(There's) No Place like Home
by
Anthony Matos
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Anthony Matos on Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Matos
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To Amber
For all the beautiful things you brought into my world.
Rehabilitate: To restore to former capacity. Reestablish the good name of. To restore to former state. To bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity.
Recidivism: A tendency to relapse into a previous condition or mode of behavior.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” – Albert Einstein.
Chapter 1
From across a dark concrete hallway, two grown men struggling for life and death can be felt like a thick razor-wire blanket. It’s that heavy weight of sweat, blood, and desperation that thickens the air and chokes the fragile quiet of a night in this New Mexican prison. The moon’s glow through small windows high atop Level VI reveal wide white eyes in every cell, all pointing toward cell 34. It’s the only one with its door open. And it’s the only one, at least for tonight, where a man’s violent life is being choked out of him.
*
I’ve walked down the same street I’ve been taking home from work for 5 years now, and as much as I hate to admit it, everything’s turned to shit. Try and keep your blinders up, do your own thing, go home, get laid by yours or someone else’s hand, and go to sleep angry, bitter, and drunk. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
And believe me; I’m not speaking for myself. It’s everyone on my street, my block, this city, fuck, for all I know it’s the whole country.
There’s this disjointed feeling that we’re no longer pieces of a whole, we’re just disenchanted drones working for some big project we’ll never see completed. And it’s on everyone’s face when I walk down this street. Those pointless eyes that meet yours for only a second, then hit the floor before we can recognize what we’re all living in.
The same tired features of this city just brush past me like dead, faceless strangers in a crowd. Early model cars line the curbs on the cracked roadway. With the price of gas this high, who can afford to move their piece of shit anywhere? The morning sun splashes off the red brick buildings and gives them a shine they don’t deserve. People stare off their balconies burning their cigarettes into their faces while their kids sit on the granite steps doing the same thing. Reynolds’ Liquor Store has its sign buzzing bright blue even this early in the morning.
In a Depression, most people do what depressed people do; depress their depression by dousing it in drink. Business booms every day, and the collective band of gray and brown twisted characters huddle by the entrance regardless of night or day. Business men in finely pressed suits and dark overcoats try to breeze past them and avoid them like the plague they are, unable to wrap their minds around the idea that this might be them in a year or so as American markets slide.
One suit’s haste to avoid one form of society’s finest causes him to bump into a crowd of kids. They are a mess of vivid mismatched clothes, poorly done tattoos and piercings. I’m across the street but I can still hear the lanky kid with the ear lobes the size of coasters telling the guy to watch where he’s going in the most unsettling and violent way. The man in the blue suit scuffles across the dirty sidewalk with his red face burning bright beneath his gray hair. It’s a scene where apathy and helplessness meet.
I stop and wait at the corner as a rustard colored abomination squeaks and squeals its way down the potholed pavement. Betraying our memories of a bright yellow school bus filled with a great friend you’d lose, a few good friends you’d forget, and a bunch of background faces you never cared about. This monstrosity struggles along almost completely empty. Within its smeared windows you can barely make out 7 souls compared to the 60 plus that should be on their way to school. I can’t blame those punks walking around instead of riding that bus. They have a better chance of learning about the shit we’re in now on these streets than going into our most desolate rundown buildings in this city, our schools.
Wave aside the black smoke from my face and cross the street to my small flat on the fourth floor of Tanner Building. It’s an imposing brown-bricked structure that seems to be leaning forward as if it could slam down and swallow someone into its walls. I feel like I’m unlocking the door to my own prison cell every time I slide my keycard into the terminal and the red door buzzes, releases itself from the lock, and groans open.
We’re not supposed to have any animals in this place but, it always smells like cat piss. The green carpet that lines the hallways and stairs has begun to peel away from the gray walls. I personally think the land lord has completely forgotten that people actually live here and that he is the lucky recipient of checks from random strangers every month.
My final approach to my solitude just a few doors down is interrupted, as it always is, by some strange tenant that feels the need to reach out to anyone. This time it’s a frizzled red head who smoked her skin into a rugged burlap sack. She closes her door behind her and brings her bright purple nails, which happen to extend an inch from her finger tips, to her smeared red lips.
“You scared me! You shouldn’t be sneaking around the halls like that, you know.”
I think I may have muttered an apology that had no heart or direction but it was undetectable to the human ear. I stepped past her while those lost blue eyes in her sad little head followed me, wanting desperately for an exchange of any kind. I opened the door with my keycard and caught the mental train wreck out of my eye’s corner shaking her head.
I couldn’t say I hate the people who live in my building. They’re just burnt out silhouettes of what they should’ve been if the world they knew wasn’t sucked dry. But the one thing I’ve learned along the way is never to stop and listen to someone else, because your void plus their void equals no way back.
I shut the door behind me. The familiar smell of me, a candle that’s supposed to be autumn and burnt remains of the chicken I forgot yesterday in a drunken stupor. Home bittersweet home.
Toss my keycard on the end table with the unopened envelopes that have red URGENTs branded all over them. Walk across the hardwood floor to the small kitchen space and the grab the loose door handle of the fridge. A picture with a slightly younger version of myself smiling with my arm around a vibrant brunette in a time and place that now seems like make-believe, stares me in the face. It’s seen better days when it was set in a nice metal frame by a bed side. Now it’s been crumpled and then flattened out just about every other dark drunk night.
