Diminished Capacity

Part Seven

by G. Lawrence

Recap; Jack had been serving his time in a minimum-security prison teaching and promoting charities when he was suddenly transferred by Federal authorities. Warning: this is a dark and violent episode. It's only for this one chapter, but it's tough to get through. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Pat Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mom,

Reading Jack's memoir has been very painful, but I'm glad you trusted me to see it. I had no idea that my visit to Northfield meant so much to him, or how close it came to tragedy. It's true I was in a bad state that day, as you know. Your loving daughter, Jenny

Chapter Seven

THE ANGEL IN THE WINDOW

I was transferred without ceremony or publicity to the Federal Maximum Security Institution at Northfield in western Pennsylvania. I was not given the opportunity to contact family, which I didn't have, or a lawyer, which would have been prudent. After the van was driven into a dark underground garage, I was pushed upstairs to the prisoner reception area. It was a large hall but unoccupied except for me, half a dozen guards, and three U.S. Marshals.

"Strip," the receiving guard ordered, which was hard with me being shackled hand and foot. He waved for his assistant to take off the cuffs and I removed my khaki jumpsuit.

"Everything," the weasel-faced assistant demanded.

When I obeyed without protest, they threw my clothes into a trash bin and had me stand there naked for the next half hour. Taking photos, supposedly for their records. I was shoved against the brick wall, made to pose spreadeagle, and thoroughly examined. More than once. They seemed to gain great satisfaction with the cavity search, taking turns. Finally, I was given a bright red jumpsuit and canvas shoes. The receiving officer read me a series of harsh rules.

"No more country club for you, Lawrence," Agent Crawly sneered. "No more golf courses. No more champagne brunch. It's time for you to pay."

I half-expected him to punch me, but he may have just been putting on a show. Proving what a tough guy he was. I tried not to take it personally, even if he was an arrogant runt.

Crawly gave the receiving officer a transfer document with my name on it, but rather than enter the information into the computer as they did at Windhaven, it was thrown into a pile on the desk. There would be no record of me at Northfield until they put me in the system.

"Cell Block 7," the receiving officer grimly instructed.

There were only a few staff members present after the marshals left, all in shabby blue uniforms. Several nodded knowingly, apparently briefed on how to humiliate their new prisoner. Two others kept their heads down. I noticed an overweight middle-aged white man wearing glasses watching from a balcony and guessed him to be the warden. He said nothing, careful not to get his hands dirty.

The administration corridors were empty, the side doors closed. I had a brief look at Northfield from a balcony. Six three-story cinder block housing units to my right connected to a central hub, probably a cafeteria and meeting rooms. The ninth housing unit was far off to my left, detached from all the others. It was a dreary sight. The yard was nothing but dirt and rocks. No baseball field or basketball courts. We went downstairs and through an especially dense barbed wire fence to a heavy green door.

"Take a last look at the sun, killer," Officer Johnson said, a tall lanky brute of a man. He had a circular symbol tattooed on his neck, but nothing I recognized.

I heard the door slam shut behind me with a chilling finality. Cell Block 7 was two stories, the cells surrounding a rectangular commons. I guessed a hundred inmates, generally of the tougher sort. Johnson led me to a cell on the ground floor around a blind corner not far from the entrance. It appeared to be the only cell enjoying such seclusion.

"You know the rules?" Johnson asked.

"Yes, sir," I said, being sure to show respect.

"Don't get too comfortable. Warden says we'll need this bed back in a couple of weeks," Johnson advised.

"I don't understand," I said.

"You will. By the way, the Blair Family says hello."

Johnson suddenly punched me in the gut, a strong blow. I doubled over and fell to my knees, my breath gone. Another officer, Freeman, came up to remove the handcuffs. They shoved me in the cell but didn't close the door.

Still gasping, I sat on the narrow cot to see my new home. The gray blanket was thin. Moth-eaten. There was a sink but no hot water. A shelf for soap and toothpaste was empty. There was no mirror. The toilet reeked.

It took little imagination to realize I had accumulated serious enemies. I guessed this was political, for punishing the murderer of President Blair had been a popular theme during the election. And bragging about sending me to a black hole would be good for fundraising. I also guessed that Jason Decker, the new Attorney General who had been an assistant to the late President Blair was likely seeking revenge. I didn't care about that, but it hurt to think the Blairs had encouraged the transfer. Not that they didn't have a right to justice, but I thought we were in a better place.

There would be three meals a day, on the bell. I entered the commons, wondering what life in hell was going to look like. The noisy room had fifteen long aluminum tables bolted to a checkered blue and white tile floor. White prisoners were sitting with whites, blacks with blacks, and Hispanics with their own. The swivel chairs were also bolted down. At the far end of the room was a long counter for food pick-up, with the kitchen segregated behind it.

"We've got a celebrity," a tall black gangster said, wasting no time in confronting me. "You must be lost. Ain't no presidents for yous to shoot here."

"I'm not looking for trouble," I said, checking the catwalks for guards, of which there were none.

"My name is Diamonds, and I like trouble. So do my boys."

Three others came to surround me, pressing close. Diamonds was my height, straight shouldered, with long arms and a crafty gleam in his squinty eyes. A born leader.

"This is Killpenny. And Clockman. And our scrawny little brother is Stickler," Diamonds continued. "Stickler likes to stick things. Don't ya, Stickler?"

"I does," Stickler confirmed, producing a two-inch shank made of rough-cut steel and duct tape around the handle. Stickler wasn't quite the runt Diamonds pretended, but one-on-one, I'd have taken the knife away from him quick enough.

