It was barely eleven in the morning and already, like a tiger in too small a cage, Grissom paced restlessly. Frustrated, he stopped at the cell door, and his head touching the bars looked all around at what he could see of the uncharacteristically quiet and seemingly deserted housing unit. If he didn't know better, he'd think he and Manuel were the only ones there. A little over one hundred and ten men locked up in their cell – had been for three long days – and not a sound could be heard.
With a sigh, he wiped a corner of his grubby uniform to his sweaty brow, looked at Manuel writing a letter in bed and moved to sit at the table again. He put his glasses back on and stared at the open English textbook with disinterest. Air didn't circulate well in the unit during the day or at night. There was no reprieve from the stifling heat or access to water that wasn't tepid. He missed not going to work and the little freedom and fresh air that came with it. And he was hungry; the paltry breakfast he'd scoffed down some five hours previously not nearly enough. Never again would he complain about the food served in the chow hall.
At first, he hadn't thought anything of the lockdown. They were a fairly regular occurrence in prison, the only way for the correctional officers to keep control over the population when short-staffed or in times of crisis. More often than not, in his experience anyway, lockdowns lasted a few hours, except for one instance when an officer had been hurt in a scuffle and they'd all remained locked up for two days. He'd heard from other inmates of much longer spells on lockdown, but until then he had never suffered one himself.
Lockdowns, just like shakedowns and strip searches, were simply another ritual humiliation to accept and live with when they became convicts. During lockdowns, all privileges were removed, except for one. What little freedom of movement they had within the walls was taken away from them, and that was what Grissom struggled coping with the most. There was no movement whatsoever within the unit, no outside recreation, no going to church or library, no school or counselling programmes and therapies, no visitation or commissary, email or phone calls; even work duties were withdrawn for most individuals.
The only privilege not taken away from the inmates was their mail. Receiving mail was sacrosanct; a source of pleasure Grissom had come to appreciate all too late. And just when he needed it the most, no mail was forthcoming. He knew Sara would have read his email by now and known not to include sticky notes in her correspondence, but it would take four to five days – longer maybe if mailroom staff was short, reallocated on account of the lockdown – for new letters to get to him. And so far, much to his chagrin, he hadn't got any.
Usually, he found periods of lockdown refreshing. They allowed him some peace and quiet from the everyday life of prison, a break from the mundane routine. They provided him a moment of solitude and introspection, of soul-searching, when he could reflect on why he was locked up and maybe even start to accept his situation and seek some form of forgiveness. But after three days, with too much time and no routine, bar the delivery of their two meals every day as per regulations, he was becoming angry and agitated.
Every day he would wake and hope the lockdown had been lifted. No amount of cell cleaning, reading and dozing, doing school work or playing Conquian with Manuel helped. And he was lucky; not every cellie was as easy to live with as Manuel was. He'd even tried his hand at sketching – simple prison shots at first, showing two men behind bars playing cards or lying on bunk beds dozing, then a profile view of Sara bent over a microscope, hair cascading all round her face. He wasn't very good at it, but it helped passed the time and for an all too brief moment took his minds off his woes.
Being continuously locked up for 24 hours of the day with so few resources was inhuman; it turned people into animals and slowly killed their soul. His reflection wasn't so positive anymore. Quite the opposite, he was beginning to realise how his life had no meaning and was being wasted, how he served no purpose while behind bars. And that was tough to deal with. Thinking of Sara helped. Thank God he had her correspondence to keep him going, his imagination and memories too, but unless the lockdown was lifted soon he feared they wouldn't be enough.
Beaumont med reminded him a lot of Las Vegas in this respect, with 1500 men crammed in a very confined space and too much time on their hands. When people from different ethnic groups, backgrounds or religions had to cohabitate and when wheeling and dealing took place on an everyday basis, disagreements were bound to occur. Tempers flared. Altercations and fights often broke out. Sometimes with no real consequences, but other times, like now, everyone got punished. It wasn't fucking fair.
