Diminished Capacity

Chapter 8

by G. Lawrence

Recap; Six years after the murder of President Blair, Jack was transferred to a maximum-security prison where he was brutally tortured and nearly murdered by a conspiracy of guards and prisoners, but friends discovered the plot and came to his rescue. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

The Northfield portions of Jack's memoir are vague for a reason, being fraught with serious legal issues. Jack always lived by a code, whether it was on the streets, in the Army, or waging a crusade in prison. He was not afraid to shed blood or spend his own for a righteous cause. Warmest Regards, Harold Rasmussen

Chapter Eight

THE FOUR HORSEMAN

I was in the infirmary for two weeks, constantly under guard, as Rasmussen feared one of Warden Glasgow's minions might seek to silence me. Several U.S. Marshals and I played poker, which was good, because I needed the money. Alex stayed with me for most of it, using the ex-warden's office as her bunkroom and command post.

"This prison is a dreary place," she complained, sitting at my bedside in the infirmary wearing a casual gray business suit. "The next time the government tries to kill you, ask for nicer accommodations."

"Look who's making bad jokes now," I responded.

"I know you like your doom and gloom," she shot back. "But you thought you were going to get the death penalty, and that didn't work out. Then you were exposed to a fatal dose of radiation and got cured. And it turns out ten prison guards and a whole cell block of violent criminals couldn't kill you, either."

"You forget getting shot in Afghanistan," I smugly said.

"That's old news."

"It was a little more than four years ago."

"That can't be. You were at Windhaven four years ago," she questioned.

"Classified mission, you can't tell anybody."

"Okay," she agreed with an eager smile. Alex got up to close the door, locked it, and returned, stripping off her wool jacket and shoes while keeping the skirt and white blouse. Then she climbed into the bed lying next to me.

"You know I can't do anything, even if we wanted to," I mildly protested.

"Oh, yes, I know," she acknowledged, unbuttoning the blouse to reveal a black bra. "I just like teasing you. All these times we've been in bed together, we've never had sex. Because our friendship means more to you. It's one of the reasons I love you so much."

"One day I may love you less and take off the rest of those clothes," I threatened.

"No, you won't. But it's flattering to say you might. Now what's this about a secret mission?"

I told her the story of the Tabrit rescue, where Colonel Fowler had whisked me out of Windhaven Prison to the Pentagon, and then on to a military base in Afghanistan. Our commando team recovered five hostages under the noses of Tashad.

"Everyone has heard of that mission," Alex recalled. "They had parades and banquets. I had no idea you were involved."

"Telling the media that I led the mission would have been controversial."

"So, Fowler wanted you and you agreed?"

"It was necessary to prevent civilian casualties."

"Did you?"

"Yes, none of the villagers were injured," I happily confirmed. "By the way, that CIA agent who helped you and Dragon beat-up Johnson? His name is Aaron Ritterman. He's one of the five I brought out."

"Wow. That explains a lot. The secure traffic on Unidentified Agent #5 has been heavy in intelligence circles lately."

"Agent #5 is dead," I insisted.

"Gone but not forgotten. Many want to know what other missions he was assigned to. What his background was. They want to know his name."

"Imagine the disappointment when they find out," I mumbled.

"I don't think disappointed is how they'll describe it," Alex guessed. "Tell me about getting shot."

"A small flesh wound. Nothing to brag about."

I rolled on my side, pulled up the hospital gown, and showed her the small scar on my butt where a ricochet had caught me climbing up the hill.

"I don't know how you keep walking away from these situations," Alex wondered. "There must be an angel watching over you."

I briefly thought of how Jennifer Blair's face had been pictured through the glass wall in the Visitor Center. Tears running down her cheeks as she saw how badly battered I was. It had reminded me of Father Sebastian's statue of Muriel at St. Mary's. My angel in the window. Of course, I said nothing of this to Alex.

"I'm being call back," she reported. "But I'm sending in a replacement. She'll be here in the morning."

"She?"

"Someone you've met before," Alex impishly answered. She said a fond farewell and disappeared, though we'd be seeing a lot of each other in the future. My new visitor arrived the next day.

"Is it lieutenant or doctor?" I asked.

"Lieutenant commander now," Juliet Nichols said, wearing a white Air Force uniform decorated with gold braid.

I had not seen her since that night we slept together at the Glenn Masters Research Facility nearly five years before, where I had been recovering from radiation poisoning. Juliet still had her well-rounded figure and cute freckles, but her auburn hair was longer and strawberry blonde.

"Congratulations, ma'am. No Johnny Walker Blue?" I inquired.

"And have Alex give me a full body scalp? I don't think so," she said with a grin. "It's good to see you again. We were all worried."

"Isn't Northfield a long way from Colorado Springs?"

"I'm stationed at Langley now," she answered.

"That's a long way away, too," I pointed out.

"They owed me a few days off."

"You are still so ... charming," I said, unable to keep my eyes from dancing over her firm figure. It had been a while.

"Am I the last woman you were with?" she asked.

"No. But still memorable," I replied. "That was a good trick you and Alex pulled."

"It wasn't a trick. After they finally released you from that glass tube, Alex asked me to visit, knowing all you'd been through, and suggested nature take its course if I liked you. And I do like you."

"You met at Berkeley?"

"Alex was studying law enforcement. Not a popular field at Cal in those days, but she's always been a rebel. I was a farmer's daughter from Iowa with no money and needing a roommate. People always thought the gun crazy party girl and the bookworm made a strange pair."

"Alex seems to have settled down a bit."

"Since Thanksgiving Eve, she's one of the most famous women in America. She needs to be careful about what she says."

"Don't we all. So how is my health, doctor?"

"You have two broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than I can count. In the doctoring business, that's not considered good."

"How long until I'm back up to speed?" I asked.

