Diesel Therapy (Selena Book 2)

by Greg Barth

“Are they...dead?” I said.

  “No. Janson’s hurt the worst.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Okay, but it won’t matter. The people that made this happen? None other than the warden and the U.S. Attorney’s office. You watch. They’ll know it’s us.”

  “Let’s just go.”

  F IFTEEN

  Selena

  I WENT TO the bathroom and washed my wounds. There was blood on my prison issue shirt and pants. The wounds weren’t deep. The one on my scalp bled the most, but the one on my arm could probably use stitches. The scratches on my shoulder were superficial.

  I wrapped a paper towel around my arm.

  I made it back to my cell without incident, removed the paper towel and replaced it with one of Carla’s maxi pads. I sat on my bunk waiting for the next shoe to fall. Still a long time before ten o’clock count.

  I sat there thinking through what had happened. Clearly I had been set up. Had I gone through with the plan and killed Chav and gotten on the laundry truck, the outcome would have been worse. I would have been caught trying to escape and guilty of yet another murder. Someone, presumably the federal prosecutor, would have more leverage against me.

  It wasn’t that I knew anything critical or particularly damning about Malucci. Ragus? Sure, but not Malucci. I could place him near the scene when Faranacci was killed. That was something. I could give a few details about how I was treated. A kidnapping charge was within the realm of possibility. He’d given me clothes and told me where to find Faranacci. That might hurt him.

  But the U.S. Attorney’s Office didn’t need to know these things. They were incidental, unimportant, but when you’re trying to put together a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle and you only have fifty pieces, you look for every piece you can find. I had a few, and they were wanted.

  But I hadn’t killed Chav. I hadn’t tried to escape. Instead, I participated in a fight in which most of us used illegal weapons. That was bad enough. But it felt better. It felt true. It felt right.

  I had hurt Janson, but I didn’t think she’d die.

  The worst part was, in spite of somehow passing an impossible test, I had failed in being able to get away and put an end to the things my father and uncle were doing in Eastern Kentucky. That hope, which was an illusion all along, had been robbed from me. It had been the only thing that had steered me off course from being a model prisoner. It had made the risk worthwhile. Now there was nothing to fill its void except despair.

  In spite of doing what I felt were the right things, I felt anxiety. The peace I’d felt for the past few months was about to be shattered. The happy evenings with Carla were over.

  I didn’t know where I’d go from here, but I was confident that it wouldn’t be good.

  I lay down on my bunk and tried to breathe evenly.

  The P.A. system gave a loud, static-filled squawk and a voice commanded all inmates to return to their bunks. The prison was under lockdown.

  I got up and assumed the position, stood beside my bunk.

  A flurry of movement in the hallway and a series of groans and complaints. They’d make a sweep and search every room, removing all personal items and mattresses to make sure any contraband was found.

  Carla came into the cell. She’d kept the braid.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “No idea. They just told everybody to get to their cells. You hear anything?”

  I looked down at the floor and shook my head.

  “You have blood in your hair. My god, Selena, your arm is bleeding through that pad. What happened to you?”

  “It’s just a scratch. But I’m afraid what’s going to happen will be worse. So I want to tell you goodbye, just in case.”

  “What are they going to do with you?”

  “I have no idea. I mean, what can they do?”

  “If they move you, who’ll they stick me with?”

  “You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

  And then two guards were in our cell. They messaged back their counts through their radios. They looked us over closely. I couldn’t possibly hide my injuries. One of them said, “What happened to you, Carson?”

  “Cut myself shaving,” I said.

  “You always shave your scalp and your arm?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know how society feels about natural women. Can’t have us getting all hairy.”

  “I’m going to need you to step away from your bunk and put your hands against the wall.”

  I complied.

  The other guard spoke into his radio. “Inmate number 54177-225 has visible wounds to her arm and head.”

  A voice answered through the radio. “You need medical?”

  “Medical and restraints.”

  Five minutes later my hands were cuffed behind my back and my legs were shackled. They took me from my room. I was led down a long corridor. Walking was difficult, as I only had about twelve inches of chain between my ankles. The best I could do was shuffle along in quick, short steps. They led me to a tiny holding cell. A medical technician came in thirty minutes later and examined my wounds. He cleaned them, applied antibiotic cream, and bandaged them. He wrapped both my head and my arm.

  “You’re getting a tetanus shot,” he said.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve had one,” I said.

  “I think you’ve had the whole set, but we’re not taking any chances.”

  He left the room. It was at least an hour before he came back in. He pulled my sleeve up and wiped my shoulder with an alcohol swab. He uncapped a needle and stuck it in my arm, pushed the plunger and the medicine flowed through.

  “Took you long enough to get back,” I said.

  “Funny thing. Lots of inmates getting hurt tonight. Looks like you fared pretty well, all things considered.”

  He left the holding cell.

  Then a female CO came in, an older, heavyset lady who didn’t look happy to be there.