The bell rang for dinner, and the inmates got in line, holding plastic trays.

"I'm hungry. Perhaps we can continue this conversation later?" I requested.

"Are you trying to be funny?" Killpenny asked, a churlish man with Popeye arms covered in bird tattoos. He had two inches on me. Maybe more. The way he slumped made it hard to tell. Clockman was the biggest of the group, easily 6'4, and likely weighing in at two hundred and sixty pounds. But he was flabby. I could take him down if he didn't have a gang backing him up.

The line waiting for food had a hierarchy. Half the blacks went first, then all the Hispanics, and then the other half of the blacks. The outnumbered white inmates went last. I brought up the rear.

"Ain't no one going to help you, Lawrence," a skinny white prisoner said as we waited our turn, his neck tattooed with gaudy swastikas. "Got word from the guards. You're poison. We're already swarmed by the bean eaters and jungle bunnies. We can't risk our boys for a cowardly back-shooter like you."

"How's the food here?" I asked.

"Ain't bad," he said.

My baldheaded neo-Nazi friend was right about the food. A thick-chested Mexican cook called Chef had a busy kitchen. I guessed one way to keep inmates under control in this gulag was feeding them well. I was given a bowl of beef stew and fresh wheat bread. A dispenser provided cold water, tea, or muddy coffee.

Finding a table was harder, for no one was offering a welcome. I started for the wall, planning to sit on the floor, when one of the Hispanics put out a foot to trip me. I avoided the obstacle, only to be pushed from behind, the tray tipping into my chest. I turned around, angry enough to punch someone, and ten Mexican gang members rose to their feet.

"Go away, gringo," one of them muttered.

I took his advice, finding a space against the wall and scraping my coveralls for stew. About half was recovered, and I'd managed to keep hold of the bread. I put nutrition on my list of things to worry about.

I inspected the downstairs rooms around the perimeter, finding a shower area, exercise room, and a tiny library. There were no computers, and none of the inmates were allowed phones. I got the impression that approved visitors were rare. After sitting for a few minutes and studying the population, I found myself confused. Many, probably a majority of my new comrades were unredeemable felons, but a fair portion showed no inclination to violence. If anything, they were now victims. I wondered if they had found their way here by crossing the wrong people.

Only ten of the black inmates identified with the Diablos. An elite club. All the Hispanics had gang connections. Half were Mexican, the other half from various Central American countries. But those affiliations were often inherited through family traditions. Six of the fourteen whites were neo-Nazis, but all hung together for protection. Had I been invited, I would have, too.

My first night at Northfield wasn't pleasant. Though the inmates were locked in their cells, many of them screamed and carried on. I supposed untreated mental illness and wondered why something wasn't being done for them. I was also unhappy to discover my cell door didn't lock. I'd need to sleep with one eye open.

Breakfast the next morning was turkey bacon and scrambled eggs. Chef, aka Oscar Guevara, was polite, unlike everyone else. What he lacked in height, he made up for in bulk, all of it muscle. Tattoo anchors on his forearms indicated service in the U.S. Navy, and he kept his bulbous head shaved.

It was obvious that Chef was popular. I supposed being indispensable gave him an advantage. In the Army, good cooks are highly prized. I wondered if I should learn culinary skills. As I was last in line, the others were already seated. I ate right there, standing up, before anyone had a chance to dump the plate on me.

The real trouble started before lunch. I had spent several hours alone in the library, finding it a convenient place to hide. Stickler approached when I came out.

"We saw you on TV," Stickler said. "You coulda shot Blair face up, like a man, but ya waited 'til you was back in the crowd. Like a coward."

He threw a punch at my face that I blocked. And then another. He peppered me with jabs but couldn't land any. He was smaller than me, and not nearly as good a fighter, but he had more friends. I wasn't going to hurt him unless I had to. And I doubted he gave a damn about President Blair. He'd been coached, possibly by one of the guards.

After a few more blows, Stickler backed off, just as Killpenny walked up and tried to kick me in the balls. I grabbed his leg to hold him in place. In past situations I'd have punched him in the face, but I could not afford to be so aggressive. When Killpenny pulled hard to free himself, I let go and he crashed on the floor.

Clockman followed, a bit more half-hearted, throwing several lefts and rights. I blocked each punch, but he was strong. My arms were getting bruised. I finally slipped under his left jab and hit him in the kidney, causing him to grunt. His breath grew short. He straightened up and threw a right punch that grazed me on the chin. I fell back against the wall as if the blow had landed and didn't get up. Clockman looked down at me, knowing I hadn't been hurt. But he was able to save face and walk away.

Diamonds was a different story. An able young leader with something to prove. I didn't think these Diablos had anything against me personally. Not yet. But they had an agenda. I looked up to see Officer Darrel Johnson and Officer Louis Phillips watching the fight from their guard station, nodding approval. Both were in their early forties, in reasonably good physical condition, and likely unhappy to be assigned the worst post in the facility.

"Thought you'd fight better," Diamonds said, raising his fists.

I tried to back away, holding my arms up in defense. He launched himself at me, striking numerous times. I blocked most, but not all. Occasionally I'd hit back, but without my full strength. I didn't want to piss him off and have all four coming at me at once. I finally landed a good jab to his right eye, making it look like an accident, and Diamonds backed up, breathing hard.

"This is only round one, killer," he grunted, going to the drink dispensers for ice. It was the same term Officer Johnson had used.