"Grissom?" Manuel called quietly. "How about some mack for a couple of stamps?"
Dazed, Grissom looked blankly back at Manuel who was standing by his locker.
"Hey, it's cool, man," Manuel said easily, interpreting Grissom's non-response for refusal. "If you're running short yourself…"
Grissom gave his head a shake, refocusing. "Short of what?"
"Stamps." Manuel winced. "I've run out—used my last one yesterday. I just need a couple. Name your price; I'll pay."
Grissom mustered a faint smile. "Don't worry about it. It's fine." Tiredly, he pushed to his feet and went to his locker. "I got loads of stamps, and not much use for them right now. Wish I could trade them for a shower, that's for sure."
Manuel scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."
Automatically checking over his shoulder that officers weren't walking past, Grissom reached into his locker and conjured up from its depth a book of stamps. He gave Manuel two, and was putting the rest back when pausing he tore off a third from the booklet.
"Here," he said, giving it to Manuel, "for tomorrow."
Manuel's face softened with a grin. "Gracias, amigo."
"De nada."
Grissom put the remaining stamps back in their hiding place and then watched as the younger man carefully fixed stamps to two envelopes housing the long letters he'd spent the best part of the morning writing.
"There," Manuel said, leaning the letters against the wall on the table, "Ready for collection. Mi madre, she worries, you know? If she don't hear from me every day."
Grissom smiled.
"You're not writing to your wife?"
His smile fading, Grissom shook his head.
"You should tell her, you know? About the lockdown."
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Grissom closed his locker door, moved over to his bed and sat down on the edge of it. "I don't want to worry her. It could all be over by tomorrow."
"Or not." Manuel took a small pouch of macks out of his locker and then took up the spot Grissom had vacated at the table. "Rumours don't lie," he said, tearing the plastic pouch open with his teeth and then sharing out the content equally between his and Grissom's disposable food trays as he spoke. "And from what I heard happened, they're going to want to transfer some people out of here. That's going to take some time to organise. I'm telling you. We'll be lucky if it's all over by mid-week next week."
A fight between two rival gangs had broken out in the chow hall at dinner time on Tuesday night, turning into a riot. Grissom hadn't been present, but according to what Manuel had heard before they'd all been indefinitely confined to their cells it had been mayhem. Weapons had materialised, seemingly out of thin air. When officers had intervened to try to break it up some inmates had turned on them. Several inmates had been injured and subsequently taken to hospital, as well as two guards – one fatally, or so the story went. At first, Grissom had thought the tales exaggerated, but now, as the days stretched on, he wasn't so sure.
Letting out a long breath, he gratefully accepted Manuel's offering. "Still," he said, taking a small mackerel fillet between his fingers and popping it whole in his mouth. "Sometimes it's better not to know the full extent of what's going on."
Manuel made a face that said, "It's up to you, man." He picked up a mackerel fillet and just like Grissom ate it whole. "But no news is never good news when your loved one is locked up," he went on, chewing. "At least that's what mi mama says."
"Sara knows not to expect news," Grissom thought, but didn't say it out loud, because even to his ears it sounded cruel and selfish.
The two men finished eating their snack in silence. Afterwards, while Grissom ran their trays under the water and put them to dry on the shelf by the sink, Manuel did a few stretches before clambering back up to the top bunk. Grissom also returned to bed and slipping his glasses off closed his eyes.
"The first time I was on lockdown and my mother didn't hear from me she called the prison," Manuel said after a while, chuckling. "They never picked up the phone. One whole week, and she called every day and the sons of bitches never picked up. And you know why?"
Grissom didn't respond. Keeping his eyes shut, he just pursed his mouth thoughtfully, but Manuel didn't need prompting to carry on.
"Because no one's manning the phones when we're locked down 'cos everyone's too busy doing our jobs. 'Cos they've got us racked up like…" Manuel's voice rose suddenly to a long shout of frustration, "fuck-ing a-ni-mals!"
