Chapter 1

Inside the cell it’s dark. It’s always dark. Everyday it comes, everyday it’s a shock. For a boy from the south, that can be understandable. I remember sitting with my dad on the back porch, staring into the colors that danced on the Mississippi, cast from an un-earthly sunset of oranges and yellows and reds.

I look up from the bunk I’ve just awoken in. White light is screaming in through a tiny slit that serves as a window up near the ceiling. Other than that, it’s blackness all around me. I suppose I should be used to it by now. Everyday I wake up earlier than the others – everyday I watch the sunset through that tiny slit while standing on my bunk. But it’s not the same. It’s never the same.

I sit up in my bunk and stretch out my back, arching my body into a curve. I hear satisfying cracks and pops that travel up and down my spine, pleasantly separating the vertebra that grow wary from the hard mattress I sleep on every night.

I sit there for a while, not wanting to go through another day in this hell I’ve gotten myself into. My joints ache – there’s never a day that they don’t – and I wish desperately for some aspirin or therapy or anything to ease the pain that gathers in my body each morning.

We all wish, but seldom obtain. I swing my legs to the right and plant them firmly on the cold concrete of the floor beneath me. The socks I traded for yesterday keep out the cold as I look from side to side. I see nothing but a wall of blackness. Impenetrable blackness. How I want out of here!

Then someone far away throws a switch, and I’m blinded by the bright lights that hum to life in rapid succession down the long hallway. The dark steel of the metal cages they keep us in are revealed by sudden illumination. Prisoners on both sides of me stir and wipe sleep from their eyes, groaning and stretching. Some just keep on sleeping.

Now I can see. I look to the right and see the drab, brick walls covered up in peeling white paint. It’s black in spots where my inmates have tried to light a cigarette against the rough surface, but to no avail.

I hear footsteps coming from the hallway at the end of our cell row. They’re heavy and brutish, and I can guess that it is Officer Sainsbury this morning. Five seconds later my guess is confirmed.

Officer Sainsbury’s plump figure, clad in officer blue, steps out into the brightly lit isle. He stops a little ways in and bellows his good morning.

The prisoners mumble their greetings. Most are still lying down on their bunks.

It’s been twelve years now but I can still see Sainsbury’s face in my mind as if it were yesterday. Thick, white eyebrows over Horn-rimmed glasses hung on a round, button nose. I can still see the plump, red cheeks with all the dimples. His mouth is wide and shows rows of white, crooked teeth. I don’t know about his hair. As long as I’d been there he’d never taken off his officer’s hat.

“It’s lounge day. Don’t do anything too stupid.” He turns and steps inside a small cage to the right of the entrance, built for his protection. He closes the gate. I hear it lock into place before he turns around and hits a switch on the wall.

The rumble comes and I hear the winches pulling the cell doors to the side, providing access to the outside. I step through the threshold and enter the growing procession of orange uniforms heading toward the exit. Some inmates are still snoring loudly from their bunks.

As I pass the cage containing Sainsbury he says, “Hold it!”

I stop and turn, a look of nonchalance on my face. Inside I’m worried. Sainsbury notices.

“What’s wrong?” he asks rudely.

I shake my head and lie, “Nothing. What do you want?”

“Watch the attitude, punk.”

I feel a nudging in my back and turn to see I’ve backed up the line. I mutter apologies as I shift my position to let the line of orange pass.

“What’s up?” I ask Sainsbury.

“You 3-7-4?” he asks, looking not at me, but at a sheet of paper held at arm’s length in front of him.

“That’s me.” I say, confused.

“Well, well well….. You’ll have to come with me, kid. Back up so I can open the gate.”

As I do so my mind is racing. We’d covered everything – the hole, the tools, the plans, even the dinner plate we used to move the dirt! I’m already sweating, and Sainsbury takes note.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yah, yah I’m fine.” another lie. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He opens the gate and steps back into the isle. The prisoners who were going to leave were already gone, so he closes the grating separating the cell-block from the rest of the facility after we pass through it.

“What’s this all about?” I ask as we start our march through the empty halls, faded green paint clinging to the brick.

“How should I know?” he sighs. “Just do me a favor and keep your mouth shut until we get to the office, would ya’?”

I obey his orders but I feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. They know!

The fact that Sainsbury wasn’t informed seemed to confirm the suspicion, I don’t know why. I could just sense it.

My thoughts turned to what they might do to me. Guards hated the inmates, especially the ones who tried to escape. Just last month Cleo, a guy in the cell next to me, was beaten to death by three drunken guards after they found him out of his cell with a shovel in the courtyard.

They had pled innocent, saying the guy tried to swing the shovel at them. I know he hadn’t. Cleo wasn’t like that.

We round a corner and I see the assistant warden’s office just ahead. The prison had 3 cell blocks and a warden for each. They themselves reported to the senior warden, who had his office in the upper stories. Funny – I can remember every aspect of Sainsbury but I can’t even recall the warden’s name.