"I'd say another three weeks for the bruises. Six more for the ribs and concussion, depending how much rest you get. And if you don't develop any other symptoms."

Juliet paused, looking at the bottle of medication on my nightstand.

"What are these?" she asked, reading the label.

"I requested my sleep prescription."

"Insomnia?"

"Nightmares."

"Jack, these aren't sleeping pills. This is an antipsychotic. Have you been diagnosed with schizophrenia?"

"Not that I've ever heard of."

"Who recommended them?"

"I don't remember. I've been taking them on and off for years, ever since Francie died in that car crash."

She held the bottle for a moment, looked at me, and then read the label again before putting the pills back on the nightstand. She had more questions but didn't ask them.

"I'll be back next week to see how you're doing," she said.

"I can't put you out like that. It's a long trip," I protested.

"The FBI is going to fly me out on one of their jets."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Juliet had to return to duty three days later after running a full battery of tests. I felt like a lab experiment again, lying naked on a table as she examined every welt, bruise, and contusion, sometimes with a fluoroscope. Photos were taken for long-term medical records. The photos were also intended as legal documentation, as Rasmusen wanted Glascow, Johnson, and Phillips prosecuted for conspiracy and attempted murder. Juliet and I didn't sleep together, not that I wouldn't have wanted to, but my body wasn't up for it. My reaction made her smile.

The new warden came to visit. I was still in the infirmary, wearing a hospital gown covered with a gray blanket. "Hello, Mr. Lawrence. I'm Warden Jasper Means."

I put Means at sixty years old, modest height and round in the middle, with thinning brown hair. Possibly German ancestry. He dressed well.

"I'm Jack Lawrence," I replied, offering to shake hands.

"Whole damn world knows that," he said, accepting the gesture. "Look, son, I've been a guard and a warden in the Federal system for thirty-two years. Thought I'd seen it all. No apology is enough for this travesty."

"Sir, I was at Windhaven for five years. Walter Mims is a friend. You don't need to apologize for a few miscreants."

"That's generous, Mr. Lawrence," he said, sizing me up.

"Jack," I responded.

"Jack, let me be honest. For someone in your position, you have the strangest friends I've ever seen. FBI. Secret Service. The Office of Army Intelligence. Even that doctor from the Air Force. All those years, you let the country think you were a resentful loner, and now it turns out you're a war hero. Hell, I heard Alex McGuire visited you. Do you know who she is?"

"She had something to do with Thanksgiving Eve, didn't she?" I answered, appearing clueless.

"Something? She's the hero of Thanksgiving Eve!" Means blurted. "She saved Boston!"

"I should have asked for her autograph," I sighed.

"Jack, these connections raise a lot of questions."

"With all due respect, sir, you are not the person to be asking those questions," I suggested. "You have a job to do, and I have a sentence to serve."

"Is it true you're going to start beating the hell out of my inmates?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Rumors get around."

"Only the bad ones, sir. And I will never throw the first punch," I explained. "But I will try to get the kids off drugs and into school. I'll try to convince the gangs that a redeemable prisoner's first loyalty is to his family. That their young men should be getting job training. That they need to return to their neighborhoods to make them safe places to live. And that doing this is a win for everybody. I'll try not to be stupid or embarrass you."

"You'll probably get yourself killed."

"Nothing can be as bad as what I just went through. I've seen the abyss. Now I'm ready to climb the mountain."

"Afternoons will be the best time," Means said. "I have some boys who know how to balance their responsibilities. You'll want to know where the cameras are. Let us know if any need to malfunction at specific times. You're a medic. I'll have a First Aid kit delivered to your cell. It will reduce the need to file reports."

Needless to say, I was astonished. I had expected to spend the next thirty years in solitary confinement. Instead, I had found a kindred spirit.

* * * * * *

I was given my choice of cell blocks, for 7 was closed until further notice. Several of the names in Cell Block 4 were familiar, and it was centrally located, which served my purpose. Two new guards, Officer Jess Baker and Officer Donald Tomlinson, were my escort. They were two of the boys Warden Means had mentioned, rough and ready veterans of Second Afghan. We didn't discuss my plans. I would not blatantly do anything to jeopardize their careers.

"Perro Grande, my friend," I nearly shouted, finding him surrounded by ten of his compadres.

"We heard you are still alive," Big Dog said, standing up. A large man in his mid-forties, he had kept his people together in the horrors of Cell Block 7.

"Because of you. Thank you, my friend," I replied, embracing him with sincerity. "We have much to talk about, but I need to find my new cell first."

"There are few whites here," Gusanito warned.

"We are Mexican. Nicaraguan. Salvadorean. Guatemalan. Are you sure this is where you should be?" Big Dog asked.

"Warden Means gave me my choice of rooms, and when I saw you and Chef on the roster, it was an easy decision. Now I can learn to speak better Spanish."

"Tu español ya es maldita bueno," Big Dog's lieutenant suspiciously said, a lanky tattoo-covered fellow who hailed from Puerto Rico.

"Ah, Federico, my friend, it may be true that I know all the words. But I don't know all the accents. Accent is the key," I said.

My new home was on the ground floor at the far end of the block, an extra wide cell with several amenities. And the toilet was scrubbed clean, which I took as a good sign. But that wasn't what surprised me. It was my new roommate.

"Bear? What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.

"Manny, Sean, and I drew lots. I won," Bear replied with a grin. "I get the bottom bunk."

Bear stood up and we hugged. It was good to see him, but disturbing.

"Why aren't you at Windhaven? You're only eighteen months away from release," I inquired. For it takes a serious offense to go from minimum to maximum security.

"Workin' for the FBI," Bear whispered. "I'm your bodyguard."

I sat down on the lower bunk, feeling sick. It never occurred to me that a good man like Bear would be dragged into this cesspool because of me. He had a family. A wife who loved him. Two children not yet teenagers.