The echo of his outburst was met by a few whoop-whoops of agreement and "Shut up. We're trying to sleep," from nearby cells.
"Do you know what I'd kill for right now?" Manuel went on after a beat.
Grissom's mouth twisted at his cellmate's choice of words. "What?"
The bunk shook ominously as Manuel shifted on his mattress. Opening one eye, Grissom peered up and found Manuel watching him upside down with his head hanging over the edge."A beer. An ice cold beer."
Grissom's smile grew. "Any particular brand?" he asked, happy to go along with the game.
"Nah. As long as it's cold I'm not picky. And a steak. A nice juicy steak, with all the trimmings. None of that mackerel crap." Manuel shifted on his bed again, once again lying down. "There's this place where I come from that serves the best steaks. Cattlemens, it's called. They do ribs too. You should come try it sometime, you know, when we're both out." He paused suddenly. "You think it's still there? The steak house, I mean." And then without waiting for a reply, "After all these years, I wonder if it's still there. I'll ask my mother when I call her. Whenever that is."
Manuel fell silent, and Grissom pondered his words for a moment. He thought about home, about his mother and Sara, and how different everything was bound to be when he came out. Once again his guilt manifested itself at what he was putting them through. Sure, Sara knew where he was now, but even Betty who didn't must be wondering and missing him.
"Right now," he said, trying his hardest to keep the dark thoughts at bay, "I'd kill for a shower."
Voices approaching got Grissom and Manuel to sit up and turn toward their cell door expectantly. Necks craned, they listened intently as the cell next door was opened and a CO instructed the two occupants. Grissom and Manuel shared matching frowns of puzzlement that morphed to looks of disbelief and then wide smiles when they realised what was happening. Before either of them could mouth the word 'shower' they'd scrambled off their beds and reached for their soap and towel.
Two correctional officers came into view as well as a line of twenty or so unshackled and very orderly and happy-looking inmates. "Grab your kits," the first guard said needlessly, as he unlocked their door cell. "Mandatory shower time. You got thirty minutes."
"If I'd known we only needed to ask," Manuel whispered to Grissom, as they stepped out of the cell, "then I'd have asked sooner."
"I asked," Grissom pointed out, "Not you."
"Shut up, you two," the officer said sternly, too aggressively especially when the situation didn't warrant it, "And get in line."
Piping down his excitement, Grissom followed Manuel to the back of the line and they all shuffled along to the next cell. It felt so good to be on the move again, even if they were only going down the hall to the shower room.
"Do you think we'll still be on lockdown after the weekend?" he asked Officer Riley who was watching the back of the line.
"The way things are at present it wouldn't surprise me if we were."
Grissom's heart sank. "Are the rumours true?" he then asked quietly, as the line moved further along.
A few heads turned to listen. "Depends on what you heard," Riley commented. "All I can say is that there is an on-going investigation and that until we can guarantee everyone's safety the facility will remain on lockdown."
Grissom nodded that he understood. "Will the officer that got hurt be okay?"
Riley gave a small shake of his head, and Grissom sighed.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said.
Riley gave a wry smile. "Not your fault."
Grissom got the first of Sara's new batch of letters the following Monday. It lifted his spirits immediately, even before he'd taken the single sheet of paper out of the envelope, the adrenaline rush so sudden and intense as to momentarily render him breathless. The letter was full of laughter and self-deprecation at her oversight and at how stupid she'd been, how stupid the system was. It was full of love and hope too, and of confidence he voraciously fed on. If she had doubts that he'd ever write back, that they'd ever see each other again, she didn't let on.
She apologised for not writing more, but promised she would the next day. She also promised to send back all the letters he'd been denied as soon as she received them, without the sticky notes of course. He could not contain his joy and relief, often laughing out loud despite the tears in his eyes as he read and reread her letter, much to Manuel's amusement. But the letter made him sad too, because it accentuated how much he missed her, how much of her life he was missing while he was behind bars.