A cup of ice wouldn't have been bad for me either, but there were too many enemies in the way. I held a hand over my ribs, where a punch had landed, and started back toward my cell while a hundred prisoners watched from their tables. Some smiled. A few made snide comments. None of them were taking bets on my chances.

I tried to mind my own business, having enough to worry about already, but wasn't very good at it. One afternoon in the shower, where I made sure to be extra careful, an older Mexican gang member was picking on a timid youngster. It didn't look like a prelude to rape. I don't believe their gang was inclined to such violations. It was just ordinary bullying.

"My friend, why don't you give the kid a break?" I asked in Spanish.

"Wish to take Worm's place?" Perro Grande said, his Spanish tinged with an American accent. California, maybe.

"I'm just asking. Señor Grande, take a look where we are. You must want something better?" I respectfully urged.

Big Dog let Gusanito go and turned toward me. I had decided to shower at lunch, when most of the inmates were eating, so the area was nearly empty. Perro Grande was a big man, a strong leader, but wasn't big enough to live up to his name. A swift kick would hurt him, and a second would put him down on the wet tile floor. Though as a rule, I rarely used my martial arts training.

As many knew, I preferred using my fists. When I was competing in the Golden Gloves under the name Alfredo Juarez, the referees said I had a more powerful right punch than anybody in my weight class, and a left jab so quick that few saw it coming. I knew how to hook my punch, and how to protect my hands. In the shower, where keeping a distance has advantages, I considered using a kick instead, but I really didn't want to fight. Or start trouble with the Mexicans, who had largely left me alone.

"My friend, if hitting me will solve the problem, then hit me," I said, dropping my hands and looking him in the eye.

He stepped forward, right fist raised. I shut my eyes and clinched my jaw, bracing myself, but the blow never came. I opened my eyes.

"You are already a dead man. I will not help your enemies," Perro Grande said.

Then he lightly slapped Worm on the head and they left. Worm looked back at me, thinking I must be crazy.

That night, just after dinner, the Diablos came at me again, now two at a time. I could not afford to be so gentle, landing some solid punches. But I was not out to break noses, damage eye sockets, or rupture spleens. As I had as a street kid. None of the dirty fighting that had served me so well on the docks. I had learned then, the hard way, not to deliver harsh punishment when your enemies could do worse.

There were two more fights the next day, three after that. Once, it was a few of the older Mexican gang members, who complained about my criticism of the prison drug trade. Bear had been right about those magazine articles coming back to haunt me. It didn't change my opinion, but my assailants weren't interested in a debate.

Stickler cut my arm with a shank on the eighth day, though not seriously. Guards were often watching and doing nothing. The goal appeared not to kill me right away, but they were wearing me down. Was I to be made an example of?

If Cell Block 7 had a chapel, I'd have spent my time praying. I made efforts to reach out to some who appeared unhappy with my treatment, but they were afraid. The more I felt my own spirit slipping, the more I knew how they felt. And it didn't help that I was without my medication, which made sleeping difficult.

I made a haven of the library when not in my cell. The room was so cramped that the Diablos couldn't gang up on me, and they knew it. Though they were getting the better end of our battles, they were learning it came with a price.

"Can't believe you're still on your feet," one of the white prisoners said at the end of my second week, speaking with his head down so no one would hear. There was truth to that. No sleep, little food, and constantly being stalked was sapping my spirit.

We were at the far end of the cellblock, waiting for dinner, avoiding the common area. I had ice from the dispenser pressed against my swollen eye.

"Don't have much choice, do I?" I responded. "You don't look like a thug. What's been going on here?"

"I was a journalist. Caught wind of a big story," he said. "One the government wasn't going to like. But I also had a drug problem. Now I'm here and all my notes are gone."

"Aren't there laws against that? What did your lawyer say?"

"Turned out my lawyer was working for the other side. After the trial, he told my family I didn't want anything to do with them. Which is a lie. I haven't had word from anyone in three months."

"They won't be able to keep you incommunicado forever. Contact the FBI office in Washington. Talk to Rasmussen."

"You working for them?" he asked.

"No. They arrested me."

"Do they know you're here?"

"No one knows I'm here. They were careful about that," I answered.

"They can't afford to let you leave."

"I've been in custody for six years. What suddenly makes me so dangerous?"

"Big scandal about to break. I won't be part of it. I've learned my lesson, but you were going to be dragged back into the limelight. There are important people who don't want that. Jason Decker is one of them."

"How many here are in the same boat?" I asked.

"Five, at least. A couple of bloggers. A podcaster. There's a former cop. A computer analyst," he speculated. "I don't think we're all here for the same reason, but all of us have made enemies of the Wagner administration."

"If any of them are here because of me, tell them I'm sorry," I said, for it was a sad statement on the abuse of power.

"We heard you were just doing your time. Teaching. Not hurting anybody. We feel bad for you, but no one is prepared to die for you."

"I can do my own dying," I assured him.

An hour later, just as I picked up my meal, enchiladas and yellow rice, Killpenny, Clockman, and Stickler surrounded me. Killpenny swatted my plate to the floor and grabbed me by the neck. Stickler brought out his homemade shank.

"You need to bleed," Stickler said.

I realized there was no laying back this time. I broke Killpenney's grip and threw a right punch to his face, staggering him. His eyes bulged, like he couldn't understand how hard he'd been hit. With a turn, I punched Clockman in the belly, punched him in the jaw as he doubled over, and whacked him on the back of the head as he went down.

