it to him. He’d affixed a small sticky note to the F-47. He began reading the details of the crime aloud. “Winston Wooley. You broke into a trailer owned by an eighty-seven-year-old widow. You raped her, you strangled her, and you beat her to death with a chair.”
The sleeping figure stirred, lifted his face. He was an older white man, cheeks sunken, hair askew. He looked like a wino beside a Dumpster. “What?” he said blearily, then, recognizing Mr. Gutierrez, added, “I’m clean, sir, I’ve got an appeal working.”
The Warden handed the file to Taneisha without taking his eyes off the prisoner.
“Do you have anything you want to say?” the Warden asked.
“No…” Winston replied uncertainly.
The first shot caught the prisoner squarely in the chest. He reeled backwards in his bunk as if he’d been shoved. The shot was incredibly loud. Prisoners up and down the cell block woke. There was yelling, calling back and forth. Taneisha turned away, dazed. It was nothing like the movies. Winston had dropped, trembled, coughed a gout of blood, and then stopped moving. Throughout, he seemed to be trying to speak or scream or cry out, but had been unable to do so.
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