by Ralph Gibbs
“Oh, the man has jokes,” Andrew said under his breath so that only Franklin could here. “Hardy har, har, har. All right, take your clothes off and go stand on the line.” Andrew turned to Tom. “Never had my finger up a SEAL’s ass before.” Andrew laughed at his joke.
Franklin sighed. “I’m not . . .” He decided not to bother.
When Andrew finished the cavity searches and the prisoners dressed in their yellow jumpers, he escorted them to a medical interview. When it was Franklin’s turn, Andrew escorted him into a sparsely decorated office, which was the size of most homeowner’s walk-in closets. Seated behind a desk was an elderly gray-haired black woman dressed in a doctor’s smock. Andrew moved Franklin to a chair screwed into the floor and cuffed him to it.
“All right, Turnipseed, don’t go givin’ the doc a hard time,” Andrew said. “She’s a good lady and probably the only friend you’ll ever have here. At least one you can trust.” He handed the doctor Franklin’s file. The doctor gave Andrew a curious look at the mention of his name but said nothing. Andrew waited outside.
“Good morning,” the woman said. She came around and sat on the edge of the desk closest to him. “My name is Doctor Eleanor Glaser. I’m sorry for the handcuffs, but a woman can’t be too careful in here.” She stood up and patted the desktop. “The last doctor was raped right here on top of this desk. The prisoner punched the man right in the face and knocked him silly. By the time the guard realized something was wrong, it was all over except the zipping up.”
“Him?”
“Yep,” Eleanor said, as she went back to her chair. “All I’m going to do today is ask a few questions to get things started. Next week, once you’re settled, I’ll start the physical exam.” Eleanor opened the folder. “Franklin Turnipseed. That’s a bit of an unusual name.”
“Is that one of the questions?” he asked.
“No, I guess not. I was just curious.” She studied the folder. “Your file shows you have six prominent scars, one on your right bicep, two on your front left shoulder, two on the left side of your back—”
“Exit holes, ma’am,” Franklin said.
“Exit holes,” she said as she wrote the information down. “And a three-inch scar on your upper left leg.”
“Shrapnel.” She noted it in the file.
“Any of them bothering you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“On your left shoulder, you have a tattoo of a winged mermaid?” she asked curiously.
“It’s a succubus.”
“A succubus?” she asked, wanting to know more. But Franklin wasn’t forthcoming. She continued, knowing she wouldn’t get an answer. “Age?”
“Twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty July eighth,” he said.
“I’ll be sure to bring you a cupcake with a candle on it,” she said earnestly. For the first time since the judge handed down his sentence that morning, Franklin fully smiled.
“Thank you, ma’am. I love cupcakes.”
“Any medical conditions, or are you taking any medications?”
“No meds, but I have decreased hearing in my left ear.”
“Do you require a hearing aid?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll schedule a hearing test, just to be sure,” she said, jotting it down in her notes. “Do you have any special needs?”
“Does a car and a half-hour head start count?”
It was the doctors turn to smile. “I’ll see what I can do. Any gang affiliations or known enemies?” Franklin raised an eyebrow. “It’s not strictly a medical question, but it helps speed the process for the others.”
“None.”
“How about a list of visitors?”
“No one, ma’am.”
“Says here you’re married.”
“My wife filed for divorce after the arrest.”
“You have an eight-year-old son. Either of them?”
“Neither.”
“Well, you’re not the first one that didn’t want visitors, and I suspect you’ll not be the last,” she said, giving him a wry smile. “But if you change your mind, you won’t be the first that’s done that either.” Eleanor pushed a button under her desk. Andrew came in and uncuffed him from the chair.
“Any problems doc?” Andrew asked.
“Nope. A perfect patient. I’ll schedule a more extensive exam for next week. Has he eaten yet?”
“Not since breakfast,” Andrew said.