Stickler was slow to react, looking startled. I twisted the shank out of his hand, threw it over the counter into the kitchen, and delivered two quick left jabs to his face. He fell back against the counter, arms flailing.

Killpenny was still on his feet. I raised my hands, palms out, and took several steps backward. Killpenny caught his breath and raised his fists.

The brawl quickly drew a crowd, inmates shouting and gesturing. Diamonds was there, but only as a spectator. Guards were probably watching, too, but I had no chance to look for them. I ducked Killpenny's swing, ducked again, and then sidestepped as he went for a haymaker. He tumbled into a table, got caught in a chair, and fell head over heels to the floor. The crowd laughed.

Stickler and Clockman were getting back up. I stepped forward and punched Stickler so hard he went down in a swoon. That left me and Clockman. I noticed the silver cross hanging around the tall black man's neck.

"The brothers of St. Mary's made me a Christian," I said. "I guess God is disappointed in both of us."

Clockman's lip curled in a snarl as we traded blows. He was stronger but I was more experienced. It was a determined exchange. Soon, we were both hurting and breathing hard. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth. My eye was swelling shut again, making it hard to see.

I stepped back, one hand on my bruised ribs, the other on the counter to keep my balance. Stickler still lay on the ground near my feet, moaning.

"I think your little brother could use some help," I suggested. "Or do the Diablos not care for their own?"

"We care," Clockman said.

Clockman picked Stickler up and took him to their table. Killpenny followed. Our audience clapped, cheered, and some paid off bets.

I snuck away to my cell, drinking from the sink. If I had put Clockman down, and I thought I could, several more Diablos might have jumped in to take his place. The odds just kept getting worse. Diamonds' lack of participation was also a concern. Was he setting me up for something?

"Pretty tough guy, aren't you?" Officer Johnson said, standing at my cell door. Like Officer Philips, he seemed a typical corn-fed Midwesterner.

"Just trying to get along, sir," I replied.

"You had it easy at Windhaven. Too easy. Now your debts are coming due," he remarked.

"Yes, sir," I said.

Provoking me wasn't working, and it made Johnson mad. He stomped off in a huff. I wrapped a stolen towel around my ribs and soaked it with cold water.

Late that evening, I think it was a Sunday, Officer Johnson and Officer Phillips came to my cell, pounding the bars with a baton.

"Come with us," Johnson said.

The cellblock was already locked down, and quieter than normal. I went with them past the shower area into a maintenance room that was always kept locked. They opened the door and pushed me in. I expected them to beat me up. I wasn't that lucky.

"We hear you have contraband. Strip," Phillips ordered.

I followed their instructions, climbing out of the dark red jumpsuit and underwear, standing naked with my hands held out. Johnson pretended to search my clothes, producing a plastic bag of white powder.

"Care to deny this is yours?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied, because it would only make the beating that much worse.

Phillips handcuffed my hands behind my back, poking me in the sore ribs with his baton.

"Think we're going to work you over?" Johnson asked.

"It's a concern," I admitted.

"We've got something much better for you, tough guy," Johnson said.

They took me by the elbows out of the maintenance room, down a long hall, and into a rear storage area. The cold room was dimly lit by a flickering neon light fixture. Four of the Diablos were waiting for me. Johnson and Phillips pushed me forward.

"Have fun, guys," Johnson said, closing the door as they left.

The next few hours were a blur. Forced to the floor, they took turns punching me, kicking me, and spitting on me between insults. Naked, handcuffed, and outnumbered, there wasn't much I could do to fight back. I think it was Diamonds who took me first, but by then my eyes were swollen shut, so I couldn't be sure. All I heard were grunts and boasting. Fortunately, I was so numb by then that I couldn't feel much of anything. Killpenny was likely next, pounding my head against the cement decking so hard that I lost consciousness. What happened after that, I don't really know.

I woke up in the shower area. I was alone, probably an hour before dawn. Cold water was running, washing away the blood. The handcuffs were gone, leaving deep marks on my wrists. My red jumpsuit lay near the entrance. I crawled far enough to reach the soap and cleaned up, gradually finding enough strength to get dressed. Walking was difficult, but I made it back to my cot. The cellblock was deadly silent.

The Diablos hadn't broken any bones. Under orders, I'm sure. But I was covered in purple bruises. I laid down on the cot, curled in a ball. There was nothing else to do. I'd had no contact with the outside world since leaving Windhaven nearly a month before. There was no one to complain to. None of the prisoners could dare be friends.

Without my medication, the nightmares had been coming back. Churned battlefields covered in dead. Wounded I couldn't help. Ditches so filled with blood that the mud was red. Soldiers with body parts torn away. I'd find myself walking through Arlington when the graves suddenly opened, skeletal arms reaching to take me home. I'd wake up, soaked in sweat, afraid to go back to sleep.

The days that followed were bleak. The Diablos hadn't repeated the adventure in the storage room. Apparently, that could only happen on nights when select guards were present. But I was cornered and beaten nearly every day. The Mexicans didn't help the Diablos, but they did jeer and mock me relentlessly. Sometimes they would trip me. Only the white prisoners left me alone, but not out of sympathy. It was part of their code. Though one did put his foot on my back once while I was lying on the floor, making it hard to get up.

Reaching the food line three times a day became too hard. I could barely move from my cell, so I would settle for breakfast, staggering through the commons while listening to off-color jokes about my sex life. Feeling sorry for me, Chef stuffed bread rolls and honey down my shirt when no one was watching, but it wasn't enough. I couldn't sleep and was losing weight.

