There was also the victim angle. After all, in the end Harris had surrendered. He, at least to some degree, had cooperated with the authorities. He had confessed to the murder of innocent civilians. There were discrepancies in his account, and his denial of the Coup had caused some controversy during the trial. But there were also discrepancies on the side of the authorities, and a low-ranking Marine would most likely not be privy to the details of an upcoming military coup d’etat. In the end Harris had cooperated rather than face the death penalty. His information had led federal authorities to the bodies of some of his victims and most of his Marine conspirators. All that mattered at the end of the day was the Federal Government had to some degree benefited from Harris’s account of events, so his life had been spared. He’d spent the last fifty years in a federal prison. Joel thought that one could argue that Harris was a victim of the old American culture. A boy who believed, who practiced all that his culture taught him was right, and in the end caused pain and misery for himself and brought death to others. What generation would want to reintroduce such an evil back into its society?
Joel salivated at all the potential angles of this story. He believed it could very well make his career. He was pleased with all the potential his life seemed to hold for him. He ordered another white wine from the flight attendant. When she bent over to serve his drink, he reached up and groped her breast. Expressionless, the flight attendant took his empty wineglass and straightened up.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked, still with no expression.
“Not now, but I’ll let you know when there will be,” Joel said with a wink. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he knew it was his choice to make. He loved it. Joel found privilege addictive.
Chapter Four
Joel got more work done on the flight than he had hoped. The flight attendant had not been as receptive as he would have liked. He chided himself for not being more forceful. He had seen other federal officers simply take the people they wanted, but he was not quite comfortable with that yet. Joel hated the idea that he might be too weak to use people for his benefit. He would have to get tougher if he were to make it as a FedAPS officer. The plus side was he had put his time to good use. He’d studied Harris’s life after his conviction and his prison record to look for any signs of rehabilitation. Was Harris a changed man? Was he still the cold-blooded killer that he was fifty years ago?
The record of Harris was paradoxical. After his conviction he was sent to a maximum-security prison near Florence, Colorado. This was standard operating procedure for someone convicted of extremely violent crimes, terrorism, and an overthrow of the Federal Government. Since the United Nations had declared supermax prisons as torture, because of their “reduced environmental stimulation,” prisoners were typically kept there for only five years. The prisoners did not interact with other prisoners and only had minimal interaction with prison guards. The prisoners spent twenty-three hours a day in a twelve-by-seven-foot cell containing a bed, sink, toilet, shower, and television screen for educational broadcasts. The thinking was that after the prisoner’s spirit had been sufficiently broken down, the prisoner could be introduced to a prison population, typically a federal work camp, where the prisoner could then be re-educated. After five years at ADX Florence, Harris was sent to Guevera Labor & Education Center (LEC) in eastern Oregon. Within six months he killed four other inmates with his bare hands in a chow hall brawl. One of which, he had beaten to death with a serving tray. The only reason Harris’s file gave for the altercation was that the other four men “wanted his applesauce.”
Harris spent another five years at Florence. He was then sent to the Clinton LEC in southeast Arkansas. Within ten days Harris was the suspect in the fatal beating of another prisoner. A lack of witnesses prevented additional charges being filed against Harris. He spent four weeks in solitary confinement and was released back into the general population. He was incarcerated there for the next twelve years without recorded incident; in fact, some of the staff at Clinton stated they thought he was a model prisoner. Harris was given a degree of independence and trained as a cook. However, he later killed two other inmates; one was choked to death with a pair of cooking tongs in the center’s kitchen. Harris’s file did not state the reason for this altercation, but did mention that the “prisoner can still become most dangerous when angered.”
Harris was sent to the maximum-security wing of the Harry Mason Reid Educational and Rehabilitation Center in southern Nevada. At the time it was a new facility specifically designed for prisoners of a violent and political nature. It was similar to previous secure housing units, but at Reid inmates were given ninety minutes of exercise and up to six hours of education. It was thought of as an ideal facility for prisoners that for physical or ideological reasons did not mix well with others. Inmates could be contained, isolated, and re-educated without violating the United Nations’ definition of torture. When rehabilitated, the prisoner could rejoin the general prison workforce and benefit society. It was here that Harris had spent the last twenty-five years. His file showed that he liked the exercise regimen and requested Shakespeare for recreational reading. This threw Joel for a loop; he’d never heard of Shakespeare before. He looked him up on the federal search engine and found out he was an English author from the seventeenth century. Joel made note of the name, wondering what it was about the past author that could shed light onto Harris’s violent nature. Sean Harris was now in his seventies and, according to federal records, the last known living veteran of the United States Marine Corps.
Joel was familiar with the security protocols at Reid; they were the same used at the airports. He enjoyed the feeling that his new VIP status precluded him from standard security protocols. He was met by Warden Enrique, a rather unattractive, heavy woman who looked to be about sixty. She wore the pantsuit of the typical middle-management woman who could not advance on her looks. The black color of her hair looked unnatural to Joel, and she spoke with a high-toned squeaky voice that he found grating. She reminded him of an elementary school principal from his childhood.