“When you’re all done with processing, they’ll take you to get some lunch,” she said to Franklin. “Tuesday is meatloaf day, so you’re in for a treat. It’s not the greatest, but I’ve had my husband’s, and that’s worse.”
Andrew escorted him to the door and led him to an open yard with the rest of the prisoners.
“You won’t need these now,” Andrew said. He removed the cuffs and headed back inside. Looking over the yard, Franklin observed that most of the new arrivals gathered on the far side of the yard near Wendell. Franklin made his way to the opposite end, squatted down and put his back against the fence, keeping his head down. It wasn’t long before a shadow fell over him.
“Go away,” Franklin said, never looking up.
“You really kill that cop and his family?” Wendell asked.
Franklin stood and looked up into Wendell’s face, but said nothing.
“You’ll be a hero, inside,” Wendell said. “Cop killers always get special treatment. More people need to kill cops. You might be black, but my friends inside will treat you—”
Franklin launched himself upwards and slammed his forehead into Wendell’s face. Wendell staggered back, blood gushing from his nose and split lip. Franklin followed up with a kick to the man’s groin, Wendell’s second one for the day. As Wendell doubled over, Franklin slammed his knee into Wendell’s face, propelling him back up again. Wendell tried to stagger out of the way, but Franklin grabbed Wendell’s greasy hair and jerked his head back, exposing Wendell’s throat. Franklin punched him in the Adam’s apple just hard enough to make breathing with sore testicles difficult. Wendell fell to the ground gasping for air just as Andrew opened the door to release the next prisoner into the yard.
“Hey now,” he yelled. “That’ll be enough of that.” Andrew walked over to Franklin. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“He slipped on the soap,” Franklin said walking away.
“Did he now?” Andrew said chuckling as he leaned over Wendell’s prone body. “Wendell, you need to be more careful walking in the yard. People are always dropping the soap. Do you need to see the doctor?”
Wendell, red-faced, and breathing hard, shook his head.
“Good,” Andrew said. “Take a minute to collect yourself and then go back to the other side of the yard and stay there. I don’t want you slipping anymore. If I see you anywhere near Turnipseed, I’ll cuff you to the fence. Of course, if you go near Turnipseed again, there may be nothing left of you to cuff. He doesn’t seem to like you. You might want to remember that.” Wendell walked away, holding his head back, trying to stop the bleeding.
“Maybe you lied to me,” Andrew said, coming up to Franklin. “Maybe you do have a death wish.”
“I don’t.”
“You could have fooled me. Wendell is part of a white supremacist gang. There’s more than a dozen here at the prison, and once word spreads about what you did, they’ll be gunning for you. No choice. If they don’t, prisoners will think them weak.”
“The Melian Dialogue,” Franklin said.
“The what?”
“It’s Greek. Ask your wife.”
“Whatever. We try to keep members of the same gangs separated, but there are just too many. There’s at least three that will be in your cell block. I’ll have the guard in your block point them out.”
“Thank you.”
“It won’t help against the guys trying to get in good with the gang. You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”
“Thanks again.”
“No need for thanks. You did me a favor. With me standing here talking with you all friendly-like, they’ll think I ordered you to beat him. Now I don’t have to beat him for what he said earlier and take a chance on having to go on another vacation. It’s a win-win. Besides, my luck, Doreen will want to head off to Rome this time. I can only take one historical site a decade. Now, behave so I can finish up with processing. I’m feeling a little nauseous, and I want to go home.”
CHAPTER 4
Abraham Winthrop, head and body scrunched over against the heavy winds, squeezed the neck of his fur-lined coat tightly together trying unsuccessfully to keep the cold and rain from pilfering the warmth of his body as he walked down the lengthy pathway through the manicured lawn of his multimillion-dollar church. Earlier that afternoon, the temperature had taken an unseasonably southern dip, growing steadily worse throughout the day. If that wasn’t enough, while courting a group of wealthy investors over dinner, a rainstorm broke, threatening the area with flash floods. As he reached the solid oak door of his office, he spotted a pair of black dress shoes and jumped back startled.
