by Jens Lapidus
He’d started studying for his GED. It was appreciated by the prison administration. Gave him believable reasons to be by himself. He would sit with the cell door open and read between five o’clock and dinnertime every night. The show worked. The screws nodded approvingly. Putos.
The cell was small: sixty-five square feet painted light brown. The five-square-foot window had three steel bars across it to prevent escape. They were painted white, with nine inches between them. But the king, Ioan Ursut, had done it. Dieted for three months and smeared himself with butter. Jorge thought about what would’ve been the hardest to get through, the head or the shoulders.
Spartan decoration. A cot with a thin foam mattress, a desk with two shelves above it and a wooden chair, a closet and another shelf for storage. Nowhere to hide anything. A wooden strip intended for posters ran around the length of the room. No tape was allowed directly on the wall-there was a risk that drugs or other stuff could be hidden behind whatever was put up. Jorge’d tacked up the photo of his sister and one poster. A black-and-white classic: Che with a tangled beard and beret.
The screws searched the cell at least twice a week. Looked for drugs, pruno, or larger metal objects. Man, they were pissing in the wind. The place was crawling with weed, hooch, and Subutex pills.
The environment made him claustrophobic. Other days, he was riding high-thoughts of the escape were like a supertrip. At times, he acted like a fucking tweak fiend. Avoided everything and everyone. Dangerous/unnecessary. Just one tiny suspicion and his plan could be shot to hell-snitching fags sucked CO cock.
He thought about his background. Slyly racist teachers in Sollentuna. Welfare whities, pussy profs, cocky cops. All the right circumstances for a kid from the projects to make all the predictable mistakes. They didn’t know shit about Life. Justice relegated to the rules of the streets. But Jorge never whined. Especially not now. Soon, he’d be out. He thought about trafficking blow. Collected ideas. Analyzed. Spun schemes. Learned from Rolando and the other guys.
Had strange dreams. Slept poorly. Tried to read. Jacked off. Listened to Eminem, the Latin Kings, and Santana. Thought about his training. Jacked off again.
Time craaaaawled.
Jorge waited. Anticipated. Contemplated. Fluctuated between rushes of joy and regret. Took himself more seriously than ever. Had never thought this much about any one thing in his entire life. It had to work.
Jorge had no one on the outside ready to take big risks. The consequence: He had to be his own fixer. But he didn’t have to do everything.
Rolando’d never returned to their conversation about flight in the chow hall. The dude seemed trustworthy. If he was gonna sing, word should’ve spread by now. But Jorge had to test him more. Doublecheck that it was time to reveal parts of his plan. The fact was, he needed Rolando’s help.
The first real problem: He needed to speak to certain people and he had to prepare stuff. Needed hours outside the prison. Österåker didn’t grant regular parole anymore. But prisoners could get guarded parole if they had specific reasons. Jorge’d applied two months ago. Had to fill out form 426A. Specified “study and see family” as his reasons. Sounded okay. Anyway, it was true.
They approved of his studies. Liked that he didn’t belong to a gang. He was perceived as orderly. Didn’t mess around. Never high. Never cocky. Obedient without being a pussy.
They granted him one day, August 21, for studies and family relations. He even got permission to shop and see friends. First day on the outside since he’d been locked up. They made a schedule. Would be a hectic day. Fantastic. Maybe he’d pull the whole thing off; he had to do a good job. Not a chance that J-boy was gonna rot in Österåker for the rest of his life.
The one problem: This kind of parole always came with three screws.
D-day arrived: twelve hours of well-planned hysteria.
Jorge and the COs took the prison minivan into Stockholm at 9:00 a.m. Straight to the Stockholm Public Library.
Jorge’d joked with the COs on the ride in. “Am I going to see some Nazi or something?”
They didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
“A libr-ARIAN.”
They howled.
Spirits were high in the minivan.
The day was off to a good start.
Fifty minutes later, they parked in the city.
On Odengatan.
Got out.
Walked up the stairs to the public library. Inside: the rotunda. Jorge dug the high ceiling. The COs eyed him. Was he into architecture, or what?
