He realized he had become the violet ribbon of light that had enveloped him and carried him off. But what was its pure meaning? What did he now mean? He first searched his mind and experience, but they failed him, so he searched his heart, and then he knew instantly what the violet ribbon meant and what he meant. It was as if he had returned to or woken up in a place he’d never truly left but had only forgotten. How strange and yet how complete the journey! His whole life was carried along in that flowing ribbon of violet, and now it all fit together in some sweet completeness.
Violet! He saw fields of violet wildflowers, with each delicate petal singing joyously in the brilliant sunlight, releasing a bit of the meaning of violet into the world. Matthew now knew what violet meant—violet! A gift! A joyous gift!
Complete and full unto themselves were these color-meanings, and as he danced along with the swirls of color with his own violet-meaning, a symphony of meanings was revealed, like the many sounds and notes of music that dance together to make one symphony or the many single waves that make up the whole of the ocean. He could hear the melody and harmony of that symphony, not as sounds, but as notes of infinite meanings being played and resonating together. He’d known these meanings always, but words and the illusion of time had dulled that familiarity and hidden the pure meanings from him.
The whole symphony he knew was the meaning of meanings—made from individual colors and notes and in return giving birth to all meanings. Both were true. It was a circle unending—a unity of meaning inside the combined symphony of all meanings. The unity of meaning in the symphony he heard and felt was this—eternal love and joy. Of course! What else could it be?! So simple and so obvious, yet how had he forgotten it? That symphony of meanings played him and touched him; he was its instrument and creation. Something was born in him—something new and yet old, an eternal remembering, a flower blooming again, a coming home, a gift forever given. And like the changing of a caterpillar into a butterfly, some eternal dance and circle had been completed once again—at the place where the heavens touch the earth.
Then somewhere far away, he felt he was crying. His eyes were crying, but he was separated from those tears as they fell away from his body like distant raindrops. They seemed odd and strangely insufficient for what tears meant, like paltry words to their meanings. He could at first only look at the tears, but then he moved toward them, and they grew into oceans. It was as though he was diving into the tears from a great height and then becoming small and being swallowed by them. He then felt both the sorrow and the joy that were married to those tears, and were the meaning behind them, and the realization—how necessary and obvious for sorrow and joy to be together as one!
The dance of colors and light began to fade. The light dissolved and began to move away. Could he move his body to follow? Did he have a body? He tried to follow the light as it retreated into an infinite ocean of pure blue. The blue was the sky reaching over the mountains around him. He was falling. Down the face of the rock, Matthew tumbled to the solid ground below.
Two
The Escape
Over three years had passed since the rainy night near Mount Rainier where Ranger Duncan had told the story of the vision quest to Boy Scout Troop 458, and now, in another part of Washington State, another vision quest was continuing to unfold at the seemingly unlikely location of a state prison.
The Washington State Department of Corrections, or DOC, was among the best run and professional such organizations in the country. As a rule, inmates were treated with a high degree of respect, no matter the level of custody from minimum to maximum security. Recreational, educational, and work programs afforded inmates a quality of life that many might not even get the chance to experience in their lives in the outside world. Despite all these amenities and programs, it wasn’t at all the case that Washington State was “soft on prisoners” as some maintained. It was more a general philosophy that even inmates deserved to be treated with some basic degree of dignity and quality of life. This philosophy seemed to have had an exceptionally positive effect on the inmates under the control of the DOC. As a general rule, the department as a whole maintained a record of having the highest inmate morale and lowest suicide rate among similar-sized prison systems across the country. There are, however, always exceptions to general rules.
The Monroe Correctional Complex in Monroe, Washington, was the DOC’s exception. Though cleanly and tightly run by Superintendent Stephen Tremont, providing inmates all the amenities offered by the other DOC facilities and located in some of the most beautiful countryside found anywhere in the already picturesque state—the Monroe Complex maintained a history of having far and above the highest inmate suicide and attempted suicide rate of any of the DOC facilities. The issue had been looked at and studied by DOC officials for some time, without any satisfactory explanation. Their concern, however, over Monroe’s bleak record had been substantially diminished in the past three years, as for no well-understood reason—the Monroe Correctional Complex’s suicide rate had dramatically declined and was now remarkably among the very lowest of all correctional facilities in Washington State and even across the country.
Having been in charge of the Monroe Complex for nineteen years, Superintendent Stephen Tremont had seen the best and worst of times regarding the inmate suicide problem. When the suicide rate started falling, he considered it a result of his efforts to increase discipline. Stephen Tremont prided himself on discipline. It was a way of life for him—a hook upon which he nightly hung his very stiff hat. Though the increased morale and plummeting suicide rate were sources of pride for him, his greatest source of pride was the fact that during his nineteen-year tenure, the facility had experienced only three escapes, and in all three cases, the escapee was captured or killed within a few days. No one had ever successfully escaped from the Monroe Correctional Complex during Stephen Tremont’s watch, and so long as discipline was kept high, he was certain no one ever would.