"Did Rasmussen do this?" I asked.

"Yeah, that was him," Bear confirmed.

"That wily old fox," I moaned, feeling a reluctant admiration.

Rasmussen knew I'd curtail my violent instincts rather than get Bear in trouble. But there was time to figure a game plan later. As a former Army medic, I took Juliet's advice seriously. Having suffered a concussion, I would avoid being punched in the head for at least a month.

My Cell Block 7 rebellion was not without rewards. Those condemned to Warden Glasgow's gulag now had access to hot showers and clean towels. An elevated walkway led to the large central building where inmates on good behavior gathered for meals. Televisions, computer terminals, chess sets, and a gym made life easier. And many of my fellow sufferers were grateful for the change, giving "Sarge" some credit.

The Hub, as the big gathering center was called, was not quite so racially divided as our previous habitat. Older prisoners of all races would sit together, and a few of the kids were easygoing, depending on what video games they liked to play. The gangs still affiliated with their own. With Bear watching my back, I began to visit all of them, getting a good reception more often than not. I was a celebrity criminal, after all. The most famous in America. At least until Rasmussen found a politician to take my place.

Not all of my overtures were popular. The largest Mexican gang, calling themselves Mexis, did not appreciate me treading their territory. Fortunately, my relationship with Perro Grande allowed their leader, Alejandro Morata, to afford me some tolerance.

Morata was an interesting character. My height and build, he was well-read in the classics, liked to think through problems, and though not shy about using violence, he didn't see it as the ultimate answer. His leadership was based on respect rather than fear. Which was good. His enforcer was a 6'6 giant named Joaquin Jose Rivas, once third in line for the world heavyweight boxing championship, until his temper got him a second-degree murder conviction.

The Diablos were trying to regroup but now had competition from another black gang, the Angolans. Which was a strange name, because I don't think any of them were from Africa, let alone Angola. Their leader, a crafty Chicagoan named Tremaine, had a nasty-looking enforcer named Washer. I would need to study Washer's moves before taking him on. He was as big as Bear and kept himself fit.

Without Diamonds, who appeared to have been removed permanently, the Diablos lacked leadership and numbers, reduced to an army of eight. Killpenny was doing his best to fill Diamonds' place, which put him first on my list.

The white gang proved the most intractable. I expected to find the Aryan Brotherhood, but their recruitment program had apparently bypassed Northfield. Instead, I found a loose coalition of Neo-Nazis, petty crooks, and sister-rapists called the Rumbleshooters, or Shooters for short. They had a core group of twelve, led by a thick-necked first-degree murderer named Marl, who acted as his own enforcer. Another twenty white prisoners clung together for protection.

Bear and I began to gather our own posse, mostly vets and music lovers, for Bear had brought my Sam Wood guitar with him, and he was a master of the harmonica. Once my concussion appeared to show no undesirable symptoms, I began working out in the gym, where Bear and I would spar a few rounds each day.

"Yah ain't got your game back," Bear warned as I plotted against my first victim. "What did Dr. Nichols say?"

Tim Jackson, Walter Scott, and Johannes Gripe, my protectors during the riot, sat in our cell with us, along with Gusanito, who we were allowed to call Worm. We had a loose reserve of a dozen more, but we'd only call upon them if necessary. Bear, Tim, Walter and Johannes soon emerged as my reserve, loosely called the Four Horseman.

"She believes I should give it two more weeks," I admitted.

"Then why don't you?" Johannes asked.

"I think it's time to make my move," I said. "Breaking up the Diablos will send a message that I'm serious about the kids getting their GEDs."

"Our move, Sarge. We're a team," Walter said.

"We're a team, even if Bear still calls me Clutch sometimes," I answered. "But I'm a symbol of what we need to do. You know I'm right."

They had to nod in agreement. The magazine articles my classes had written at Windhaven, and were still writing, were stirring a reform movement. And I wasn't the only one leading it. Voices were arising in prisons everywhere. In the women's prisons, too. When institutions get so dark and hopeless that no one can take them anymore, there are always brave men and women who will stand up for change. All they need is a little inspiration. Even some of the gangs thought giving their kids a different direction was a healthy idea. Others weren't so lenient.

I was ready. The second floor of the Hub offered classrooms and a gym. Officer Jess Baker had the cameras in corridor B shut down between 2:45 and 3:10, just as Killpenny was leaving from a workout. He had three of his boys with him. I had Bear, Tim, Walter, and Worm, so it wouldn't be a white on black confrontation. Only a few inmates were in the hall, keeping the audience small.

"Good afternoon, Killpenny. How are Diamonds and Stickler doing?" I asked, blocking his path.

"Like you give a fuck," Killpenny said, trying to go around me.

"I believe we have unfinished business."

"Get out of my way or get put down, butt-boy," he threatened. I liked a man who could get straight to the point.

"Then put me down, bushwhacker," I replied.

Killpenny checked to see if his boys were backing him, and then threw his right at my face, followed by an attempt to kick me. I avoided both, then started with my left, testing the distance with several quick jabs. Once I had the range, I faked a right, faked a left, and then stepped in with a right hook to his face, putting my shoulder into the blow for maximum impact. Killpenny's eyes rolled back as he staggered against the wall.

I moved in with my head ducked low, pounding his mid-section with lefts and rights. He tried to push me off, but I was under his guard. Once his breath was gone, I stepped back and pounded his face half a dozen times, being careful not to hurt my hand. His nose was broken. Blood flowed from his mouth. I heard his jaw crack.

One on one, Killpenny had never been a match for me. Something he grasped too late. When he began sliding to the floor, I held him up for two good kidney punches and then let him drop. There was enough blood that we'd need a mop.

"Guess this piece of crap isn't getting up," I said.