He asked to see Riitta Lundberg. The super librarian. He’d told her his story over the phone already: He was in a penitentiary, studying to get his GED at a distance. Needed a proper high school transcript to start a new life on the outside. Wah, wah. Now he was doing an independent study about the history of Österåker and the surrounding area in general. Was gonna study the cultural development of the place.
Riitta showed up. Looked like Jorge thought she would: Communist-academic in a knit sweater. A necklace that looked like a glazed pinecone. Straight from central casting.
The screws spread out in the rotunda. Sat by the exits. Kept an eye on him.
Jorge used his velvety voice. Toned down his ghetto accent. “Hi, are you Riitta Lundberg? I’m Jorge. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Of course. You’re the one writing about the cultural history of Österåker.”
“Right. I think it’s a really interesting area. It’s been inhabited for thousands of years.” Jorge’d done his homework. There were brochures at the prison. Certain books could be checked out from the prison library. He felt like the master of cheap tricks.
As long as the screws didn’t hear.
She bought it. Had prepared what he needed after their phone conversation. A few books about the area. But, above all, maps and aerial photographs.
Sweet, sweet Riitta.
The screws checked that the windows in the reading room were high enough off the ground. Then they waited in the great hall, by the exits.
All clear. They were clocking nada.
Three hours of intellectual quibbling with maps and photos. Wasn’t used to this kind of stuff. But he wasn’t an idiot. Had checked the maps in the phone book and the map books in the prison library weeks before to learn how they were drawn. Regretted cutting geography class in school.
Spread the papers out in front of him. Asked to borrow a ruler. Went through them all, map by map. Aerial photo by aerial photo. Picked out the maps that showed the terrain and the roads best. Picked out the most detailed photos. Looked for nearby roads, the closest wooded areas, clear paths. Studied the guard towers he knew of, their placement and relation to one another. Checked out the connecting highway. Possible alternative routes. Learned the signs for marsh, hill, forest. Saw where the ground was okay. Visualized. Memorized. Measured. Marked. Mused.
What’s the best way out?
The inside: two one-story main buildings with the inmate cells and a two-story building with workshops and the chow hall. Then there was an infirmary, a several-story building for the screws, a chow hall for the screws, and visitation areas. Between the first- and the last-named buildings was an additional wall.
The outside of the facility: around a hundred feet of clear-cut area, with the exception of a few bushes, brush, and smaller trees. Then miles and miles of forest. But there were small back roads.
He closed his eyes. Committed everything to memory. Studied the pictures and maps again. Went through the pile. Made sure he understood which lines indicated difference in height level. Which were roads. Which were watercourses. Checked the scales. Different for different maps. One inch was fifty feet, one inch was three hundred feet, and so on. Jorge: more meticulous than he’d ever thought he could be. Created an overview of the area.
Finally, he had three alternative spots for the escape and three for a waiting car. He made a copy of a map. Marked the spots on the map. Numbered them. Spots A, B, and C. Spot
s one, two, and three. Memorized them.
Double-checked everything.
Walked out.
The COs’d been bored. Jorge apologized. Had to stay on good terms with them today. They looked pleased that he was done.
Next stop, the most important of the day: Jorge’s cousin, Sergio. Brother in arms from his time in Sollentuna. The key to the Plan.
Jorge plus screws stepped into the McDonald’s by the public library. The burger smell brought back memories.
They were met by a broad grin.
“¡Primo! Good to see you, man.”
Sergio: tricked out in a black tracksuit. Hairnet like some kinda cook. Dapped knuckles in greeting. Ghetto classic. Unnecessary of his cuz to roll in all gangsta in front of the screws.
They sat down. Chatted. Kept to Spanish. Sergio treated all four of them to burgers. Heavenly. The screws sat at another table. Ate like real pigs.
