by Jace Killan
Jones’s prophesy didn’t come that day or the next, though slowly, Ericson shifted the pain and anger from his wife’s letter, to determination. Nothing had changed. Sure she birthed his children, but he had no obligation to her now.
She hadn’t supported him and so she didn’t deserve any of his spoils. The kids on the other hand, being his flesh and blood, were extensions of him. His wife had just severed two of his limbs and for that, she would pay.
In five years, he’d be out and money would make it right. He’d hire the best lawyers and attack her with everything he could. And soon after, his children would be adults and able to make their own choices. He could explain to them why he did what he did—for them.
In the evening of the third day, the lightning struck just before dinner. The infirmary asked for him. They insisted on doing another blood test for HIV. He had learned that he had become infected with HIV while recuperating from the gang rape though he suppressed that knowledge to the back of his mind. He just wasn’t ready to face that fact yet.
“Why do you need this again?” Ericson asked the orderly.
“I really shouldn’t say.”
“Say what?”
“We just want to verify the results.”
Verify. That would suggest doubt of the results. The lightning flashed. So a chance existed, maybe slim, maybe false hope, but could it be possible that he didn’t have HIV? Was this Allah showing Ericson that He was in charge?
Something inside Ericson screamed. God, Allah, wanted Ericson to know that, as Jones had prophesied, He had led Ericson here and prepared him to become His soldier. How could he be a soldier if he had AIDS? Deep down or perhaps the feeling came from Allah Himself, Ericson knew the results would return negative. That would be the promised sign and Ericson would be obligated to keep his word and join the Brotherhood.
While giving blood, this time felt different. This time was a sacrament, an offering to Allah, to do with it what He would, to do with him as He would.
After giving the blood sample, Ericson sought out Jones. “Teach me how to pray to Allah.”
Jones smiled. “He has flashed his lightning, yes?”
“Maybe.”
“Come. It is time for Isha, so let us prepare.”
Ericson had observed the Muslim ritual of prayer but never paid close attention.
“Before retiring to sleep, we remember how Allah has guided us this day. He has been merciful to us and forgiven our frailties.”
Ericson followed Jones to the bathroom and the two washed their hands. Jones looked Ericson over, commenting on his appearance. It was important that they were clean before approaching Allah in supplication.
They returned to Jones’s room where he retrieved two rolled up mats. Jones made sure the area appeared tidy before laying out the mats side by side. He then invited Ericson to kneel down after removing his shoes.
“Before we start,” Jones said, “let me explain what we will do. We are calling to Allah, our God. We are facing Mecca as are Muslims, united all over the world. They are praying as we are, all of us praising Allah, the only God. We are acknowledging that He is all-powerful and all-knowing and that we worship Him. And we are asking for His forgiveness. We will do this four times. Part of the prayer is said aloud and part in your mind, though I will whisper it to you now, so that you may learn. In time you will memorize this prayer and you will feel its power. When Allah knows you are His, He will use you for His purposes. There is no greater feeling than this.” Jones paused for a moment. “Ready?”
Ericson nodded, the mood somber. Jones stood, so Ericson did also. Jones raised his hands and held them to the sides of his ears then spoke though it almost sounded like song, “Allah-hoo Akbar.”
Ericson repeated.
Their hands rested in front of their chest and Jones whispered, “Subhaan-Allaah wal-hamdu Lillaah wa laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wa Allaah-hoo akbar wa laa hawla wa la quwwata illa Billaah.”
Though Ericson didn’t understand the strange tongue, he sensed the tome. Praise God. The only God. The all-knowing God. The all-powerful God.
They returned to the first position of raised hands and they both exclaimed, “Allah-hoo Akbar.”
Then they bowed, hands on knees and Jones said, “Subhana rab-bi yal adheem.”
Ericson did his best to repeat the words.
They raised hands again and while Ericson started, “Allah...” Jones said “Sami Allaahu liman hamidah.” And repeated it a second time for Ericson’s benefit.