She did ask me once if it was possible to be with someone forever. I answered with some bullshit that was nothing more than my way of filling the air and covering up my uncertainty and fear of the unknown. If I could see her now I’d have the answer. It is possible, living or dead, because one of us is going to be chained to an expressionless statue of the other and trapped in the loneliest place on the outer edge of the world. The other’s going to have dinner and a movie with someone else and may blink about you for an instant. Then nothing more and never again.
But enough of that for one night.
The empty fridge has scattered crumbs of evidence that food did exist here once. Push aside the week old white and red Chinese grease box and grab a beer. I hold my grip for a second and decide I better wait to kill this day a little later than 8 am. The half empty orange juice carton is there to keep the illusion of normalcy alive.
With a cold bagel in my mouth I crash into my worn navy blue recliner parked conveniently in front of a modest flat screen. The rest of my place is like this life I lead, just enough to get by. Undetected and miserable. Void of any sentimental soul. Hell, I haven’t made it up those brass steps to my bed in a couple weeks now.
Time to live my life vicariously through this worldwide propaganda-colored window. The television flicks on and a tiny make-up caked face with beady blue eyes surrounded by a massive frame of blonde bangs and hair greets me.
“The Chinese official who chose to remain anonymous claims the eastern superpower has successfully orbited Mars for the first manned orbit of the Red Planet. The source says the first Martian landing by man will be within the next few weeks. While this is a historic time for all mankind, not all Americans share the same enthusiasm.”
A black man with designer eyeglasses sneers into the camera. “Who cares about Mars? We have enough problems here. Fix this planet first, and then go play Star Wars.”
“Details remain as accessible as the Chinese government allows.” Says the blonde with as much emotion as a machine. “In other world news, the Russian Federation continues its advancement into the Mariana Trench in its research expedition for life forms and resources.”
I lean back into my seat and let the colorful pictures, transmitted from a Russian submarine, of glowing red underwater ghosts float on my screen. So many dreams being achieved and so many new ones being created. The blonde media microphone bursts my underwater bubble.
“The European Union has finally reached an agreement over its continental health care system after a dispute over wrongful deaths occurring in other countries. This marks the only time in history multiple governments and countries have shared the same health plan.”
If you’ve never had siblings, you can skip this part. Think of a Christmas morning where every one of your brothers and sisters in the room have nice, shiny gifts sitting on their laps and you get to hold the camera and snapshot all their shit-eating grins. I’m feeling that while I’m waving the tiniest, imaginary American flag. Let’s show ‘em up, right?
“In national news, New Mexico, Kansas, Colorado, and Maine have all opened their new correctional facilities in a joint ribbon-cutting ceremony.”
“It’s a great day for our country to open up more housing for inmates to get a better opportunity to correct their mistakes, make better choices, and rejoin our society in more positive, constructive ways.” The gray handlebar mustache on this old bald guy in a sharp blue suit just screams out tear me right off.
Yeah, what a great day for our country. The world gets the nice shiny gifts; we get better buildings to store our trash. I’m thinking it’s about time to begin wasting my day away and start toward the fridge when my cell phone rings. It never rings anymore.
*
“Please… why you doin’ this? I paid Carlos. It’s done.”
All these words seeping out between his clenched yellow teeth was a remarkable feat considering how close they were to shattering. The tattooed arm wrapped under his chin was constricting and the red on his wrinkled face was giving way to a shade of blue.
“I don’t care who Carlos is, he’s probably dead. I don’t care what you paid for, what you did, or what you ate this morning.” The assailant pulls with his free hand against his own wrist and was now trying to pop this guy’s head off like a bottle cap. “I don’t even care that you murdered that innocent lady when you were 22.”
The two men stand like a nightmarish shadow in the cell, one slowly slumping forward as his knees begin to wobble. The struggling has given way to absolute acceptance that he has lost any control over his own destiny. All he can do is listen to the man who talks as calmly as a waiter explaining tonight’s dinner specials, while his bloodshot eyes are in danger of ejecting from his skull.
“To be honest, I don’t give a fuck about the lady, and I don’t give a fuck if you’re sorry or not.”
His windpipe must be cracked by now. He mouths words that will never come out as tears and saliva pour down his weathered face.
“What I do give a fuck about is you’ve been in here for 43 years and my Employers are tired of supporting people like you. Just go to sleep knowing you would’ve been paroled in a few months. You would have smelled free air. You would have seen your family who hates you or has long forgotten you. You would have been just another waste of time and money. This system is a mistake. I’m here to correct this mistake.”
The snap is like a thunderclap.
*
There’s always a time when you know you shouldn’t answer a call. It’s someone with a problem that will shatter your peaceful little charade of quiet.
“Yeah, who’s this?” I knew who it was, but I needed to buy myself time to figure out an escape route.
“It’s Terry, you fuck. Get your ass down to Becky’s. She’s out of her mind 'cause Colin got clipped in prison.” The voice on the other side of this call is Terry, but it seems too hollow. It sounds like Terry’s voice bouncing inside an empty shell. Produced.
“Alright, I’ll call her.”
“No man. Becky smashed her phone earlier when she found out. She’s fucking flipping out. Get down here and calm her down. She’ll listen to you.”