McDonald’s seemed more modern since Jorge’d been there last. New interior. Chairs in light wood. The pictures of the burgers were sexed up. The chicks working the registers looked sexed up, too. More salads and greens. In Jorge’s opinion: rabbit food. And still it was the sign of freedom. Sure, it sounded soft, cheesy, but McDonald’s was special to J-boy His favorite restaurant. A meeting spot. Ghetto base feed. Soon he’d be able to hang there whenever he wanted.
He felt stressed. Had to get to the point.
Briefly described his escape plan to Sergio. “Six different spots are marked on a map. The car should be parked at a spot marked with a number. On one of the spots marked with a letter, you’re gonna do the rest of what I wrote in the instructions. I don’t know what spots are best yet. I have to go back and think about it. I’ll write you a letter telling you. I’ll put the letter and the number of the spots in the third line from the bottom. A copy of the map and the instructions are folded inside page forty-five in a book called Legal Philosophies. The writer’s name is Harris. At the public library, over there. You with me?” Jorge pointed.
Sergio: not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he understood this kinda shit. Jorge would be indebted to him forever, even though he had to take care of the planning himself. Sergio would do the best he could to deliver.
Jorge asked about his sister. The smell of McDonald’s in combination with memories of Paola. Junk food equaled nostalgia.
The rest of their conversation was nonsense. They talked about their family, old friends from Sollentuna, and chicks. Put on a show for the screws.
It was time to roll.
Jorge kissed Sergio four times on each cheek when they parted ways. Exchanged Chilean pleasantries.
It was already four o’clock. At seven o’clock, he and the screws had to go back.
Next stop: He was gonna buy shoes. Had ordered catalogs. Read up. Called the stores. Researched the hell out of it. Gel, Air, Torsion, and the rest of the techniques for comfy kicks. God knows how much crap/fake technology there was. You had to see through the bull. Really buy good stuff. The two desired features: good running shoes-important; best shock resistance ability on the market-even more important. The screws thought it’d be fun to check out lame sporting goods stores. Jorge in the know. Stadium on Kungsgatan had the biggest inventory.
They drove the minivan into a parking garage on Norrlandsgatan. Jorge asked to drive the last short bit. The screws said no.
They got out of the car. One of the screws asked a guy who’d just parked if he had change for a twenty. Needed coins for the meter. The screw bought a parking pass.
They went out into the street.
Sweet feeling. Downtown. Kungsgatan. The pulse. August heat. Jorge remembered. He’d rolled down K-street in a BMW 530i, also known as a cocaine sled. That was two days before he’d been picked up. Sure, the car’d been on a long-term loan from a friend, but still. He’d been stylin’. Livin’ life. Livin’ cash. Livin’ booty. Livin’ his reputation.
And now: Jorge was back in town.
What’d he learned since then? At least he knew this: The next gig he did would be well planned. That’s when he realized what made him different from so many others. He felt biggest/best/ballin’. But that’s exactly what everybody else in his hood thought about themselves, too. The difference was that Jorge, deep inside, felt that maybe it wasn’t so-and that was his strength. That would always make him think twice in the future. Always plan, prepare-make the impossible possible.
He kept dreaming.
Looked around. The screws were positioned around him.
The crowd was moving on the street. To the rhythm of free life. He stared. Hot chicas. He’d almost forgotten-the bitches were so much more caliente in the summer than in the winter. But they were the same chicks. How was that possible? A mystery.
And soon Jorge’d be out. Would roll down Kungsgatan. Grab a lot a bootay. Fix all the chicks. Be Jorge again.
Joder, he longed to be out. He’d been given parole. Just that was superfly. Alone with three COs on Kungsgatan. What an opportunity. All you had to do was book it. He was fit. Strong. Knew the city like the back of his hand. He was a naughty, naughty little boy. On the other hand, the risk was too great. The screws were being nice today, but they knew their job. They were tense, hyperaware. Kept careful watch over him. Were in total control. Could lose it over nothing. Would have free rein. Cancel the parole. Make it impossible for him to complete his actual plan.
He wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t escape now. The fuckup risk was too big.