“What’s your impression of Harris?”
“You mean what do I think of him?”
“Yes.” Joel wondered what she had not understood about the syntax.
“He’s a troublemaker. He won’t cooperate with what we’re trying to do here.” The warden seemed to struggle to keep her breath and pushed her sliding glasses up.
“How so?”
“He won’t rehabilitate. Oh, he does all the menial assignments and work. He’s shown skill at painting and gardening.”
“I read in his file that he’s a trained cook.”
“Yes, well, that may be, but it serves no societal benefit. What good is his work if he won’t believe in why he’s doing it?”
“How is that?” Joel again had to consciously slow down to stay with the warden.
She exhaled loudly either from exertion or exacerbation. “Look at his numbers. He has failed every citizen course his entire time here.”
“He probably has no intellectual aptitude.” Joel interrupted.
“No.” The warden seemed unable to catch her breath. “In his last course, the instructor brought to my attention that Harris scored one hundred percent on his pretest. Six weeks later he scored zero on the course posttest. No, he knows the material, he just chooses not to believe. He’s been removed from past classes for arguing with the teachers and asking them all kinds of questions.”
“You’re kidding.” Joel was genuinely shocked. In grade school one of the first things Joel learned was not to ask the teacher questions, but to accept the instruction. Even in college it was only considered appropriate to ask questions that enhanced the student’s understanding, not to challenge a teacher’s instruction.
“Within my first few weeks here,” she said with a chuckle, “it came to my attention that some of the prisoners were in possession of Bibles.”
“Really?”
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sp; “Yes! Obviously a clear violation of their constitutional rights. It never really did become clear how they came into possession of them. Anyway, I ordered all cells to be searched and the Bibles confiscated. Of course, Harris was one of the prisoners in possession of the contraband. He not only demanded an explanation from my officiating administrator, but claimed to have a constitutional right to the contraband.”
Joel laughed as if he’d heard the punch line to a joke. “Do you suppose he really thinks that?”
“It doesn’t really matter if he believes it or not. He says it out loud so others can hear him. Whether it’s in the classroom, the cell block, or the prisoner recreation yard, they hear him. We are trying to re-educate these prisoners to accept federal authority, to accept their place, their function, and to work for the greater good. When he challenges the concepts that the instructors are trying to teach, he interferes with that. I’ve gotten reports from my assistance administrators that the things he says inspires the other prisoners, and that interferes with their progression.”
“What do you do about it?”
“Oh, we isolate him in his cell, suspend his recreational reading, sensory deprivation…”
“How do you do that?”
“Shutter his window. Leave all his lights on, or leave them off, for several days at a time. It shuts him up for a while, but given a few weeks or several months, he’s always back at it. Currently I have him barred from any citizen courses, and that seems to have limited the damage he’s able to do.”
“By the way, I saw in his file that he likes to read this Shakespeare fellow. Can you tell me much about that?”
“Good question. I’ve had my people look into that. Even our psychologist. No one can make a connection. I’ve even looked at some of the text myself; none of the dialogue or the plots make any sense. I don’t see how he can be getting anything from that. All the same, he’s been restricted from reading any of it for the last few years, and it’s not had an effect.”
“Hmm.” Joel decided to drop that line of thought. “What is it like being around him? You said he inspires the other prisoners.”
Warden Enrique laughed as they approached the security glass doors. “Oh, I never meet the prisoners. I have assistants for that sort of thing.” Squinting her eyes, she looked through the security glass into the prisoner wing. “They tell me that he gives them confidence that they are right. That there is value in what they think, in what they believe, and that is what makes Harris dangerous, in my opinion.”
“How so?” Joel was confused how a man in a maximum-security prison could be dangerous to the Federal Government.
“He uses the classroom to speak not of social justice, but of ‘moral authority.’ He argues for freedom over equality. Freedom of thought of all things! Here! Can you imagine the audacity? We are here to rehabilitate, to re-educate. Harris? He gives them hope in resisting our authority.” The matronly warden turned to look at Joel. Her syrupy voice took a chilly edge to it. “I don’t believe in the death penalty, Mr. Levine; but if I did, Harris would be the first prisoner I would order killed.”
Joel nodded as if he agreed with her assessment. “I see.”
“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Levine. My guard will escort you into the prisoner facility for your interview. Please tell Sandra LaGard if there is anything, anything at all, that she needs only to give me a call. Good luck with your project.” The heavy woman turned and slowly waddled back down the hall from which they came. While very pleasant, and somewhat patronizing, Joel found it hard to believe this individual actually was in control of the most dangerous criminals to the Federal Government. Sexist or not, he wondered who really ran the prison.
With a slight humming noise, the security glass doors opened into the prisoner wing.
“Sir, if you will come this way, I will take you to the prisoner for your interview.” The guard motioned Joel through the doorway. Joel still thought it seemed odd that this glass door and wall was all that separated the prisoners from the administrative wing of the facility.