Things get complicated after walking into other people’s lives. Your wide open field of freedom suddenly has walls with faces. Soon enough you’re walking through a maze of faces and there’s no place to hide. Your void plus their void equals no way back.
I put my phone into my pocket and rub my face. This is the price you pay for giving a shit about your fellow creatures. Quiet isolation in a pretty location is a deserted island and your cell phone skimming across the ocean, never to return. If I had my own spaceship I’d be flying to distant stars and not to find signs of life. Signs of life include needs, wants, arguments, and expectations, with a dash of laughter and enjoyment to break up the boredom. No, I’d be looking for the loneliest, lifeless place in the galaxy, because I’ve grown to call a place like that home. But for now, I’ll do my best to be a good brother.
Back down on the street, the chill of the early morning has given way to a comfortable afternoon. Clouds litter the sky like the trash on our streets. I pull my hood up and wave a cab my way. My car was gone when she was gone, so I punish myself by being dependant on public transportation. It’s cheaper anyway.
I’ve found the view from a backseat to be much more fulfilling, even if this place has become nothing but a rerun. No more stress of watching out for other drivers, no need to observe traffic laws. Instead I get to watch the world wash past me like I didn’t even exist in it. Like an outside observer, I remain detached from my surroundings. If attached means identity than I’m no one. One thing never changes though. No matter how many times I’ve crossed it, this old bridge and the river beneath it always wrap themselves around my memory like a warm blanket.
My sister lives in a house on the other side of the river. Her and her husband had bought it when the home owner crisis had torn most people out due to terrible credit and faulty loans. They slithered in at just the right time and paid practically nothing for it. At that time, I had plans with her to make a move like that. We always discussed that it wasn’t smart to get fixed into one place, because we’d be stuck there forever. I guess plants can’t grow well when they’re always being uprooted and replanted.
The cab pulls away and leaves me in front of an unkempt yard and a faded white house. My nephew and his friend are sitting on the steps, both of their faces lowered and typing away on their phones. They don’t budge as I come to the stairs.
“Hey Jimmy, what’re you guys doing home?” I ruffle his brown curls to which he promptly swats at my hand.
Staring into his phone, he says. “Mom didn’t take us to school today.”
“Well, what’s the matter with you guys? It’s a beautiful day to go ride your bikes, play ball down at the park, do something.” I didn’t wait for the response. I had already begun making my way up to the door because they could care less about what I’m saying. Play the role of an adult, and for some reason I sound like an idiot; a hypocrite.
Once inside I can already hear my sister teetering between anger, sadness, desperation, and insanity with every wild statement she shouts into the phone.
“And I don’t give a fuck what they do to me. They’ve already killed me. I’m finished now, you understand? What am I supposed to do?” She sees me through the cloud of cigarette smoke she’s spewing forth like a dragon. “I’ll call you back.” She puts the cell phone down and runs over to me at the kitchen entrance. Her brown eyes are bloodshot and swollen. It looks like she’s been crying for years.
I hug her back as she buries her face into my chest and bawls. Her finger tips squeeze into my shoulders whenever she sobs “Why?” I can’t console her like I should. I’m terrible with these things, I never liked her husband, and I always knew his ass was going to die sooner rather than later. This still does not change the fact that my baby sister is heartbroken and while I have cut off most of the world, I still have a soul.
After two hours of relentless tears and curses, my sister is sitting across from me in her kitchen, pack of cigarettes in front of her, and a porcupine of butts in the ashtray between us. She presses two fingers against her temple and stares through the table. The death of our dad had killed her childhood, and it seems like the death of her husband has completed the job.
“What am I going to do now? I don’t know how to tell Jimmy and my little girl has to grow up without a …” Her shoulders start shaking, and I reach out and touch her elbow. She let out a sharp whimper. “They said he was getting out soon. He was going to change too. I know he was. He told me he was.” The bloodshot eyes seem to reach out across the table at me now, trying to get some reassurance that she was right. But she knew what my feelings were. And she quickly looks back at her table.
“You know I love you, Beck. But he chose his love of money over his love for you guys. I’m not going to sit here and pretend that he was a good man. If he was, he’d be here struggling with the rest of us.” I never pulled a punch with my sister, even when we were little. Of course, that resulted in her crying and me spending time by myself in my room with no dinner or TV. The stakes were a lot higher now.
She stares at me with bloodshot daggers, before she softens and nods. “I’ll tell Jimmy tonight. We’ll have the funeral in a couple of days and then I’m leaving. I’m going back to live with mom for awhile. I won’t survive out here. You’ll come visit us out there, right? Mom worries about you ever since…”
“I know. I’m fine. Just let me help make the arrangements and if you need anything I’m just right over the bridge. And I’ll go see Mom soon.” I get up and go over to hug her. Her shoulders seem so rigid, and I know it’s from the strain of carrying everything on them.
“You know… it wasn’t just Colin. They still haven’t caught the guy and they won’t say much, but 14 dudes on that cell-block were all stabbed to death in the laundry room where they were working. Laura is a guard there, and she says there’s been a killing there almost every other day now.”
“Just get some rest, Beck. I’ll go grab something to eat for you and the kids.” I wanted to say that’s what you get when you cage a bunch of animals together. I wanted to say they got what they deserve. But I wanted my sister to hold on to whatever misguided glimmer of hope she was clinging to. I know I can operate without hope, though I don’t know how I do it. I just know without it, she’ll fall into Hell. Maybe I know these things because I’m already there.
