Tony moved over to his new bed in the dim cell, aware of the prison settling down for the night. The voices quietened and presently two guards marched along the floor. 'Alright, it's lights out. Everyone to bed! I catch anyone talking; they've got the strip cell for the rest of the week. Shut up!' The words echoed around, reverberating through his head. Everyone fell silent. Tony's head pounded. He pulled back the blanket and crawled underneath, grateful for the darkness. He felt violently sick.
'I'll give you a dollar it's right now.' 'I'll give you two dollars he'll make it till midnight.' 'What about a pack of smokes he'll last till dawn.' 'He lasts till dawn; you've won your pack!'
Tony attempted to shut out the voices, aware they were discussing him, waiting to see him start to bawl. He rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the sheet and allowed the tears out. He would cope with tomorrow once he got rid of the pain he carried within him, pain he was surprised to know he still felt. Eyes tightly shut, he pictured the last several months, from the party at his parents house with all his little nephews and nieces to his betrayal of CTU, to his arrest and bail hearing, his return to Federal for six weeks of confinement seeing only his lawyer, even that rarely, to the beginning of his trial, ending with today. He pictured his parents watching him hauled away, heard their voices again. 'I love you Tony. We'll see you real soon. Hang in there.' He saw Michelle's face; she was so obviously sick and had still come to support him. She wouldn't give up on him. It was seeing them that broke him, hearing their concern, seeing their love. No one had uttered a kind word to him since his arrest, and then they had appeared so unexpectedly. He would have to toughen himself up more to deal with their visits –he could not return weeping.
He wept so silently nobody heard him, face pressed deep into the blanket, controlling his breathing to prevent any noise.
Its ok Tony, let it out. It will feel better soon.
Two guards patrolled the catwalks, staring through the bars at the prisoners. Tony hurriedly placed his hands outside the blankets and was relieved to see them walking past. The last thing he needed was to be forced to stand in the middle of the room and hear a lecture, showing his swollen eyes to everyone.
Just before dawn he found an inner peace he never felt before as he bade farewell to his own life. He would not stay here for years; he would end it a lot sooner than that. He just needed to see his parents and Michelle once, to try to explain his decision to them, to say goodbye. They would do their best to talk him out of it, but they would understand in the end, he was sure. Was there anything else he needed to tell them? He searched his brain, sitting up rapidly before lying back down. It would never do to get caught sitting by a guard during sleep time. Yes, he had the box of money hidden, money he had won at Acapulco on his last trip, money he had laid aside for an emergency. Michelle could use it; she would need to be told exactly which rock he had hidden it under.
At 6:00 a siren wailed through the prison, waking the inhabitants to a new day. Everyone got out of bed immediately and dressed. Tony followed their example, hearing the three prisoners who had betted on him the night before discussing him in annoyance. None of them had won their bets and they laid new ones, vowing that everyone brought in cracked at some point during their first day. He made his bed and went to sit in the corner, head against the wall, face blank, eyes fixed on a spot directly ahead.
Breakfast was wheeled down the catwalk, dumped through his slot. He ignored it, too exhausted and upset to feel hungry. 'Hey you, Convict. Get up. Hands behind your back.'
Reluctantly he rose, standing in the middle of the cell with his hands clasped behind him. 'You will eat every meal as soon as it arrives, or you will be placed on report. Is that clear?' The guard gave him a hard stare.
'Yes sir,' he replied, taking care to keep his eyes lowered. They left, warning him to behave. Tony moved to his tray, finding blackened toast, covered in thick margarine, a little marmalade, a bowl of porridge and a plastic mug of tea. Feeling thirsty he drank the tea before disposing of the remainder of the breakfast in the toilet. He flushed it and watched the pieces spin around and disappear. He laid the tray back in the slot and returned to his corner, numb. Once again his eyes settled on the same two bars and he gazed at them unblinking.
After the trays were collected another trolley moved down the catwalks. Buckets and cloths were handed out. Tony's cell was also unlocked and a bucket and rag handed in. 'Wash the floor. Clean the toilet. It's the block supervisor's inspection every Friday. Failure to do a good job will result in loss of your yard time.'
Tony rolled up his sleeves and dipped the rag into the bucket, wincing as scalding hot water reached his fingers. He threw it out in a hurry, waiting a few seconds before pulling the wet rag across his floor. Once most of the floor was ready he cleaned around the toilet as well, then emptied the water into the toilet and laid the rag across the side of the bucket. As his floor was wet he sat on the bed, wearing his impenetrable mask.
Presently the bucket and rag were collected individually from all the prisoners, laid neatly into each other and the trolley moved away. Tony heard the creaking all the way to the end of the catwalk, where a small lift waited for trolleys. He tested his floor carefully. It appeared dry enough – he returned to his corner.
