Bobby Akart - Whiteout

However, they had no place to go and no way to contact friends and family. At FCI Jesup, two thousand federal prisoners walked through Wayne County, Georgia, aimlessly, most without a plan as to what to do next.

That morning, the final group of eight inmates was released from the medium-security facility. They were the snitches , informants who’d cooperated with authorities to help convict others like them. They were eight men who’d committed crimes of murder in various degrees, but because of their cooperation with the DOJ, they were given more relaxed, bucolic accommodations than the concrete and steel environs of the federal penitentiary in Atlanta.

Chris Stengel and his cellmate, Benjie Reyes, had spent eight years at the Jesup prison. They’d both committed gang-related murders in Atlanta before rolling on their brethren. At Jesup, they’d managed to avoid the scrutiny of correctional officers as they ran their hustles ranging from bringing in contraband cell phones to drugs in exchange for commissary and other favors.

That afternoon, they walked out together and immediately contemplated a variety of criminal acts to make their lives better. Booze. Drugs. Stolen vehicle. Women. Their laundry list was not imaginative. They were like wild animals released from captivity.

Both men had family in Savannah, and they’d always daydreamed about living on the ocean. As far as they were concerned, the real estate market was wide open for them. They’d find a nice McMansion on the sea. Kill the owners. And get settled into a beach chair with their toes buried in the sand.

As they walked up the highway, they tried to recall the distance to Savannah. Stengel thought it was about sixty miles or so. The two men had remained fit by walking the track around the outer perimeter of the medium-security facility. Exercising made up the vast majority of their day when they weren’t working their jobs in the kitchen at eighteen cents per hour. A five-hour walk at a steady pace would yield fifteen to twenty miles of exercise. With their adrenaline levels, they’d committed to doubling that pace, which meant they could roll into Savannah sometime the next evening.

They walked northbound on U.S. 301 after grabbing some snacks and a couple of bottles of tequila from a liquor store in the process of being looted. Reyes found a tire iron lying outside the motorcycle repair shop nearby, a favorite tool utilized by burglars of commercial buildings.

It came in handy when they approached Babs’s insurance. They didn’t expect to find anything of value in the small office building, but the place hadn’t been looted yet, so the two decided to take a look. Twenty minutes later, they emerged with a backpack full of snacks and bottled water, together with some clothing found in a coat closet. Most importantly, for Stengel anyway, he scored an aluminum softball bat. Before they left, he even got in a few practice swings.

The famed New York Yankees manager, Casey Stengel, would’ve been impressed by his very distant relative’s swing. Former inmate Stengel bashed to smithereens virtually everything in the office that was breakable. There was no particular reason to do so other than the fact he had more than a decade of pent-up violent tendencies to satisfy.

However, the smashing of the insurance agency wasn’t enough. He had other urges, too. And as Stengel and Reyes walked up the highway, high on tequila and their newfound freedom, opportunity crossed their path at the Motel Jesup.

Sunday, November 3

Motel Jesup

Jesup, Georgia

Peter entered the motel room at the far end of the complex from where Mr. Uber and Greyhound took up residency for the night. As he suspected, the mother and daughter must’ve agreed to trade their bodies for a ride to Florida. Through gritted teeth, Peter watched the two men paw all over the women as they led them to their respective rooms. It was obvious they were being forced into having sex with the men, as the daughter began to cry after Mr. Uber and her mother shut the door behind them.

Peter considered his options as his blood boiled inside him. He paced the floor of his room, trying to put the visual of what was about to happen to the women out of his mind. He retrieved both of his handguns from his sling backpack and confirmed the magazines were full of bullets. He shoved one into the waistband of his pants, and he held the other inside his coat pocket. With firm resolve, he marched back outside and began to walk on the covered sidewalk toward the other side of the motel.

Suddenly, Mr. Uber emerged from his room and began pounding on his son’s door. The still-dressed degenerate appeared, angry at the interruption. The two men exchanged words, and after hurling threats at the two women, warning them to stay in their room, they marched off with purpose toward the cargo truck. Seconds later, they were pulling out and heading north on the highway in the direction they’d just come from.

Peter was confused by the activity, but he used their absence to make his move. He hustled along the walkway, narrowly avoiding a collision with several of the refugees, who’d exited their rooms at the sound of the loud diesel truck leaving the motel.

“What’s going on?”

“Are they leaving us?”

Peter ignored their questions because he didn’t have any answers. He supposed they were stranded or, he thought, they might have a rendezvous nearby to refuel. Mr. Uber seemed to know the area well enough to have the Motel Jesup as his planned stop for the evening. He must have someone nearby providing him diesel fuel for the large-capacity tank.

By the time he reached the two end units near the motel’s office, everyone was commiserating in the parking lot except for the mother and daughter. Peter approached the mother’s room first. He knocked brusquely on the door.

“Ma’am, this is Peter. They’ve left for now. Will you please open up?”

He could hear her shuffling around the room. A shadow appeared by the curtains, and then the door slowly opened. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and her nose continued to run. She nervously wiped the mucus onto her sleeve.

“Did they leave?” she said in a loud whisper, her eyes darting around in fear.

“Yes, but I don’t know why,” replied Peter.

“I do,” said a sheepish voice to his right. It was the daughter.

The two women ran into each other’s arms and began to cry uncontrollably. After a moment, they broke their embrace, and the mother searched her daughter’s eyes for answers to the obvious question.

Peter had watched similar scenes unfold on television programs, but nothing compared to the real-life angst shared by two women who dreaded the inevitable assault they would be forced to endure. In that moment, he knew what had to be done, and he would carry out the task without remorse or compunction.

He averted his eyes to scan the parking lot. With no electricity and, thus far, no other traffic, the rumbling of the Cummings diesel engine would provide him some warning of the men’s return. However, he needed to come up with a plan.

“Ladies, um, I’m sorry. Um, you said you know why they left.”

“Yes,” replied the daughter. “They have a friend who works at the paper mill we passed. He’s going to let them fill up their truck.”

Peter’s suspicions were confirmed. Now for the hard part. He addressed the mother.

“Listen. We don’t have much time. Are they going to…?” His voice trailed off. He didn’t have the courage to say the word rape out loud. Not that it mattered. The mother knew exactly what he wanted to ask. She simply nodded rapidly and began to cry. The women held each other again, shaking as the tears rolled down their faces. Peter imagined the deal with Mr. Uber and son had been struck with trepidation back at Hickory. However, reality had hit them, and they clearly were unable to go through with it. Nor should they.