*
Special Agent Simon Crawford has slept for six hours in three days. He hasn’t seen his wife and daughters in two weeks. And in the next few weeks he’s going to be involved in the largest criminal investigation in American history. Not bad for his first major case.
When he joined the FBI, he knew there would be sacrifices. He just didn’t think they’d be happening so fast and at this magnitude. He’s had to talk to his wife in between briefings by phone.
“Honey, just be careful. We miss you and I just want you to come home soon. They can’t keep you out there all year, can they?” He hates when her voice sounds like that. They hadn’t been apart this long since his training days. Kills him to know she’s alone.
“I don’t know, Claire. Just stay strong for me, and I’ll be home before you know it. They’ll have to give me a little bit of leave after the hours we’re putting into this one.” He knew that was a lie, but he couldn’t have her worrying while he was out here. He needed the mental picture of her and the girls laughing, playing together, and sleeping peacefully, waiting for the day he comes home. “Tell the girls I love them, and I’ll see them soon.”
“Okay Simon. I love you.”
“I love you too, and I’ll try and call as soon as I can.”
He ends the call and walks over to the bathroom in the cheap motel. All the cold water he splashes on his face does little to wash away the fatigue. Keep it together. It’s your first major case, and this is your life now. He tells himself this as he puts his hat on and zips his navy coat over the bulletproof vest.
On the bed sits his Glock 23, badge hanging on a small chain and the picture he took of Claire and the girls in a pile of leaves. He’s putting the badge around his neck when he gets a knock on the door.
“Special Agent Crawford? They’re waiting for you downstairs.”
He tells him he’ll be right down as he secures the gun at his hip. Finally he takes the picture and slips it in the breast pocket beneath the Kevlar. He takes the brief case he had on the floor and opens up the door.
The stars in the night are disturbed by the distant droning and red blinking lights of helicopters. A man didn’t need to have a lot to say to make a girl feel special if you held her hand beneath a night sky like this. It’s too bad the world was this crazy all the time now. These moments get lost in the sea of sirens and screams. He headed down to the trio of black SUVs all pointing out toward the desert road.
“Nice of you to join us Crawford, I hope we didn’t disturb your beauty rest. Hop in; you’re going with Hilliard and I.” Roger Wilist was a balding lifelong policeman who overachieved, hated just about everyone, and thrived on being the best Special Agent he can be. Crawford can’t hate the guy for loving his country and loving his job, no matter how much of an asshole he was.
“Alright, the rest of you, I want us in those prison gates and operational before sun-up. Ryan and Powers, I want you to brief your teams with all the necessary information.” As he said this, Wilist glances at the two agents in charge. Then everyone moves into their respective vehicles and the convoy leaves the rundown motel in a cloud of dust. Crawford can see the red MOT_L sign glowing in the rearview.
Stan Hilliard drives the SUV into the high beam tunnel of light as it burns into the abyss. The blue LED dash glows within the truck as Crawford leans forward from the backseat, eager to get any information Roger is willing to release. He’s seen the bodies in the local jails and prisons on the East Coast, but the big picture needs to be explained now.
Wilist peers into his Blackberry device; he leans back and looks out into the desert of darkness. “Three months ago, there were widespread reports of increased gang violence within prisons in California, New York, South Carolina, and Texas. Execution-style killings were happening at a suddenly high rate and guards began complaining of electronic security locks that were malfunctioning or not responding. Two weeks ago a prison riot erupted in Kansas, in which almost every participant in the cellblock was stabbed, asphyxiated, or poisoned. The surveillance tapes were unable to be located. Crawford,” Wilist tilted his head toward the center of the car. “You’ve been on that case since then, so you’ve seen the devastation and chaos there.” He resumed looking forward. “One week ago, the same gang style killings were reported here in New Mexico, with the same sudden increase as in the other prisons, particularly Kansas. We’re under the impression that the same outbreak will occur here.”
Crawford sat silent for a moment as the images of the Lansing’s Central Unit covered in twisted bodies and blood flashed in his head. The number of dead reached 87 by the fourth and final day. The news media hounds were fed gang violence as the cause. Americans have been trained now, seeing numbers of dead never rattled anyone anymore. Couple that with attaching labels like rapist, murderers, and drug dealers, and you have a majority ruling of ‘they got what they asked for’. Those numbers on the screen don’t translate to the reality of standing on a linoleum floor soaked red and brown with death stretching out all around you. Crawford had a stomach for it, but images like that can live with a man forever.
“From what I gathered out of Lansing, it appeared that gangs may have triggered the violence, but there was something else at work there.” Crawford says. Wilist turns his head toward the back seat while Stan glances up through the rear view.
“What do you mean, Crawford?”
“I noticed the way the bodies were piled up around the center of the room. This indicated the struggle during the initial outbreak of violence. However, as I looked around the room it appeared that more and more bodies were isolated on the outskirts of the cell-block, crowded around exits or cells.”
Wilist glanced toward Hilliard.
“It’s just a hunch.” Crawford leaned back a bit, feeling a wall going up between him and the front seats.