On a Friday morning, Diamonds came into my cell, kneeling next to the cot. He looked very pleased, his eyes dancing with delight.

"Gots another party coming up," he said. "Don't fight so hard this time, or we might have to get rough." He patted me on the cheek, then slapped me hard.

For the rest of the day, I cowered in the corner. My body ached. I kept a pillow pressed over the cracked ribs, soaked in cold water from the sink. I was spitting blood. Tomorrow would be worse, and I already knew what to expect on Sunday. If there was a way out, I couldn't see it.

I'd known despair before. In a snowbound cardboard box when I was just nine years old. On battlefields where I lay wounded, knowing my buddies were dying around me. The night I was called to identify Francie's body near the wreck of her car. This was different. Before I had even walked through the green door, unseen enemies had sought to break my spirit. And they had succeeded. I felt nothing but a bleak, inescapable darkness.

When the brothers at St. Mary's took me in, they gave me a moral education and taught me their faith. And now I cursed them for it. What had their exalted platitudes gotten me but a shameful death? I could not even end my own life, as much as I wanted to, for it was a mortal sin in a religion they compelled me to believe. I'd have cried if breathing didn't hurt so much. I wanted to pretend my life wasn't ending so pathetically.

"Lawrence, visitor," Johnson said, pounding his baton on the bars.

It seemed unlikely. I supposed it to be another trap and wanted to refuse. But they would just drag me out anyway. I pulled myself up using the sink for leverage and staggered out to the walkway. Johnson pointed to the green door, escorting me out of the cellblock.

"We couldn't refuse this one. It's just too good," Johnson said, giving me a shove.

My hands were cuffed before me, as if I was a danger in my current condition. We went to an elevator, me in baby steps, and I began to suspect we really were going to the Visitor Center. The corridor walls were pale yellow, the floor black and white checkered tiles. We reached a long line of cubicles. None of them were occupied. Johnson sat me down in a plastic chair before a glass partition, removed the handcuffs, and switched on a speaker.

"Enjoy, killer. This is the last bitch you'll ever see," Johnson whispered in my ear. Then he swaggered away, chuckling at some sick joke.

The large, shabby visitor room on the other side of the glass partition was empty at first. Then a drably dressed matron entered with a young woman about twenty years old. The matron gave her a tiny push and departed, closing the door. To my amazement, the young woman was Jennifer Blair, her hair a lighter red than I remembered.

Jenny seemed confused. I was the only other person in the center, but apparently she didn't recognize me. Which was odd, for we had shared many zooms over the years, exchanging stories of school assignments and charity work. Slowly, she came forward and sat down, staring at me like I was a ghost. Or a nightmare. Then she realized who I was.

"Oh my God. Jack, what have they done to you?" she asked, pressing her hands against the glass.

I coughed, splattering blood. I used a sleeve to wipe my chin. The long walk from the cell block had robbed my strength.

"We didn't ask for you to be sent here. I swear to God. Not Mom, not Bobby. The White House is lying. Please forgive us. Please."

I couldn't think of anything to say, returning her plea with a blank stare. She didn't seem real.

"Jack, please. We're so sorry. I'm so sorry," Jenny muttered.

Tears were running down her face. Jenny wasn't just upset, she was distraught. It distressed me to see her like this.

"It's okay," I finally said, placing a hand against the glass near hers. My knuckles were red, the fingers swollen.

"We've been looking for you ever since Warden Mims called. Looking everywhere," she explained. "No one would say where you were taken. Mr. Rasmussen is trying to get a court order."

I thought it unlikely that Rasmussen would be successful. The Justice Department authorized the transfer. Only the Attorney General could reverse it. But I didn't want to discourage her. She looked like a wreck.

"The warden here, Glasgow, he thinks my family hates you. That's why he let me in. I'm going to tell everyone what they're doing. Bobby's calling a press conference. We're going to get you out of here."

"Please, Red, don't get your hopes up," I said.

Jenny seemed to feel terribly guilty, but she had no reason to be. I was the one who felt guilty. My death was going to put a dreadful burden on her.

"You have friends. They will fight for you," Jenny insisted.

Nothing they could do would be in time. If it looked like I might be transferred, I'd be shanked or thrown off a catwalk. But at least it would be over. And I hadn't been abandoned. I took solace in that.

"Jenny, you need to listen to me. Listen carefully," I whispered, looking at her with urgency.

"Yes, I'm listening," she said, sniffling.

"You'll never know what this visit has meant to me. Thank you so much. Tell my friends I was okay at the end. Tell your mother I understand why she couldn't forgive me and that I'm sorry. Tell Bobby I'm not mad at anybody. And take care of yourself. None of this is your fault. Now you need to go, and don't come back."

"Jack, please don't give up. We love you," she pleaded.

I felt awful that she was in such a state, and that I was responsible for it. I noticed the way the light was shining off her hair, and the way the tears glistened on her cheeks. It reminded me of the statue of Muriel that Father Sebastian had kept in the chapel surrounded by candles. Was Jenny Blair my angel?

"Don't ever think you failed me," I said.

I motioned for Officer Phillips, who pulled me from the chair and dragged me through the door. I turned at the last minute to see Jenny standing up, pressing her hands against the partition, her blue eyes filled with terror. I promised myself to say a prayer for her.