The salesclerk was hot. Jorge: horny. But the shoes were more important than pussy. They had the model he wanted. He already knew that. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel. Still, he wandered around the store for a while. It was big. Him and his bros used to lift shit here when they were thirteen and Sollentuna grew too small for them. Again: flashbacks from his teenage years. First at McDonald’s and now in the sports store. What the hell was going on?
He looked around the other departments for show. Bought a pair of track pants and a basketball jersey in addition to the shoes.
Five o’clock rolled around. Cool on time. Just one more thing. He was meeting a friend, a former screw from the prison, Walter Bjurfalk. The dude’d resigned of his own accord a year ago. The COs thought it was gonna be nice. Didn’t think it was strange that Jorge and the ex-screw were meeting up. Some screws become friends with inmates; that’s just how it goes. The surveillance COs had no idea why Walter’d really quit.
They were sitting in Galway’s on Kungsgatan: Sven hangout. Swedeville. The place was decorated like a typical Irish pub. Signs on the wall: HIGHGATE & WALSALL BREWING CO LTD. Trying to be clever: IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL THE REST, CASH OR PLASTIC. It reeked of beer. Felt homey.
The screws sat down a few tables away and ordered coffee. Jorge ordered a seltzer, light on the bubbles. Beer wasn’t allowed on guarded parole. Walter ordered a Guinness. It took ten minutes for the bartender to pour it.
They chatted. Memories from last summer, when there’d been mini riots at Österåker. How the guys who’d gated out were doing. How the ones who’d gone straight back in were doing. Finally, after a half an hour, Jorge lowered his voice, asked what he’d come here to ask.
“Walter, I’ve something serious to discuss with you.”
Walter looked up from his beer. Looked intrigued. “Shoot.”
“I’m gonna fly. No way I’m gonna rot three more years in prison. I’ve got an idea that might work. I trust you, Walter. You were always a good CO. I know why you asked to resign. We all know. You were good to us. You helped us. Would you help me now? I’ll make it worth your while, claro.”
Jorge was 99 percent about Walter. The last percent: Walter could double-game him. In that case, J-boy was a goner.
Walter leapt right in: “Breaking out of Österåker is hard. Only three guys’ve done it in the past ten years. Each one of them’s been picked up within a year of the escape. ’Cause that’s the hardest part, to lay low after the escape. Just see what happened to Tony Olsson and
those other guys. Your plan’s got to be damn solid. Or else you’re fucked. You know, those guys were lying doggo under some bridge when the military forces plucked ’em. They didn’t have a chance in hell. On the other hand, they were violent sons of bitches, so whatever. Fuck ’em. I’m not in that field anymore, so to speak, so I don’t know if I can help you. But I’ll give it a try for some jingle. Tell me what you need. I never snitch; you know that.”
Jorge’d made up his mind. He was gonna put his chips on Walter.
“I need to know a couple of things from you. Five large if you can help.”
“Like I said, I’ll try.”
Weird feeling. Sitting in a pub-with the screws only a few feet away-talking escape plans with an ex-screw. Had to strain his face. Control his body movements. Make sure you couldn’t tell how stressed he was by looking at him. Jorge put his hands in his lap under the table. Crossed his legs. Picked at a napkin. Tore it to shreds. Tried to focus.
“Two questions. First, I want to know what routines the COs have to check on us when we’re in the rec yard. Second, I need to know how fast the COs could pick up a chase if someone skipped over one of the walls, probably one on the south side, by D Block.”
Walter sipped his beer. Got foam on his upper lip.
Started talking about what he’d done last summer. Uninteresting chatter.
Jorge looked at him. Walter was thinking, calculating, but he wanted his mouth to run in case the screws looked over.
Jorge glanced at them. The screws were talking. Chilling.
It was cool.
He calmed down.
Walter knew a lot. Went over it. Good info. Useful. For example: the placement of the guard towers, escape preparation plans, communications codes, established routines. Times for guard change, schedules for frisking, alarm systems. Plans A and B, where A was in case of an individual inmate’s escape attempt, and B in the case of several inmates’ escape attempts. Skipped C: plan in case of riot. Walter’s knowledge was golden.