“I think you’re full of shit. It’s probably just animals running loose and killing each other any chance they can get. In the middle of the room, the back of the room, cells. It doesn't matter where, they’re killers.” Hilliard has a solid background in SWAT and has always had rough edges, especially when it comes to a new agent trying to make a name for himself. Crawford notices his white knuckles on the wheel. This guy is more concerned with kicking in the door and killing the person who sneezes instead of what caused the cold.
Wilist laughs as his phone rings; he holds his hand up toward the other two and answers.
“Yes, Director Moris? … What? … Alright …Right, sir. We’re on it.”
From the backseat, Crawford can see Wilist begins to tense up. The roar of the engine grows as Hilliard smashes the accelerator. He’s been with Wilist on many cases before, and knows enough to move when his face gets like that. Silence chokes the interior of the SUV as it pulls away from the convoy and toward a hill. As it comes over the hump, the desert is illuminated by the lights of a fenced in fortress. Both men stare out toward New Mexico’s State Correctional Facility, Wilist looks into the image downloading on his phone.
“What good is law and order when the inmates are running the asylum?” Wilist whispers under his breath as his eyes widen.
*
If you look like one, move like one, and kill like one; you can swim with sharks. Riley Turner knows this, and that is how he has managed to swim his way through the dirty waters here in Amarelle. Being this deep in America’s largest prison would be the last place anyone wants to be. But Riley thrives in here. He enjoys every second of it. He wants to be in here. In fact, he put himself in here; with a little help from his friends. And now he’s right where he needs to be.
It didn’t take long for the wiry ex-Marine to earn a quick reputation as a brutal fighter in the underground fighting ring. It was gangs and other cliques who had organized this as a way to move money around and entertain each other. Even the armed guards watching them out in the fields did little to stop the fights until they were over, or if it escalated. His last fight is the reason why he now sits in a dark, isolated chamber.
With the southern sun scorching everything it touched, Riley stood in the middle of a crowd of convicts as a monster circled him. His eyes peered through stringy dark hair and followed the large man as he cracked his knuckles and grinned.
“This is the fuck who killed Ronny? Ronny must’ve been high, this guy is smaller than my arm.” The lack of teeth in his mouth only added a wild menace to the man as he stopped pacing and clenched his fists.
“Hurry up and go, Joe! The fuckin’ guards will be here soon.” A stocky man with a long white ponytail stood behind Joe, looking over toward the 3 guards who had all came over to each other, sub-machine guns pointed at the ground and aviators looking at the circle of inmates. “Get rid of this guy.”
Riley lifts his hands up and beckons Joe. “I don’t have all day. C’mon over so I can put another one of you down.”
Joe rumbled across the circle as dust kicked up behind him. He swung at Riley’s head with enough force to crush a skull. But one needs to connect with that homerun swing or all their doing is just striking out. It sounded like a boulder bouncing off the earth as Joe found his cry of protest was muffled by a mouthful of dirt. When he whirled around like a stunned bull, the blue sky was lost to a grim shadow. Like a vicious bird of prey, Riley had swooped onto his victim and gripped his windpipe with long, dirty nails. His screams of protest turned to gurgles as Riley tore the first chunk of cartilage and flesh out, tossed that away and flicked another out for good measure. Other inmates quickly moved aside as a guard smacked the side of Riley’s head with the butt of the machine gun. Riley laid next to his fallen opponent, who was looking into the sky with tears streaming down his blood soaked face and smiled.
“Look on the bright side, be grateful the last thing you’ll see is that blue sky up there because I was going to kill you a few days ago in the mess hall. I know, I know; I’m too kind.”
The guard ripped a laughing Riley up and cuffed him as the others began to clear the field, putting all the inmates into three single files. Riley looked back over his shoulder to the stocky man who glared at him, yet that all too familiar shiver of fear outlined his narrowed eyes. He blew him a kiss and got his head shoved forward. A nice little stroll to the hole.
And in this hole, darkness gives way to an orange glow as Riley smokes a cigarette in a place he shouldn’t be. He leans against the concrete wall and exhales smoke into the thick air. There was a grin creeping along his sun drenched face, caked with blood and dirt. Nothing better than having an objective and mission with legitimate targets. After America pulled out of the Middle east, coming home and getting a 9 – 5 was not what men like Riley wanted. They wanted something to fight for again. And he didn’t have to wait long for opportunity to knock.
“How would you like to have the chance of a lifetime to serve your country and change the future?” A man with a black New Orleans Saints cap on said as he approached Riley in the park.
Riley had been walking his black lab, Chester, as he did every Sunday. The overcast sky threatened rain, but he never missed a day to spend with his best friend. It was a great way to avoid other people because Riley had a tendency to lose his temper, and fast. So the look on his face as he turned around and saw this slender punk, who had been following him for some time now, was one of barely suppressed venomous rage.
“What the fuck do you know?” Riley said as he continued to walk before realizing the man wasn’t giving up. He clamped his jaw together and stopped.
“I know enough about you to know you want to do your part to save this country.” The man walked till they had a 7 foot gap between the two of them. Chester’s ears lifted and he examined the stranger. His tail wagged as he tried to inch his master forward for a better look. Riley’s fist clenched on the leash. He was having none of it.
“This country can’t be saved with those assholes in charge. You guys must be desperate. Recruiting people while they’re walking in the woods? Now, if you keep following me, I’m going to tie my dog to that tree over there, and beat your ass.” He turned around and started walking when then the stranger’s tone changed.
