He briefly examined the cover art, which consisted of a spooky-looking scarecrow set in the middle of a dark road, and began hastily flipping through the pages. He remembered reading the book in high school, but he considered it a classic and was happy to read it again.
This ought to kill some time.
When he finally looked up from his prize, the guard was gone.
I’ll miss his wit.
The ex-cop sat on the bunk, opened to the prologue, and began reading as voraciously as a man who hadn’t eaten a meal in a week.
It was impossible to measure time in the bare, windowless cell. He guessed he was reading for hours before he finally fell asleep. Later, he was subjected to another rude awakening. A loud metallic banging sound, which reminded him of a pickaxe striking steel, rocked him from his slumber. It turned out it was just another guard banging on the bars with a baton. Three guards stood outside his cell with batons at the ready.
"What the fuck do you want?" Burnside asked, as he tried to re-orient himself to his surroundings.
"Wake the fuck up, asshole. Time to go to court."
A surreal feeling overcame him.
Court? What's he talking about? I’ve already been tried and convicted! Was it all just a dream? Am I still in the middle of the trial?
He sat up and glanced around at his Spartan surroundings. Memories of the past several days came back to him in disjointed images.
I still have to go through the charade of sentencing - despite the fact the court already knows my sentence, I know my sentence, this asshole guard here knows my sentence, and everybody in the general public knows my sentence. We still have to go through the pathetic ritual of officially pronouncing the sentence. Talk about rubbing it in.
Burnside stood, frowned, and lifted his chin defiantly in the air, "Let's get this charade over with."
His words had an ill effect on the foremost guard. He glanced back at the two guards backing him up, as if appraising if they would be enough to subdue the psychopath. The prisoner grinned at him menacingly.
"What's the problem? Having second thoughts, asshole?" Burnside snarled as his body tensed up for action.
The guard ignored his comment and turned to one of the other correction officers.
"Call for more back-up. This guy's a fucking nut."
"Sure," the other guard replied as he drew his radio from his holster.
Burnside heard the guard mumbling something indecipherable into the radio as he continued to stare down the lead guard. The guard met and held his stare.
“I’m glad you’re calling for backup. I felt insulted when you showed up with only three guys,” Burnside said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"We'll see how tough you are when you get to prison, asshole," the guard muttered.
Burnside laughed contemptuously at the comment, but he knew it was only a façade. Based on his recent behavior, the chances of being sent to a medium-security prison was becoming more remote. That meant maximum security.
With the hard-core psychopaths.
He wasn't sure how crazy he was going to be when compared to the real-life killers in maximum security.
Sure, I’ve beat a few people up. Big deal. The guys in the max have fucking killed people.
Burnside felt fear flutter through his mind like a black butterfly. The reality of the guard’s words sank in. The fight went out of him and he stared at the floor, contemplating his chances of survival at a maximum-security facility. He didn't notice the additional guards enter the corridor as backup. He hardly noticed as they slid the bars open, told him to turn around with his hands behind his back, and circled cold steel around his wrists. He continued to stare blankly down at the floor as they manacled his ankles.
"Let's go," the lead guard commanded as they seized Burnside's arms and pulled him toward the open cell door.
Burnside barely noticed. He felt like his head was filled with Novocain. Numbness overcame him. He became like the living dead as they led him from the cell.
This can’t be happening. It’s too nightmarish to be real.
Burnside imagined his mind had flown thousands of miles away and someone else inhabited his body now. It wasn't him. This couldn't be happening to him.
Twenty years? For doing nothing wrong? Surely, God would not allow such an injustice to be perpetrated. Am I being punished for my lack of religious faith?
During high school, Ray and his siblings had been given a choice concerning whether they wanted to continue going to church or not. They chose not to go. They figured they had paid their dues by sitting through years of Sunday School and sermons in grade school and middle school. They figured they knew everything they needed to know about religion and the rest would be repetition. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe they were wrong and he was only now finding out how wrong.
Maybe this is all a divine punishment for abandoning religion. If so, then what about my brother and sister? Why have I been singled out for torture and not them?
Burnside searched his brain for a rationale for his predicament. He remembered doing many things wrong over the years. He always rationalized that what he did was okay because he did it to get ahead. He knew many other people did the same things. He always reasoned that everyone else did them, so why not him? He always planned to make up for the things he did wrong in the distant future once he established the life he wanted for himself. His repentance never materialized in the form of doing the right thing: spending time and effort helping other people. Sure, he helped people while doing his job and often felt satisfaction from it. But he never went out of his way to help people to show his faith in a divine purpose and to make up for his sins.
Maybe this nightmare is all my fault: the result of a selfish and careless lifestyle.
The thought tormented him like an obsession. They led him through the jail and brought him to the back of a truck. They opened the doors and shoved him inside. He sat down on a bench and they fastened his handcuffs to a metal rail behind his back. Two guards sat across from him. The back doors slammed shut. The truck began moving.
