The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  Sibiya was bent over a list of names and addresses, and seemed to be studying it. ‘Yudel,’ he said, smiling. ‘Come in.’ To his assistant, an attractive young woman in a dark business suit and stiletto heels, he said, ‘It’s all right, Julia. Mr Gordon is always welcome in my office.’ As Yudel sat down, he said, ‘So Yudel, you want to talk about Hall?’

  ‘Does everyone know that?’ Yudel asked. ‘Is it a talking point?’

  ‘The minister mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ This was a surprise to Yudel. He thought the minister had dismissed the matter by the time he left her office. ‘What did she say?’

  He sighed. Senior officials did not like having their duties explained to them by the minister. ‘She said Hall’s movements must be limited to the greater municipal district, that I must ensure that he reports daily to his local police station and, in addition, he must be visited at least once a week. She also said that he must not change his address without permission and I must personally agree to the nature of any employment he finds. He is not to get any job in the arms business or the security industry. For the moment, he has to stay in the caretaker job.’ The brigadier looked appraisingly at Yudel. This was only the second time in their careers that they had met. ‘By the way, these are all decisions I had already made. Does that satisfy you?’

  Yudel had not assumed that all of this was simply to satisfy him. Oh, I like this minister and this parole boss, he thought. I like them very much. ‘I’d rather keep him in C-Max,’ he said, ‘but failing that, yes, indeed. It satisfies me very well.’

  ‘Does it change anything – to restrict him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’ll infringe in the first month and have to be rearrested.’

  The brigadier looked seriously at Yudel. ‘I hope not.’ As Yudel got up to go, he spoke again. ‘This is not an easy thing for me.’ Yudel waited for him to continue. ‘Men like Oliver Hall were heroes to me when I was a kid.’

  ‘You knew of him then?’

  ‘No, but I knew of others like him and that they were fighting for my future. But I realise he’s gone off the rails, made mistakes since then.’

  ‘Serious mistakes.’

  ‘I know,’ the brigadier said. ‘And I know my duty. You and the minister don’t have to explain it to me.’

  FIVE

  ‘MR GORDON,’ the voice on the phone said, ‘you better come here.’

  There was something close to panic in the tone, enough of it to get Yudel’s attention. ‘Is that Warder Maloka?’ Yudel asked. He had struggled to find the phone under a pile of files he had brought from his old office. Now that he had retrieved it, he had no place to put it down. He found himself holding the unit itself in both hands with the handset wedged between shoulder and jawbone.

  ‘Member Maloka,’ the warder corrected him.

  ‘What is it, member?’ Yudel asked. God, it sounds ridiculous, he thought.

  ‘This important American lady is here. The minister said—’

  Yudel interrupted him. ‘All right, I’m coming. Don’t let her in until I get there.’

  ‘She’s in already. She’s got a letter from the minister. I thought …’

  So that is how hard it is to break into the province’s maximum-security prison, Yudel thought. All you have to do is turn up with a letter, purportedly signed by the minister. ‘I’m coming,’ he told Maloka.

  It took almost an hour for Yudel to travel the kilometre or two to C-Max. His own car had been taken to be serviced and he had to wait for a driver. Among the jumble of cars in the parking area, one stood out from the others. It was a lavender-pink BMW cabriolet. Yudel, who had very little interest in cars, stopped to look at it. ‘Please don’t let her be the driver of this,’ he prayed.

  He was met at the gate in the inner wall by the prison’s head, Director Nkabinde, a broad-shouldered, deep-chested man who was more at ease dealing with convicted felons than female American visitors. ‘She came in here, waving the minister’s letter at anyone who argued with her.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Me? Why me? The minister’s office says she’s your baby.’

  ‘Well, where is she now?’

  ‘In the B-Section hall.’

  ‘In the hall, during exercise time? Alone?’

  The prison director took a deep breath, pushed out his chest and threw back his shoulders. He was regaining his dignity. ‘Hell, Yudel, what do you take me for? She’s got four members with her.’ A moment later his dignity was forgotten. ‘You better get down there, Yudel, please.’

  From the railing above the hall, it seemed to Yudel that the entire B-Section population was congregated around a central point in the middle distance. The central point itself was hidden by the crush of bodies. The head warder had been quite wrong about the number of men guarding the visitor. As far as Yudel could see, the director may have sent four men, but a number of others, apparently acting on their own initiative, were hurrying towards the gathering to add support.

  By the time Yudel reached them, he could not see a prisoner anywhere else in the section. All the inmates in that part of the province’s highest-security prison, every murderer, rapist, armed robber, kidnapper, gang enforcer and hired thug, perhaps a hundred and fifty of them, were gathered round in complete silence.

  Yudel heard her voice before he saw her for the first time. ‘Nothing is final,’ she was saying. ‘There is nothing that cannot be changed, no circumstance, no personality problem, no law, not even the sentence that brought you to this place.’ It was a gentle voice, sparkling in its clarity and possessed of a slight accent that Yudel thought may have originated in Boston. She seemed to have no need to raise her voice to make herself heard. ‘I have visited many institutions like this one and spoken to many inmates. I have heard stories as tragic as yours, but nothing I have ever heard has convinced me that there is ever a condition that excludes all hope. For everyone here, for every person who has ever been convicted, no matter what your crime, your life can be changed – no, not can be changed. You can change your life.’