“Sergeant First Class Riley Turner, 3rd Battalion, toured in the Iraq War and the build up to the conflict in Iran. Discharged after putting Lieutenant James Borden into the hospital with severe head trauma. No charges were filed, but you were officially removed from your position. But my my, did the army have plans for you.”
Riley tugged Chester by his collar and closed the gap between him and the man. He grabbed the t-shirt of the man. The blood boiling in his head must’ve made his face red. “Who are you and where’d you get that? That is sealed!” Chester barked and jumped between the two.
“I’d assumed you’d act this way, that’s why I tried to be civil. Why not come and listen to what my Employers have to say. Put your talents to use. I’m Seven, by the way. Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached his hand up and offered it for Riley to shake.
He paused for a moment, curiosity getting the better of him. He let go of Seven’s shirt, shouted for Chester to quiet down, and shook his hand. “What’s your outfit?”
Seven reached into his cargo pocket and produced a small chrome phone. “Some of the roughest fucks in the world have gotten together and decided to change the world, you in? Just answer the phone when it rings.” He handed the phone to Riley, then turned and walked away, waving over his shoulder.
It had been three years since he had seen Seven. It comes as no surprise to Riley, however, when the cell shoots open and a familiar-looking guard stands at the doorway. Riley crushes his cigarette into the floor and exhales. “What kept you? You’ve missed all the good parts.”
“Oh, I always skip the previews. It’s just about time for the feature presentation.” The guard leans against the cell door and then waves a night stick out toward the hallway. “Ladies first.”
Chapter 2
I’m sitting in the break room, drinking a terrible cup of coffee from a Dixie cup. The light seems dull, flickering on and off every two minutes. The room is a massive collection of brown round tables with beige plastic seats, two vending machines, and a counter with a microwave, sink, and toaster. It seems like it could hold 50 guys in here, but since I’ve started working at this prison I’ve seen only two men in here. Seems like a perfectly good way to waste taxes.
The thought that people just avoid me has crossed my mind about the amount of times the light in this room flickers. It must be my apparent blank stare, or the fact that if I don’t catch myself fast enough, I look like I’m actually dead on my feet. I try to stay engaged in the conversations of the day. Yes, I care about the score of the Bulls game. Of course, I want to hear about how you met this girl at the bar. Please tell me more about what you did to your car. It never works. I just lose track of the subject matter, mutter something, get a twisted look of confusion and annoyance from the person, and silence returns to my world like a welcome breeze.
No, it’s not because people just gave up on me. It’s probably because I got the night shift here at Chicago’s Hightower Correctional Center. You see, I did this because I knew if I could work while the rest of you sleep, I could sleep and avoid the rest of you while you’re awake. I found that if I shortened the amount of daylight in my life, I could stay away from such dangerous things like opportunity, second chances, and the dreaded revival. In the dark, a smile or a tear look exactly the same.
Why would I want to work in such a bleak place like prison when I have such a sunny disposition? It isn’t as cliché as it pays the bills or as noble as trying to make a difference. It’s somewhere in-between obsession and necessity. It took me a long time to pull myself out of one gutter and put myself into another one. And now I’ve found myself sitting in the middle of Hell and I feel scared to death. There are only a few more hallways, a couple of doors to open, and I’ll never be able to turn back. The only thing that makes this so hard is that even if I wanted to turn back or even just glance over my shoulder, she’d be there looking at me.
Time to get moving now because not only has my break been over for 10 minutes, but I’m starting to think and that’s what gets me into trouble. I get up and toss the cup into the trash, pulling my belt up with my nifty little nightstick and cuffs dangling from it. I glance up at the muted panel television on the wall and see images of Mars from a video camera being held by a Chinese astronaut. He might have found what he was looking for out there, but I found what I was looking for in here.
*
As the inmates are ushered in and out of the interrogation room, Crawford notices a common thread among them. Their sunken eyes are forced open by a need for vigilance. Heavy purple and blue shades top their cheeks as if sleep had never crossed their twisted minds. Whatever persona they tried to create in prison to defend themselves, seems to have broken down. All that’s left is fear.
Crawford watches a thin young man with crude blue prison ink crawling up his neck sit down in front of him. He has a pleasant smile frozen to his face and he stares directly into Crawford’s eyes. After the string of avoidant inmates, this one threatens to rattle his cage. Crawford takes a breath and stares back.
“You’ve been here for 2 and a half years, Kevin, yet you have this carefree attitude like you could just walk right out that front door anytime you wanted.” Crawford is unbuttoning the cuffs on his white shirt.
Kevin just shakes his head and laughs like they were old drinking buddies. “Yeah, I’m having a blast. It’s like taking a paid vacation and all those poor fucks out there are working their asses off to pay for me. I feel so honored.” He leans back in his seat as his cuffs and shackles clatter. “What’s with all this Fed attention here anyway?”
As he finishes rolling up his sleeves, Crawford acts as if he hasn’t heard a word Kevin has said. “I’d like you to tell me what you know about these killing that have been happening in your cell block. We can offer a transfer if you feel you’re threatened by giving us information. We just want to keep you guys alive.”