Hands lowered to their sides, Jones said, “Rabbanaa wa lak al-hamd. Allah-hoo Akbar.”
Jones knelt and Ericson followed. He imagined bowing before the great Allah. God had found him, in a prison in Oklahoma. And, according to Jones, knew of Ericson before. God had prepared him to be his soldier. He wasn’t worthy of such accolades. His soul called out for forgiveness for his sins. But what sins? He’d taken money from the rich. He’d crippled institutions, founded on money, not God. This thought brought with it a chill down his spine.
Jones prostrated and sang three times, “Subhana rubbiyal a'ala.”
Ericson joined him.
Then, kneeling, they repeated the refrain, “God is great.”
They returned to their knees, sitting on the backs of their heels, toes bent against the mat. “God forgive me.”
Ericson began to cry. He wanted to believe. He wanted to know that Allah knew him and had indeed placed him in prison for a purpose. He wanted to know that Allah wished to use him. He wanted to be happy. He had wasted so much of his life in unhappiness. Why shouldn’t he be happy? Didn’t he deserve it? He definitely didn’t deserve AIDS. Silently he pled that the new test would be negative. That would be the sign. If he didn’t have HIV, he would know that Allah wanted him to be His soldier.
They bowed again, forehead touching the floor mat. “Allah is great.” Then back to the knees. “Allah is great.”
Jones stood and smiled at Ericson who wiped his tears.
They continued with the second stanza or Rakah of the prayer. There were slight variations, but Ericson didn’t notice. As there were in the third and fourth Rakah.
At the end, Ericson felt cleansed, relaxed. His rage had left. Nothing lingered for his betraying wife, only sorrow for his children raised by such an unknowing, uncaring mother.
At peace now, somehow he knew that the results would be negative. Allah had accepted his prayer.
20
Ericson hurried down the hall, toward the infirmary; his moment of redemption had come.
After praying with Jones the night before, he had fallen fast asleep. But he awoke in the middle of the night to annoying laughter from the room next door, and was unable to fall back asleep while his mind wandered through the thoughts of discovering whether or not he actually had HIV.
He wanted to believe. But what if the results were the same? He’d fall into sure depression. What life could he possibly live with such a disease? He hadn’t foreseen this detour in his scheme.
But what if? Was he ready to accept the life of a Muslim? His thoughts settled on the prayer from the night before and his mind relaxed. Yes. He’d give it all up. The fifteen million. His sins. His pride. He’d give up all the money to not have HIV.
He entered the infirmary and the orderly motioned for Ericson to take a seat at the desk then handed him a manila folder.
Inside, Ericson found a letter with the words “HIV – Negative.” He looked up for confirmation from the orderly who smiled and nodded.
“We received a memo from the lab a few days ago that the test had been improperly analyzed and that we needed to administer the test again. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ericson rose and left, whispering, “Allah Akbar.”
He knew it wasn’t a mistake but an answer to prayer. Allah had cured him. Allah was great. Ericson waited until noon, when Jones returned from his job in the laundry.
When Ericson shared the news, Jones embraced him. “I tol
d you.”
“Yes you did. So I guess this means that I will join the Brotherhood.”
“Yes. Yes you will. But first, it is time for prayer.”
Ericson followed Jones to his quarters where he repeated a similar ritual as the night before, though they were joined with three other men, each on prayer mats.
Afterward, Jones and Ericson went to lunch where they enjoyed chicken noodle soup and biscuits.
Jones spoke low, “Islam means submission, and it comes from a word meaning peace. We find peace and happiness through submitting to Allah’s will. Muslim means ‘one who submits to Allah’s will.’ We are His servants. And we do as the Quran directs. You see, the prophet Mohammed was the last prophet and the Quran, the last scripture. All prophets, Moses, Abraham, even Christ praised Allah and taught of submitting to God’s will. But the Jews and the Christians took the true religion and perverted it to something else. Like Catholicism, where people pray to Christ’s mother instead of Allah. It’s a perversion. The Quran holds the truth. Islam is the only true religion.”
