Tony's arms were released once the double steel doors closed, admitting him deeper into the labyrinth of blocks and courtyards. An open door stood immediately inside, and he was given a rough push towards it. The room appeared similar to a reception area, with a counter running the length of the room on the left hand side. Two private offices opened opposite the counter. One had a sign that read "Block Supervisor". Davis opened that door and went inside. Tony was ordered to stand where he was and remain absolutely still. The guards watched him for the slightest movement.
He wandered where he could be. After his damage of the mattress had been discovered, and he had prevented his cell being searched the second time, he had assumed he was being returned to the hole, but this block lay in the opposite direction. His ears strained to hear Davis, but he was unable to make out the conversation.
Where am I now? I'm in disgrace – so this has to be some kind of punishment area. Bound to be unpleasant, as Davis brought me here. Still, at least it's not the hole. I've got my photo and the spring. Better hang onto them carefully, they'll search me here for sure.
The door opened, and Davis exited the office, followed by the block supervisor. He was tall and well built, resembling a cleaned up version of a thug. He walked round Tony slowly, examining him in great detail. 'Alright, Davis, we got him. Remove his cuffs!' Two guards held him immobile while a third removed the cuffs. 'Convict, remove your clothes!'
Boy am I getting SICK of this game by now! "Convict, strip, convict, you may dress up now, convict strip…"
He began to unbutton his shirt, wandering where he could conceal his photo. Six guards watched him, together with two supervisors. He stood in the centre of the room, away from any furniture. Slowly he pressed his hand inside his trouser pocket. 'Watch him,' Davis remarked. 'Remove that hand, Almeida. What have you got there?'
Tony removed his hand, opening an empty palm. 'Search him now,' Davis exclaimed suddenly. 'Bastard's got something on him, I can tell.' The other supervisor nodded his head and two guards grabbed his arms, pulling them behind him, holding him in a vice like grip. Two others felt inside his pockets. Tony moved restlessly.
'Convict, move one muscle you'll feel the taste of this stick,' warned the new supervisor, pointing to his night stick. Well, he was going to feel it anyway, he knew, as they poked through his pocket.
'I got something,' one guard exclaimed. 'Shit, it's sharp, I cut my hand!' He withdrew the sharp spring, laying it on the counter.
'Get that treated. What have we got here, convict?' The supervisors examined it closely. 'A sharpened spring!'
'Like I said, Almeida, you'll learn,' Davis told him, giving him a satisfied smirk. 'He deserves the full ten days!'
'He'll get it, alright! Remove the rest of your clothes, convict.'
Tony removed his clothes slowly; unable to believe they hadn't yet discovered his photo in the same pocket as the spring. Each item of clothing was taken by a guard and placed on top of the counter. He stood before them all naked, feeling the familiar humiliation which refused to go, no matter how many times he'd stood that way before. A guard pulled his head backwards while another forced his jaw open. His mouth was poked with a gloved hand, making him gag, while his neck felt alarmingly as though it might snap if pulled back any further. The guard withdrew his hand, shaking his head, and Tony was ordered to bend forward.
'Nothing further on the prisoner,' reported the guard.
Davis got up. 'I'm off. Enjoy your stay in administrative segregation, Almeida!' He smiled humorlessly at Tony as he left the room.
A guard handed him back his underwear, which he pulled on gratefully. Two of them pulled his hands in front of him, cuffing him. He stood immobile, waiting for the beating he was certain awaited him.
'Convict Almeida,' began the supervisor.
Here comes the speech. You've been real bad, you're worse than the rest, wait and see what we'll do to you now – you'll be sorry you were ever born!
'You've been removed from General Population for an infraction during your cell search. Having found you in possession of a contraband item I am sentencing you to the full ten days in a holding cell.' He paused, moving closer to Tony. 'That's on the record. Off the record, Davis is my colleague. You insulted him in front of the entire block! I'm going to teach you never, ever to open your mouth in his presence again. Deal with him.'
The supervisor moved to lean on the counter, while all six guards withdrew their nightsticks. Tony bit his lip, scared. He had expected a beating, but only a few blows with a stick. This would be bad.
Hang in there, Almeida. Don't look now, mom!
Six blows landed on him simultaneously, followed randomly by dozens more, several blows at a time. He bore it silently as long as he could stand, swaying under the blows. With a groan he collapsed to the ground, his knees being unable to steady him after a particularly savage blow to his lower back. He pushed his hands out to break his fall, lowering himself gently to the floor, curling up to protect his stomach, pushing his elbows against his ribs.
Haven't you bastards heard "you don't kick a man when he's down?"
They apparently hadn't. His beating continued with the same savage ferocity as before. Blows landed on his entire body – from the soles of his feet to the top of his shoulders. Only his head was spared. A few screams came out involuntarily as blows landed on top of blows newly received. It took several minutes for him to pass out.
