SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES
JUICE
LEAVENWORTH
The morning after the sentencing, Jake was shackled in handcuffs and leg irons and put in a van that took him over to Hickam Force base for his flight back to the mainland. Two Marine Corps chasers escorted him on the military flight to Norton Air Force base in California. From there they caught a commercial flight to Kansas City, and were met there by several military corrections officers from the United States Disciplinary Barracks in Leavenworth, Kansas.
Jake’s requests to either see or call Sophie or to call home to Minnesota were denied for “reasons of security.”
Upon arrival at the stockade after the long silent flight, Jake was once again strip searched, showered, and debugged, and given his meager prison issue. All of this was done with minor communication from the guards. They were still honoring their fallen comrade in Hawaii.
Jake was ushered into the office of the warden of the barracks, Commander Max Morgan. Jake had never seen a uniform as white or with so much starch.
The commander was also very diminutive. He was sure to have the short man complex.
“Stand at attention, prisoner.”
Jake stared at Morgan and slowly crossed his arms across his chest.
“I said stand at attention, shitbird.”
Commander Morgan gave a tar and nicotine colored grin. “Tough guy, huh? We’ll see how tough you are in a couple of days. You’ll be crying like a pussy for his momma.”
Jake continued to silently stare at the commander.
Morgan looked down at the open file on his desk. “Life sentence. Murder one. The murder of a commissioned naval officer who was assigned to the correctional facility in Pearl Harbor.”
He read this off like it was fresh news; he stopped and looked up at Jake. “You fucked up big time, tough guy. The officers here aren’t going to take kindly to the murderer of a fellow officer.”
Jake finally responded. “Does it say in your file how I stopped your buddy from raping a girl and then when he came at me I had to hand his ass to him?”
Morgan’s face turned beet red. It really stood out against his dress white uniform. “Let me tell you something, asshole. You were convicted by a military court of your peers for the murder of a fine officer. And you are going to do hard time. Hard fucking time!” Morgan slammed his little fist on his desk.
“I stop a man from raping a girl and I’m the one who has to do the time. Typical fucking Navy justice. Well, let me tell you something, SIR! Fuck you and fuck the Navy. I’ve lost everything in my life that means anything to me in the last month for trying to help somebody. And you sit here in your ice cream vendor uniform and tell me about hard time. Fuck hard time and fuck you.”
Morgan’s face was so red it was like the port running light of a ship. “Oh you’re going to do hard time, shitbird. You are going to isolation for as long as it takes to get your mind and attitude right. You brutally
killed a member of the corrections brotherhood and a naval officer. Your life is in my hands now and you will learn how to do time my way. Not your way, my way.”
Jake laughed. “My life is over, you little midget bastard. Bring on your hard time.”
Morgan stood up. “Get this son of a bitch out of my office and over to the hole.”
The CO’s spun Jake around and began to move him out of the office.
“Your buddy died like a punk.” Jake yelled over his shoulder.
Thirteen months later.
47, 48, 49, 50! Jake jumped to his feet. His was doing push ups in set of 50’s. 1000 push ups a day along with 500 sit ups. Every day, seven days a week.
He was in his cell 23 hours a day, 6 days a week. On Sunday he was locked down the whole 24. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he was taken out to shower and to stretch his legs in the adjoining courtyard.
Tuesdays and Thursdays he was allowed to use the weights in the courtyard for one hour. Alone. He was always alone.
Morgan had been true to his word. Officers only spoke to him if absolutely necessary and then sometimes they still didn’t.
Some officers would write their directives on a scrap of paper and throw it into his cell.
Some spit in his food.
Jake only had the two days with the weights because an order had come down from an ombudsman in the prison who had discovered that Morgan had been going against the stockades policy by keeping Jake locked up on scheduled recreation days without proper documentation or suitable reasons.
That had fried Morgan's nuts and he had taken revenge by personally coming down to segregation and informing Jake three separate times of bad news.