  Not all the prisoners were standing. Some closest to the speaker were sitting on the floor, giving those at the back a clearer view. Yudel had never seen anything like it in C-Max or any other prison. Even Yudel, who was shorter than the average man, found a place from which he could see the focus of all this attention.

  The visitor looked to be in her early twenties. Long blonde hair, naturally blonde, Yudel thought, curled in an elegant sweep to just below her shoulders. Wide-set blue eyes and a tip-tilted button nose were off-set by skin that was tanned just enough to add a hint of brown to its natural paleness. The large, heavy-lidded eyes were the most striking feature of all. The irises were a brilliant blue, giving an appearance that was simultaneously penetrating and sympathetic. A body that was trim rather than voluptuous was enclosed in pants and a ruffled blouse that buttoned up to the neck, both a brilliant white in the light from the translucent skylight three floors above them. The belt and shoes too were gleaming white. The entire package would attract the attention of men wherever she went.

  She gestured gently with one hand while she spoke. The other hung loosely at her side. If she had designed her appearance to hint at virginal purity, underscored by the gentlest sensuality, she could not have done it better.

  ‘You would all have heard the term, rehabilitation, and I’m sure you know what it means. I want you to know that it can apply to you. I know that Mr Gordon has probably been telling you that. I have studied his work and know what he believes.’ Heads were turning to look at Yudel. He looked only at the young woman who was holding spellbound this most depraved of audiences. In thirty years, no one had ever held their attention this way. ‘I want you to know that, in the words of a famous man from my country – “what lies behind you and what lies before you are nothing compared to what lies within you”. You have inside you everything you need to change your life. But o
nly you are capable of doing it.’

  For the first time, Yudel looked around at the faces of this collection of men for whom he had always felt responsible. On most of the faces, he saw an absorption so complete that they could not have been acting. Yudel had on many occasions seen entire prison populations find God after the sermon of a visiting preacher. In every case, the motive had more to do with possible remission of sentences that may accompany a religious conversion. This young woman was no preacher and he could see that this time the attention on the faces was not a pretence. The effect on the warders was no different. As her protection, their attention should have been with the prisoners, but they were equally held by their visitor.

  ‘I want you to know that for me to be here is a privilege. To speak to you is a high point in my life. That I have been allowed to come here is something for which I thank the prison authorities.’ At that moment her eyes met Yudel’s. The smallest smile crossed her face, teasing at the corners of her mouth and she nodded. ‘All my life, I have known that I was destined to devote myself to the prisoners of our world. Since I was a child, I have felt …’ Her voice flowed on, almost melodiously. Yudel knew it was not just what she was saying that held the attention. In fact, her words were perhaps only a small part of it. It was the way she looked, the sound of her voice, even the gently gesturing right hand. As a package, she was formidable. And she had written a book on American prisons that had sold more than a million copies. Yudel would have liked to write such a book. Apparently this was the woman the minister had placed in his care. He still did not know her name.

  He felt his concentration drawn away from the speaker. He found himself looking into the eyes of the one man in the prison he truly hated, the only one ever to have pierced what he thought of as his armour-plated professionalism. The look on Enslin Kruger’s face was one of a man who had made a discovery. He saw Kruger’s lips move. He was saying something to the man next to him. Oliver Hall was where he felt strongest, right next to his boss’s shoulder, listening attentively to what the older man was saying. Kruger seemed to be leaning against him.

  ‘I know that everyone here will take this message with him. I know that my life has not been as long as some, but every moment since my childhood has been devoted …’

  Kruger’s eyes were still on Yudel. Hall’s too had turned towards him. Damn you, Yudel thought. Just remember I am still the one who leaves this place whenever I choose and you are the one who stays.

  It was over, and, to Yudel’s surprise, the prisoners were already moving away to other parts of the hall. As far as he could see, the presence of the guards had nothing to do with their immaculate behaviour. The woman crossed the small distance between them, once glancing down at her feet in apparent shyness. She held out a hand to Yudel. It was tiny and tanned the same faint brown as her face. He took it in his and, by the time he released it, was aware that he had held it too long.

  ‘You’re Yudel Gordon,’ she said. ‘I’ve read all your papers on rehabilitation. I’m a fan.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Beloved.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt,’ Yudel said. ‘Apparently I’m eccentric. What’s your name?’

  ‘Beloved.’ Her eyes were cast down modestly. ‘That’s my name, Beloved Childe. There’s an e at the end of Childe.’

  ‘You’ve gone through life with that name?’

  ‘Yes, and I love it. There’s no need for you to be disturbed by it.’

  ‘I’m not disturbed by it.’ He glanced furtively at her. ‘Yes, I am disturbed by it.’

  ‘Please don’t be.’