The first in line to feel Superintendent Tremont’s demand for discipline were his staff. Sloppiness or laziness was never tolerated. Protocols and routines were to be followed to the letter. A guard would dress impeccably and behave to match, or quickly find himself another job. Long before beginning his career in the DOC, Stephen Tremont had been a Marine Corps drill instructor. His sharp buzz haircut, rigid dress code, barking out of orders, and intimidating stare were legendary among his staff, the prisoners, and his colleagues around the state.
Both the inmates and the guards of Superintendent Tremont’s facility either loved him or hated him, and there was no waffling in between. Regardless of how one felt about him, there was no choice but to respect him and his demands for discipline. If called to see the superintendent, unless you were certain to have done something extremely good, it meant that you were to be the sacrificial lamb entering the lair of a man who could rip your heart out without ever laying a finger on you.
Whenever Superintendent Tremont addressed an inmate, regardless of whether he knew the inmate’s first or last name, or if it were for good or bad reasons one was sent to see him, he would simply refer to him as “inmate.” The conversation would then be: “Inmate, I’ve received a report that you were fighting during dinner,” or “Inmate, your good behavior has earned you an extra movie night.” Inmates did not have formal names to the superintendent. They were nearly nonhuman entities, thought of by Stephen Tremont as material to be managed, almost like managing hazardous waste or some other undesirable and potentially dangerous substance.
On this particular summer afternoon, with the exception of the excessive heat wave striking much of Washington State, there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at the Monroe Complex. Staffing was at normal levels, and every guard scheduled for duty had shown up. There were no special events or tours scheduled. The day had started just as any other well-structured and disciplined day at the prison complex.
The heat, however, was unmerciful.
Several inma
tes and at least one guard had collapsed in the interior courtyard of the main building. It was even warmer inside. The concrete and steel walls, lack of air conditioning, and generally poor ventilation had turned the interior into a slow-roaster oven. To minimize the potential of overwhelming the infirmary with inmates or even more guards, Superintendent Tremont ordered the guards to take all prisoners outside to the courtyard. It was still hot there, but at least cooler than inside.
The courtyard was crowded, and guards with machine guns patrolled on the high surrounding walls with extra vigilance. Tempers could flair in such heat, but the guards would make sure there would be no trouble, and so far there had been none, as the inmates appeared to appreciate at least some attempt at helping them stay cool.
There was, however, one inmate who refused to go outside to the courtyard.
“Are you sick?” inquired the guard, standing outside the open cell door.
“No, I feel just fine,” said the inmate with a smile as he sat on his bed reading.
“Well, get up then. Staying inside is not an option,” barked the guard. “The superintendent said ‘everybody’ outside, and the last I checked, you were part of ‘everybody.’ C’mon, get up. You can take your book if you want.”
The prisoner set his book next to him on the bed and stared at the guard. “I think it’s great the superintendent is concerned with keeping all the inmates comfortable and cooler,” said the inmate, “but I prefer to be inside right now. Thank you all the same.” He then picked up his book and began reading again.
Throughout the three years that this particular inmate had been at the Monroe Correctional Complex, he had been a model of good behavior. Though state law prevented him from any chance of parole during his ten-year sentence, that fact hadn’t prevented his overall demeanor during his first three years from being anything other than exemplary. It had been so good that he received special permission to teach a martial arts skills class to other inmates during free recreation time. Superintendent Tremont had summed it up very well while watching from his office window as this model inmate conducted a tai chi class to other inmates in the courtyard: “Hell, if more inmates were like him, this facility would practically run itself!”
It was the history of this inmate’s good behavior that prompted the guard’s reaction to the inmate’s refusal to go outside. “I don’t know exactly what’s gotten into you today,” said the guard, “maybe the heat or whatever—but unless you get outside right now, I think you’ll be needing to visit the superintendent.” While saying this, the guard had the cool blue-steeled barrel of his machine gun pointed generally in the prisoner’s direction.
“I don’t recall you ever pointed that thing at me before, Harris. Would you actually shoot me?” asked the inmate.
“Just decide,” said the guard, whose full name was Harris Waverly. He glanced down at the machine gun and then pointed it even more in the inmate’s direction. “Outside, now, or we’ll go see the superintendent.”
“Go see Superintendent Tremont?” replied the inmate, putting his book down. “In nearly three years here, I’ve never had the honor, and so I thought you’d never ask! I’d love to go see Stephen.” The inmate stood up and moved toward the cell door.
“The heat’s fried your brains or something,” replied Harris, shaking his head. “All right, have it your way. I haven’t minded that you’ve called me by my first name all these years, but God help you if you call him Stephen.” The inmate stepped outside the cell, and the two began walking down the sweltering corridor. “And we’ll see if you’re so excited after your little visit,” Harris added, walking several feet behind the inmate. “I heard the heat today has made the superintendent extra crabby.”
Superintendent Tremont stood by his large office window, looking outside at the courtyard overflowing with overheated inmates. There was a knock on the open office door, and the problem inmate who had refused to join the others outside was brought into the office. The superintendent turned and nodded to Harris, who left the office, closing the door behind him.
