by William Bebb
In just over four weeks, his account in Switzerland had accumulated over half a million dollars from people who'd been stupid and scared enough to buy the lie. It was a good scam.
Things went along very nicely for a few more months until Bobby finally made a dumb mistake. He'd designed a premium movie channel decoder device that worked on nearly any cable television system in the country. It was more of a goof project than in any attempt at getting rich, and he usually either gave them away to people he liked or traded them for marijuana.
But when he met with some drug dealers to work out a trade law enforcement officials, that had been monitoring the dealers, noticed Bobby's cherry red Ferrari arriving at the warehouse and saw the young man carrying a backpack into the building.
When the cops moved in they found nearly five hundred pounds of marijuana, almost a million dollars in cash, and fifty premium cable decoder devices inside Bobby's backpack.
Bobby was sentenced to Bayonne Correctional Facility for five years, with the possibility of parole in thirty-six months if he kept his nose clean. Apparently cable theft was a very serious crime.
Carl stood up and went to one of the narrow arrow slit-like windows in the librarian’s office and stared at the setting sun. He knew things had gotten bad outside the walls of Bayonne. There was an inexplicable growing spread of violent murderous rioting not just in America but across every country on the planet, yet the idea that the governor had ordered the murder of over five thousand prisoners seemed completely insane. The old man was concerned.
Most people in here probably deserve it, but Bobby's just a kid. And even that poor pathetic fat boy, that seems to appreciate art magazines in Cell Block A, shouldn't just be snuffed out.
Carl wasn't very worried about himself. He freely admitted to killing his dearly beloved, whoring,, cheating, and slut of a wife at his trial decades earlier and many times since then to anyone who wanted to hear the sad tale. However, the idea that so many young people would be cut down struck the old man as not just insane but downright evil.
He turned back to Bobby and saw the kid was working at a feverish rate with the librarian's computer. Walking back over he asked, “What are you doing? Writing messages to news agencies telling them what's going to happen here?”
Bobby shook his head and only typed faster. After another few minutes he smiled, leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles before asking, “What time is the execution scheduled to happen, tonight?”
Carl looked at the clock and then the monitor showing the exterior view of the library, which included the main gate. There was no sound but he could see the amber lights flashing as the massive portal slid open. A few cars were driven inside and parked near the administration building. He saw several people climbing out and realized they were invited guests who'd come to see Maurice die.
Carl glanced back at the clock and said, “They should start the execution in just about an hour. What are you planning to do?”
Bobby pointed at the computer screen and the old man saw that the young man had somehow bypassed the multiple security firewalls and broken some sort of code. A master display of every cell block in Bayonne appeared on the screen and small red rectangles indicated the inmates were still in lock down. Grinning hugely, Bobby said, “We're all getting early parole in one hour.”
Carl flopped back in the big chair and shuddered at the thought of just over 5,000 inmates being released. He cleared his throat and asked, “You can keep Cell Block-C on lock down and just open the other ones, right?”
Bobby looked confused and asked, “Why?”
“The warden has nearly all The Sabres gang members locked up in C-Block. Those guys are the worst of the worst. If you can't keep their block in lock down and open the others... I really don't think you open any of them.”
Bobby nodded saying, “That shouldn't be a problem. Where do you think you'll go when the gate opens?”
The old man sighed and shook his head sadly before saying, “I don't think I'll be going anywhere. From what they've been showing on TV and what I've seen on the internet it looks like all Hell is breaking loose out there.” He saw the young man giving him an odd look and continued. “Where would I go, anyway? Bayonne's been my home for over thirty years, heck almost forty now that I think about it. Even if people weren't going nuts out there, I don't think I'd care for it much. Nope, not one bit.”
“Well, if you want me to, I can give you a crash course on how to operate the computer systems. Maybe you could hole up in the library. It's built like a damn army bunker. If I show you how to change the access codes nobody could come in unless they used dynamite or something like that.”
The old man smiled and rolled the librarian's chair next to Bobby saying, “I truly would appreciate that.”
George hadn't enjoyed a meal so much since the day before he'd reported to the courthouse to begin his sentence. His dad took him to the nicest restaurant in his price range and told him he could order anything on the menu.
The young man hadn't been too worried about the prospect of serving his time. His lawyer swore that not only would it not be the full ten years, but with good behavior he could easily be out in three to five. And if overcrowding ever became a serious problem, there was a very good chance he could get an early release with probation.
His dad hadn't said or eaten much at their last dinner together. He’d been heartbroken and blaming himself for what his son had done.
George, on the other hand, had gorged himself on not one, but two, appetizers. Plus he devoured biggest Prime Rib Steak that the restaurant had on the menu. That was then followed by a dessert of warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and sweet syrup covering the whole thing.
The prison’s cafeteria was abuzz with excited chatter and speculation about why the warden had given such an unexpected feast to the inmates of Bayonne. Proponents of the rumor that there would be a general amnesty for everyone and that, come tomorrow, they'd all be freed had new ammunition for their viewpoint. The kitchen staff made up of their fellow inmates and trustees were all asked if they knew why such an epic meal (that topped even Christmas or Thanksgiving) had been ordered prepared by the warden. No one knew.