The remaining Diablos were standing there staring, unwilling to challenge us with their leader moaning on the floor. I wasn't even winded, nor had Killpenny landed a blow. I'd been hit by him enough times to know his every move. I knelt down, grabbing his head so he'd have to look at me.

"You had your fun with me, now it's my turn. I'll see you tomorrow. And the day after. I'm not one for Sunday night parties in the storeroom, but I know a few who are. We'll be seeing you, sweet cheeks."

Killpenny stared at me in dread, unable to understand what had happened.

"Any of you boys want to try your luck?" I asked his gang, stepping in their direction.

They looked down at Killpenny, sucking blood as he tried to breathe. It created a ghastly sound.

"He asked if you want a piece of this," Bear repeated, standing at my side.

"No, sir," they mumbled.

"I still have Clockman to settle with. Tell him I'll be around," I warned.

As Killpenny's boys carried him back to his cell, Bear, Walt, Worm and I returned to the Hub where Johannes was standing guard. Word was spreading fast. I got a fresh orange juice from Chef and we took our usual seats near the center, the Mexis on one side, the Angolans on the other.

"Hell, Sarge, where'd you learn to work a guy over like that? That was brutal," Walt said.

"New York Harbor," I replied, sipping my juice.

I noticed Alejandro looking in my direction and gave him a nod. Rivas was sitting next to him, also watchful. Worm, out unofficial liaison, was giving them the update.

"Are you really going to beat the hell out of him again tomorrow?" Tim asked.

"I'm thinking about it," I replied. "It was fun."

Chef made hot turkey plates for dinner. Scott got hold of a contraband six-pack of Squirrel Nut Beer. A few of the younger guys I was coaching got up on stage to play their songs. We were just wrapping up when Clockman and the surviving Diablos came to our table. The five of us jumped up, and a few more of our posse circled behind them. Clockman stood before me, the others lingering back. The entire room grew quiet.

"You got a score to settle with me?" Clockman asked.

"You know that better than I do," I replied.

"What we did to you was wrong," Clockman said. "I'm saying it here and loud, for all to hear. Johnson and Philips, they egged us on. Promised rewards. But you needs to know, I didn't take you in the storeroom. And when the others wanted to do worse, I shut it down. I'm a Christian man. I'm sorry I ever forgot that."

Clockman drew the silver cross out from under his shirt, letting it dangle on the chain before him.

"None of that changes what we did," Clockman added. "I'm here to make it right."

He stepped up within arm's length, shoulders straight, his large jaw jutting out. He was waiting for me to hit him.

"I'm not throwing the first punch," I said, for I had promised Warden Means.

Clockman punched me in the shoulder. Firmly, but not with any force. When I didn't react, he punched me again. I looked him in the eye. He wasn't afraid, though he knew he should be. I sensed he genuinely regretted his actions.

When Clockman moved to punch me a third time, I caught his fist in mid-flight, stopping the motion. Then I stepped forward and punched him hard in the gut. He bent over, groaning. But he was large and thickly made. It would only take a moment to shake off. I hit him again harder, robbing him of his wind, but he made no effort to block the blow. I considered punching him in the face but backed off instead.

"Our score is settled. Unless you have something else in mind?" I said, holding my hands up.

"No, we're good," Clockman wheezed.

I resumed my seat at our table, turning my back to him. The Diablos wandered away. There was a lot of murmuring in the hall. I couldn't tell what the onlookers were thinking.

"Ya let him off easy, Sarge," Tim said.

"Some may see it as a sign of weakness," Walter warned.

"He wasn't going to fight back. What was I supposed to do?" I asked.

Bear laughed. "Clutch let him off to send a message," he lectured. "It says those who bend the knee will get a second chance."

Bear could be very intuitive.

I decided not to go after Killpenny the next day. He was creeping around like a whipped dog, whimpering about his injuries. Beating him up again would have been redundant.

My next target was the Angolans, another black gang. The Shooters were too small to bother with, for now, and had few of the younger men I was trying to ply away from a criminal lifestyle. The Mexican gangs were large and well-organized. Taking them on would take time and planning. The Angolans only had twenty-two members, eight of which I classified as redeemable.

"I'll make you a deal," I said to Tremaine outside the weight room. "Let your kids attend the classes we've set up. Have them get their GEDs. Keep them out of the drug trade."

"The answer is no. I need my soldiers. But if I was inclined, what would be in it for me?" he responded.

"Your kids don't need to make Northfield their life's work. They can go home, have wives, and the life you and I will never have. I think that's a good deal."

"Not good enough," Tremaine complained.

"In that case, I think the Angolans need a new leader," I concluded.

"You aren't going to ambush me like you did Killpenny, and Washer can put you down," he replied.

Washer was standing nearby, a hulk about the size of Bear. But he was a bully, not a professional. Neither Tremaine nor Washer seemed to get that. Correcting their misconception would be satisfying.

"Will your boys get involved, or shall we keep this personal?" I asked.

"We know you've been recruiting. We'll keep it personal," Tremaine agreed.

I gave Washer a nod, letting Bear arrange the details. There would be no ambush in the hall this time, but the venue was kept secret from the general population.

The fight happened the next afternoon, before dinner. Chef was making French Dip with onion soup and I didn't want to miss out. In an area under two connecting stairwells, Washer jumped around to loosen up. Nearly sixty spectators attended, including all the gang leaders. I arrived wearing gray sweatpants, thick gardener's gloves, and an Army T-shirt I'd kept from Diego Garcia. And a surprise.

After the Battle of Katana Bridge, when I was too shot up for combat duty, Army Intelligence took me in. They had a spy mission laid out for me in Paris, hence the alternate identity in my file jacket, and I had my 104th Ranger tattoo removed from my left upper arm. The spy mission never happened, and I left the service a year later. Now, as I took off my T-shirt, all could see the tattoo had returned, an eagle's claw accompanied by lightning bolts.