Going back to my cell, I no longer felt sorry for myself. I had a plan to go out on my own terms, in front of witnesses, so no one could claim I was a coward. This isn't to say I wasn't afraid. I was very afraid. But that was unimportant now. I had seen love in Jenny's eyes. Felt it through the glass wall. That was enough to sustain me.

My sleep was good for the first time in weeks. I woke up early, made my cot, cleaned the sink, washed my hair, and knelt in prayer. I'd have mended the rips in my jumpsuit if I had a sewing kit.

I didn't see Johnson or Phillips as I left my cell for the last time. There were several new guards that I didn't recognize. They were watching from the catwalks. I entered the commons without the usual jeers. Many of the prisoners had their heads down, as if they knew something was coming and didn't want to be part of it. I went to the food line, finding others were stepping out of my way, and stopped before Chef.

"Four cups of coffee, please. As hot as you can get them," I requested.

"Are you okay, Sarge?" Chef asked.

The question caught me off-guard. I looked around to see many looking at me under bent brows. There was a new level of curiosity.

"Sarge?" I said.

"Bobby Blair made the announcement this morning. We know the Sarge in his books is you."

"Will that help me get four cups of hot coffee?" I asked.

"So hot, you won't want to touch them without gloves," Chef promised, giving me a wink.

He produced the four paper cups on a plastic tray. Steam was curling out of the tops. I took a deep breath, walking toward the Diablo's table in the center of the room. My arms were weak, making balancing the tray a challenge, but no one was trying to trip me now. There were no off-color comments. Perro Grande looked at me like it was the first time, a grudging admiration in his eyes. When I almost lost control of the tray, Gusanito jumped up to steady me.

"Gracias, mi amigo," I whispered.

"Go with God, my friend," Worm whispered back.

I reached the Diablo's table with relief. It had been a long walk.

"My friends, we need to make peace," I said, setting the tray in the middle of the table.

"Think being a war hero is going to save your pathetic ass?" Diamonds said, grinning like he'd won the lottery.

"You being Sarge changes nothing," Stickler added. "Just makes us more famous for taking you down."

"We've got something really special for you, bitch. Really special," Killpenny boasted, pounding a fist into his palm. "Sunday night is going to be a party."

Clockman remained quiet, not that I cared.

"Let me get things started," I said, reaching to adjust the tray.

The coffee was so hot, it could be felt from eight inches away. Chef had done me a good turn. I knocked the first cup over, the steaming brown liquid running off the table into Stickler's lap. He shrieked, grabbing his crotch and trying to push away, but the chair was mounted to the floor. More of the scalding liquid poured down on him. By the time he thought to roll out, he'd been seriously burned.

If that looked like an accident, my next move didn't. As Diamonds was staring at Stickler, I picked up a cup and threw the coffee full in his face, aiming for the eyes. He screamed, slapping at the burns, struggling to shake the liquid off. If he wasn't blinded there was a good chance his vision would never be the same.

I grabbed the third cup and threw it at Killpenny, but he was alert now, ducking most of it. A splash did catch his neck, causing him to howl. He jumped from his seat, tearing at his collar.

A backhand slap sent the fourth cup in Clockman's direction. He was also scrambling to get out of the way, the coffee drenching his thigh. He wiggled and twisted, shaking his red jumpsuit. Then he turned toward me with fists ready. In better days, I'd have launched at him, but I had no such strength. Merely raising my arms was hard because of the damaged ribs. But I made two fists and stood my ground, daring them to come at me. Diamonds lay on the floor screaming. Stickler was curled in a ball, crying.

Clockman was closer, ready to punch me in the gut, but Killpenny came around the table, wanting to do the honors. He was holding Stickler's knife.

"He's mine! He's mine!" Killpenny shouted as a hundred prisoners were on their feet watching.

This is it, I thought, crossing myself. And then I braced to intercept him, feet apart, hands up, watching the knife coming at my chest. I reached to block the thrust, knowing I would be unsuccessful.

Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind. My legs were kicked out from under me. I was shoved under a table. There was a lot of yelling. Men were fighting. All I could see were legs of inmates scuffling around me.

"Come on, Sarge," Chef said, dragging me out from under.

Chef pulled me into a corner, shielding me with his thick body. The commons had erupted into a riot, and it looked like the Diablos were getting the worst end. Perro Grande seemed to be the leader, but even a few of the whites were joining in. Half of the black prisoners were staying out of it.

Guards arrived, wading in to separate the combatants. Three inmates, a black man and two whites, hustled me around the edge of the confusion and took me back to my cell.

"We got ya, Sarge. Just relax," my black rescuer said.

He placed an icepack on my ribs, which felt good, and gave me four aspirin along with a glass of water. Two sat with me while one watched the door.

"Corporal Tim Jackson, 4th Mountain Division," the black inmate said, a tough, burly veteran.

"Private Walter Scott, 22nd Armor," a white rescuer introduced, looking more like an engineer than a grunt. He wore an American flag tattoo on his forearm.

"Private First-Class Johannes Gripe, 77th Infantry," the third said from the door, tall and thin with a U.S. Marines tattoo on his shoulder. "We never would have let those Diablos have you if we'd known who you are."

"It's not something I talk about," I responded.

"We get that. Bobby Blair laid it all out, how you let the government hide your war record to cover up Blair's murder," Gripe explained.

"And then they sent you here, to silence you. Those ungrateful sons of bitches," Scott complained.

I didn't know if that was a real explanation. Despite some things I'd heard, I doubted it. But I wasn't in a mood to speculate. I had expected to be bleeding out on the commons floor with multiple knife wounds.