The Bayonne cafeteria dining hall was in a very long room with light blue colored painted walls and thirty foot high ceilings. A series of thick mesh covered walkways- designed to keep projectiles from being hurled up at the guards- crisscrossed the entire room overhead.
Down below, the residents of Cell Block-A were seated around stainless steel tables on benches that were securely bolted to the concrete floor.
George was feeling good for the first time that he could easily remember. He was grateful the metal wires and plates from his broken jaw, he'd gotten after living in Cell Block-C, were removed a week before. It was still difficult to open his mouth very widely, but he seemed quite capable of chewing and swallowing. His broken ribs had also mended nicely and since he'd been transferred from C to A-Block the beatings and other less pleasant shower room activities had finally stopped.
The Sabres gang had nearly killed him a few weeks earlier. George had been suicidal before the transfer, but now he’d even managed to make a few friends in A-Block.
“Storing up for the winter?” Vito inquired from across the table. The young failed bank robber hadn't picked up much to eat for himself at the serving line and didn't seem interested in eating what little he had on his tray.
George nodded and kept eating the turkey slices, rolls, instant mashed potatoes drowning in something that somewhat resembled margarine, and cranberry sauce without looking up. He didn't understand why Vito enjoyed hanging around with him so much and didn't really care for him a great deal. It's not that he hated him or anything like that. It just seemed to George that they didn't really have that much in common. Although compared to virtually all of the other inmates, he thought Vito was far better than most.
“Glad you still have an appetite,” Vito said while warily w
atching the lone guard pacing across the overhead catwalks.
“It's actually... not too bad... for a change,” George managed to say through a mouthful of food.
“Said the condemned man about his last meal,” Vito muttered and suspiciously poked the cranberries on his tray with his spoon.
“What are you talking about?”
“George, you aren't this dumb. No one is. I'm telling you something stinks. First they have everyone on lock down for almost four days because fewer guards are showing up and now, even though today they have even fewer guards on duty than ever, we get a Christmas and Thanksgiving Buffet in September,” Vito said angrily, before reluctantly eating a spoonful of the tart tasting cranberries and pointing the utensil up at the lone guard patrolling overhead. “They usually have five of those guys up there. Yesterday there were two, today there's just one. I'm telling you, the warden's gonna have the commandant and his storm troopers come down to the cell blocks and kill everybody; if not tonight, probably tomorrow.”
“You're paranoid. They wouldn't do that. How could they explain 5,000 dead prisoners? Besides, even if they wanted to kill us, it seems like a lot of trouble to do it that way. It would probably be easier to just poison us, somehow,” George said and used half a roll to sop up the remaining turkey gravy on his tray.
Vito watched the fat young man slide the dripping roll into his mouth. He was smiling and obviously enjoying what Vito considered most likely to be their last meal.
A part of him wanted desperately to blurt out what he was thinking. “Um, yeah poison us somehow. Maybe they could... I dunno... lace a really good meal with enough deadly crap for all of us to be dead before midnight.”
It was a very tempting thing to say, but he'd seen the fat kid eat enough over the last fifteen minutes to kill at least twenty men if it truly were poisoned. Plus even if his theory on poisoning was right, what good would it do to tell him that now. If there really was deadly stuff mixed into the food, his morbidly obese friend was already dead. He just didn't know it yet.
Jose tapped Vito on the shoulder to get his attention. When he turned and looked at the little man, Jose belched tremendously and blew it in his face with a big goofy grin before asking, “Guess what I just had for dinner?”
Sighing inwardly, Vito looked like he was seriously contemplating the possibilities for a few seconds before guessing, “A cock?”
Jose grimaced and tried to think of a clever response, but nothing came to mind as he shook his head.
“Two cocks?” Vito guessed again.
“You suck,” Jose said as he got up to get more dessert.
George chuckled and smiled at Vito. “That was pretty quick thinking.”
Vito nodded as he kept tabs of the guard wandering around overhead. “Yep, I'm a frigging genius, that's how I ended up in prison.”
The crowd that showed up for the execution of Maurice Grenauld was very small compared to typical events of that nature. Just two reporters had come, whereas usually an execution of an infamous child rapist and murderer warranted at least a dozen members of the news media and sometimes a television truck doing a live remote from outside the gate. But as rioting and murder seemed to grow more commonplace by the hour beyond the prison walls, the interest in such an event had apparently dropped to nearly none.
Reverend Stevens had come to give his blessing to the condemned and offer solace to the family members who were in attendance. He was a rotund middle aged minister that the warden suspected only came to executions to sample some of the rarely eaten pastries prepared for the guests.
Although, on more than a few occasions Reverend Stevens had embraced female family members in a way that struck both the warden and many guards as being not altogether strictly religious in nature. The Randy Reverend was a nickname that had sort of unofficially stuck to him.