Bad news the first time came only a week into Jake’s sentence. Dawn and Billy would not be allowed to visit. Both had felony convictions on their records and thus could not be allowed in for visits. Jake had never known that Dawn had been convicted at one time of prostitution and possession of LSD with intent to sell.
Jake had tried to write Sophie at Pearl Harbor and his letters had been returned as undeliverable. When he tried to write her at her parent’s address, Morgan had come down and personally shown him the letter from her father demanding that Jake cease from trying to contact his daughter.
Jake was given a direct order to do so.
Six months into his stay in the hole, Jake was informed by the commander that his uncle Billy had been arrested, tried, and convicted of a murder in Albert Lea. It was the unsolved killing of the husband of the woman who had crippled Dawn. A drug connection of Billy's had turned state’s evidence to avoid a drug conviction. Billy had been sentenced to thirty years in Stillwater state prison.
To Jake, his life was over. He refused to speak to anyone. He had a routine revolving around his workouts and reading. He was allowed books from the prison library. He pored over the writings of Hemingway, Nietzche, Marx, Malcolm X, and any of the classics that the prison carried.
He had no television or radio in his cell, but he had been able to get an old book on yoga, so he learned how to meditate.
The military barbers refused to cut his hair, so his hair was down almost to his shoulders and his wispy, blond beard was hanging down to his chest.
The military guards would never admit it, but they were leery of him. He had killed once and murderers were always suspected of being able to do it again. Jake would stand in his cell and shadow box for hours at a time, until he would drop down onto his bunk, exhausted and covered in sweat.
His silence put them on edge, and with good reason. He was waiting for an opening. He knew that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life like this.
In the back of his mind sat a plan. If he could get the chance he would kill again. This time on purpose. Not for revenge, but in the hope of drawing a sentence of a trip to the gas chamber or electric chair.
He had completed 900 of his push ups when he noticed a short, plump rookie officer standing at the door of his cell. Jake stared at him. The rookie fidgeted nervously.
“You’ve got a visit.” Jake couldn’t believe that the officer had spoken or that he had a visit. Who the hell would that be?
“Who?” The word rasped out of Jake’s throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken. His throat felt parched.
“Commander Morgan didn’t say. He just told me to tell you that you’ve got a visit and we’ll be back down to get you in fifteen minutes. OK?” The young rookie smiled.
Jake was confused, he had no idea who would be here to visit.
“Yea, OK, thanks.” The officer walked down the cellblock.
Jake stripped down and wiped the sweat off with a towel and washed up as best as he could in his cells sink.
Fifteen minutes on the dot, the rookie and two other familiar guards came down and shackled Jake’s hands and legs. He was led down towards the end of the cell block and into a small conference room that also was
used for visits for the inmates of isolation.
Sitting at the table was a very slender, very tall, very tan man dressed in khakis and a sun bleached work shirt. He had on dock shoes with no socks. By his appearance you would think that he had a sailboat moored outside the prison on the Missouri river. He looked vaguely familiar.
The man turned and spoke to the guards. “You can leave now. Thank you.”
Beiderman, the senior guard, a redneck from Alabama spoke up. “I’m sorry, sir. But his inmate is not allowed to be anywhere without direct supervision by an officer.”
The tan man’s eyes froze over and stood up and walked over to the phone and punched in several numbers. “Commander, this is Banks. You might need to talk to one of your men down here.” He looked over at Beiderman’s name tag. “His name is Beiderman.”
Banks put the phone down. “The commander would like to speak to you, son.”
Beiderman picked up the phone. Listened and then quickly hung up. He turned to Banks. “I’m sorry, sir. Take all the time you need. We’ll be outside the door if you need anything.”
Banks smiled. “Excellent. Thank you, Beiderman. Before we get started here, why don’t you run down to the canteen and get me and Mr. Morrow a couple of Cokes?”
Beiderman bit down on his lower lip. “Yes, sir. Right away.” He slammed the door the door on the way out so hard the outer wall vibrated.
No comments:
Post a Comment