Stone Walls Do Not a Prison Make (Nor Iron Bars a Cage)
And the waters eddied and swirled.
-
How often had I stood here, leaning over the balustrade suspended over the river? On a daily patrol or a manhunt, how often had I stopped here, and as I stared at Paris rising from the banks for the river, the world too had stopped? Not a better place could be found to view the nation and her glory but here, here on the banks of the Seine.
France had pulled herself up from the gutters, just as I had, and now stood atop the pantheon of nations. Only the strong survive, and France had proven herself to be strong. Surely military advantage aided, but no country has ever been able to project its own image without first securing internal stability and order. This can be achieved through no less than an uncompromising justice. Let petty insubordinates be condemned to face justice's most merciless exactness.
There is no sympathy, no empathy. Only justice.
-
The criminal, only one of many, is brought to him. The minimal rations of the facility have left this fire-eyed man lean, Javert observes. Yes, lean, but not yet desperate.
Thus, before the felon is even introduced, he Javert realizes he has a hardy spirit incarcerated in this prison.
"Jean Valjean," the guard announces, pushing the prisoner forward. "What is your crime?"
Valjean mutters something, but the response is lost in the tangled beard. Javert, rubbing his chin, is not amused. "Speak up."
Valjean fixes his eyes to the floor. "All I did was steal some bread."
"I said to speak up."
"All I did was steal some bread!" Spittle flies from his mouth as he glares at the smiling inspector. "That was my crime, Monsieur."
Strolling over, Javert seizes the prisoner's arm and pulls up the sleeve of his ragged work clothes. "Has he been marked?" he asks out of reflex, but the numbers 24601 etched on the brawny skin are answer enough. "Very well. Take him back to his cell." The guard is leading Valjean way when Javert.stops them. "Prisoner number 24601, we will see each other again."
His voice is crisp, certain. It is an order.
-
What happens when the roles are reserved, when the sun does not rise in the east and set in the west but rises in the west and sets in the east? What happens when the vagabond becomes the purveyor of justice and the law becomes a subjugated institution? What happens when the thing (the man?) I had pursued for a lifetime is suddenly not True North and bearings are thrown into disarray?
The romantics and the socialists talk of suicide as if it were the culmination of crackling passion and emotion, so intense that they overwhelm the will to live, but I approached it as I did everything else in my life: a rational choice to be made, a rational choice to be executed.
-
The prisoners are given a cot in their cells, but Javert has no need of one. Valjean struggles as he is pushed against the contours of the wall. This man was strong and muscular once, Javert thinks, his grip keeping the other man's body bent over. He is still strong, but confinement has taken its toll.
"You are the man the law sends to mete out judgment? They will hear you," Valjean whispers to him. "They will hear me, and they'll see what an animal you are."
"Yes, they will hear me, and they will be able to do nothing."
The jail is frigid in the still of night, the only other sound the creaks and whines of wood as other prisoners toss in their sleep. Javert slips his hands beneath the waistband of Valjean's trousers and runs them along the length of his cock, smiling as he feels it harden. "You must learn what justice is, 24601," says, still stroking and watching him tremble in silence. "You must learn that you might run from the law, but you will be caught in the end, won't you? And when you are caught, you will pay for your transgressions just as all before you have paid for theirs. Are you ready to pay, thief?"
Valjean grimaces as he comes over Javert's calloused fingers. "All I did was steal some bread."
"Justice must be done, and justice makes no exceptions."
"Justice should be done for those who starve on the streets tonight. They need it more than you."
"Oh, I too have starved like those wretches." Javert frees his erection and glares at the back of Valjean's head. What fleas and lice must be growing in that hair, he muses. What filth that must be disposed of. He brushes the tip of his cock past Valjean's skin and closes his eyes. "I have starved more than you can imagine."
The prison rings with cries.
-
I wanted to remember the glow of light as I first knelt before the altar, supplicated before him in prayer. I wanted to remember the glory of the courthouse. I wanted to remember how nothing stirred beneath the blanketing dark and shrouded stars that night, how the world said goodbye to Javert.
All I could remember was the water eddying and swirling as it pulled my life toward its end.