  “We’re going to perform a full body cavity search. I need you to stand up and follow my instructions. I will remove your restraints for the entire search, so it’s important that you comply with my instructions to ensure your own safety. The officers at the door will observe the search.”

  My restraints were removed. I took off my clothes, including shoes and underwear.

  She put on her gloves. She checked my mouth with a flashlight. She inserted her fingers and moved my tongue and cheeks around.

  “Have you swallowed any contraband?” she said.

  She removed her fingers from my mouth, and I said, “I have not.”

  “I’m going to need you to bend over and spread yourself.”

  I complied with her instructions while she performed a thorough cavity search.

  Fresh clothes were brought to me, and I was instructed to get dressed.

  Once finished, they cuffed my hands behind my back and placed the shackles on my ankles.

  I was instructed to sit.

  I was in the holding cell for what felt like hours. My arms ached but there was nothing I could do to move them around. It was quiet in the room. I studied the patterns on the block wall. Whoever painted the room had done a good job.

  When the door opened again, a male CO entered along with a female administrator. The administrator was dressed professionally with a black skirt and a white blouse. She wore flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She wore large, black-framed glasses and tapped on a black tablet in her hand with a well-manicured fingertip. She didn’t look at me.

  “Are you inmate number 54177-225?” She had a pleasant voice.

  “I am.”

  “State your name.”

  “Selena Marie Carson.”

  “Date of birth.”

  I answered all the identification questions she had on her list.

  “Tell me what happened tonight.”

  I didn’t respond.

  She sighed. “Okay. Were you involved in an escape attempt this evening after four o
’clock counts?”

  I said nothing.

  “Were you assisted in your escape attempt by Renee Chavern?”

  “Who?”

  “Renee Chavern, also known as Chav?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Was your escape attempt interrupted by three inmates whom you brutally assaulted with a deadly weapon?”

  I made no statement.

  “Okay then, do you have any information pertaining to crimes committed by other individuals outside of this prison that you would like to discuss?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Do you have any information pertaining to crimes committed by other individuals outside of this prison that you would like to discuss?”

  “What does that mean?”

  She sighed and read the same question a third time. Chav had been right all along. This was about leverage.

  “No,” I said.

  “If your mind changes on that, inmate 54177-225, you need to make that known to one of our correctional officers. I recommend you do it sooner rather than later.” She let that hang for a moment, then added, “They will get what they want. They always do.”

  “Who?” I said.

  It was her turn not to answer.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” I said.

  She looked at me like I was an insect. “I don’t know. Could be seg. Could be seg for a very long time. Could be you go to max. I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that you are fucked. Very much fucked.”

  She left the room and the door closed behind her.

  It all felt very perfunctory.

  I was left with an uncertainty that turned my gut to water.

  S IXTEEN

  Selena

  PRISON IS NOT about you. It’s not about anybody. It’s about time. It’s about not having any control over your time when they don’t want you to. It’s more of a machine than an institution. You go in one end and maybe, just maybe, you come out the other. When you do, you’re not the same.

  I sat in that room for what felt like several days that night, my hands cuffed behind my back. No window, no toilet, no sound—nothing but the gray walls, the cramped room, the hard bench beneath my ass.

  I thought about the fight in the laundry. I thought about how I was set up. It seemed so foolish now, that Pete would actually ask me to do something like that for him. It was crazy. I wouldn’t have been lured in but I had to stop my family.

  Or was that also part of the setup? How elaborate was this whole thing?

  My thoughts helped me pass the time for much of the night, but there came a point where the discomfort in my handcuffed wrists took control. Then for a long, agonizing time, everything in my universe was about those cuffs.

  Finally the door opened and a CO stood in the doorway. He was a tall man with a dark mustache. His hair was trimmed short. I hadn’t seen this man before.

  “Come with me, Carson,” he said.

  “Where are we going”?”

  “We’re taking you to prep for transport. You’re processing out.”

  “Transport where?”

  “How the hell should I know, Carson? I’m just supposed to get you ready to get on the truck.”

  I didn’t move. “I want to talk to my lawyer first.”

  “You can talk to your lawyer when you get where you’re going. Trust me, this is going to go a lot better for you if you cooperate with me.”

  “My arm hurts,” I said.

  “Well, you shouldn’t get into fights, should you?”

  I stood. I shuffled along as best I could with my feet shackled together as he led me down a long corridor and took me to yet another waiting room.

  There were two female guards there who performed yet another full body cavity search on me—you know, in case I’d managed to jam something up my ass while handcuffed alone in the empty holding room all that time. Squatting and coughing, I thought it would be funny if that wooden bench had fallen out of my ass.

  “I need the bathroom,” I said.

  They uncuffed my hands long enough for me to go. My feet stayed shackled.

  After I finished, I asked about my personal items.

  “They’ve been boxed up. You get everything back when you get to your final destination.”

  “Which is where?” I said.

