Two
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New Duds
“Place your transportation
clothes in the basket in front of you and put on the orange jumpsuit you will
find at the window over there,” a female correctional officer pointed toward a
rollup window to their right, then emphasized loudly, “Get your jumpsuit AFTER
you take a shower. You will spend the night on the orange side of the complex
and,” she took a deep breath, “in a day or so, once you are finished being
processed, you will be moved to your permanent cell on the green side of the
institution. That is where you will be issued your new duds, a green coat,
matching pants, a one-size-fits-all Velcro belt, underwear, two brown shirts,
shoes, socks and blah, blah, blah, all of the rest of your necessities. Guard
them well, or you will be sorry later. Believe it or not,” she smiled before
continuing, “we have thieves in this place.”
A few chuckles could be heard,
even from the three youths stripping off their transport clothes.
Orange is new and green is
processed, Renwick pondered. Duds are duds, I suppose. The
IRU’s odor reminded him of the fresh concrete smell of a newly constructed
multi-level parking complex. He liked that smell. I guess there’s one thing ok about
this place. A sudden feeling of terror stabbed Renie like a knife,
There’s nothing ok about this place.
Once the three new inmates
dressed, a different correctional officer escorted them to a small room. A lone
table with three empty chairs awaited the trio. The officer instructed them
concerning the dos and don’ts of prison life during their tenure at Y-MAX.
Smoking and weightlifting were also among the institution’s naughty-naughty
taboos.
The officer continued his
discourse, “This is a state of the art facility with state of the art
technology. This includes two perimeter razor-wire topped fences. These fences
contain mesh throughout their central fields that is very sharp. The fences
reach a height of over five meters, which are well over fifteen feet high, not
counting the barbed and razor wire at their tops. There is ample enough razor
wire to keep a terrorist group out of this place. And to top that off,” the
officer pointed to the room’s window, “if you look outside, without getting out
of your chairs, please, you will notice that five and one half meter strange
looking fence between the other two, slightly taller.” The boys observed
intently. The exterior lights glowed like the noon sun around the complex’s
perimeter, enabling a clear view on the darkest of nights in every direction
for at least a quarter mile.
"Those signs attached to
both the interior and exterior fences read; Danger, Keep Out, High Voltage,
Peligro, Alto Voltaje, No Entre. That is a lethal electric fence, it carries
five-thousand volts and seven hundred milliamperes." The officer stared at
each youth, one by one as he said sternly, "Seventy milliamperes are
enough to kill a normal healthy adult in most cases, and yes, the fence does
cycle and parts go on and off at indiscriminate time periods, but there is far
too little time between the varied cycles to climb up one side and down the
other, so don’t try to escape. We opened around one year ago and have not
encountered any successful escapes to date. The fence is designed to
withstand over one hundred and seventy-five mile an hour winds. We never
experience those out here in the deep desert. The foundation goes underground
for more than eighteen feet. There is no water to be found anywhere in the
nearby desert for more than a day’s walk, providing one can walk an entire day
in one hundred and fifteen degree summer and minus fifteen degree winter
temperatures.”
The youths looked at each
other attempting to maintain tough and cool exteriors despite the astonished
fear each felt. One of the boys asked about the towers and the officer
informed the youths that at this correctional facility the tower officers were
qualified snipers. “These folks train on the range every other week and must
maintain perfect scores or be reassigned to another post.” The officer
detailed the Crisis Response Team’s role at the prison, “The CRT conducts its
training sessions around the clock and is always ready to respond in the event
of a serious crisis.”
Before being escorted to their
temporary housing accommodations and after being photographed for their inmate
ID cards, the youths received a list of prison activities and work assignments.
“Each of you will be assigned to a daily job or school endeavor,” the officer
stated. “Weekends are free for most, but not if you are assigned to a specific
work detail. Only school is out on weekends. We conduct seven inmate counts per
day and nobody but nobody changes locations during the count until it is
cleared. Don’t forget that.”
Renie looked over the list. One
activity item listed was of particular interest to him, Final Hope, a group
that united together staff and inmates to counsel youth offenders for two
consecutive weekend sessions. Youth offenders from all over the state were
sentenced to this program instead of prison. Parents were also welcome to
participate, but were not allowed to intimidate or suppress the free expression
of any of the youths or inmates. I'll have to check this out and see if
I can get involved, Renie’s thought’s raced around his mind like a pool
ball bouncing around a billiard table.
A second activity of interest
listed the church services for Sundays. Different denominations and religions
rotated each week, but he figured he might be able to attend one or more of
them. Friday evenings featured movies and a ‘To Be Announced’ activity was to
begin sometime soon.
Renie felt slightly better
inside, Maybe I’ll make it
here. I just have to keep busy.
Upon arriving at wing Z-2, the
youths were assigned beds by the unit’s housing officer. Their names were
written on a whiteboard in the staff office. It looked as though the officer in
a secure booth above the office entered the same information into a computer
consul. The Control Officer, the position’s official designation, operated all
of the doors, ports, turned on and off lights, and performed many other duties.
This officer also carried a semi-automatic rifle along with a pistol on his
duty belt. All of the cells in this unit were double bunked, making Renie
slightly nervous about meeting his celly for the first time.
Renie’s automated cell door
opened slowly. He saw another youth on the bottom bunk, so he knew he would be
climbing up to his bed for at least a day or two. He entered the cell while his
cellmate rose to his feet. Renie did not know what to expect, but he stuck out
his hand in a friendly gesture of hope, hope he wasn’t going to be pounded to
the floor on his first day in prison.
“The name’s Billy, Billy
Watkins,” announced the boy as he smiled warmly. “What’s you in for?”
“My name’s Renwick, but my
friends call me Renie. I am in here for a killin’ I didn’t do.”
“Yeah, we’re all in here for
somethin’ we didn’t do,” the youth laughed. “I’m here for a killin’ too. I
killed my sister’s stalker and dumped his dead sorry ass into a river, hopin’
to wash away all the DNA stuff.”
Renie inquired, “Did that work?”
Looking at him as though he had
asked a stupid question, Billy replied, “What’s you thinkin’?”
“Sorry, I guess that was a dumb
question.”
“Naw, not really. It sort of did
work.”
“How’d they get ya then?”
“Some old fisherman out there
took a picture of my van with his cellphone. Even though it was four in the
morning, the police could make out my license plate number,” he shook his head
slightly. “And here I be. Ya know, that stalker said he was gonna kill my older
sister, but that meant nothing to the judge or the jury. A person is two times
more likely to be stalked than they are to be killed in a car wreck.”
Renie stared, and then replied,
“Is that a fact?”
The control officer announced, “Stand for count!”
over the intercom and the evening’s routine was now underway.
Next Chapter...
Chapter Three: A New Crib
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