“You ever had a prisoner try to break through this glass?” Joel asked.
The guard shook his head and smiled. “No, sir, not while I’ve been assigned here. I’ve heard stories from the senior guards about some of the prisoners trying to break through when the place first opened. By now they know it would take a tank to bust through this security glass.”
Joel noticed the guard’s name tape read REED. What were the odds of that? “And how long have you been working here, Reed?”
“About four years, sir.”
“Is this your first job?” The guard didn’t look older than twenty-two to Joel. His freckles gave him a boyish look.
“No, sir, it’s my second. I was stationed at the Trotsky LEC for three years before this.”
“In California?”
“Yes, sir, northeast of Dublin.”
“What brought you out here to the Nevada desert?” Joel relished his ability to connect with the lower echelon types. He believed it always helped in getting information out of them.
“Orders, sir. I was reassigned.”
“Have you ever met Harris?”
“XPP Harris, yes, sir, I have.”
“XPP?”
“Harris is classified as an Extreme Political Prisoner.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“He’s a nice old man. Never gives us guards any trouble. Always polite. Even calls us sir.”
“Really!?” Joel was shocked. “So would you say he has become submissive over the years?” Joel found this paradoxical. Harris challenged the teachers, but not the guards. Was he a coward? A bully? Misogynist? Both? It would certainly fit the profile of Clark’s Marine Corps.
“No, sir, it ain’t like that. It’s more like he likes us.”
“Hmm. You think he’s just sucking up to you all just to get preferential treatment?”
“No, sir.” Reed chuckled. “There’s nothing about the man that seems like he’s kissing anybody’s ass. It’s like…” Reed stopped and looked Joel right in the eye. Joel was glad to be making a connection with the guard, but the man’s seriousness made Joel slightly uncomfortable. “It’s like he respects us or something. I’ve never seen a prisoner act quite like he does. It’s like he enjoys it or something. At Trotsky, where we had mostly straight-out criminal prisoners, they’d cuss at us, spit on us, throw urine, feces, semen, etc. Hell, he’s even more polite to me than anybody I come across on the outside in town.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to get you to be nice to him. Make his time here easier?”
“No, sir, like I said, it ain’t like that. He doesn’t seem to care about making his time easier. Like he won’t stoop to that or something. If anything, he seems to take pride in making his time harder. It’s like he takes pride in acting the way he does. Takes pride in speaking what he thinks. As if he’s proud of being what he is.”
“Huh.” Joel was baffled. Could this be the effect of Harris’s Marine Corps indoctrination? Marine Corps brainwashing? The two moved on.
“You sound like you kind of have a liking for Harris?”
“No, sir, not at all. As a guard, you have to be vigilant about developing emotions, good or bad, towards the prisoners. I’ll tell you though, there is something likable about him. It’s hard to explain. He puts out this aura, this positive vibe in the way he acts. Supposedly, my great-great-grandfather, or something, was a Marine in the war against Islam. His dad was supposed to have been a Marine in the war against communism before that. There is something about Harris that makes me hope that they were something like him. That maybe they weren’t as bad a people as I’ve been taught to believe.”
“I know what you mean.” Immediately Joel thought of his own grandfather. “I think I understand you, anyway.” He thought that this was what made Harris dangerous today.
“Remember, sir, good vibes or not, Harris is a trained, cold-blooded killer. The man has brutally murd
ered innocent people. He has the most violent history of any prisoner in federal incarceration. Never, sir, I repeat, never get too comfortable around him.”
“Absolutely.” Joel was still drifting back from a flash of memories of his grandfather.
In college Joel had learned of the United States Marine Corps of the Clark era indoctrinating Marines with a large sense of ego. Much of that, however, was based on the dehumanization of others. Everyone else was inferior; thus the Marines were superior. Showing respect and politeness to the prison guards did not fit this model. However, it did fit into the paradox of model prisoner and killer inmate. Most likely, Joel thought, the guard was not smart enough to figure out that he was being manipulated by Harris. But could an old man, after fifty years of prison, be capable of manipulating anybody? Who would he meet, respectful old man or savage killer? Which would best fit Joel’s needs?
“Here we are, sir. This is the counseling room. Another guard will bring Harris here shortly. Please feel free to make use of the workstation, armchairs, and coffee maker. You’ll notice a big red button located next to all three. Please hit that if you ever get any sense of feeling threatened or frightened. Remember, Harris is a proven savage killer.
“Again, sir, my name is Reed if you need anything.”
“Thank you, guard.” Joel’s attention was divided. Memories of his grandfather were fading, and the realization that Harris was a convicted murderer was starting to sink in. In the excitement over his new status and rise in the federal bureaucracy, it had not occurred to him that he would be spending hours, days, in one-on-one conversation with a savage killer. Joel did not even know anyone who had been in a fistfight, let alone been in one himself. It was scary. He looked at the red buttons. He wondered if he would have what it’d take to hit one of the red buttons if he needed to, or could Harris kill him first?
The Last Marine Page 4