"We got lots of vets here. White, black, Hispanic," Jackson said. "None is gonna see them Diablos come after you again. We take care of our own."

I must admit, that came as a relief. And if I hadn't been in so much pain, I'd have jumped up and hugged them.

Once the commotion died down, one of the new guards came by to see how I was doing. He asked if I wanted a doctor, but suspecting a trick, I said no. Admittedly, the guard did seem genuinely concerned.

The afternoon of the riot, I was called into the warden's office. My hands were cuffed in front of me because I couldn't keep my balance with them behind, and the guards didn't feel like carrying me. It was a slow walk, a shuffle being my best speed.

Warden Glasgow had a large second floor office overlooking the front gate. He was a short, chubby man with a receding hairline and the snaky eyes of a politician. The guards parked me in a chair and left. Glasgow remained looking out the window for several minutes. Something down below had his attention.

"What the hell's going on, Lawrence?" he asked with the trace of a Scottish accent. He turned around, leaning on his desk.

"Sir?" I said.

"Ten of my guards are gone, all from your cellblock. Five have quit. Three are reporting serious injuries. Two are missing entirely. My office is being bombarded by phone calls, and now the FBI is coming through my gate."

"What am I supposed to know?" I said.

"You know something, goddamn it," he shouted, pounding the desk. "Ever since that little snot Blair had his press conference, all hell's broken loose. Are you really this Sarge guy?"

"I haven't read the book. Maybe I would have more time if your guards weren't trying to kill me."

"That's an unfounded accusation," he said, red-faced.

"Maybe," I half-agreed.

"We've got you on serious charges. Possession of heroin. Aggravated assault. And now you've put two inmates in the hospital. One might never see again. That's assault with intent to kill."

"Add it to my life sentence," I dared.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Glasgow's attractive secretary tried to introduce the visitors, but they barged in.

"Jack? Thank God," Alex said, kneeling at my side.

Rasmussen and Alberto were with her, looking irate. Rasmussen took one glance at my battered body and clenched his jaw. His hand floated to the sidearm in his shoulder holster.

"Be thankful we got here in time, Glasgow. If Lawrence was already dead, there'd be nothing in this world I could do to protect you," Rasmussen growled.

Alberto knelt next to me on the other side of the chair. A glance at my swollen face revealed glassy eyes. When he gripped my arm, I grimaced. He pulled back the sleeve to see the entire arm covered in purple bruises. He jumped up, turning toward the warden.

"Let me have five minutes with him, sir," Alberto requested. "Please, just five minutes."

"Dragon, calm down," I said, not wanting him to get in trouble.

"Calm down? We've just spent the morning interrogating Phillips," Alberto said. "He told us everything. And he told us who ordered it."

"Everything?" I asked.

"Yes, Jack. Everything," Alex said, holding my hand.

"Phillips is under arrest for aggravated assault, as is Johnson," Rasmussen said. "And so are you, you goddamn son of a bitch."

Rasmussen slammed Glasgow down on the desk and let Alberto handcuff him.

"I don't understand," Glasgow mumbled.

"You have the right to remain silent, and I suggest you use it," Rasmussen warned. "By the time we get done dismantling your house of horrors, you'll be the most infamous criminal in America."

That made me a little jealous.

Alberto took Glasgow out of the office. I heard more FBI agents in the corridor. It sounded like they had brought an army.

Rasmussen knelt next to me with an expression I had never imagined. It was as if he was looking at a dead child. I must have appeared awful. He handed me a handkerchief. Tears were running down my face and I didn't know it.

"Can you stand up?" he asked.

"Not without help, sir," I replied.

"We'll get you to a hospital," he promised.

"The prison infirmary should be fine," I answered.

"Jack, you don't understand. We're taking you out of here," Alex said.

"No, Alex. You don't understand," I replied. "My work here isn't finished."

* * * * * *

Alex stayed at my side as the infirmary put me on a morphine drip. It felt really great. The Administration Building was crawling with Federal agents, mostly FBI, but also U.S. Marshals. I caught a brief glimpse of a shady character in a slouch hat. Had that been Aaron Ritterman? What would the CIA be doing here? The prison staff were being questioned. A few found themselves taken away in handcuffs, for the abuses had not started with me. Apparently, Cell Block 7 was being used to punish political dissidents as well as criminals.

"We were frantic. Really frantic," Alex said, sitting on the bed next to me. She was smearing my entire body with a healing cream. Rather shamelessly, for there was not an inch of me that didn't need it.

"I don't understand," I confessed. "How has all this happened?"

"When Decker announced you were transferred because of drugs, I knew it was a lie. Then Mims told us who took you."

"Wasn't Jenny Blair here last week?" I asked.

"That was yesterday. You'd still be missing if someone named Chef hadn't smuggled out word."

"Sorry if I sound confused."

And I was confused. Between the beatings, and the morphine, and the miraculous rescue, everything was just a haze. I wasn't even sure if it was really Alex hovering over me, or if she was part of a hopeful delusion.

"Is it true Johnson was the worst of the lot?" she asked.

"That would be true, though there's plenty of competition for second place."

"He's not riding so high now," Alex said, working hard to boost my morale. "After Jenny told us about her visit, we called everybody. People you've known and helped over the years. We broke into teams, going after every guard from your cell block. Dragon and I, and a CIA agent who wouldn't give his name, went after Johnson. We caught up with him in the driveway outside his house. We told him to fess up or he'd get hurt. He protested our harassment and said he'd call the Feds. Dragon flashed his badge. I flashed mine. The CIA agent flashed a fake ID card. Then Dragon said, 'We are the Feds, you goddamn motherfucker.' To make a long story short, when Johnson resisted arrest, Dragon and the agent beat the holy crap out of him."