She didn't say it, but her words, her tone, belied how much she missed him. She never once asked, but it was clear she craved more news from him. He realised then what she must be feeling, waiting for news but not getting any. How every day she would come home from work, check her mailbox and find it empty. What would it be like for him if suddenly she stopped writing and her mail stopped coming? How would he feel then? Heartbroken, that was how.
For the first time since his incarceration, he felt compelled not only to write to her, but to mail the letter too. He'd finally turned a corner. A wide smile on his face he rushed to his locker, took out his pen and a clean, slightly creased sheet of paper and, glasses perched at the end of his nose, sat down at the table to write.
My Darli—
"Grissom, you okay?"
Startling, Grissom looked over his shoulder at Manuel watching him from the top bunk.
"You okay?" Manuel asked again, his face soft with concern.
"Sure," Grissom replied, bemused at the question.
Manuel nodded toward Sara's letter on the table. "It's not bad news?"
"No. It's not bad news."
Manuel's concern turned to puzzlement. "It's just that…well," wincing, he shrugged a sheepish shoulder, "you're acting a little…like…" He sighed. "You're kind of…crying." The final word was uttered so quietly that Grissom strained to hear it.
"Oh," he said, breaking into a sudden smile. He put the pen down and took off his glasses, then quickly wiped his eyes before slipping his glasses back on and turning back to the letter.
"I worry about you. This place, it makes you go loco. You know?"
"You don't need to worry," Grissom said absently. He picked up his pen again and adjusted his glasses. "I'm fine. I'm going to be just fine."
My Darling Sara,
I'm sorry it's taken me six days to write to let you know we're on lockdown. Not just my unit but the whole complex, it would seem. It's complicated, and if I told you the details of what I know then you'd probably never get to read this letter. Know that I am safe, bored out of my mind and frustrated – we all are – but I am safe.
I realise you must have gotten my email because today after almost a week of getting nothing I got another letter. Again, I want to thank you. Thank you for the letters and articles. They, and thinking of you, make these long hours easier to bear. Manuel and I try to keep ourselves busy and in a semblance of a routine, but it is hard.
Feeling tears rise, he slipped off his glasses, then wiping at his eyes took a deep breath he blew out softly before he checked over his shoulder – Manuel was on his cot, dozing – and continued.
I also want to thank you for not giving up on me despite what I put you through. I am not worthy of your love, of your patience, your generosity, not right now anyway, but I am grateful. Know that every day I look forward to receiving a letter from you and that this very letter I'm writing to you now is the first of many. Your letters have become my lifeline, and I hope mine can give you even a tenth of the joy and relief yours provide.
No matter what time of the day it is, I see your face and remember the warmth of your smile, the love in your eyes, and feel the strength of your embrace, the gentleness of your hand against my cheek. I finally understand the gift you have given me by loving me with such generosity of heart, without judgement. I know I have failed you in the most despicable way, and I hope that in time, I can make up for all the hurt I have caused you.
I love you, Sara, more than words can ever say, and I miss you. So much, it hurts.
Gil.
Once again, Grissom removed his glasses and wiped at his wet eyes. He felt more at peace now than he had done in a very long time. Soundlessly, he stood up from the table and moved to his locker. From there, he took out an envelope with his name and inmate number already written on and his booklet of stamps. He took them to the table. Diligently, he wrote Sara's name and address on the envelope and stuck a stamp in its corner. He didn't seal the envelope, the mailroom staff would do that after checking the letter's content.
He stared at the envelope for a long time, wondering if he should add to the letter. His thoughts took him home, to their house, and he imagined her there, going about her routine. At that time of day, she would be getting ready for work, or if she had the night off maybe she'd have taken refuge in their backyard with a little dinner and a glass of wine. And when he closed his eyes, he saw her there, as clear as day, with her eyes closed and her face turned up toward the evening sky, listening to the mating call of the cicadas.
A smile formed on his lips.
He heard them too.