Burnside closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal wall. He imagined verdant forests, glistening lakes, towering mountains, and spacious skies. They were all the things he wasn't likely to see in the next twenty years.
During the sentencing, Burnside’s mind retreated so completely that he barely noticed the proceedings. He felt as if his spirit was hovering outside his body, watching the proceedings from afar, as if it was all just a bad television program. His body and mind felt numb as if they belonged to someone else. He heard the judge speaking, but his mind was at his favorite campground in New Hampshire. He was imagining pitching his tent among the trees in a valley surrounded by majestic mountains. The place was real: Gunstock camping ground in Gilford, New Hampshire. He had visited the campground numerous times since he was a kid. First, he went with his parents. Then, with his friends from high school. Then, with his friends from the police department. It was his place. No one could get him while he was in his place. He vowed that he would stay there.
Burnside was dimly aware of being led out of the courtroom after the proceedings. He never lost his blank-eyed stare as they led him out the back door of the courtroom to the waiting prison truck. He remembered very little from court. Vague mentioning of him being a danger to society because of violent behavior. Something about the judge saying his hands were tied and he wished he had more discretion. Something about fifteen years in a maximum security prison in another state.
He was fastened to the restraints in the truck’s rear compartment. Ray fell into a tormented, nightmare-filled sleep as he leaned against the inner wall of the truck. His attempt to escape into a world of imagination during the court sentencing had exhausted him.
Chapter 7
Flight
Burnside assumed they weren't taking any chances with him when they brought him back to the same isolation cell.
I guess it’s hard to get into tr
ouble by yourself.
He was thankful for the solitude. Lying on the metal bunk, he used his folded arms as a pillow and tried to think of something positive. When he couldn't, he decided his only alternative was to go back to reading his only precious book. Reaching under his bunk, he panicked when he didn't feel it. Rolling off the bunk, he got down on his hands and knees to look for it. He felt a wave of relief when he saw it in the corner.
That's my only escape from this hellhole.
Ray gratefully closed his fingers around the soft paperback cover. He read until he finished the book. He didn't know how many hours he read or even what time it was. There were no windows, so it was impossible to know the time of day. He had not seen a living a soul since they brought him back from court. His only companion, other than the book, was the closed circuit television camera hovering below the ceiling just outside his cell. He imagined people on the other end of that camera watching him and he felt less lonely. He fell asleep, he woke up. He didn't know how long he was asleep. It could have been hours or minutes. Time was not relevant here. All he saw were the same bare walls and bars.
Time is change. If nothing changes, time does not exist.
Burnside closed his eyes and tried to transport himself back to pleasant childhood memories. The only problem was that his imagination had already been pushed to the limit and he had nothing left.
Ray stood and began pacing the floor. He took two long strides to the back of the cell and two long strides back to the bars. He tried smaller strides; four steps to the back wall, four steps to the bars. Four steps to the wall, four steps to the bars. He did this for a while without knowing exactly how long. As he paced, his rage slowly began to build.
I have to stop this. This will bring me nothing but more trouble.
Burnside forced himself to sit back down on the narrow bunk. He looked around the bare cell, frantically, searching for something to occupy his attention to distract him from the rage. The only object that promised any stimulation was the book he already read.
There is only one choice then.
Burnside picked up the book and began reading it again from the beginning. This time, he would concentrate on each individual word and its assorted synonyms in addition to the general storyline. Time went by. He just didn't know how much.
Burnside awoke from another nap to find a cold meal sitting on a tray on the floor.
Great, my Four Seasons gourmet cuisine has arrived.
The food looked disgusting; it was some kind of grayish-brown meat patty and something creamy that may have been mashed potatoes. It didn't matter. He knew he had to keep up his strength. He broke out his precious book and concentrated on the individual words in King's story, while he shoved down mouthfuls of the nasty food without tasting too much of it. When he was done eating, he was glad he did - despite the bad taste - because he felt energized for another round of reading.
After an interminable amount of time, he finished the book for a second time. He was exhausted. Burnside fell asleep and tried to dream about the book as if it was a movie. He was successful and awoke refreshed and energized.
But energized to do what?
Ray still hadn't met any living person or seen anything other than the interior of the cell for what he guessed must have been at least twelve hours.
Maybe more.
He began pacing again.
Finally, after an endless amount of pacing, he encountered his first human being since he was brought back from court. Unfortunately, the human being was just a guard bringing him another tray of airline replica food.
"How ya doing?" he said to the guard in a friendly manner - desperate for conversation.
The guard glared at him, contemptuously, in response and shoved the tray under the bottom bars. Burnside didn’t remember the guard specifically, but he figured he must have done something to piss him off in the past few days. It was impossible to describe the disappointment he felt when the guard turned and walked away. He was so lonely at this point, he thought he would even enjoy a conversation with this particular asshole. He seized his book with his left hand and grabbed up the tray with his right. He began reading again, while he absently shoved down mouthfuls. The dinner tasted better than the last one, probably because it was still hot. He couldn't believe he was actually enjoying the taste of the meat patty and mystery vegetable. There was just a hint of spice in the meat, which reminded him of the Salisbury steak they used to serve in his high school cafeteria. This small detail was enough to bring some pleasure with it.