Alex laughed, and I managed to laugh, too.

"Any confession he gives won't hold up in court," I warned.

"We'll see. By the way, you've got the whole country in an uproar again," Alex mentioned.

"What have I done this time?"

"When Robert Blair announced you're the character in his book, the Army came clean on your war record. No more disgruntled file clerk. Everyone is learning you were a combat medic. That you saved lives. How you were wounded in action. And people are asking a lot of questions. They want to know why the Army lied about who you really are. Congress might hold hearings."

"Colonel Fowler is going to love that," I said. "You'll need to thank Bobby for me. He saved my life this morning."

Alex gave me that look, and I told her everything. Honestly and completely. About the beatings. The assault. That I had given up hope. At times, she held a hand over her mouth in horror.

"I guess this will add another chapter to Sandra's book," I concluded.

"You shouldn't joke about something so terrible," Alex complained.

"I can't let it define me either."

Rasmussen returned, holding a notepad filled with scribbles.

"We're taking statements from staff and prisoners," Rasmussen revealed, reviewing the new information. "Probably take a few days. Getting a new warden in here, too. Your statement will be the most important."

"That would be a mistake," I advised.

"How so?" he asked.

"Because I'm not going to rat anyone out."

"Jack, they conspired to kill you," Alex insisted.

"And if we were on the outside, it might be different. But we're not. Within these walls, there's a code. I still need to live with other prisoners and cooperate with the guards. There are changes I want to make, and to do that, I need their respect."

"We can't let you stay here," Alex said.

"Missy, God put me in Northfield for a reason. And He saved me for a reason. I lost my faith, but you and Jenny, you've given it back to me. I can make a difference here."

I started getting sleepy. Or was it simply exhaustion? I heard Alex and Rasmussen whispering to each other and hoped they realized I was serious about staying.

I slept solidly until the next morning. With the gut-wrenching fear of the last few weeks abated, I could start thinking clearly again. U.S. Marshal Gary Garrison was sitting upright in the corner, watching over me. He was square. Square shoulders, a square jaw, and a flattop haircut. Even his eyes looked squarish.

"Relax. I'm not going to escape," I whispered.

He stood up, smiling at my joke.

"Want breakfast?" Garrison asked.

"Something that isn't hard to chew," I agreed.

Alex arrived a few minutes later with a tray. Oatmeal and orange juice. I wondered where Chef was.

"I don't understand. Alberto and Rasmussen don't understand either," she said gently. For she wanted me to talk, not get defensive.

"My students at Windhaven, they wrote articles about my work," I explained. "I warned the younger inmates to stay away from drugs. Especially the drug trade, because it's the black market that ruins lives. And I criticized the gangs for not protecting the young men they recruited. I don't care what the older men do. I don't care about their trade in contraband. They know enough about the world to change their ways if they want to.

"The Diablos, the beatings. The humiliation. That was all intended to break me. A warning to other crusaders. And it almost worked. Now I need to show it didn't. I can't do that by running away. This is my battlefield now, and I mean that literally."

Rasmussen entered, looking unhappy. He grabbed a chair, glanced at my food, and scooted back.

"Bad news. The Attorney General isn't authorizing the transfer," he said. "He knows moving Jack now will be an admission of guilt, and he still has the backing of the President."

"Is President Wagner part of this?" Alex asked.

"I doubt he knows the whole story. Plausible deniability. But Decker is digging in his heels. He knows if we can tie him to Glasgow, and tie Glasgow to Phillips and Johnson, we'll have them all on attempted murder charges."

"What are we going to do?" Alex asked.

"Don't I get a say?" I interjected.

"No, Jack, you don't," Rasmussen answered. "Dr. Livingston says you're a goddamn Kamikaze. That you'll dive your plane into a battleship if it looks like a good target. If there was any way I could prove you're nuts, I'd drag your ass out of here right now in a straitjacket."

I don't know if they really thought me mentally disturbed or were just unhappy with my attitude. I didn't resent them. I loved them.

"I'm not crazy, Harold. I'm a medic. A first responder," I said. "Fifteen years ago, at St. Mary's, I decided my mission would be to save lives. To make up for being the dockyard thug I was before. And you know, the most ironic part of this whole thing is, if someone else had shot President Blair that day, I'd have been the first person at his side administering First Aid."

"Oh, Jack," Alex said, turning to wipe away a tear.

"Son, I don't care what you say. I don't care about this mission of yours. I'm getting you out of here," Rasmussen said, waving a finger at me. "I'll get a court order or whatever proves necessary. It may take a month, it may take six months, but I'm getting you out. And you'd better not get killed in the meantime or there will be hell to pay."

"Thanks, Harry. Really. Thanks for being my friend," I said, reaching to shake hands.

"At least your friends will get to visit," Alex said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.

"No, no visitors, Missy. Not even you," I regretfully said. "What I must do, the person I need to become, isn't someone I want you to see. I don't want any of my friends seeing that."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going back to someone I was a long time ago. Back to the docks with the bullies, and the pimps, and those who steal spirits," I said. "And they are going to regret the day I was ever sent to Northfield."

* * * * * *

Just as a spoiler alert, Jack is not going to spend the rest of this novel in prison. But he is on a mission, as seen in chapter 8, The Four Horseman.