“How do I join?” Ericson said, committed to his promise.
“You make a statement aloud. You profess this truth, that there is no god but Allah and that Mohamed is the prophet of Allah.”
“Okay. There is...”
“No, like this. La ilaha illa Allah, Muhammad rasoolu Allah.”
Ericson repeated the phrase. Then the two embraced.
Jones spoke, “My true name is Mohammed.”
“Like the prophet?”
“Yes.”
“What is my name?” Ericson asked.
“What would you like it to be?”
Ericson pondered a moment. For the first time in a long while, maybe his entire life, he now had a purpose. He would be a soldier for Allah.
“How do you say soldier in Arabic?”
“Jundi is warrior. Soldier is...Askari.”
“Then I will be Askari.”
“Askari Majhoul.”
“What is Meshvul?” Ericson tried to match the pronunciation.
“Majhoul. Means unknown. You will be the unknown soldier for Islam.”
“So why do you still go by Jones?”
“To the Brotherhood, I am Mohammed. To others, I am Jones. I could legally change my name, but then people would grow suspicious and think me a terrorist. No. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me come.”
Askari spent the next few days studying with Mohammed. He memorized the prayers and started reading the Quran. He’d spend hours each day discussing Islam and the teachings of the prophet Mohammad with the Brotherhood. Nearly a week after his conversion, Mohammed introduced Askari to Sadmir, the imam who visited the prison regularly.
They met in a room, known amongst the Brotherhood as the mosque. After noon prayer, Sadmir officially welcomed Askari by his new name into the Brotherhood. Afterwards, privately the two spoke at length.
“It is an honor to meet you, Askari.”
“The honor is mine.”
“When Mohammed told me of your conversion and oath, I thanked Allah, and He shared with me His plans for you.”
“I am His servant,” Askari said.
“He knows this. You have always been His servant.”
“I never knew Allah.” Askari leaned forward on the bolted metal pew.
“No, but He knew you, Askari. Since you were a child he watched over you and molded you for His purposes.”
“Like what?”
“Why are you in prison?”
“I was convicted of running a ponzi scheme. I stole money from banks.”
Sadmir smiled big. “Yes. This was Allah’s will.”
Askari hadn’t known Allah when he committed the crime. “If it was His will, why was I caught?”
“If you were not caught would you have come to know Allah?”
“Probably not.”
“Allah is in charge, Askari. He uses the actions of others for His purpose. You have a great opportunity. You have a brilliant mind and now that you have submitted to Allah’s Will, he will help you use your mind for His purposes.”
“Like what?”
“Why, the fall of western civilization. The end of Christianity and Judaism. They are nothing but perversions of the one true religion.”
“I’m sorry, Sadmir, not to be incredulous, but you’re talking of the fall of the most powerful nation in the world and ending the religions that that nation was founded on? That’s impossible.”
“If you only knew what Allah has shown me about you. He will show you, too.”
“Like lightning?” Askari said.
“Yes,” the imam smiled, “lightning. He will help you see the pathway to the new world. The caliphate.”
“What has Allah shown you?”
“That you will use capitalism to end itself. You will turn their greed against them. Allah will show you the way to strike at America’s core. You were chosen, Askari. Allah has chosen you.”
“Why me? I’m nobody.”
“No. You are Askari Meshvul.”
21
“I’m worried about you, Jaqui,” Guzman said. All others called him Maxwell, but Guzman treated him like a son.
Joaquin lay on his bunk as he had for the last several months, only leaving for outside rec or when they ate three times a day.
“You’re depressed, amigo,” Guzman said. “My second wife got this way until we got her some Prozac.”
Joaquin knew he could probably qualify for an anti-anxiety med or an anti-depressant especially with what he’d gone through in county lockup with the beatings and hazing. But he wanted nothing to do with mood-altering drugs. It reminded him too much of his past life.
“I’m fine,” Joaquin said.