“Wow, you’re so thoughtful. I haven’t heard much but…” He leans forward against the table. “…I think it’s a ghost, you know, the ones who can walk through walls. Appear out of nowhere.” Kevin smiles and nods his head toward the camera in the upper corner. “Do you have the Ghostbusters with you? You know I heard they made a third one, can you fuckin’ believe that?”
Crawford feels his eye twitch and he sorts through all his training manuals in his head. Breathing techniques, reverse psychology, redirection. But it’s all jumbled in his head and he knows all this time he’s been awake and away from home. His neat and tidy little world is becoming disheveled. He runs a hand through his blonde hair and walks to the small table by the door. On it sits a manila folder which he picks up and walks back to the center of the room.
“Look, if you want to play games, I can wave to the officer and he can come take you to your nice little cell where you can wait till someone does this to you.” He flicks an 8 x 11 picture onto the table. A man is lying in his cell with his face torn out. “It appears the assailant used some device and pried the nose, check bones, and upper jaw out using the eye socket as leverage.”
Kevin studies the picture for a while. “Pretty resourceful guy. Very creative too. But not much substance. I give it an 8.” He tosses the picture back across the table.
Crawford slaps his hands down on the corners of the table, pinning the picture underneath the hand with his wedding band on it. “That happened 12 cells away from yours! But you don’t seem to care at all. Why would you? You’re stupid enough to be in here. Probably not much of a thinker, are you?”
“Pal, you think you’re so clever because you can remember my name from that file you read before you walked in here. You think you know something I don’t? That’s good for you. Helps you sleep comfortably next to your lovely wife at home, I’m sure.” He pauses and smiles. “Although, you look like you haven’t sleep in months. You look like shit, yet I’m the one in this hell hole. But guess what, I’m having the time of my life in here because I’m here to pay my debt to society. Hell, I’m going to erase my debt to society.”
“Then help us by cooperating with this investigation. Do something good with your life, for once.” Crawford knows he’s reaching, but he also knows the more this guy talks, the more something will trickle out.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He flashes a toothy smile. “Just like you have no idea what I’m saying. But eventually you will, and so will everyone else. You should be happy, man. You’re living on the threshold of the greatest chapter in American history since the days of the Revolution. I’m sure it doesn’t look like much now and you probably think I’m a fuck up in a prison. This isn’t about us, though. Trust me. Think big picture.” He lifts his cuffed wrists as high as he can and spreads his hands.
“Whatever you’re talking about doesn’t matter; you sound like you’ve been locked in here too long. Starting to crack.” Crawford watches Kevin just smiling back at him. “If you’re not going to cooperate, I’ll send you back to your comfy cell.” He motions for the correctional officer outside the door and begins putting the photos back into the folder.
“You know something,” Kevin leans forward and glances over his shoulder then looks at Crawford. “I don’t think you quite realize the seriousness of this situation. Those guys you’re working with…” His eyes shoot toward the camera then back to Crawford. “…they’re not who you think they are. In fact, I’m not sure you understand who I am. It’s best if you play your role, go through the motions, and move along.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Have you…” The officer with a long scar across his cheek opens the door and takes Kevin up by his shoulders.
“How does it feel to be on a ledge all alone, Simon? Don’t be a hero. Sit back and enjoy the show.” Kevin flashes him a toothy smile and is pulled out by the guard.
Crawford looks up at the camera, then back toward the door Kevin just left. He never said his name was Simon.
*
Seven walks behind Riley with one hand holding his bicep as they both make their way across the field from Camp J toward the East Yard. Riley looks up into the star filled sky and then back to the ground. He had only been in the hole for four hours for killing a man. The man responsible for the early exit is behind him pretending to be a correctional officer. Rules are not just being broken here, they do not exist anymore. As they move across a paved service road toward the next yard, Seven nods to a passing officer.
Riley studies the woman’s face. Her blank stare offers no hint as to where her loyalties lie. In his two years deployed within the American prison systems, Riley has found it difficult finding out who is a sympathizer. There are no tattoos or markings on anyone involved. No secret handshake, winks, or passwords. In the beginning of all this –well, Riley’s beginning— he was told that no one needs to know who you are, and you’d know who was in the operation when the times were right.
He has served in the military for a long time but the seemingly nebulous structure of what he is a part of now scared him at first. Riley has killed men, been shot at, and has watched his friends die in combat; so many things did not scare him. This militia he has become a part of did. It seems strange that violent men spread out all over the country and in such tight, restricted quarters are operating under the same direction and have remained undetected for seven years.
In the beginning, his fear of what he was getting himself into prevented him from fully understanding the scope of this operation. He began second guessing his own motives for participating in this violence. One day he found himself sitting in a jail cell for crimes that never happened and watching the bars close in front of him sent a chill through his spine. As the days went on however, and his targets were executed with precision, he began to find a sick pleasure in his work. The most important information he was given before he left the training camps was vague enough not to sound sinister: “Don’t get lost because we’ll find you.” Riley knows what that means now, and never once let the thrill of the kill blind him from the goal they were all striving for. Even now, as a complete stranger he met three years ago marches him across Amarelle; shackles and all, it just feels like another day at the office.
Riley keeps looking at the ground while his long greasy hair spills in front of his dirty face. “Seeing as we’re out on such a beautiful evening, it's safe enough to ask you how it’s all coming together, don’t you think?” They were a few hundred yards from the entrance the West Yard. Guards with rifles peer down at the two of them from a tower then go about their own conversation.
