Redemption

by Phil M. Williams

  The audience erupted into a cacophony of excited voices, cheers, and applause. Jason hung his head. His shoulders trembled. Michelle wondered if he was crying. Amid the jubilation, Norman patted Jason on the back, leaned over, and said something to him. Jason straightened up and stared straight ahead.

  Danny hugged Michelle, lifting her from her feet.

  PART II: Jason

  No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.

  —Stephen King, The Stand

  Chapter 38: Chomo

  Jason peered out the window of the prison bus. He wore a belly chain, which connected to his handcuffs and leg shackles. The mostly leafless trees along I-80 West passed by in an amalgamation of brown and gray, with the occasional splash of yellow or white from the forsythia and cherry blossoms. Each inmate had their own seat and were forbidden from standing or talking.

  The man in front of Jason said, “I gotta piss.”

  Jason turned from the window. The guards were separated from the inmates by a locked metal cage.

  A guard glared through the cage. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I gotta go, man,” the inmate said.

  “If you piss on my bus, you’ll lick it up.”

  The inmate mumbled to himself.

  Jason went back to the window, watching the world go by. He thought about Michelle. Did she ever really give a shit about me? I thought she did. And now? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t have anybody. Nobody will ever love me. Everyone knows who I am and what I did. It’ll follow me for the rest of my life.

  An hour later, the bus drove toward the prison complex. They approached from a hilltop, giving Jason a bird’s-eye view. The thirty-five-acre complex was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire. Twelve two-story rectangular buildings were connected with corridors, in a circular pattern, reminding Jason of a virus. Three additional concrete buildings stood at the edges of the complex, along with a gravel track. The bus stopped in front of the chain-link gate. The sign read, The State Correctional Institution at Mill Creek.

  The gate opened, and corrections officers waved the bus inside. The bus parked in front of a building marked Receiving and Discharge. Jason and the rest of the inmates were lined up single file and herded into the building, everyone shuffling with the leg shackles.

  Once inside, the corrections officers marched them along a black line, stopping them before a square room with two doors. The inmate in front of Jason fidgeted, doing the pee dance. The COs all wore uniforms: gray button-down shirts and dark blue pants and black boots. A patch on their shoulders read Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. They all had keys, handcuffs, billy clubs, and pepper spray on their belts, but no firearms for the inmates to steal.

  Four inmates were let into the room at a time, the rest waiting in line in the hallway, always being watched by several COs. Jason went inside with the first group. A corrections officer chaperoned each of the four inmates. Jason’s chaperone was average height but muscular and wide, like an NFL fullback. He appeared to be in his late-twenties, with a curly blond crew cut. He reminded Jason of an angry Barney Rubble. His name tag read McCloud.

  On the nearby table was a clipboard with paperwork and a small jailhouse picture of Jason on the upper-right corner. A rubber trash can stood next to the table, lined with a mesh laundry bag.

  CO McCloud unlocked Jason’s belly chain and removed his handcuffs and leg shackles. Jason rubbed his naked wrists. His wrists and ankles were marred with red marks.

  “Take off your clothes,” McCloud said, glowering at Jason. “Put ’em in the laundry bag.”

  Jason took off the light blue jumpsuit he’d been issued at the jail four days ago and tossed it in the laundry bag.

  “Hurry up,” McCloud said.

  Jason removed his T-shirt, socks, and finally his boxers. He stood stark naked, his head bowed. Three other men did the same at their own stations.

  “Run your fingers through your hair,” McCloud said.

  Jason complied.

  “Open your mouth and lift your tongue.”

  Jason opened his mouth and lifted his tongue.

  “Raise your arms.”

  Jason complied.

  McCloud smirked. “Lift your sack.”

  Jason complied.

  “Turn around, bend over, and spread your ass cheeks.”

  Jason complied without emotion.

  CO McCloud handed Jason a stack of clothes. “Get dressed.”

  Jason dressed in white boxers, white socks, a maroon smock that read DOC on the back, maroon pants, and white slip-on shoes.

  McCloud glanced at Jason’s paperwork, a scowl on his face. “You have any medical or mental problems?”

  “No,” Jason replied.

  McCloud flipped through the pages, then stepped into Jason’s personal space. The CO’s breath was hot and pungent. He said, “I grew up in Loganville. My father’s a retired police officer. He’s good friends with Frank Murphy.”

  Jason stared ahead, poker-faced, while his stomach turned, and his heart pounded.

  McCloud leaned in real close and whispered, “I’d hate to be you. Wait until they find out you’re a fuckin’ chomo.”

  As Jason was escorted to another room for further processing, he thought about the word, chomo, wondering what it meant. He winced and thought, child molester.

  Chapter 39: Cellmates

  After the intake process, Jason and approximately fifty other inmates were divided into eight groups, based on which cell block they’d be assigned to. This was decided by the prison administration at intake. Members of the same gangs were kept in the same block or building, keeping the gang violence to a minimum. During intake, he’d heard one of the guards mention that Cell Block C was the Aryan Brotherhood.