An hour later several guards entered the block, stopping in the middle of the hall, clearly visible from every cell. 'Prisoners, block supervisor Davies is here to inspect your cells. As your cell is approached you will face the wall with your hands on your head and remain immobile until your cell is locked after the inspection. Any movement on your part will be considered an infraction of discipline and will result in a loss of outdoor privileges.' Despite himself, Tony watched their measured stride around the lowest catwalk. So they were inspected every Friday. What exactly did that entail? Would they search the cell or just make a cursory examination of the floor? He pulled Michelle's picture from the blanket and placed it carefully into the crack along the edge of the vinyl. They approached his own cell an hour later. As he heard them stopping at the door he got up and faced the wall, placing his hands on his head, feeling humiliated.
Wouldn't it have been enough to just face the wall? This isn't an elementary school! It's totally unnecessary!
The door was unlocked and two guards stepped inside with the supervisor. He heard him moving around, running his hands over the bed and peering into the toilet. 'Convict, turn round slowly keeping your hands on your head.'
Tony frowned in confusion. He had watched dozens of cells examined and no one had been ordered to face the supervisor. Had he left a patch of dirt somewhere? He took a deep breath and forced the slightest hint of emotion off his face before he turned slowly. His eyes were fixed on the floor at the boots of the guards, noticing their gleam.
'Convict Almeida, eyes forward,' ordered the supervisor.
Ah, he will now warn me about attacking any of the guards. He must know all about the supervisor down at Federal.
Tony raised his eyes, meeting the supervisor's. All the years of marine training together with his two months confinement at Federal paid off. No emotion registered in his eyes. Inside his heartbeat increased. Surely it couldn't be Davis from boot camp?
He read recognition in the eyes of the supervisor, followed by a small smile at the corners of his mouth. 'Private Almeida, or shall I say Lieutenant Almeida? The one private too smart to be left with the group, no, he had to be promoted as an officer.'
That's got to have rankled. You lorded it over us when you made corporal, placing me on report countless times. You must have been absolutely PISSED OFF when I made lieutenant.
'Almeida, I'm going to make it my personal goal to teach you the meaning of the word 'discipline'. I've had a little experience dealing with your type these last six years, and I've managed to teach every one of them.' He smiled at Tony. 'We'll be seeing each other, Convict Almeida!'
Maldito sea. Why out of all the blocks in the jail did I end up on this one? Davis won't give me a break till I'm broken. He's 'managed to teach' take that as managed to break everyone else with a little life inside them. Life just gets better and better!
The guards listened to the lecture fascinated, committing Tony's face to memory. He lowered his gaze to the ground as Davis turned to go, watching the boots leave. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, surprised at the powerful surge of emotion he felt again. He had worked so hard at Federal to kill them once and for all and had really believed he had succeeded, but it appeared a little spark of life still remained inside him. With Davis threatening him without provocation he was sure to get annoyed regularly, preventing him from completing his self assigned task of turning totally impassive. He needed complete silence and lack of stimulation to achieve his goals.
He returned to his corner, forcing himself to gaze at the same couple of bars and stop biting his lips. Why did Davis hate him so much? Had he ever caused him offence inadvertently? Or deliberately? He couldn't think of a single occasion. A sigh escaped him. It was imperative that he be allowed to see his family at the first possible opportunity –he mustn't blow that chance. Until then he would put up with whatever Davis chose to hassle him about.
Deeply depressed, he contemplated pulling out Michelle's picture and watch her smiling at him. The need to have someone smile was overwhelming. He dismissed the idea as it formed. Someone in another cell would see his picture if he removed it now and would report him, hoping to get some favor from Davis. No, the photo would be examined only at nights.
Tony closed his eyes and thought of his parents when he was very young. He remembered crying after missing a few strikes with his bat at baseball, and his father picking him up and swearing they would practice that weekend, so he would be good by the following game. He had looked forward to the practice, reminding his father everyday to make certain he hadn't forgotten. The weekend proved rainy, drizzling from morning to evening. He had stood at the living room window staring outside, disappointed. 'Tony, there you are! Go get your coat quick. We'll get a little practice done today, whilst your mother visits Grandma.' He had grinned in pure joy and rushed for his coat and shoes, playing in the park with his father for over two hours until he had the strike exactly right. And he had known all along that his father really wasn't keen on baseball. He found himself smiling inside, a little calmer.