"The Sarge," onlookers whispered.

Bobby Blair, abetted by Red Carlson and Ricky Pressler, had made the Sarge a legend. I figured to make use of him, even if half the stories sounded made up.

Like many large bullies, Washer's plan was to wail on me with heavy blows, wrestle me down, and pound on me while I was on the floor. I ducked the first few swings, then caught him cold with a right jab to the eye, a left cross to the jaw, and a surprise right hook. He wobbled, reaching out to catch his balance, and I pushed him backward, smashing his head against the cement wall until he collapsed with a thud. When he tried to get up, I kicked him in the balls. The noisy crowd fell silent. The fight had lasted less than sixty seconds.

"Your turn," I said to Tremaine, grabbing him by the collar.

Tremaine tried to put up a fight, but he was my own height and thinner. He lacked the strength to match me. I also went a bit easy on him, not wanting to make a permanent enemy. After a few good punches to the face and splitting his lip, I asked if he'd had enough. He nodded.

"Anyone else?" I asked with an excited glint in my eyes as I searched for more victims. I must admit, my blood was up. It was like being on the docks again. The saloons. The whorehouses. Ambushing enemies. Facing down rivals. A life the Catholic brothers had put a stop to.

There were no takers. Walter brought my First Aid kit and I scrubbed Washer's head wound. Sarge was a medic, after all, and I needed to keep the narrative going. I also gave him a morphine tab, which he appreciated. I know I would have.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I cornered a dozen fellow inmates who irked me. Most were bullies. Two were offering more insults than I cared for. One was a rapist who bragged too often. A few managed to get in some good shots. I wasn't invincible. But then I'd go to work. Methodically, and with varying degrees of mercy. I lost patience with the last two, breaking enough bones to put them in the infirmary.

"Are you okay?" Officer Tomlinson asked one evening as we stood together on the walkway leading to the Administration Building.

The moon and stars were out. We could feel the wind. Officer Jess Baker, another veteran of the 4th Armor Division, was there, too. I considered both of them friends.

"Fine, Don. Why do you ask?" I said.

"You've been busy, and you're not walking away from these fights without paying a price," he explained. He pointed to a fresh bandage over my eye. Both hands were mildly swollen.

"Hasn't the violence slackened off?" I asked.

"Yes, with four of the worst offenders looking like walking wounded," Baker said. "The Warden wants to charge you for their medical fees."

We laughed. It was funny.

"Hopefully, this won't be necessary much longer," I confided. "My goal has been to recruit students, not be an enforcer."

"You seem to enjoy it," Baker observed.

"Too much. That's another reason to stop," I agreed. "One day I'd like to let my friends visit, but not the way things are now. Not while I'm like this."

"You're not a bad guy, Jack. Just a little zealous at times," Tomlinson said.

"Well, I don't want to get any of you officers in trouble for watching my back. Or Bear, or Tim, or anyone else," I said. "I'm looking for a way to wrap this up, one way or another. There are just a few details left to iron out."

The next day, I concluded my business with the smaller gangs, but in an unexpected way.

Nguyễn Văn Minh, leader of a Vietnamese gang called the Minh Hyenas, confronted me on the raised walkway connecting Cell Block 1 and the Hub. He was quite the martial arts aficionado, showing off some fancy moves while making impressive sound effects. A regular Bruce Lee.

"You keep after my boys," Minh said, blocking my path.

"Your kids are smart. They need to be in class," I responded.

"I decide what's best," Minh replied.

"Maybe you are deciding wrong?" I suggested.

"We will see," Minh said, setting himself in a fighting stance.

Six of his gang stood behind him, I only had Bear. Who I didn't want involved. Though Minh was four inches smaller, I didn't take him lightly. I blocked a good kick, but he slipped in a quick spinning follow-up that caught me on the side of the head. It shook me enough to blur my vision. A second kick almost broke a rib, putting me on the defensive, for he was fast and well-trained. I blocked the next two blows, backing up against the railing overlooking the gardens a dozen feet below.

"I am not one of your fat bitches," Minh bragged. "I will take you down."

It wasn't an impossible aspiration. My martial arts skills were good, but not in Minh's league. My best hope was to change the game. When Minh rushed again, I deflected his first thrust kick and grabbed his leg on the second attempt, trying to turn him against the railing. He countered with a flat-handed jab at my throat that just missed the jugular.

Giving Minh room to fight wasn't a good idea. I kept hold of his leg, pulled him in tight, and hit him with several strong jabs, taking advantage of my longer reach. He chopped down on my wrist, trying to break my grip. I pressed him against the railing, swung a punch that missed, and then missed again. Minh punched me in the nose, not hard enough to break it, but I was sucking blood in my mouth. I blocked his next punch, countered with a strong right, and then grabbed him by his jacket.

"No! Stop! Don't!" Minh demanded.

He tried to break free, wiggling and pulling back, but I finally gained the needed leverage, staying in close.

"Sorry, Minh," I said, throwing him over the railing. I watched as he fell twelve feet into a mulch pit.

Someone kicked me in the back. Another martial arts fighter. I avoided a second kick but needed to catch my breath. Minh had been a tough opponent, and my vision was still fuzzy. Two more minions rushed to take me on. Or was it four?

Bear had had enough.

"Ain't no fair odds," Bear said, reaching for the smallest of the group.

It was a little fellow they called Ngo, who barely scraped 5'2. Bear grabbed Ngo's shirt, tossed him flat on the ground, and then gripped both of his ankles before whipping him into the air, swinging him like a baseball bat. One of the Hyenas was slammed into the wall, and then another. Bear spun around and threw Ngo into the remaining crowd before wading into the confusion, pounding his massive fists in every direction. One Hyena after another went down, lying in moaning heaps.