The family members that had come to witness the termination of Grenauld's life included the mother of the young girl he'd raped and murdered and three uncles. None of the family members went near the pastry tray or coffee urn. Instead, they were huddled up and whispering in one corner of the observation room. The oldest uncle sat in a motorized wheelchair and only stared at his slightly trembling hands.
Warden Michael Massengail was wearing his special events suit. It was bought for him by his uncle, The Governor, that he normally only brought out of his office closet for visiting politicians and other very important people.
One of the newspaper reporters had managed to corner him and asked, “The new solar panel arrays at Bayonne cost quite a bit of money. How would you justify such an expense for prisoners?”
Massengail had thought the last of those type questions had been asked years ago, and sighed inwardly while outwardly smiling at the young female reporter. “My uncl- uh, I mean The Governor of Louisiana used available federal grants in renewable energy research to pay for most of the new system. He's actually quite an environmentally friendly man who also doesn't like seeing the hard working tax payers being continually forced to pay for electricity here at Bayonne.
In less than ten years it’s projected that the solar arrays will have paid for themselves and since they've been installed our monthly power bills have been nonexistent.”
The reporter looked skeptical and asked, “Just how many megawatts do the solar arrays produce?”
“Um, well, I'm afraid I don't have the various daily statistical average data on hand. It varies according to weather, of course, but it's more than sufficient to run the entire facility.”
Considerably more in fact, he thought but didn’t dare say that aloud. It was a secret.
The solar arrays atop all of Bayonne’s buildings were supplemented by many acres more, beyond the southern wall, hidden from public view in the swamp land. There was a considerable amount of money being secretly made by supplying electricity to towns as far away as Bixby. But strictly speaking, legally, the arrays installed beyond the walls never would have met guidelines set forth by the Environmental Protection Agency and had been built without public knowledge.
The other reporter’s breath had a hint of scotch in it as he asked, “Is it true the number of guards reporting to work has dropped to dangerously low levels, and if so what assurance can you give people there won't be any trouble with the inmates?”
The warden cleared his throat before saying, “The exact number of guards required to operate Bayonne safely is classified for security reasons, as I’m sure you understand, but I can promise you and your newspaper’s readers that this facility is one of the safest and best designed in the country. It has the newest, most sophisticated, state of the art computer control systems available.
When they remodeled and updated and I became warden of Bayonne every lock in the entire facility that needed a key was replaced top of the line fool proof systems. So, even if a prisoner managed to fabricate a key, somehow, he'd have no where useful to stick it.”
The old reporter chuckled and nodded before going over to the table laden with pastries for yet another cream cheese Danish.
“But the number of guards showing up for work has dropped significantly since the rioting in the cities began. Isn’t that correct?” The young reporter asked stepping closer to the warden.
Massengail smiled and asked, “I'm sorry Miss, but what's your name again and what paper do you write for?”
“I'm Janice Carson of the Bixby Weekly Gazette, and you didn't answer my question.”
“No, I didn't,” the warden replied before turning and walking over to speak with Captain LaShod.
“How much longer do we have to wait before you put this animal down?” One of the uncle's of the victim asked, in a gruff tone of voice, as he left the family huddle and crossed over to the long window that was currently impossible to see through. A thick dark green curtain on the other side of the glass prevented anyone from viewing the execution room beyond. The impatient man tapped on the glass saying, “Let's do this thing. What's the hold up? This is worse than
waiting for a burger and fries at a drive through.”
Captain LaShod saw one of the guards telling the man to be patient and turned back to the warden. “Sir, I really don't think the commandant will be coming. He won't answer either his home or cell phone and hasn't since he left earlier today. We need to get this thing started before those relatives get really upset. Or do you want to postpone and reschedule, again?”
“Absolutely not, rescheduling is out of the question,” the warden said, glancing at his wristwatch. He saw it was already twenty minutes past six and said, “Alright, we can't wait any longer, let's get his thing rolling.”
LaShod nodded and hurried over to the reverend and whispered, “It's time,” before leading him reluctantly away from the young reporter.
Janice Carson, a rookie reporter for The Bixby Weekly Gazette, gave a sigh of relief that someone had finally saved her from the creepy reverend who had been probing into her personal life along a line of questioning she'd have slapped most men for.
Taking out her notebook, she sat in one of the chairs in the back row and tried to mentally put herself in the place of the woman sitting in the front row in front of her. Janice had never considered herself the marrying type, let alone having kids. It seemed like way too much responsibility and too many headaches to deal with, plus finding a 'man' who didn't act like a selfish little boy or a goofy clown was nearly impossible. She was just thankful the editor had given her a chance to cover a real news story instead of boring council meetings or something equally inane, that no one ever bothered to read. I just hope this Grenauld guy dies quickly so I can get home before it gets too dark. It's dangerous enough driving during the day, the last thing I need is to be heading home in the dark and find myself surrounded by one of those mobs of insane rioters.
She saw the fat reporter take several pastries off the tray and squeeze his large butt into a seat on the front row. He bit into a gooey looking thing and she wished they hadn't taken her cell phone.