“Jesus Holland,” Abraham said glancing up to see his longest-serving religious advisor huddled in the corner of the alcove, trying to stay dry. “What the hell are you doing here?” Holland produced a manila envelope covered in a rain-speckled plastic bag from beneath his coat. “You could have emailed it to me.”
“I . . . I know how much you hate e . . . email,” Holland said, teeth chattering.
Abraham rushed to open the door. “Get inside before you catch your death of cold,” Abraham said, realizing the irony of those words in a society worried about a pandemic. If his sources inside the administration were correct, it wasn’t just a scare, but the Athenian Plague come back from the dead to haunt the living.
“I . . . I wanted to de . . . deliver it in . . . in person,” Holland said, moving to the fireplace to warm himself.
Abraham hung up his coat and helped Holland off with his. He moved to the bar. “Brandy or whiskey?” he asked, dropping ice into two glasses.
“On a night like this, do you have to ask?” he said, smiling as he rubbed his hands together. Holland was a good ol’ boy from Jacksonville, Mississippi. There was whiskey in his blood.
“I’m not so much a fossil I don’t know how to use a printer,” Abraham said, as he handed the glass over.
Holland downed the drink, tossed the ice in the sink, and refilled the glass to what he believed was a respectable level. The whiskey nearly crested the rim.
“I know, but I wanted to be here when you read it,” Holland said. That was the real answer.
“Was that your idea or the board?”
“Both.”
From a young age, Abraham knew he had born to proselytize for God. He once held membership of several million as a television evangelist as proof that he was gifted, but a financial scandal brought down his empire. Though he escaped jail, it had taken more than a decade and his marriage to climb out of the hole, but with God’s help, he was able to turn a small Ohio congregation into a multimillion-dollar religious corporation with several thousand members. And it was growing.
When he discovered the organization, like him, it was a shadow of its former self. The group, founded just after the civil rights movement, claimed that the US government, as established by the founders no longer existed, usurped after the Civil War. It was a ludicrous claim, but he could work with it. Using his natural charisma, he worked his way up the organization until he became first their spiritual leader. His major contribution to their society was the suggestion that they form what amounted to a shadow government, complete with the traditional judiciary, executive, and legislative branches. Though membership remained modest through the turn of the century, the economic meltdown and the election of the first black president helped membership soar. It never dipped below five thousand until recently, and that dip could be traced to the night he lost his daughter Purity.
While away at college, Purity met and fell in love with a man of unacceptable skin color. They planned to wed and live with his family in Texas. At its core, the group he led was a racist organization that believed in an unaltered Constitution. He wasn’t racist, but he had to work with what God provided. If the wedding had taken place, he would most likely have been drummed out of the organization, regardless of his spiritual standing. But God intervened, and the boy died in a car accident. Purity accused him of having the man killed, but he didn’t. Regardless of his personal feelings, he still believed in God’s commandment. That didn’t mean someone close to him didn’t have it done. He looked over at Brother Holland. He never asked the man because he was terrified of the answer.
Purity, however, wasn’t convinced of his innocence. One night, while he was out entertaining, she tasered her bodyguard and vanished. Where the hell did she get a taser? He hired private investigators to find her to no avail. Everything he did, he did for her. Afterward, his inner fire seemed to dim, and his sermons held no meaning for him. If he were a movie actor, critics would have accused him of phoning in his performances. This lack of inner motivation was a major contributor to declining membership, and why there were rumblings from the twelve-member board of apostles to replace him. The problem they faced was who to replace him with and how to do it without losing membership.
“You know,” Abraham said, sitting at his desk and pulling out the paper from the pouch, “when I first saw you, I thought you were an assassin.” His death would be a Godsend to the board and probably the only way to guarantee a small membership drop. To do that, they would need to have someone already on tap to fill his shoes. A gap in leadership would doom the organization. It was why the FBI was always trying to come up with ways to put him in jail. Cut the head off the snake, and the body dies.
