Control is defined as the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events. For Joan Ferguson, being in control is the ultimate measure of strength and authority. She thrives on it. In her mind, control is everything. To lose control—that is her greatest fear.
As she stands tall in the exercise yard, surveying the damage caused by the inmates of H Block, it becomes clear that her control over the prisoners is slipping, courtesy of Bea Smith. Unlike many Top Dogs before her, Smith is revered by the other women. She underestimated this woman. But it won't happen again.
Joan stares into the pile of burning rubbish and listens to dull roar of the fire as she replays the day's trying event in her mind. Where did she go wrong? What could she has done different to avoid this? The pungent smell of melting mattress foam mixed with plastic stings her nasal cavity, but she does not flinch. Her blood boils as she watches the flames grow. She's been made a fool of in front of the prisoners, her officers, and worse, the pathetic excuse of a General Manager, Derek Channing. No doubt he will derive pleasure out of this incident.
A feeling of rage courses through Joan's body, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. The prisoners will pay for making her look like a fool; Bea Smith in particular. Despite her fury, Joan maintains composure. She can not let her emotions get the better of her nor must she appear defeated.
"Governor?" Will Jackson calls as he walks up beside Joan. She does not respond. "Governor?" he repeats louder, this time breaking her focus.
Joan blinks and turns her neck to see Will. His face is painted with uncertainty.
"The women are back in H Block. Should we lift the lockdown?"
Joan turns her head back to the blaze. "I want this extinguished immediately," she instructs. "Once it's out, have some of the inmates clean up this mess. Maybe they'll think twice next time before starting fires."
"What about the lockdown?" he asks as Joan starts to walk away.
"You have your instructions, Mr. Jackson," she replies without stopping or looking back.
With Joan now out of sight, Will crosses his arms and watches the fire. "What a fucking mess," he says, shaking his head.
Back inside her office, Joan unfastens the last button on her jacket and settles lowers herself onto the black leather chair. She rests her elbows on the armrests and interlocks her fingers. Leaning back into the chair, she lets out a slow, deep breath before picking up the phone to make a call.
"This is the Governor," she says into the receiver. "The lockdown will remain in effect until further notice. Any prisoners not already in their units are to return immediately." Without a closing remark, she hangs up the phone and within seconds, the order is announced over the public address system.
Attention compound: The prison will remain on lockdown until further notice. All inmates not already in their units are to return immediately.
She turns to her computer and brings up the CCTV footage. As she begins clicking through the surveillance feeds, Channing barges into her office.
"We need to talk," he says with superiority.
Joan keeps her eyes on the computer screen. "There is nothing to talk about, Mr. Channing. The situation has been resolved." Her voice is flat.
"This is far from 'resolved,' Joan. You have a major cock-up on your hands."
"Not now, Derek," she says in a deep tone. She brings her face closer to the monitor and taps the computer mouse twice to zoom in. Her dark eyes narrow at what she sees: Deputy Governor Vera Bennett sitting handcuffed on a bed in one of the isolation unit cells.
Channing watches her with intimidation. "Joan?"
Eyes still locked on the computer monitor, Joan raises a pointed finger in the air at Channing and reaches for her two-way radio.
"This is the Governor. Can someone explain to me why Ms. Bennett is still in the slot?" she snaps, rising to her feet, launching the chair backward. Her long, manicured fingers squeeze the radio as she waits for a reply.
"Sorry, Governor. In all the chaos, it must have been overlooked," one of the officers replies.
Taking a deep breath, she bites her lip. "Your incompetence is nothing short of astounding," she barks. "I am on my way down to get her, so don't bother."
Radio in hand, Joan steps over to Channing, towering above him. "I think we are done here," she says.
Channing shakes his head. "I'm serious, Joan. We need to discuss what happened."
"Well, next time you feel the need to chat," she sneers, "at least have the courtesy to knock before entering my office. Now, if you will excuse me..." With a condescending smirk, Joan motions for Channing to leave.
"I really hope you know what you're doing," he says, walking out.
Joan furrows her brows and watches Channing disappear from view. She buttons the bottom of her jacket and starts for the isolation unit. Her long legs move through the prison corridors with swift determination; her face void of any emotion.
Now comes the difficult part—facing Vera.