  The woman looked at some paperwork on a clipboard. She flipped a few pages. “Beats me, Carson. Couldn’t tell you that even if I knew.”

  “Can I make a phone call?”

  She looked me in the eye and shook her head, her lips pulled back tight. “When you get where you’re going.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “They’re moving you, Carson. That’s all I know.”

  “This is seriously fucked up,” I said.

  “Don’t get vulgar with me, inmate.”

  They escorted me outside a few minutes later. A long, white van was idling in the cold, dark parking lot. Two guards stood nearby holding shotguns. They stopped me just outside the prison door. I stood there shivering as they put a chain around my waist. Another chain was attached that connected the waist-chain to my leg-irons. I was led up to the van and they put me in the back. Once inside, a CO removed one of my handcuffs and looped the chain around my waist-chain. They fastened the handcuff to my wrist once more. My hands were now cuffed in front of me around the chain. I wouldn’t be able to even touch my face if I needed to. Then, to make matters worse, a small, black box was placed over the links of chain connecting the cuffs. It stiffened the chain between my hands and bent my wrists at an odd angle. My hands were in front of me now, but I could do nothing with them. I was completely immobilized.

  The inside of the van stank of urine, shit, and vomit. Exhaust fumes filled the back of the van as the engine idled. I breathed as little as I could. My sinuses were agitated by the fumes, and I started to get a headache.

  “Can I at least have my coat?” I said.

  They slammed the van door shut. I was closed in the back, alone in the darkness.

  The van rolled forward.

  S EVENTEEN

  Selena

  I WAS THE only prisoner in the van. I assumed this wasn’t a scheduled, routine transfer. I wondered about Chav and the others and what became of them, but it made sense that we wouldn’t be transported together if they were also being moved.

  It would be a short ride to max, if that’s where they were taking me.

  A partition that separated the back of the van from the transport crew in the front. I couldn’t even see them.

  The rear window of the van was covered with a protective metal grating, but I could see out the window. I watched the prison grow smaller as we moved away from it. We stopped for clearance at the sally port gates. I watched in turn as we passed both sets of gates. Then I could see the tall fence, encircled with thousands of yards of razor wire, the razors shimmering in the bright moonlight. I saw the guard towers with their riflemen. After that, the prison was out of view.

  Most prisons are located at the end of long, desolate roads that lead only to the prison itself. Roads with signs warning that hitchhikers could be escaped inmates. This one was no exception. So for the next few miles there was nothing to see but dark trees and the road growing longer and longer behind me as more and more distance was put between me and the prison.

  I had no idea where I was being taken. I was already uncomfortable in my tight shackles. The leg-irons hurt my ankles. I had socks on, but they were thin, and the metal bit through them. The handcuffs were worse. The box on the connecting chain prevented me from moving my hands at all. It was a cruel device. I had to hold my arms in uncomfortable positions due to the way the cuffs connected to the waist-chain.

  It was medieval.

  To make matters worse, they hadn’t allowed me to bring my coat. The back of the van was cold.

  I hoped the trip wouldn’t be long. The strong smell of urine, vomit, feces and other strange smells gave me no confidence that I’d be
getting out of the van anytime soon.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was somewhere more pleasant. Sadly enough, the happiest memory that I could come up with was my evenings spent in prison talking to Carla.

  I felt the van stop at an intersection, then begin moving again. Not long after I could see that we were in a well-lit parking lot. I watched through the back window as the van moved past a drive-thru window at a donut shop. Then we were back on the road.

  They didn’t ask me if I wanted any donuts.

  I felt the van accelerate and watched out the rear window as we merged onto a highway. The van moved along at a good clip. I sat uncomfortably in the back for what seemed like forever before the sun came up.

  A little-girl voice inside my head began asking, are we there yet?

  I knew we weren’t there yet—wherever there was—and likely wouldn’t be there for a long while. Had I known just how much longer this journey was going to take, I’m not sure I could have handled it.

  I was used to being unable to move for long periods of time. I was also used to being in pain. Past wounds and injuries had left me laid up a couple of times. As unpleasant as those instances were, I had people who were there for me, people who wanted to lessen my suffering and make me as comfortable as possible.

  But now no one cared the least bit about my comfort. In my restraints, I couldn’t not move in any meaningful way. If I had an itch, I couldn’t scratch it. As the day stretched on, I felt more like an immovable object, a tree perhaps, than a person. I told myself it would be over soon. A fixed point that we were traveling to, and eventually we would arrive. It was that simple.

  We had been on the road for hours, and the sun was high in the sky when they pulled the van off the highway. I watched out the back window as we decelerated down the exit ramp. We turned into a small community that had some truck stops and restaurants. My stomach churned.

  The transport team stopped at a truck stop and gassed up the van. I wasn’t asked if I needed the ladies room or if I wanted to stretch my legs. They didn’t even open the back of the van. For all they knew I was dead back there.