According to his sources, the FBI was no closer to indicting him than the board was to finding a replacement. If the board ever introduced to him someone with his religious qualifications, then he would worry. That’s when he would take preemptive action, God’s commandment be damned. Until then, the Twelve Apostles, as they called themselves, would write his speeches in the hopes of curbing membership decline. It just meant he didn’t have to bother wasting time with it.
“They’re not that scared,” Holland said, sitting in the plush leather chair opposite the desk, the whiskey glass resting on his knee. “Yet.”
“But they’re scared,” Abraham said more as a statement than a question.
“Christ! Of course, they’re scared,” Holland said, almost laughing. “These men were plumbers, grocery store clerks, construction workers, and computer salesman before they hitched their wagon to you. Now, instead of living in double-wide trailers, they live in pricey mansions with trophy wives sporting store-bought tits and kids that are either in therapy or rehab. Damn, right they’re scared.”
“And you?”
“Well, I’m no Judas. They know I back you a hundred percent. But that’s because I was an insurance salesman before I met you. People always need insurance. I’ll be okay if we fold, though I might have to downsize. So, no, I’m not scared, but . . . I am worried. If they decide to slip a knife into your back, they’re going to slip one in mine.” He sipped his drink.
Abraham opened the folder and picked up his pen. “Well then, we better spread the goat’s blood, so the Angel of Death will pass us by.” They spent the next several hours editing and tailoring the speech. When done, he sent Holland and his version back to the board for more input. It was a process that would last until the day he was ready to deliver the sermon.
CHAPTER 5
“What do you mean you don’t want to attend Albany,” Arnold Justice said more than asked his daughter Danica. “They’ve got the best criminal justice program in the country. Albany is a family legacy. The Justice family has been attending the Great Dane since 1948.”
Named for her father’s grandmother, the seventeen-year-old high school senior sat across from her father feel
ing what she imagined hundreds of criminals felt like under his intense interrogation. Danica reached up and pushed a wisp of her chestnut-colored hair from her hazel eyes as she gathered her courage.
“I don’t want to study criminal justice,” she said, tentatively, her courage still working its way to the surface.
“Well, that’s fine,” her father said not understanding her just yet. “There’re other degree programs that will help you get a leg up in law enforcement. A criminal justice degree is best, but as long as you have a bachelor’s degree in something relevant, with your credentials, you should have no problem getting on any law enforcement agency in the country. But, you need to have a degree.”
Danica fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be a police officer,” Danica finally said, almost whispering. Her secret was out, at least one of the two she was hiding from her parents. What she was about to tell them was probably the worst of the two in her father’s eyes. The living room grew quiet and thick with tension. Danica imagined every dog, cat, cricket and frog in the housing complex–possibly the state–fell silent in response to her admission.
“Maybe she wants to go into medicine?” Dinah, her mother, said hopefully. The question was a life preserver. Her mother was a nurse. If Danica decided to go into medicine instead of law enforcement, there was no way her father could object. He would still be disappointed, as would everyone else in the Justice clan, but he could not openly fight her decision, not if he wanted to sleep in their bed anytime soon.
“No,” Danica said just as quietly. It was the opening her father awaited. He sprang up from the couch so fast that to an outside observer, it might look like he was about to strike her. Danica didn’t flinch. As mad as her father might get, he would never strike her in anger and not just because she was his daughter. Beyond the occasional moving violation, no member of the Justice clan ever broke the law. There were dark rumors of what happened to those that did.
There were family stories of the Justice family line. Most of the stories, like how they were descended from Sir Gawain of Round Table, were bullshit. No one believed them, and once you were old enough to stop believing in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, the family said as much. However, she believed the dark stories of what happened to criminals who carried the Justice family name. The term “killed while trying to escape” may have first been coined by someone in the family tree.