“Sit down, Inmate,” ordered the superintendent while motioning toward the chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you,” replied the inmate, while sliding down into the comfortable leather chair.
The superintendent walked over and stood behind his desk. “Inmate, I’ve been told that you somehow think you’re special. Didn’t you think my offer to send everyone outside where it’s cooler was a generous one? Are you feeling ill?”
“No, I don’t believe I’m ill, and I certainly don’t think I’m special at all, Stephen,” replied the inmate. “I am just another inmate in your eyes, and I understand that. Your decision to try to give the inmates some relief was very considerate. Thank you.”
A line had been quickly crossed. Absolutely no one at the prison had ever called the superintendent “Stephen.” No guards or other personnel had, and certainly none of the inmates. Though the superintendent had heard about this particular inmate’s previous exemplary behavior, the two had actually never met face to face. The superintendent looked intently at the inmate and was met in return with a calm yet focused gaze.
“Inmate, what makes you think you have the right to call me by my first name?” asked the superintendent in a loud and rapid outburst.
“I suppose the same right you have not to call me by mine,” said the inmate.
“Inmate is your title,” snapped the superintendent. “We go by titles here at Monroe. It’s a show of respect. You would do well to remember that.”
“How well would I do?” asked the inmate, without blinking.
Superintendent Tremont marched around to the front of the desk and stood next to the leather chair, staring down menacingly into the inmate’s calm face. “I can make your life a living hell, Inmate,” hissed the superintendent. “You might wish you were dead. You would do well to believe that. Do you understand me?”
The inmate, without so much as flinching at the same stare that had caused many a man to cower and retreat, looked calmly into the superintendent’s eyes. “I don’t think I’d ever wish I were dead,” said the inmate. “And as for the living hell part—well, you won’t be creating mine. I tend to think many people create their own.”
The superintendent’s already red face grew even more so. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned down close to the prisoner’s face and asked in a harsh whisper, “Are you threatening me, Inmate?”
Still unruffled, the inmate replied, “Not at all. Threats are meant to intimidate in an attempt to change someone’s behavior. I have no desire to intimidate you, Stephen.”
The superintendent pushed away and stood back up. He moved over to the window and looked out at the courtyard. He stood rigidly, as if any motion might unleash some boiling volcano inside. “You are now playing games with me, but you should know that all games played here at Monroe are ones that I win. You have been a model inmate, and so I am most discouraged now by this change. Would you like to offer any explanation for why you refuse to join the others in the courtyard—before I impose some appropriate disciplinary action—Inmate?”
“It’s been an enjoyable stay at your facility. It’s simply time I leave here,” said the inmate. “My refusal to join the others gave me an opportunity to meet you face to face, and to say good-bye before I leave. It appears I am now needed elsewhere—Stephen.”
The superintendent spun around and snarled, “It appears you are needed elsewhere? I don’t know what kind of psycho-bullshit you’re spewing, but I’m telling you that you’ll leave here when your time is up and not a day, hour, or minute before. I’m sure if you keep up this kind of crap, we can find a way to get you a lot more time here.”
The inmate’s face was a clear mountain lake on a calm and sunny day. Not a wave or wrinkle passed across it. “And I’m telling you,” said the inmate, “that my time is now up. I have spent nearly three years here for a crime I was not truly guilty of, but I will not be serving t
he remaining seven. I will be leaving here very soon.”
“You’re right,” snapped the superintendent. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit! You’ll join the other inmates in the courtyard, right now!” With that, the superintendent walked quickly over to his door, opened it, and said loudly, “Guard, please take this psycho piece of shit out of my office and out to the courtyard with the other prisoners. Use any force you need to help him comply. I hope they can stand his stench better than I can.”
Harris Waverly marched back into the office as the inmate stood up from his chair. Pointing the machine gun directly at the inmate, the expressionless guard motioned and then escorted the inmate toward the door. In the meantime, the superintendent had moved back to the window and was once more looking out.
Just before leaving the office, and before Harris could stop him, the inmate turned to the superintendent and said, “Stephen, accept that there are things you can’t control in this world. There are greater forces at work. It is not a reflection on you. Sometimes you just need to let go.”
Superintendent Tremont made no acknowledgment that he’d heard the inmate, though he clearly had, as Harris quickly and roughly spun the inmate back around and paraded him out of the office and down to the courtyard.
It was long after dark when the superintendent got the call at home. It was a call he’d only received three other times while in charge of the Monroe Correctional Complex. Though all inmates were to be back in their cells for evening lock-down, one was unaccounted for. Even before the superintendent was called, a top-to-bottom search of the facility had been conducted. There was no sign of the inmate or of how he might have escaped. This was all very bad news to have to give to the superintendent, and the guard with the least seniority got the unhappy task of making the phone call. The information was even harder for the superintendent to hear, as it was the very same inmate who had been to see him in the afternoon—the one who had called him by his first name.
Touching Cottonwood Page 4