Five more steps and we’re there. Sainsbury buries a hand in his pocket to retrieve a thin pass card, which he slides through a slot on the wall to our right. There’s a hum and a beep, then the door swings open of its own accord and the office is in view.

We enter it, and immediately the atmosphere changes. Instead of the hollow sound of footsteps on concrete, there is a soft thud as each foot hits the thinning carpet beneath us. The walls are covered with intact, light green wall paper, and there’s a desk in the corner adorned with an old computer and mounds of paper work. On the walls are pictures that I can’t make out. The room is poorly lit – there are no windows.

I look around but no one is here.

“You sit, over there.” Sainsbury points to a decrepit and splintered chair in the corner. I oblige and walk where he points.

I sink down into the seat and something feels different. I can’t place it, but something is definitely wrong.

“Can I stand?” I ask, looking at Sainsbury’s plump face.

“No.” he says as he leans back against the wall. His glasses are sliding down his nose, and he keeps pushing them up against his forehead like they’ll stay there.

I sit in silence, thinking while he stands. My thoughts turn to the reason I was there. It seems impossible, like it could never happen, but the thought keeps coming up. It looks more authentic every time.

Suddenly the door opens and wakes me from my stupor. It’s the senior warden, the one whose name I can’t remember. He mumbles something to Sainsbury, who nods and walks out, closing the door behind him.

He turns and faces me. He has a cup of coffee in his right hand and his left is holding some papers. He’s dressed in a nice, blue suit with pinstripes. He has rather pointed features, and his presence is disconcerting. I nod my head to signal that I’m listening.

He sets his mug down on the desk and starts flipping through leaflets of the paper in his hand, still standing. As he’s flipping he asks, “Jacob Theodore Little?”

I nod my head and say, “That’s me.”

He pulls the swivel chair away from the computer desk and sits down. It creaks under the added weight.

“Cell 3-7-4?”

“Yes.” In most penitentiaries, cells are identified by three numbers. The first is your cell block, the second your cell row, and the third your actual cell number.

“Says here you were arrested on January 5, 2003. That’s 1-5-03. Correct?”

“Yes.” I wish he’d cut the crap and get to the point already.

“Seems your fellow inmates have some qualms about you.”

I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief. He didn’t know. Everything was on track. “Really?” I ask.

“Yes, but I think you already know about it.” He’s staring at me like he’s some sort of hypnotist.

“Yah, I’ve known for three or four weeks now that a couple guys want to kill me.”

“And you’re not the least bit concerned.”

“No.” It was half true.

“Why not?” he asks, bewildered.

I think before answering. “I served two tours of duty in Iraq and I know how to defend myself.” It wasn’t a lie.

He pauses. “Yes, I read that earlier this morning. I have a lot of respect towards you for that.”

“Thank you, sir. Not many do.” It was time to get serious. “Excuse me, but what is this all about?”

He pauses. “I really don’t know why, but the higher ups want you moved.”

“What, like to a new jail?” I ask.

“No, no. Just a new cell, over in block 1.”

“Why?” This isn’t good.

“I just said I don’t know, but my guess is they feel they need to protect you for some reason.” He says no more.

“Am I important or something?” This could be disastrous.

“Not that I’m aware of. You’ll sleep in your usual cell tonight, and then we’ll transfer you over to your new one tomorrow. Here’s your new cell number.” He holds out a piece of paper. He knows something he’s not telling me. I can feel it.

“Uh, thanks.” I grab the piece of paper and stuff it in my pocket. This was terrible news. Everything had fallen apart. The tunnel, oh the tunnel! I had spent three years digging that tunnel, now it was all wasted. I’d have to tell Tim, but he wouldn’t like it. The little brat, at least he can get out of here!

“You can go.” He says.

I stand up nervously and start towards the door, my mind racing like it never has before.

“Wait!” he says. I stop and turn. We both stand there a moment, staring at each other. It’s only a few minutes, but it seems like hours. Finally, he breaks the silence. “The tunnel caved in. Two guards found it and filled whatever wasn’t buried.”

He must have seen my eyes go wide with fright, but he said nothing. All he did was wave his hand and turn around to sit at his desk.

I stand there for a few more seconds, shocked at what was happening. Why wasn’t he mad? Why wasn’t he screaming?

I slowly turn and walk out the door. I take my time at first, but my pace quickens as I stride down the corridor. I’m walking so fast I don’t even see the grating in front of me, sealing my cell row. I stop just in time, sparing me an unpleasant collision. I stare in trough the grating.

I reach in my pocket and pull out the slip of paper the warden gave to me. I unfold it and hold it up so I can read in the poor light.

Written on the paper, in red ink, are the words, ‘Cell 1-5-3.’

--