They will understand
Another siren sounded, and the prisoners moved to stand in front of their doors, hands behind their backs. Tony followed suit, hoping for a chance at fresh air. A minute later all the doors opened, and the prisoners stepped outside standing in a row, hands behind their backs, silent. Tony stood at the end, examining the back of everyone along his row. Fortunately he recognized none of them. Now if only the few terrorists they had would be in other blocks he would survive the month or so until his first permitted visit. 'Row Three' cried a guard, and the prisoners before him began to move. He followed them along the catwalk and down the flights of stairs. They stood in a queue before the steel doors, stopping beside another queue. Tony found himself standing next to a bald haired thug covered in tattoos. The thug gazed him over slowly, obviously unimpressed.
The first steel door opened allowing them to move forward to the area between the two of them. They were held there for a moment, packed together in a small area. Everyone remained silent as the second door was opened and they were allowed to enter the courtyard. Once outside they broke up into groups, spreading through the courtyard. Tony leaned against the wall, unused to walking around outside without cuffs on his feet; unused to being outside more than a few seconds at a time. The strong sunlight hurt his eyes. He allowed them to roam the courtyard, noting the blue uniforms they were all dressed in. The guards wore green –he saw them positioned in the shade beside a building, talking together and keeping an eye on the inmates.
One of the guards produced a ball and a group moved over to the rusty basketball ring, splitting into two teams. How long had they played together like this? If he stayed he would be one of them, joining the same game day in, day out, year in, year out. He shuddered, pressing closer against the wall. No, he couldn't lead such a meaningless existence.
He decided he should go for a walk, get his legs used to moving. He followed the wall around, pausing to examine the groups of prisoners. So far he had seen none he had placed here. He skirted the basketball game, noting some of the players were reasonably good. What could they all be doing here – they obviously played before in some teams, probably down at the park a couple of times a week. Unbidden an image rose in his mind of himself playing with his brothers whenever one of them was home on leave, using the ring in his parents' garden. He dismissed the memory, hastening his steps away from the game.
A group of prisoners smoked in a corner, among them the man with the tattoo. He gave them a wide berth and settled against the opposite wall, rubbing his calves. He seemed to be coping better with walking than he had hoped. Another short rest and he would continue on his way, examining the rest of the inmates.
He noticed a group of Spanish American prisoners not far from him, discussing a SUV theft and a high speed police chase in Spanish. Despite himself he felt interested in the outcome, enjoying the narrator's vivid descriptions of the chase. Shocked, he found himself hoping the thief would get away successfully.
What is the matter with you, Almeida? These people are robbers! Sure they sound funny, but it wouldn't be that amusing if it was YOUR car they were discussing.
He decided it would be advisable to move a little further from them. Already he noticed they had stopped speaking and were eyeing him suspiciously. He turned to go, waylaid by the narrator. 'Not so fast, amigo. You've been listening to us. Who are you?'
'Tony Almeida,' he answered, watching for a reaction.
'Never heard of you!' remarked the car thief, to his intense relief. So he hadn't made it into the major news headlines. 'You look new here. When did you arrive?'
'Yesterday,' he replied, hoping to get away without further conversation. He really wanted to be left by himself to examine the groups of prisoners and, well, if he was really honest with himself, to brood.
'How long are you in for?' persisted the car thief, now surrounded by his entire audience.
Tony sighed. The last thing he desired was to get friendly with a group of car thieves. 'Life' he said so quietly they could barely hear him. The length of the sentence sounded unreal to him as he spoke. Damn, he really needed time to think, alone.
There was a shocked murmur through the audience. 'Amigo, what the hell did you do to deserve that? How many people did you kill?'
'Na, for that you don't get life. What did you steal?' inquired another man with a tattoo of a hawk in full flight across his arm.
They were obviously not going to allow him to leave now. Tony ran a hand along his face, rubbing it vigorously. 'I didn't kill any…' he began, then paused. That was not entirely true, if he thought about it. He had killed plenty of people in the army, and quite a few working at CTU.
'Ah, so you have killed, but you are not here for that! Come on; tell us what you did. We could use a new story now.'
I'll bet. This place does that to you – makes you grab strangers and demand to hear something of their life. Nothing to do except reminisce.
He shook his head, pushing past them wordlessly. He needed to get away from them, get away from everything, and be left alone with his thoughts. He needed to consider how to end it all, it was all very well telling his parents, but he had no idea how to carry it out. There was NO WAY he was going to tell his family he would end it all and have them wait months to be told he was dead.
He hurried along the wall, attempting to put as much distance between himself and the Latin American group as he could, moving too quickly to notice where he was going. He almost bumped into a prisoner talking with the worst group he had seen so far. He side stepped at the last moment, skirting them. A hand with a grip of steel landed on his arm, spinning him around. Tony found himself staring into the eyes of Roderick Summers, the worst domestic terrorist he had sent down.