  Jason walked in single file with five other freshly incarcerated men, following the black line on the hallway floor to Cell Block C. They were escorted by several COs. Jason and the men were silent, their eyes darting about. An ID badge with Jason’s picture was clipped to the breast pocket of his smock. He carried his bedroll, a laundry bag, and his intake paperwork. The bedroll contained fresh sheets, a pillow case, and a blanket. His laundry bag contained extra prison uniforms, underwear, socks, and toiletries.

  They were buzzed into Cell Block C, which was a two-story rectangular building capable of housing 160 inmates. The door shut behind them, along with their escorts. The center of the building resembled an indoor courtyard, with stainless-steel tables and chairs bolted to the floors. A handful of guards patrolled the perimeter.

  A cacophony of voices came from the inmates, loitering at and around the tables. The inmates self-segregated. The majority of the men were white, many of them with shaved heads, and face and neck tattoos. Jason had never seen someone with a swastika tattoo, but he’d seen several in his first few seconds on Cell Block C. Approximately one-third of the men were black, and a handful were Latino. Some of the segregated groups played cards. Some joked and laughed. But most leered and pointed at the incoming inmates. A few catcalled and threatened them.

  “Fresh fish comin’,” someone announced.

  A few inmates blew kisses at the newbies.

  “Look at these motherfuckers,” another inmate said.

  “Check out that white boy. He’s too fuckin’ pretty to be in here.”

  Jason followed the other newbies, his underarms sweating, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

  Prison guards watched the scene through the thick windows of the control room, which was a half-moon–shaped observation area situated along the west wall, with a wide view of Cell Block C. Along the perimeter of the cell block were two stories of open cells, and two metal staircases to access the cells on the upper floor.

  Two of the new inmates went directly to the Arya
ns and greeted their brothers. Jason and the other fresh fish went to find their cell assignments. Jason gripped his bedroll to stop his hands from shaking. A few men deliberately stepped in front of Jason, forcing him to walk around or to cause a collision.

  A muscular inmate, about the same height as Jason, but probably outweighing him by seventy-five pounds of extra muscle, sneered at Jason and said, “Punk-ass bitch.” Up close, Jason saw a tear drop tattoo under his right eye and a neck tatt, both barely visible with his dark skin.

  Jason pretended not to hear him and slipped by in the chaos. Jason climbed the stairs on rubbery legs to the second-floor landing. He found cell number 210. The sliding cell door was wide open. Jason stood in the doorway and stuck his head inside, bracing himself for the worst. A young man with red acne sat on the bottom bunk. He made eye contact with Jason.

  “I’m supposed to be in here,” Jason said, his voice wavering. “Is it okay if I come in?”

  The young man nodded and stood from the bed. “Y-y-y-yeah.” He was short and very thin, without a single follicle of facial hair. His brown hair was parted to the side, with a cowlick in back.

  Jason stepped into the nine-by-twelve space, relieved that his roommate wasn’t intimidating. It was only three steps from the door to the stainless-steel toilet and sink in the far corner. Bunkbeds were built into the concrete wall. There were two lockers, each with built-in combination locks. Jason tossed his stuff on the top bunk.

  He held out his hand to the young man and said, “I’m Jason.”

  “I’m R-R-Ronnie.” They shook hands. Ronnie’s grip was weak, and his hand was sweaty. His mouth worked hard to overcome his stutter. “You c-can have the bottom b-b-b-bunk, if you want.”

  Jason shook his head. “You were here first. I’m fine with the top bunk.” Jason went to the empty locker. “I should try this combination and make sure it works, before I put my stuff in it.”

  “You have to k-k-keep your stuff l-l-locked up.” Ronnie sat on the bottom bunk again.

  Jason consulted his orientation paperwork for the combination, committing it to memory. Jason mastered the combination, tried it twice, then locked his valuables inside. Jason turned from the locker and asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “Two days,” Ronnie replied.

  Jason stepped closer to his roommate. Ronnie flinched, and Jason showed his palms. “I’m not gonna be a problem. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  Ronnie nodded again. “Sorry. It’s hard t-t-to know who to trust in here.”

  “I can see that. How old are you?”

  “I’ll be t-t-t-twenty in October.”

  Jason winced. “Jesus. How the hell did you end up in here?”

  Ronnie dipped his head.

  “You don’t have to answer that.”

  Ronnie raised his gaze and said, “When I w-w-w-was eighteen, I had a g-g-g-girlfriend. My f-f-first. She was sixteen. I d-d-d-didn’t know it was b-b-b-bad. Her parents c-c-came home early and saw us …” Ronnie blushed. “You know.”

  Jason nodded.

  “They c-c-c-called the p-p-police. Corruption of a m-m-minor. My p-p-p-parents are religious.” Ronnie bowed his head again. His voice caught. “They d-d-d-disowned me.”

  Jason frowned. “That sucks. I’m sorry, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie shrugged and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “How long is your sentence?”

  Ronnie raised his gaze again, his eyes glassy. “T-t-t-two years.”

  “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “What about you? Why are y-y-you here?”

  Jason cleared his throat. “Insider trading.”

  Chapter 40: The Resource Center

  The day after intake, Jason left Cell Block C, buzzed out by a CO in the control room, and escorted by CO McCloud to Jason’s work assignment at the resource center, which was prison terminology for the library.