After eating, he tried to concentrate on his second reading of the book. It was a great book, but it was getting a little old at this point. His concentration kept wavering to the events of the past few days. The worry, the fights. Worrying and fighting. That's what his life was becoming. An endless cycle of this mundane phenomenon. He tried to sleep, but ended up tossing and turning, dreaming horrible nightmares. He dreamed he spent twenty years in prison and wasted away into a bitter, vacant-minded old man. He awoke with a start. He couldn't believe he was actually glad to see the group of guards standing outside his cell. They must have just arrived.
"Get up," the lead guard commanded.
“Sure," Burnside replied, standing unsteadily to his feet.
The lack of exercise and stimulation during the past few days made him feel weak and tired.
"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," another guard said.
Burnside complied and felt cold steel encircling his wrists. Moments later, he felt a similar sensation on his ankles. He shuffled out of the cell as the corrections officers pulled him along by his arms. His retinue of guards surrounded him and escorted him down the hall. They led him out the back door to another jail truck. This particular one was longer, similar to a school bus, and occupied by other prisoners. About half the seats on the bus were filled. They led him to the back of the bus, away from the others, and restrained him with a chain connected to a bar beneath the rear of the seat. The guards locked the chain onto his handcuffs and walked away. The closest prisoner was four seats away. A few of them stared at him briefly and then looked away.
The condemned regarding the condemned.
A cage separated a group of guards at the front of the bus from the prisoners. One guard drove, while three others sat behind, talking and glancing occasionally over at the inmates. Burnside saw that the rest of the prisoners appeared to be fastened by handcuffs and chains to similar metal bars in the bases of their seats. All of them leaned forward uncomfortably with their arms stretched behind their backs. Sleep was impossible in this position. Tranquil thought was extremely difficult. Rage was easy. Burnside's rage built steadily as the bus moved inexorably down the road toward its dread destination.
Now surely this bus isn’t going to drive all the way to the Midwest.
A lunatic grin crossed over his face.
If so, I’ll be completely insane by the time we arrive at our destination.
They were on the road for twenty minutes and already his back was sore from being in the awkward, leaning position.
I feel bad for anyone with back problems on this bus.
Burnside looked ahead and picked out a couple of gray heads mixed in with the rest. He was relieved a few hours later when the bus pulled into a small private airport north of the city.
His lower back was in excruciating pain from leaning forward for more than two hours and he looked forward to getting up and walking around, even if it was only walking to a plane that was going to take him to prison. The bus stopped at a fenced-in checkpoint, where the driver exchanged paperwork with an armed guard at the gate. The guard read over the paperwork, handed it back, and buzzed them in. At the touch of a button, the massive gate, which was wide enough for two trucks to drive through side-by side, slid open. They drove through the gateway onto a two-lane road leading to a small parking lot and terminal. They circled around the terminal and drove directly onto the runway. The bus passed a few smaller passe
nger planes and an army transport during its journey toward a long jet plane that looked like an old 747 Airliner. They pulled up next to the airliner and waited with the engine running.
A group of guards were waiting for them at the bottom of a set of airline steps. Burnside counted six guards. He did a quick count of the bus passengers; eighteen prisoners.
Not bad odds. We outnumber them three-to-one.
The driver opened the passenger door and let the guards in. They filed onto the bus in a solemn procession and waited in a single-file line outside the cage that separated the guards from the prisoners. One of the bus guards opened the cage doors and let the new guards in. The new guards entered and approached the closest pair of prisoners. Four more stood by with batons at the ready, while two others released a pair of prisoners from the bar chains. The guards refastened the prisoner’s hands behind their backs and led them out of the bus. Two jetliner guards remained behind in the bus while the other four escorted the pair of prisoners toward the airliner’s stairwell. Three of the bus guards joined with the jetliner guards as they moved toward the next set of prisoners. The same process was completed and two more prisoners were escorted out of the bus. Only one bus guard remained behind. He locked the cage door and sat down to watch them. When the other guards returned, the same process began all over again.
This is going to take forever if they keep doing it this way.
Burnside tried to maneuver in his seat so there was less pressure on his back. After what seemed like a very long while, the guards reached him. The relief he felt was tangible as he stood up and stretched his legs and back. They refastened his hands behind his back, but he didn’t care. He felt better already now that he was up and moving around. A guard stood on either side of him and two behind as they led him out of the bus to the plane stairwell. They climbed the stairs and entered the doorway to the jet. Burnside glanced to the left at the pilot’s cockpit and saw two white uniformed men seated, side-by side, in front of a control panel. He only saw them for a brief moment because he was shoved forward into the passenger area.
American Criminal Page 5