"Save one for me," I said, struggling to get up.

Minh's second-in-command was distracted by Bear's intervention. I turned him around, punched him in the face with a left jab, and hurled him over the railing to join his leader in the mulch pit.

"Jess is right, I like this too much," I said, pretending I hadn't been hurt.

"You've got the reputation you wanted. But Clutch, some of these guys are tough," Bear warned. "I could help more, if you'd let me."

I took Bear aside to a balcony overlooking the exercise yard. It was a nice fall day. We might get snow come Christmas.

"We're on a good run," I said confidentially, wiping blood from my nose. "But at some point, I want you returned to Windhaven. You can still qualify for early release, and your family has to come first. I don't want you getting in trouble here because of me."

"You're making me famous, too, you know. Maybe I'll get a movie deal?" Bear said, taking a folded magazine article out of his pocket. I saw he had read it many times. The title was Fredrick 'The Bear' Lincoln, Sarge's Protector.

"Fred, I don't know what I'd do without you. But someday I'll have to."

The truth was, I knew my run of good luck had an expiration date. Being a celebrity had advantages, but it created jealousy as well. And around men accustomed to taking out their frustrations with violence, eventually someone would come at me from a direction I didn't expect. On that day, I didn't want Bear trapped at Northfield.

It was time to approach the Mexis on my plans for drug reduction and education. With the help of Warden Means, we had expanded classroom opportunities and job training. I was teaching one of the GED classes in Spanish, occasionally making jokes in Arabic or Dari just to show off.

"May we speak?" I asked Alejandro, taking a seat at his table without permission. Many were watching, mostly his own gang. Others were only pretending to mind their own business. Bear, Tim, and Walter stood nearby, but I hadn't come to provoke a confrontation.

"I wondered when it would be my turn," Alejandro replied, offering me a horchata.

"We don't need to fight," I said. "You know how this works. I've heard leaders in other institutions are giving it a try. It's good for the kids, and their families. It's good for the neighborhoods. Can't we see if it will work here?"

"The Mexis do not give up our power so easily," Alejandro said.

"You realize I'm not seeking to curb contraband. I don't care about that," I explained. "I don't even care how long-termers get their drugs. I just want the kids to have a chance. One you and I probably didn't get."

"And it makes you even more famous. Maybe gets you a pardon?" Alejandro asked.

"My amigo, I killed the President of the United States. No one is giving me a pardon. What I'll get is a knife in the back someday, followed by a pre-dawn funeral without a flag over my coffin, or a salute from my country. But until that day comes, I can try to do something useful."

"You are a grim man, John Lawrence," Alejandro observed. "It is too bad you know my language but not my culture. But there must be a fight, and you know this. What do you have in mind?"

"A boxing match, in the yard," I said. "Officer Tomlinson will referee."

"Officer Vasquez," he countered.

"Officer Vasquez is a good choice," I agreed. "Chef and Perro Grande will judge. If I win, you try my program and recruit others within your influence. If you win, I won't approach you on this again."

"Your terms are fair, but you will not fight me," Alejandro said. "You must fight Rivas."

I looked over at Alejandro's enforcer. Rivas was five inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a former professional heavyweight with good stamina and a long reach.

"I'd rather not," I said.

"That is the deal," Alejandro insisted.

Bear came up behind me, a hand on my shoulder.

"Clutch, you can't. You're not in his class," Bear warned. And I knew he was right. But still, with a good strategy and a little luck, I might win on points.

"Saturday?" I asked.

"Saturday," Alejandro replied.

I finished my drink, shook his hand, and walked away. I had six days to get ready. Bear and Walter thought I was crazy.

I spoke with Warden Means, who agreed to sanction the match. He even arranged for the owner of a boxing club in nearby New Castle to bring in a ring, setting it up in the exercise yard. Attendance would be for inmates with good behavior records, the rest would be locked down during the fight. Means wasn't overjoyed about my plan but conceded that the rewards outweighed the risks.

I could not afford to over train, needing to avoid accidental injury. I did practice my dance moves and worked on my right cross, which was my best punch. I didn't know what Rivas was doing.

"How are we looking?" I asked Bear, wrapping up my last day in the gym.

"As long as you don't get in the ring, you'll be fine," he replied. "Odds are running 8 to 1, and that's generous."

"I've got two hundred dollars saved," I said. "Please bet it for me."

"That confident you'll win?" Walter asked.

"Me? Hell no. Bet the money on Rivas. I'm not an idiot," I answered.

The day of the big fight came. It was five days before Thanksgiving, six years after my adventure in Boston. I got up early, did a little running, and had a light breakfast. Chef was extra careful in what he made. I asked him if he'd teach me how to cook. Mr. Guevara guessed my best talent was mashing potatoes.

The bout was scheduled for noon. The weather looked nice. The exercise yard had been set up with folding chairs and a portable grandstand used for viewing 4th of July parades. It looked like there would be four hundred spectators. Someone had made a banner proclaiming the "fight of the century," presumably as a joke. I asked that no one record the fight but had no real control over that.

The participants gathered. I noticed Warden Means and a bushel of administrators watching from their office windows. As the challenger, I entered the ring first, announced as John 'The Sarge' Lawrence, weighing in at one hundred and seventy-two pounds. My hands were taped, and I was wearing boxing gloves for the first time since my Golden Glove days. It felt strange, but good. I was offered red, white, and blue trunks but settled for black. Easier to conceal the blood.

Joaquin Jose "The Mallet" Rivas, once third in line for the heavyweight championship of the world, entered next, wearing white trunks. He wasn't worried about the blood. Joaquin's announced weight was two hundred and twenty pounds.

"You'd have a better chance of jumping over the wall than beating that monster," Walter said, in my corner with the First Aid kit.

"Already did that once, but thanks for the encouragement," I replied.