  Jason walked along the black line, McCloud’s heavy steps behind him.

  “I went to school with Michelle and Susie,” McCloud said to the back of Jason’s head.

  Jason didn’t respond.

  When Jason reached the open door to the resource center, McCloud said, “Stop.”

  Jason stopped in his tracks.

  McCloud walked around to face Jason, his billy club in hand. He stared at Jason for a long moment. “Your wife was a nice girl in school.” He smirked. “Susie was a wild child, but Shelly was a good girl. I always had a thing for Shelly. Everyone did. I was too much of a pussy to make a move.”

  Jason stared straight ahead, poker-faced.

  “I’m sure she’ll divorce your ass, assumin’ she hasn’t already.” He poked Jason in the stomach with his billy club. “Has she divorced you yet?”

  “No.”

  “Let me know when she does. Maybe I’ll take a crack at her.”

  Jason clenched his jaw.

  “What? You got somethin’ to say?”

  “No.”

  McCloud inspected Jason’s face. “You don’t say much. That’s prob’ly good for you. You gotta big secret to hide. They’ll find out sooner or later what you did, and they’ll make you pay.” McCloud cackled.

  Jason swallowed hard.

  McCloud stepped aside. “Get your ass to work.”

  Jason walked through the open doorway.

  The resource center had five round tables and chairs, six computer stations, jam-packed bookcases, magazine racks, and a view of the gravel track and forest beyond.

  Jason approached the counter. The library was empty except for the dark-skinned man behind the counter, who was reading The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. Jason said, “Excuse me.”

  The gray-haired man looked up from his book.

  “I’m supposed to work here.” Jason handed the man his paperwork.

  The man took the documents. “Let’s see what we got here.” He skimmed the information, then held out his hand. “Welcome to the resource center, Jason.”

  “Thank you.” They shook hands.

  “I’m Terrance.”

  “Nice to meet you, Terrance.”

  “Are you a college boy, Jason? You look like a college boy.”

  “I went to Penn.”

  Terrance let out a low whistle. “Must be a rich boy too.”

  “I was on scholarship.”

  Terrance grinned. “Then you’re a smart boy.”

  Jason grimaced. “I was. Until now.”

  “I suppose that’s true for all of us. I guess you’re gonna be my replacement.”

  “You’re leaving?” Jason asked.

  He smiled wide. “God willing, I’m outta here next week, and I’m never coming back.”

  Jason nodded.

  “What about you? How long are you here?”

  “Five years.” That was a lie.

  “That’s not too bad.” Terrance narrowed his eyes. “You look too respectable to be in here. What the heck did you do?”

  Jason broke eye contact for a split second. “Insider trading.”

  “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. By craving it, some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many sorrows. Timothy 6:10.”

  “It’s hard to love money at thirty cents an hour.”

  Terrance chuckled. “Modern-day slavery. You make one phone call, and it costs a week’s wage in here.” Terrance gestured to the bookshelves. “Let me give you a tour and show you the ropes.”

  Terrance showed Jason the books, which were arranged on the shelves according to subject.

  “Do you use the Dewey decimal system?” Jason asked. “The bindings have the numbers, but they’re out of order.”

  “Don’t bother. Most of ’em just read the magazines. The ones who read books just go to the subject and browse.”

  Terrance led Jason to the magazine racks, surrounded by old couches. Well-worn magazines were shoved into the racks: Sports Illustrated, Time, National Geographic,
Popular Mechanics, Road & Track, Motor Trend, and others.

  Terrance said, “Every weekday, one cell block has resource center privileges. This rotates each day. You usually only have five to ten guys who come in. Most of ’em will come here and read the magazines or go on the computers. We don’t let ’em check out magazines. If we did that, we wouldn’t have any magazines for the guys to read. They can check out books but no more than three at a time.”

  “Got it,” Jason replied.

  Terrance took Jason to the computers, with big fat monitors and dirty keyboards. “As you can see, we only have six computers. Sometimes more than six guys wanna use the computers at the same time. I make ’em draw names out of a hat. Don’t let anyone intimidate you. You’re the boss here.”

  Jason nodded again.

  Terrance took Jason to the front desk and demonstrated the checkout procedure. Four large boxes of books were under the front desk.

  Jason pointed to the boxes and said, “What about these books?”

  “That’s my busy work. When the guards come in, I start working on shelving the new books. Otherwise, they bitch at me and tell me to get to work. But there isn’t much to do but read. This job is the best-kept secret here. I’ve read at least a thousand books in this library. Kept me sane for twenty-five years. Maybe it’ll do the same for you.”

  Chapter 41: Unwritten Rules

  The men from Cell Block B left the resource center, escorted by several COs.

  “That’s about it for today,” Terrance said, shutting the novel he was reading.

  Jason looked up from the book he was cataloging.

  “Don’t work too fast. You’ll run out of stuff to do.”

  Jason set the book in the box, with the rest of the ones he’d labeled that day. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for showing me the ropes.”

  “No problem, young buck,” Terrance said, with a smile. “You’re Cell Block C, right?”

  “Yes. What about you?”