“Right down to business. I like that.” Seven glances over his shoulder. “The entire West Coast has already begun entering the opening stages of Operation Dissolution. They’re moving ahead of schedule, and the Employers have issued a reduction in their culling. Central and the East Coast are coming along with a few problems that have been taken care of. They didn’t have enough quality Eyes inserted into the facilities and operations weren’t as crisp as they’ve been in the South. This whole thing needs to come together at the appropriate time because the Employers need a moment of impact in the statement they’re going to deliver worldwide.” Seven lowers his tone as two officers escorting a prisoner walk past them along the concrete path. “The situation we have been expecting is currently underway in the South West. Federal attention was something we wanted to avoid until Dissolution could be well underway. But, due to some of our more eccentric operatives, we now have to accelerate the process.”
“Just tell me what you need me to do. I’m having fun in here but killing these fucks one by one is getting old. I can see why some of us went rogue and wanted to clear the cellblock.”
Seven laughs as they finally come to the processing area gate for the West Yard. He takes out a card and waves it across the electronic terminal. A buzz sounds as the gate slides open and they make their way towards an imposing black structure. “I knew I was right when I picked you for Amarelle. It’s a lot of ground to cover, but you have one hell of an attitude, Turner.” He points toward the upper west wing of the building. “I’m putting you up in a nice penthouse suite. Nice sheets, better meals, conjugal visits. You’re going to be rubbing elbows with some important people up there. The Employers want this to be precise and completely clean, except for cell 29. Have fun with him.”
“What’s the schedule like?”
“It’s open, Turner. We need to finish this up because Operation Dissolution is only a few weeks out, if not sooner. All of our loose ends need to be tied. Do what you do. Just do it quickly.”
He nods as Seven releases his arm, two armed officers walk from the shack by the entrance to the building. Riley is not very good with judging who is involved, but he has a feeling he is in enemy territory by how quickly Seven leaves the scene.
*
I never can walk through the worn brown gates to my childhood home without thinking of my dad. Everything here is half done. Tasks left over from a man who never had the chance to do it. The fences need painting, the storage shed needs windows, and the cobble stone walkway is a section short. Dad was even planning on redoing the kitchen for mom; a nice 30 year anniversary gift. Instead my mom got an urn with his ashes and its sitting over the fireplace I’m staring at. Nostalgia at its finest edge.
Three summers ago after I saw my dad for the last time, my mom and I drifted apart. We said we were busy with work, but we weren’t. The truth is we didn’t want to sit there in that moment, look each other in the eyes, and cry like we should’ve. We talk about how much we care about each other and use my sister as the bridge, but when we are face to face, the walls go shooting up.
I glance toward the television screen. The CNC news coverage of a Russian ocean vessel submerged in what is labeled on the bottom of the screen as the Dragon Triangle off the coast of Japan is national news. Seems everywhere in the world is looking for something more than a paycheck, 40 hours a week, and a terrible television show to follow, except us.
My mom sits by the television in a soft white sofa and stares at the television. Her blue eyes are set in a tired skull that sits on a tiny tired frame. All of the spark that once animated her body and translated into the vibrant mom that made me laugh all my childhood, now sits in this urn. It’s amazing how much we have in common, tragically speaking. These mutual disasters should bring us together but our worlds have been reduced to living in a single cell; hiding within our own prison.
“Becky seems to be doing better since the funeral.” I let these words slip out of my mouth, but I can tell they have no weight. “So is Jimmy.”
“Yeah, I’m glad they’re coming here. I could use some life in this place.” She glances over toward me. “Sit down and stay for awhile. You’re always up and ready to leave at the drop of a hat.”
I pause for a minute, shake my head and move over to a grey recliner. The old chair is where my dad used to flip through the day’s paper. I used to wonder what he found so fascinating about the paper. Now that I’m older I find myself doing the same thing; looking anywhere I can for any good news. I realize why he searched so hard for any scrap of a positive story. The stories in this country have gotten so depressing.
We stare at the television. I’m getting that feeling I get when I stand inside one of the jail cells. Cornered, restricted, trapped, and at home.
“So how’s work going? Are you still at the prison there in the city?” Mom says.
“Yeah I am. Everything’s great there. I’m hoping to get my transfer into the 24th floor.” I feel her eyes lingering a little too long, so I add. “Better pay.”
I can sense the gears in her head turning. “Isn’t that where Michael Ross is being held?” Her eyes keep prying.
“I guess.” I can tell my calm cover has been blown. Shrugging and reaching for a picture of her and dad, I decide this is enough of this conversation. I keep it all in my mind and give her room to psychologically operate on me. I don’t want this, but I know I need this.
“How are you holding up? It’s been two years since she left us.”
I feel my face get hot and it’s because my blood is rushing everywhere, frantic. My heart skips its rhythm like it usually does when she’s mentioned. “I’m fine, mom.” Swallowing the lump in your throat is hard when you’re trying to speak. “How’re you doing?” I have their picture in my hand.
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “Oh, there are terrible days, days I can’t get out of bed, and days when I struggle to find a reason to keep going.” She is rubbing her ring on her left hand and staring off into the television. “But then I know why I’m still here, it’s for you guys.” I hear my mom struggling with that same lump. Must be contagious.