He awoke to intense pain that coursed through his back with every breath he took. He moved his body slowly, stopping seconds later. Every part of him ached. He breathed slowly for several minutes before opening his eyes. He lay in a tiny cell no larger than a cage. It was bare, containing nothing beyond a mattress on which he lay. He took a deeper breath, gagging. A strong stench assailed him. Opening his eyes wider he noticed the condition of the mattress, rolling off immediately despite his protesting body. It was thick with grime, covered with dried blood, and vomit. Evidently he wasn't the first one thrown there after being taught a lesson.
He lay on cold tiles, slightly less filthy than the mattress, longing to drink a little water, but there was no tap in sight. Tony turned his head away from the mattress and closed his eyes, resolving to keep his ears attuned to the return of the guard. He would have to ask for water.
He was ready to weep with frustration by the time he heard a guard patrolling the corridor. Struggling upright, he grasped the bars and waited till he saw him. 'Please could you bring me some water?' he asked.
The guard continued his same measured stride down the corridor without acknowledging his presence. Tony watched him walking away, sinking back down. He contemplated banging and yelling but decided against it. Knowing this place, it would only delay the arrival of his drink.
God I'm SO sick of this place! I hate Davis, I hate this other supervisor, I hate Dogface – I know it was him who told Davis about the photo's existence, I hate all the other prisoners, I hate the warden, I hate all the guards, I hate being beaten, insulted, pushed around, handcuffed, restrained, searched, stripped – I hate everything about this place. I hate showering only once a week! I hate using cold water only. I hate being forced to wear the same clothes for three weeks at a time! I hate the dusty yard. I hate the same mind numbing boring routine. I hate being denied access to my parents. I hate not being with Michelle. I hate being watched at all times in my cell. I hate prison.
I hate CTU. Haven't I worked hard enough for them all these years, putting in hours of unpaid overtime? Haven't I arrested enough terrorists for them? Did I ever let anyone down before? NO, I DIDN'T. And what do they do to me? They knew I was under duress. They couldn't have cared less. They got to see the footage of Michelle being held at knifepoint. Hammond didn't even permit the footage to be shown at my trial.
I hate Hammond! Why the hell couldn't he have kept the matter within CTU? He could have quietly fired me. He could have given such a bad reference I'd never get another job again. The bastard could hardly wait to take me to Federal; hardly concentrate on getting the last vial as he was gloating over me in the holding room. Bastard could have had me taken to Division or if it had to be CTU, he could have ordered me brought in through the back. No, he stood there watching me dragged through the front, making sure everyone saw me!
I hate Palmer! We spent hours locating the virus, hours more planning its safe acquisition. Michelle went home alone while I was forced to lie to her, inventing all kinds of reasons why I had to stay overtime. "You will face the consequences of your actions, Mr. Almeida, regardless of the outcome…" What an ungrateful bastard!
Half an hour later the same guard walked down the passage in front of the holding cell. Once again Tony forced himself to ask for water politely, feeling his rage take hold of him as he was yet again ignored.
A long time elapsed without any movement in the passage. Tony lay on the floor on his stomach, face turned towards the door, taking shallow breaths. His body ached. How dare they refuse him water? He really needed some now, he had asked as politely as he could. He would rest another hour or so, and then he'd grab that guard by the neck and teach him a lesson about ignoring prisoners' requests!
Footsteps sounded down the passage. Tony tried to move, but his aching body refused to obey his brain. The best he could do was crawl closer to the door. Once again the guard patrolled the passage. His hand remained empty. Tony pushed his arm through the bars, getting a reaction from the man. 'I need water.' He wanted to say he'd asked for it before, but he was too weary to waste words.
'Convict, draw your arm through the bars now!' He stared at Tony the way someone would contemplate an insect before treading it into the floor. Tony left his hand where it was, removing it only when he saw the guard reaching for his night stick.
'That's better, convict. Stick any part of your body through the bars again, you'll be sent back for another beating.' He moved on, his measured strides almost leading Tony to believe he hadn't stopped at all.
Doesn't seem like I'll get any water from that bastard.
He closed his eyes, deciding to sleep, hoping it would pass the time before they would bring him a drink. Slowly he searched through his memories, finding a picture of his mother bending over him, lifting him off the ground. He'd fallen out of a tree they hadn't expected him to be able to climb, and he had hurt his head. His parents had rushed him to hospital, where they had been forced to wait several hours before he was examined. 'Just hang in there, honey, it won't be much longer,' his mother had told him, stroking his arm. Tony concentrated on the scene so totally he felt her hands soothing him. "Hang in there, honey." He fell asleep on the cold tiles.