  Yudel again found his eyes drawn towards Enslin Kruger. Of all the prisoners, only Kruger and Hall remained. Kruger had a hand on Hall’s shoulder for support. Hall was watching his boss’s face, but Kruger was looking at Yudel, with the same expression that seemed to reflect sudden enlightenment. At that moment, a warder came between them and Yudel turned away. ‘Miss Childe, this is a maximum-security prison. I cannot imagine how you worked your way into the heart of it—’

  A sheet of paper had appeared in Beloved’s right hand. ‘I have a letter from the minister. Here.’ She was offering it to Yudel.

  He ignored the letter. ‘I know about it,’ he said. ‘Shall we go to my office, where you can tell me what it is you want from us?’ He was still overwhelmed by her presence. He was trying hard to ignore the looks, the voice, the very aura that seemed to surround her, and be a suitably officious representative of the department.

  She smiled warmly at him. ‘I’d love to.’ The officious representative thing was not working.

  Yudel would rather have looked anywhere else, but glanced one last time at Enslin Kruger, still in the same place and still watching them. No, Beloved, he thought. I’m not giving you the run of this prison, not ever.

  Walking next to Beloved down the prison’s passages was not easy for Yudel. He was aware of the interest in her and the fact that he was with her. Warders and prisoners alike were in a state of high excitement. What the hell are they thinking and why should I feel this way? he asked himself. And which way is that? You’d think I was a schoolboy.

  When Yudel announced their presence at the first gate with the word that would let them through, Beloved turned to him. ‘You all do that. What is that word?’

  ‘Hek. It means gate.’

  ‘Is it an African word?’

  ‘Afrikaans.’

  ‘Afrikaans? The language of the oppressor?’

  ‘Some see it that way.’

  ‘Not all?’

  ‘It was also the language of some of the oppressed.’

  ‘There’s still a lot I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sure there is.’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll teach me.’

  Yudel glanced at her, into eyes that looked so innocent they could have been designed for the purpose. He knew he was being flattered, but he could not help but enjoy her apparent admiration. Am I really such a sucker? he asked himself. He avoided responding to her until they were sitting opposite each other in the small office that had been his until yesterday. ‘You go through life being called Beloved by every man you meet?’

  She looked down at her hands in the studiously modest way he was beginning to recognise. ‘Every woman and child too.’

  ‘And you come in here dressed as if you are a Sunday-school teacher on her way to read Bible stories to seven-year-olds. Is it deliberate?’

  ‘Is it bothersome?’

  ‘Beloved.’ He hesitated. It was not easy for Yudel to use her name. ‘Tell me what you’re doing here. What do you want from us?’

  ‘Is it wrong to be interested in Africa and African prisons?’ Now there was a pugnacious inflection in the voice.

  ‘No, it’s not wrong. What is annoying is for you to answer my questions with your own questions.’

  ‘I apologise.’ It was said simply and altogether without irony. ‘I am here to learn. But I’m hoping to inspire a few convicted prisoners along the way. And I am truly interested in your rehabilitation work. No, I’m captivated by it.’

  Yudel wondered what he was going to do with this girl. During his career, he had dealt with thousands of prisoners, an endless stream of prison officials and policemen and a great many patients in his part-time psychology practice. Had he ever thought about it, he would have believed that he had experience of every kind of human being on the planet. Now he recognised that nothing in all those years had prepared him for Beloved. Years before, Rosa had dragged him to a Rosh Hashanah service in Israel, at which a famous cantor and choir had taken part, and, irreligious as he was, he thought he felt the presence of God in the service. Even during the experience, he had told himself that it was just the package of cantor, choir, liturgical music and architecture that was having that effect on him. But he felt it nevertheless. Beloved was something like that. Her innocence had to do with the way she looked at him, the way she spoke, the way she flattered him and even the sound of her voice. I
t was the package. Watching her from his side of the desk, Yudel knew it, but it worked anyway. To him, she needed protection and he was the one to provide it. She was speaking. ‘Would you have stopped me from entering the yard, if you had been there when I arrived?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Parolees are being released the day after tomorrow. A fair amount of stress surrounds their release. Hopes have been dashed, resentments built up. I’m not sure you appreciate the dangers.’

  ‘You want to protect me?’ The question was accompanied by a brief smile of pleasure.

  Yudel chose not to answer. ‘Tell me what you want from me,’ he said.

  ‘I have told you,’ she said. She told him that by the time she had finished high school she had written a number of published essays on American prisons and been allowed to visit six of them in her home state. Her PhD had been completed at the age of only twenty-five, three years before.

  That made her twenty-eight. Yudel thought she looked at least five years younger.

  A year after completing it, her thesis had provided the material for her best-selling book. By now she had visited more than fifty prisons in the United States, from minimum to maximum security, and completed in-depth studies of ten of them. She was funded by a foundation supported largely by wealthy men who had spent time in prison.

  She told Yudel all this with her hands folded in her lap, still the picture of modesty, but she told him all the same. ‘I want to study this prison system because it is the most progressive in Africa. After that I am hoping to examine some of the continent’s less-developed prison systems. I aim to be here for a month or two.’