Tony threw the ball in a perfect arc, watching it sail through the ring and land underneath. The usual players were nowhere to be seen, so he had collected the abandoned basketball and played by himself, oblivious to anyone watching him. He shut his mind to the wall towering directly ahead of him, picturing his garden instead. A few more throws and then he would go inside and start dinner for Michelle. Maybe it was her smiling face that distracted him, the next ball missing the basket. Tony scowled and went to retrieve it, bouncing it back and throwing it again.

'Amigo,' Sanchez began, arriving to join him. 'Gonzales wanted to talk to you.'

Tony sighed, struggling to contain his frustration. 'Look, do you think you could give me just half an hour alone?' he asked. 'Just half an hour to play in peace! You go talk to Gonzales, see what he wants this time.' He turned his back on his friend and threw the ball into the basket again.

Sanchez stood beside him for a moment longer in silence before turning and walking off. A mild prickling in his conscience nagged Tony, who tried his best to ignore it. Chewing his lip, he retrieved the ball and aimed yet again. I prevented a bloodbath three days ago, and look where it got me? Nowhere! Not even as much as a thank you! Next time someone wants to strangle Supervisor Lee, I'll sit and watch! He wouldn't of course, but he repeated his 'decision' to himself to kill the sharp disappointment he felt. You're a real fool, Almeida. You really hoped they'd let you see Michelle in the next coupla days! Wake up! It was a lot closer to an hour later when he set off in search of his friend, returning the ball to a box. Sanchez was not with either gang. Frowning, his eyes raked the yard, accounting for several prisoners he knew by sight.

'Where's Sanchez?' he inquired casually, leaning against the wall.

'Oh, so you decided to come and talk!' Gonzales told him, throwing him a dirty look. They stared at each other in silence, Tony with folded arms. 'Some guards came and took volunteers to clean out the kitchen,' he said finally. 'They only took those with less than a year left to serve.'

Tony's scowl deepened. 'Sanchez wouldn't volunteer for anything,' he said, having observed his cellmate's knack of vanishing whenever any work was mentioned.

Gonzales laughed. 'They grabbed four of them. He wasn't exactly given a choice. Why don't you go back and play more, agent? You were winning!'

Tony gave him a hard look and wandered round the yard, killing time. He was exhausted, and he was sick to death of the orange jumpsuits he saw everywhere he went. Idly he glanced at the towers, noting the ever vigilant guards. Just walk right up to that gate and start climbing, and you'd get a bullet through your brain for sure. His eyes examined the huge gate, knowing it led into another courtyard. Focus, Almeida! You said you'd give Jack a little time to get you pardoned. You've got another five months or so, and you're going to stay here!

By the time the siren wailed signaling the end of yard time Tony's unease increased to anxiety. What could be taking so long in the kitchen, with the usual staff and four prisoners to assist? He joined the queue reluctantly and headed back indoors, climbing up to the third floor. Moments later the familiar buzzing signaled the cells opening. The prisoners moved inside while he remained on the tier, unable to enter.

'What the hell is your problem, Almeida?' snapped a guard, grabbing his arm and giving him a rough shove. 'Get inside or you'll get a D report.'

'Could you tell me how much longer Sanchez will be kept in the kitchen?' Tony inquired as politely as he could.

The guard sneered at him from behind the locked door. 'Did anyone address you, convict?' He waited while Tony shook his head. 'Then I suggest you stay silent. He'll be returned whenever the kitchen is clean. You'll have to contain yourself, in the meantime.'

'What?' Tony exclaimed, outraged at the implication.

'You got anymore comments?' inquired the guard, eyeing him challengingly.

Tony counted to three mentally and shook his head. 'No sir.' The guard waited another few seconds, watching him, before he turned. A sudden thought crossed his mind. 'Who else did they choose to clean out?'

Once again the guard eyed him, pulling out his notebook. 'I'm writing you up for holding up a corrections officer,' he said.

Tony glanced to the side, struggling to contain his annoyance. 'Gee, you're being real helpful!' he muttered, unwisely.