Officer Vasquez called us to the center of the ring. He was a chunky guard who volunteered at the local YMCA, overseeing the boxing matches there. He seemed a good choice, trusted by Alejandro, and Warden Means had vouched for his honesty.

"Marquess of Queensberry rules will apply," Vasquez announced. "Ten rounds, three minutes each. I will assess double penalties for violations, so keep it clean. Questions?"

We had none. I looked at Rivas, who appeared calm and rested. He was not an angry sort, but like any good fighter, could have a mean side. My mean side was probably worse than his.

I returned to my corner, grabbing the thick ropes and stretching. Bear, Tim, Walter and Johannes were with me. They had been practicing sponging blood, providing water, and positioning the spit bucket. I hoped I didn't need a cut man. Vasquez dropped his hand and the bell rang.

Rivas and I started out cautiously, circling, and then he stepped in with a big roundhouse right. I ducked and countered with a left jab to his ribs, making good contact, but had to get in awful close. Rivas came back with a left of his own that grazed my scalp. I retreated, dancing sideways, keeping up the left glove to measure my distance.

My opponent was quick for a big man. He kept up a steady pursuit. I picked my opportunities, getting in low for some shots at his midsection, taking a belt in the face for my trouble, and backing off again. By the end of the first round, we'd gotten an idea of each other.

"That went well," I said, taking a sip of water.

My crew offered no comments.

Rivas grew more aggressive in round two. I was blocking his punches with my gloves and forearms, but he was strong. When I tried getting close enough to punch, he'd knock one of my arms out of the way and counterpunch harder, usually in the face. I got in one good shot to his jaw and knew it hurt him, just not enough.

By round three, I was spending most of my time backpedaling, pausing to jab only long enough to avoid getting hurt. I delivered some good punches and even got in some body blows, but Rivas was doing a little better. And he wasn't in a hurry.

Rivas finally caught up to me in round five, bruising my arms as I tried to keep them up and catching me with a good left hook in the ribs. They began to hurt right away, making it harder to counterpunch. I continued to circle, but the ring was feeling smaller and smaller.

"He's good," I mumbled back in my corner.

"Rivas is smart," Bear said.

I glanced at the audience, everyone settled nicely in their seats. Some were eating popcorn. They seemed to be enjoying the match but were not overly excited. The judges were calmly making notes.

Halfway through the sixth round, having been forced back into the corner, I turned to hold Rivas off, landing my right cross with everything it was worth. He staggered backward, his eyes growing wide, and it took him a moment to catch hold of himself. This was my best chance. I stepped forward to hit him again, hoping to knock him down. His right came at me so fast that I couldn't get my glove up, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the canvas.

"Three, four, five ..." I belatedly heard Vasquez counting.

I got up at nine, shaking my head. The vision in my left eye was blurry. Rivas came at me again, but I managed to stay just out of reach until the bell sounded. I had heard the crowd during the first few rounds. Now all I could hear was a persistent ringing.

"How bad is it?" I asked, happy to find my stool.

"Don't look good," Johannas said. "Can you see out of that eye?"

"Sort of," I answered.

"This might be a good time to stop the match," Bear recommended.

"No. I'm still standing," I said.

Throughout round seven, I tried to dance backward, then make sudden attacks with a left jab or a right punch. Most of the time, I was landing the blows. I just wasn't hitting him hard enough. He was hitting me plenty hard. My face felt like a battlefield, the other eye swelling up. At the end of the eighth, he knocked me down again. The bell saved me.

"Don't say nothin'," I grunted, helped back to my stool. "Just shut the fuck up and let me think."

They did, but not without a lot of grumbling. Walter washed my eyes as best he could, but I was down to squinting. If so much that I'd worked for at Northfield hadn't been on the line, I may have exercised the better part of valor. But the stakes were too high.

My last chance to win the fight would be the ninth round. I wasn't going to have anything left by the tenth. Clenching my teeth into the mouth guard, I went straight after Rivas, throwing a flurry of punches with everything I had. I caught him on the jaw, bashed his right eye with a jab, and then ducked low to pound him in the body. He was driven back into the ropes, blocking as best he could. He groaned several times and seemed to have trouble holding me off. I heard the spectators yelling.

And then I was on the canvas again, my legs dangling outside the ring. I never even saw what Rivas hit me with. I crawled back in, tried to stand, and had to grab the ropes to find my balance. Everything was spinning around.

"Had enough, John?" Officer Vasquez asked.

"No, sir," I stupidly replied.

The fight continued. Rivas landed several more good blows. I could no longer see out of my left eye, but I survived the round. I even found my stool without help.

"One more round," Bear said, hunching over me.

"How are we doing on points?" I asked.

"He's only fifty or sixty ahead of you," Johannas reported, being a jerk.

"Does any part of him look hurt?" I inquired.

"Yeah, his hands," Walter said.

The bell rang. I stood up slowly, gauged the distance to the center of the ring, and moved forward with my head down and gloves up. Rivas came straight on. I sidestepped at the last second and caught him with a wide left hook to the cheek. He swung. I ducked and came up again with the left, followed by a strong right jab. I know it hurt him. Blood was running from his eyebrow. Rivas grunted and backed up, then stepped in with a roundhouse right. I got of glimpse of it coming before the blow took me off my feet, landing me in the corner. The counting started again.

If I'd been farther away from the ropes, that would have been it. I was able to reach the lowest rung, drag myself up, and catch my balance just in time.

"Rivas, where are you?" I asked, breathing so hard the words were slurred.

"In the middle of the ring, Jack," he replied.

I moved forward, again with my head down and gloves up, headed for a tall, blurry object a few feet in front of me. Rivas found me first, whacking me across the top of the head. I fell to my knees, struggling not to fall over. It would have been a good time to stop, but no one was counting.