A plastic cup of water lay on the slot when he awoke. He pushed himself up slowly, wincing. His hands reached the cup and he swallowed each drop, leaving time for his stomach to accept it all. An overwhelming desire to cry took him. He was locked in a cage, he ached everywhere, the photo he had struggled so long to keep was gone, and he was denied access to anyone who even remotely cared about him. 'Focus, Almeida! You've been in bad situations before. You'll get through this too, a minute at a time.'
It seems I've got to. Those bastards have taken my spring.
He wandered why they removed his spring. They insulted him daily; a couple of them had expressed surprise he wasn't hanged, so why did they remove his way out? Had he been left alone in his cell he would have been dead by now, sparing them all any further sight of him. Now he would have to think of a different way to end it all, and he was sure they would keep him under extra surveillance. He would be stuck in prison a little longer.
Just a little longer, Almeida. You're tough, you can do it. You'll find another way. You've got PLENTY of time to think of something.
You've got the rest of your life to think of something… NO. I'll think of something in a few days. Maybe Sanchez can recommend something, he seems to know exactly what's happening.
He replaced his cup in the slot and lay back on his stomach, forcing back his tears. There was no real problem, he would endure another few days. And he was not alone, not really. His parents would think of him everyday. If they could see him now they would raise hell.
Tony thought about them all night, recalling all the happiest occasions in his life. He was in too much pain to sleep long. By the following morning he felt stronger, though stiff and sore. He settled in the corner furthest from the door and gazed at a spot on the floor, waiting for the guard. Presently six guards appeared and he was handcuffed and led along the corridor to a bathroom.
'You've got two minutes, convict. Make it fast,' warned a guard.
That was the worst part of the holding cell, he reflected the next day. Worse than the utter boredom, the total silence and the discomfort was his two minute bathroom breaks three times a day. Once he begged to be taken out in the afternoon, feeling his rage rise yet again as the guard told him he'd be taken in the evening, he would have to wait until then. He'd slammed his fist into the ground and sworn in English.
'Convict, any more comments from you, the supervisor will come and deal with you,' warned the guard.
He'd fallen silent.
God, if I'd have tried anything like that with the terrorists we questioned at CTU I'd have been fired! But then of course they're terrorists, a lot of them foreign nationals, they had their rights! I'm a traitor, I got none!
They needed to be alive and hopefully healthy so we could extract information. No one needs anything from me.
On the fifth day the supervisor walked down the passage accompanied by the guards. He paused a safe distance outside his cage. 'Convict Almeida, on your feet. Face the door! You will rise every time you are addressed.' He waited till Tony stood in the middle of the cage. 'I have a second contraband item of yours, convict.' He held out Michelle's photo. 'The warden specifically forbade you any personal items for a period of one year. You've been sentenced to a further period in the holding cell, another ten days to be served immediately your present sentence has concluded. This photo is going to the bin, convict,' he taunted, watching Tony carefully.
'All items confiscated from prisoners are to be returned to their immediate family,' Tony said, softly. 'It's Californian State Law,' he continued, watching the supervisor.
The supervisor's face flushed. 'You seem to know a lot about the law, convict – but then I forget, you were a cop or something. It's always interesting when they fail; they find it so much harder to settle than the crooks! No, you big-mouthed scum, we don't bother returning anything. It goes to the bin.' He smiled at Tony. 'Got any more comments, convict?'
'You're not allowed to insult me,' Tony said softly. 'That picture goes home to my parents.'
'Listen up, you bastard! I've had enough of your kind. If it were up to me all you bandits would be on the first bus back to Mexico or wherever the hell you came from.'
'I'm AMERICAN, dammit! And you'll soon see that. I'm going to file a complaint against your use of excessive force. And I'll file another for being insulted. Californian Law says prison employees "shall never refer to inmates by derogatory or slang references, nor shall they use indecent, abusive language." You've done both!'
The guards stiffened, watching the supervisor. For a while he stared at Tony in silence, before beginning to laugh. 'Convict Almeida, you do entertain me. You're lucky you're so amusing; otherwise I'd beat the crap out of you again. File your complaints, do. I've got a real large bin, there's still a little space inside.' He turned and left Tony, followed by the guards, laughing all the way down the passage. 'He'll file a complaint!'
Tony closed his eyes, fighting down his rage. The insults he received together with the supervisor's holding Michelle's photo were almost more than he could take.
You're not into paperwork, are you? Well, neither am I. You ever come anywhere near me without a regiment of guards, I'll take you apart, piece by piece, and stuff you into your real large bin!
He wandered fleetingly what would become of his photo. Most likely it would be stuffed into the box all the rest of his possessions had been squashed into, to be handed over to some relative after his death.
Easy, Almeida. You've got another fifteen days in this cage. You don't want a second beating. Sit down and be quiet, and they'll pass. You'll get to go back to your cell.
He gave a half laugh half sob.