'And you're being written up for giving lip,' continued the guard, unperturbed. 'I got plenty more empty pages left in this notebook, convict. You got anything further to say?'

'No sir,' he said again, lowering his gaze. A mental image crept into his mind unbidden; he was shaking the guard till his teeth rattled. He allowed the scene to play itself out while the guard remained on the opposite side of the door. Once he left, Tony slammed his fist into the nearest wall, furious with himself. 'You must be a real slow learner, Almeida! You've been here now what, seven months, and you haven't learned not to ask questions. You just can't help yourself, can you?'

Tony settled in his corner, gazing round the cell. They had been a little lax about tidying up recently. His books lay on his bed, and his notebook and pens on the shelf above it, while Sanchez's cards lay scattered round the floor. Sanchez's car magazines once again littered every spare corner of the floor and table, and their caps hung from the posts of the bunk. He pushed aside a few magazines and stretched his legs out, idly flipping through a few colorful advertisements. Yeah, they're all great; I'd accept anyone of them!

Another hour passed slowly while he sat in the corner before he rose, unable to watch the mess any longer. Sighing heavily he collected several years' worth of magazines and sorted them according to their publication date, replacing them on Sanchez's shelf. It wasn't quite lunchtime, so he gathered the piles of cards and played solitaire for a few minutes before packing them away. Tony pulled a chair from the table and sat down, surveying a neat cell. Nothing remained to be done that day. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands, mentally counting the days till his next visit. Michelle would be back in LA by now, so she would almost certainly visit him. His heart leapt at the thought, while he fought his excitement down. Sooner or later she would get sick of seeing him led into a room in cuffs, unable to touch her.

Restlessly he rose and pushed the chair back, unconsciously creating additional space for pacing.

Once the siren wailed he stood outside his door, hands behind his back, hoping the supervisor hadn't decided he would be held back for his rudeness. As the doors opened he let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and joined the silent queue, taking care to keep to the prisoners' side of the yellow line which ran the length of the catwalk. 'Alright, third tier, move,' ordered a guard, and he followed the men before him wordless along the entire row and down the stairs. That afternoon they were sent into the dining hall last. Tony grabbed a tray and glanced around, moving next to Fernandez.

'Have you seen Sanchez yet?' he inquired, sitting at an empty seat which no other prisoner dared to take.

Fernandez shook his head. 'No, we haven't. I take it he's not back yet. That's strange, lunch is already served.'

'Did you see who else they took to help?' Tony continued, eating rapidly.

'A couple of Arabs. Hey, agent, they're right over there, two tables down. Wander why Sanchez isn't back yet?'

Tony pushed his chair back. 'Those men are real dangerous, you know that? They already failed to pin a narcotics charge on me. I'm gonna ask them where he is.'

'The guards are watching you, Almeida,' Gonzales warned. 'Better sit down.'

'Yeah well, let them watch. I'm just going to talk to some people,' Tony remarked, walking purposefully towards the table of returned terrorists. Bobby's face loomed before him; he didn't even try to push it away. Behind him Fernandez let out a long sigh. A-Seg, here I come. He paused at the table, pushing two plates aside as he leaned forward.

Conversation ceased as they cast him hostile looks. 'Federal Agent Almeida,' one remarked, eyeing him. 'What do you want here? You think you're gonna question us?' Loud laughter greeted his words.

Tony shook his head. 'What for? You're already where you deserve to be! I just wanna know where Sanchez is.' He held their gaze, reading their hatred.

One leaned forward, speaking rapidly in Arabic. 'See if you understand us, agent. He's in the freezer, dying. That's your warning; we're coming after you next.'

'You're not serious?' Tony exclaimed, horrified.

'Told you the bastard understands us,' one said.