“No, you’re not. You’ve got to forgive yourself. None of your self-loathing is going to help your situation, Jaqui. The best thing you can do is to take care of yourself. Set goals. Exercise. Get out of bed. Stop being so damned selfish.”
Selfish? Joaquin turned to look at Guzman who stood beside his bunk.
“Yeah,” Guzman said. “Selfish. You’re so wrapped up in your shit, you don’t see the world around you.”
This was ridiculous. If being selfish was thinking about himself, his crimes that landed him here, his errors in judgment, then sure, he was selfish. “By world you mean the fifteen foot chain linked walls topped with barbed wire?” When he’d first arrived, Joaquin had obsessed about escaping. That pursuit was impossible.
“No, Jaqui, I’m talking about that beautiful mountain beyond the fence. When’s the last time you looked at it? It’s hermosa.”
Joaquin didn’t like to look at the mountain as it reminded him of his father. The two had camped there at Angle Orchard with their Boy Scout troop from another lifetime—before meth.
“Jaqui, I’ve told you before. I can get you a job, outside the prison. It’d be good for you.”
Joaquin appreciated the older Mexican’s help. To most, Guzman represented a devilish cartel boss with unimaginable influence and control, but to Joaquin, Guzman had become his only friend.
“Okay, Jefe. If you can get me a job, I’ll take it.” At this point anything outside the fence would be awesome. “Thank you.”
With that act, Guzman probably saved Joaquin’s life. He’d been on the verge of giving up. As a useless junkie, he had little to live for. He often pled with the cosmos, asking them why they’d chosen to take someone so brilliant, so beautiful, with so much to offer the world, instead of him. But the cosmos stayed silent. Either he’d asked the wrong question, or they didn’t exist. He concluded it was the latter. No one had taken Brina. He did it. He killed her.
If the universe were just, he would have died, not her. Still he couldn’t end his own life. He took it one day at a time as his narcotics anonymous program suggested, and Guzman encouraged. The days passed. The months passed. And the years began to pass too.
“I can’t figure this damn thing out!”
A crash against the wall and accompanying yell woke Joaquin from an afternoon doze. The yeller had been Gomez and the crash, a three-by-three Rubik’s cube. Joaquin got up and approached the puzzle, lying on the linoleum floor. It pulled at him like a magnet to metal. It was messed up and Joaquin needed to solve it. The old obsession pulsed beneath his skin. He could hear the rhythmic turning of the puzzle, feel it in his fingers, gliding around, before he even picked it up.
He stared down at it, holding back, checking himself to make sure the cube wouldn’t trigger any meth-jonesing. He had become obsessed with Rubik’s cubes in his youth and could solve the traditional three by three in a matter of seconds. He learned how to handle other puzzles, too. He’d mastered the four by four, five by five, six by six, and seven by seven. Once he’d even solved a sixteen by sixteen.
But while on meth, he would spend hours spinning the puzzles without ever solving them, though in his mind he fixed the problems of the universe as he spun the cube’s sides round and round.
He pushed the thoughts of the past from his mind. He hadn’t solved a puzzle in years and hadn’t seen one since before going to prison. Now sober, he bent over and picked it up, noticing the sporadic colors, the mix of green, yellow, blue, orange, red, and white. He smiled and sat back down on his bed.
“How much?” Joaquin said to the room. Of the other five cellmates, only two were awake, Gomez, a long time celly, and Ericson, who’d arrived a couple months earlier from Oklahoma.
Ericson was the only white guy in the cell. Apparently he had paid the guards, the warden, and Guzman a great deal of money to be his cellmate and by association, receive the cartel’s protection.
“How much what?” asked Ericson without looking up from his book. He lay on his belly, leaning on one elbow as he read.
“How much do you want to bet I can solve this puzzle in under a minute?”
“I’ll bet a pack of cigs,” Gomez said. “There ain’t no way you’re doing that. And no pulling the stickers or breaking it apart. You want in on this Ericson?”
“No.” Ericson still didn’t look up. He had been reading an older John Grisham novel since that morning.