David Baldacci - Divine Justice

"Howard Tyree?" said Annabelle sharply.

"He's the sheriff's brother," answered Shirley. "The warden up at Dead Rock."

Mosley smiled at Annabelle. "Its official name is Blue Spruce, but folks 'round here call it Dead Rock."

Shirley snapped, "They call it Dead Rock because a bunch of miners got trapped in a cave-in. Never could get to them. Sealed up in there and they built a damn prison on top of them. And one of 'em was my daddy."

Tears smeared Shirley's mascara while Annabelle and Mosley looked politely away. The judge finally said, "Mining is a very dangerous business."

"I can see that," replied Annabelle.

"Well, good day, ladies."

After he'd gone, Annabelle rose. "I guess I'll let you get back to work."

"Sorry I couldn't help you," Shirley said gruffly.

Oh, you already have, lady.

STONE AND KNOX were kept in the restraints for nearly six hours and slept the whole time. The guards who came to take the pair back to their cells seemed chagrined that they'd navigated the ordeal so easily.

They were dressed back in orange jumpsuits and hauled back to their cells. Each man had to exercise considerable self-control in the face of the guards' taunts. Knox had to bite the inside of his lip while Stone just stared straight ahead unblinking and telling himself that an opportunity would present itself if he were patient.

An hour later, they were strip-searched again, cuffed and shackled and led to the cafeteria, where the cuffs were taken off so they could eat.

Knox's belly was rumbling as they sat down at an unoccupied table. They stared around at the sea of other prisoners. Quickly counting, Stone arrived at nearly five hundred inmates, with well over three-quarters of them black, while all the guards he could see were white.

Some of the prisoners stared back at them with an array of expressions that ranged from curious to indifferent to hostile. Only a few people were talking. Most focused on their meals. Knox looked down as his food was slid in front of him.

After the attendant walked off he said to Stone, "I wonder if they have a nice cabernet to go with this slop?"

"Humor, Knox, I like that. Helps the time go by. What do you see out there?" He indicated the inmate population.

"Sorry asses just like us, only we haven't committed any crime. Correction, I haven't committed any crime."

Stone took a bite of his food with a limp Styrofoam spoon that was the only utensil provided. "You've seen the insides of prisons before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but not as an inmate."

"So what's different? Think about it."

Knox looked around. "Well, they seem a pretty quiet bunch to be the baddest asses in the land."

"That's right. Subdued, beaten down, scared. Anything else?"

Knox stared at one group closest to them. Four men, all black, who sat there idly prodding their food and not bothering to even look at each other.

Knox squinted at them, following their lethargic movements and glassy eyes. "And drugged?"

"And drugged. We know they have enough pills to do the job."

"Do you think that's where the pill shipments are coming? Here?"

"No. That stuff was all for street sale probably in New York, Philly, Boston, D.C. and other big cities up and down the East Coast. They probably just use a little overflow to knock these guys down."

"Drugging prisoners involuntarily? That's got to violate about a million rights."

Stone suddenly bent down and started shoveling food in his mouth. Sensing why, Knox immediately did the same. The footsteps came up behind them and stopped.

"Manson, are the new prisoners adapting to our routines?" Howard Tyree said to the burly guard standing next to him.

Manson had an eye patch over his right eye. And as he glanced up Stone knew why. Manson was the one he'd hit in the eye with his belt.

This is just getting better and better.

"It's taking some work, but we'll get them where they need to be, sir."

Stone watched as Manson curled and uncurled his fingers as he stared at Stone with his one remaining eye. The man's look was one of unconcealed homicidal intent. He lifted his billy club out of its holster and stuck its end against Stone's jaw and pushed.

"This one here will take a little extra work, but we'll get him to understand our ways."

"Good man," said Tyree.

When Manson pulled the club back he did it in such a way that a jagged edge of the wood tore at Stone's face. It started to bleed, but Stone didn't make a move to wipe it away.

Tyree said, "You know, at most supermax prisons the prisoners eat in their cells and recreation time is only done one inmate at a time. But here at Blue Spruce we're a little more liberal than that." He surveyed the deadly quiet room. "Here, we allow our inmates to experience some human touches. A nice meal together, some camaraderie."

Tyree placed a hand on Stone's shoulder and squeezed lightly. Stone would've taken the bite of the rattlers in the mine over this man's repulsive touch. Yet he didn't flinch and Tyree finally released his grip.

"And because of our compassion and understanding on points like that," Tyree continued, "sooner or later they all learn our ways. But I'd be the first to admit that the route can get bumpy at times."

As he walked along with a wall of guards every inmate stared down at his plate, as though it was the most wonderful cooking they'd ever seen.

These guys are not only drugged, they're terrified, thought Stone, because they know this guy will kill them, and there's nothing they can do about it.

He can kill me too. And probably will. Unless Manson gets to me first.

Only when Manson and Tyree had left the room did he wipe the blood off his face with his napkin.

AFTER THE MEAL they were allowed thirty minutes outside. Outside being a floor of concrete in the middle of the prison courtyard with a sheet of razor wire as a roof and a lone and netless basketball hoop and patched ball as apparently the sole recreation.

So much for the liberal human touch , thought Stone.

Some of the prisoners slowly jogged in tight circles, one bounced the ball, yet most just stood there staring down at their shoes. Up on the tower walks were the guards, their AK-47s, shotguns, and sniper rifles at the ready and clearly visible to every man down in the pit. Stone noticed that there was a blue line that ran around the concrete field.

"You cross that line, put one toe over it, the man up there shoot you." This came from a small, twitchy inmate with a bristly gray mustache, wild hair and eyes that didn't promise much of anything behind them.

"Thanks for the scoop," Knox said. "They forgot to mention that in the orientation class."

Twitchy looked at Knox and laughed. "Hey, that's a good one. That's a damn good one." He looked at Stone. "You boys ever getting out?"

"Doesn't look that way," Stone answered. "You?"

"Life, life, life," Twitchy said in a singsong voice. "Three life sentences to run consecutively instead of concurrently. That's a big-ass difference. Oh yeah, I found that out. Both begin with the letter 'c' but that's where the similar shit stops, man."

"I can see that." Stone methodically eyed the position of each tower walk, and the shooting angles available to the guards up there. He came away impressed with the design of the place. It wouldn't take great skill to kill any man down here before he even had a chance to piss on the concrete, much less make a break for freedom.

"Is that what most people are here? Lifers?" Knox asked.

"Everybody I know is, and I been here eleven years. Least I think it's been eleven. Used to keep a calendar but I ran out of wall space. It ain't matter. No parole for old Donny boy."