Tony stared at them another moment, sensing they spoke the truth, before he turned and pushed his way between the tables, over to the counter. 'What the hell do you think…' a guard began. Pushing him aside he swung himself over the serving hatch and rushed through the kitchen, searching for the freezer. Counters stood in every direction, filled with large pots similar in many ways to the army kitchen. The few convicts who worked there moved aside as they saw his fury, allowing him free passage. Two guards leapt up from a counter they had been sitting on, attempting to stop him. Tony pushed one aside, noting him slide along the floor and into a counter before he reached a door at the other end of the room. Pushing it open the cold took his breath away. He stepped inside, switching on a light beside the door. Sanchez lay at the back, a knife in his stomach.

'Oh God,' Tony breathed, moving over to him and pulling him up. 'Let's get you out of here. Don't try to speak.' Gently he laid his friend on an empty table, examining the wound. A guard moved over to them, speaking rapidly in his radio. 'Hang in there, Sanchez; you're going to be fine.'

Within moments a stretcher arrived, wheeled by two medics. Tony watched them place his cellmate on it and push him out, standing motionless by the table. 'Convict Almeida,' snapped a voice, harsh in the silence. 'You got some explaining to do. Bring him to my office.'

Tony stared at the new arrival, the warden, who surveyed the crime scene with expert eyes. Two guards moved to either side of him, one producing a stun baton. 'Alright, I'm coming,' he muttered, following them back through the kitchen. A door was opened and the group stepped into the dining hall. All the Mexicans stared at him, as he walked towards the door.

'That was fun, agent, twisting that knife in his gut,' one of the Arabs sneered, speaking softly in Arabic. 'That Spaniard, did he scream!'

Tony swung round, past the guards and rushed to the table, hearing them close behind. Hot rage burned through him.

'It was you?' he questioned.

'Yes, it was me. What are you gonna do about it? We killed him, we killed your brother, and we'll kill you, and you can be sure we'll kill more…' He gasped, as Tony reached for him, twisting his neck.

A loud whistle caused all the prisoners to throw themselves on the ground, hands on their heads, as Tony was surrounded. A pair of cuffs were produced and tightened round his wrists, and he was pushed from the room. 'Keep moving,' hissed a guard, leading him through D Block and out into a courtyard, forcing him through the prison at breakneck speed.

They led him inside an interrogation room, shackling his legs to a chair and leaving his hands cuffed behind him. Tony sat alone, ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the table before him. Fury at the terrorists and concern for his friend surged through him, emotions pulling him both ways. I should have killed that bastard. I will when I see him again.

The door opened presently and the warden entered together with two guards. Tony rose with difficulty, eyes lowered.

'Convict Almeida, that was premeditated assault,' began the warden, fury in his voice. 'Do you realize what you've just done? You've unleashed an entire new war between our Muslims and Mexicans, a problem we didn't face before!'

'They wanted to come after me, so they attacked Sanchez,' Tony began, softly. 'Sanchez is a car thief! He has nothing to do with any terrorists; he didn't deserve to be hurt. He's gonna get out in eight months now.'

'Silence, convict,' snapped the warden, and he closed his mouth, not wishing to provoke the man to greater fury and risk a taste of the stun baton. 'I'm sentencing you to a year in the SHU! Maybe that will teach you to mind your own business and quit looking for trouble. Have you any idea what that entails?'

'Yes sir,' Tony said, his heart sinking. 'It's solitary, 23 and a half hours locked indoors, exercising outdoors in a cage, no books, no letters, no visitors.'

'That's about right,' stated the warden, his gaze boring through Tony. 'You're among my most troublesome convicts, Almeida,' he continued relentlessly. 'How you managed to hold a job of any kind, let alone one of responsibility, I have no idea. I suggest you take this year to evaluate your situation and quit dreaming. Either you settle down like all the rest of the scum you see around you, or sooner or later you'll face capital punishment. Take him away.'

'Move it, convict,' ordered a guard, unshackling his legs, and Tony followed them outside, the baton against his neck. All the courtyards were silent as he passed through them, dejected. The sun shone directly above him through a cloudless sky, burning the back of his neck. D Block was silent as he passed. A general lockdown was in progress, he presumed, his heart aching. How was Sanchez?