"Jack, stay down," Rivas whispered, kneeling next to me.

The counting couldn't start until he returned to a neutral corner, giving me a few extra seconds to find my breath.

"Too many ... relying on me," I answered in gasps.

Rivas backed away. The counting started. I waited until seven before trying to push myself up. My right arm wasn't cooperating; the ribs hurt too much. I relied on my left, making it off the canvas just in time.

Everything was circling around. I wasn't sure where Rivas was, but he could only be in one of four directions. I took a step, and then another. And then my legs melted out from underneath me.

"... eight, nine, ten. That's it!" Vasquez counted with relief.

The fight was over, and I had failed miserably. Friends came to pick me up, carrying me out of the ring. They'd found a stretcher to lay me on. How considerate to know I'd need one.

It was probably ten or fifteen minutes before reality reasserted itself. I was in the infirmary, in a bed, wearing an oxygen mask. A female nurse was stitching up my brow. A doctor poked my chest.

"Jack, if the government ever lets you out of prison, they'll do it to stop paying your medical bills," Warden Means advised.

I tried to think of a humorous reply, but I was spent. Even lying there felt like too much work. The doctor shined a light in my eyes.

"We'll need to call Dr. Nichols, if she's available," the doctor said. "She has his records."

"Is it that bad?" Means asked.

"No, it's not," I said, pulling the oxygen mask down. "Everyone just needs to relax."

I sat up to let my head clear. I'd been beaten worse more times than I could count. And I knew Rivas to be a professional. If he was looking to kill me, he could have.

"Give me a couple of aspirin and I'm out of here," I said, though an hour on a morphine drip would have been better.

"You'll be under observation for twenty-four hours, and then we'll see," the doctor replied.

The doctor left. The nurse continued treating bruises for another half-hour. Means spoke with the doctor in the hall, disappeared, and returned twenty minutes later.

"Someone needs to see you," Means announced.

Rivas appeared in the doorway, his shoulders slumped. He had a bandage over his right eye and a swollen lip, which made me feel better. He took a chair next to my bed.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Not so bad, Joaquin. How are you?"

"I walked out of the ring."

"It was a good fight. Congratulations," I said, offering to shake hands.

I tried reaching out to him but was only partially successful. Rivas leaned over and took my hand, offering a light grip. Which was good. My hands were in a lot of pain.

"You should be in the Hub celebrating," I said.

"I cannot celebrate that fight," he replied.

"I got in some good punches. It wasn't that easy," I protested.

"If we were in the same weight class, I would be in that bed instead of you," he complimented. "But it was never a fair fight."

"We put on a fine show, though, didn't we? And I won twenty-five dollars," I bragged.

"You bet on me?"

"I'm a fool, not an idiot," I said, trying to smile.

"Why did you get in that ring?" he felt compelled to ask.

"I wanted the kids in school. You heard that. Even if I couldn't beat you, I had to prove it's worth fighting for."

"Everyone says you are crazy. I think they are right."

"That may be true, but I think my GED program will pick up a few more students."

"I never got my diploma," Rivas said.

"You're welcome to take my class, but I am sorry I let the Mexis kids down. It would have been good for them."

"Maybe they will still come."

"That wasn't my deal with Alejandro."

"Then I will have a talk with Alejandro," Rivas said. "Of these kids getting into the program, you know most will never complete it, don't you?"

"Sadly, that's true. I'm hoping for one out of four," I answered. Rivas sat back, giving it some thought.

"Let's try for one out of three," he urged.

* * * * * *

Dr. Juliet Nichols arrived that evening all the way from Langley. She talked with the warden, the doctor, the nurses, and eventually got around to me. I was feeling much better by then, though a bit woozy when I tried to stand up.

"We're taking a trip," Juliet said before I could even say hello.

"On an FBI jet?" I asked.

"I rented a car. We're going to Pittsburgh General for tests," she said.

"That's not necessary. I'll be back on my feet by tomorrow."

She shined a flashlight in my eyes. Forty-five minutes later, we were traveling south in a black SUV on Interstate 79. I was in the back seat with Juliet. Officer Baker was driving, with Tomlinson riding shotgun. My orange coveralls were covered by a gray trench coat. There were no handcuffs. We snuck in a back door of the hospital after midnight, where they put me in an MRI machine. And not satisfied with that, they spent several more hours poking me with all kinds of devices.

"You're not going to get me naked again, are you?" I asked with plaintive eyes.

"We'll see what shape you're in after the examination," she answered with a smile.

Jess and Donald loitered in the area but didn't seem worried about an escape attempt. I asked if we could hit a bar on the way home, but the saloons closed at 2 a.m.

Several times, the doctor working my case looked at me suspiciously. I know he recognized me, he just couldn't figure out what I was doing there without a SWAT team in attendance. Juliet flashed her Air Force ID, as if that meant anything.

We got back to Northfield just before dawn, slipping in without making a fuss. Juliet spent time in a spare office reviewing test results before coming to the infirmary.

"You need to stop fighting, Jack," she patiently said. "If you stop now, you should be okay. If you don't, the brain damage could be irreversible."

Juliet showed me the MRIs, a technology that I wasn't conversant in. But I did not dismiss her concern.

"I'll take your advice," I agreed.

"I can't believe it's that easy," she doubted.

"It won't be easy, but I've made my point here. I have friends who can step in for me now. Other than the MRIs, am I in good shape?"

"Nothing broken this time, which is an improvement," Juliet agreed.

"Are you still single?" I asked.

"For the moment."

"Would you like to close the door?" I suggested.

"Can't do that, Jack. I'm your doctor," she replied with a smile. "But if I wasn't your doctor, the door would already be closed."

* * * * * *

Jack's years in prison are coming to a close, but there are still trials ahead in chapter 9; Congressional Inquiries. Please support this story if you find it worthwhile.