High walls with a double roll of barbed wire loomed before him, casting the only shadow in the entire yard. They passed through a checkpoint, the guard in the booth calling administration to confirm he was to be taken inside. A solid steel door opened with a quiet buzz and he stepped through, entering the dreaded Special Housing Unit, a prison within a prison for incorrigible inmates. A bored clerk glanced at a laptop, allocating him a cell on the second row.

Tony was ordered to strip and place his clothes on a counter. Pulling his impassive mask on, he removed his things and laid them down, standing before them naked. The supervisor entered the room, watching while he was searched. I'm not gonna resist, you bastard. I know you want me to, but I won't. You've got no reason to use your stun baton.

'You got a year with us, Convict Almeida,' began the supervisor, moving towards him after he was searched. 'I agree with the warden, a year by yourself might bring you to your senses. Then again, it might not.' He held the baton to Tony's neck, activating it.

Fire rushed through his body, burning every nerve. Tony felt his body twisting backwards as his mouth opened in a silent scream. Once the baton was removed he crumbled to the ground, unable to move for several minutes, fighting for air.

'That will do, convict. Quit wasting time. Get dressed.'

Breathing slowly he rolled over, pushing himself up. Objects swayed around him as he pulled his clothes on; aware he mixed up his shoes. A guard grabbed his arms, placing cuffs on them and he was led onto the main floor. This building was familiar to him from his narcotics trial, consisting of a silent floor surrounded by solid steel doors, blocking out all sight and sound. Tony stumbled up the stairs to the second floor, being halted before the first door.

Once the guard opened the solid steel door they faced a second door, which was also unlocked, with a different access card, carried by the second guard. 'Get inside, convict,' one ordered, and he entered, hearing the first door slam behind him. Moments later the outer door's slam vibrated through the cell. Just as he was wandering how long they intended to leave him in his cuffs the slot opened. 'Stick your arms through, convict.' Tony moved to the slot, raising his arms as high as he could, turning to make certain they went through the slot. His cuffs were removed and he moved from the door, hearing the slot slammed shut.

Tears stung his eyes as he stumbled over to a bed, sitting on it to pull his shoes from his feet, before he lay down on his stomach, cursing the bright light set into the ceiling. He needed darkness, needed complete blackness to envelop him. Closing his eyes he forced his breathing to steady, refusing to allow himself to consider his new punishment right away. Looks like Warden Jeffries got what he wanted. You're back in the SHU, and nothing like a month has passed!

After an hour of lying motionless he sat up, examining the cell where he would spend an entire year. Grey bricks made up the walls, pale grey tiles lined the floor, cold to his feet. A toilet with a washbasin on top of it lay opposite the door. His bed was made of concrete with a thin sponge mattress thrown over it, covered in grimy white sheets with a grey blanket. Feeling unpleasantly cold, he wrapped the blanket round his back and leaned against the wall, his heart aching in the utter silence.

Guess I'm not gonna see you after all, sweetheart! I'm so sorry… Oh God, I haven't even got your picture.

Warily he leaned his head against the bricks, chewing his bottom lip. I've only been in prison seven months. If Jack can't get my pardon, I'll spend a lot longer in this cell than elsewhere. I don't think I can do this, mom.

Two days later his slot banged opened and a strange voice yelled though it. 'Troubles?'

Tony sat up, moving to the open slot eagerly. 'Who are you?'

'The nurse. Any troubles?' snapped the voice.

'How's Sanchez doing?' Tony asked, determined to get an answer. 'He was brought to the infirmary with a knife wound to his stomach.'

'I'm not permitted to discuss the health of other inmates,' began the nurse.

'Just tell me if he made it, please,' Tony begged.

'He made it,' answered the nurse shortly, slamming his slot.

Tony moved back to his bed thankfully, returning to rest on his stomach, the only position that avoided the blinding light. Closing his eyes he returned to his daydream, gardening with Michelle. You're losing focus, Almeida. You're dreaming all day, and not just at night. You won't survive this year if you go on like this! He chewed his lip harder. I don't care, anymore.