Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [156]
“Hope he enjoyed that,” Andreason said. “His last forever. Think of it.”
Maybe it was the distance, but Thomas had pictured a bigger man. This guy was of average height and lean build, and as a phalanx of heavily armored corrections officers brought him toward the intake cell, Thomas noticed he was dark-complexioned for a Caucasian. Dark hair and eyes too.
The officers seemed to be aware they were part of this center of attention and appeared to want to move faster. But the condemned man, garish head to toe in his Day-Glo orange county jail uniform, was slowed by his ankle shackles and chains. He was also bound around the middle, hands cuffed in front. Thomas had seen men jog along with mincing steps when so constrained, but this man was in no hurry. And why should he be?
Thomas could not help but think of the man’s victim as the party drew near. She apparently had been no saint either, but as a father and grandfather, Thomas grieved with her family. He could not conceive of losing his beloveds, let alone in such a manner.
God, please grant me some compassion for this man in spite of everything.
Screaming, whistling, yelling seemed to come from every cell in every pod as the cavalcade passed. Some cons called out vile questions or insults. But neither the officers nor the new man so much as turned to look. Once the prisoner lifted his hands high enough to flash double obscene gestures, making the caged men shout even louder.
It appeared to Thomas that the officers were aware that the big bosses were waiting for them at the end of the line. Every uniform was crisp and clean, every boot spit-shined, every badge gleaming. Each man stood ramrod straight and bore a serious countenance. What may have started as each man putting his best foot forward for the press now took the form of showing the head of the DOC and the warden that they meant business.
The man leading the procession, the biggest and widest of the officers, stopped about ten feet in front of Thomas and the others and looked to the warden. “You handling it from here, sir?”
“Yes, thank you,” Yanno said. “Assume your positions.”
The officers formed a semicircle behind the inmate, and the warden approached him and introduced himself and Andreason. The con appeared sullen and only nodded.
“This is our intake cell, where you will spend your first twenty-four hours. Once you are inside and the door is secured, step to the meal slot so we can remove your cuffs. Then lie on your back and rest your ankles above the slot so we can remove your shackles. Then strip down to your underwear and pass your uniform out through the slot. When we come get you tomorrow for transfer to your cell, we’ll reverse the process and you’ll get your tee and khakis and slippers.”
The young man peered into the cell, scowling. “I’m sleeping here? On the floor?”
“Hey!” Yanno shouted to the officers. “What happened to the king bed and the down comforter? And remind the maid about the mint on the pillow.”
The officers laughed. The con didn’t.
Thomas was not amused.
Yanno signaled an officer in the observation booth, and the loud click of the electronic lock echoed in the hallway. The warden removed the manual security device, and the lead officer used his key on the main lock. Throughout the process of getting the man inside, unbound, and undressed, Thomas looked away, noticing that everyone else, his son-in-law included, gawked at the murderer the whole time.
When the man was on his feet again, Yanno beckoned him close and spoke softly, informing him of when he would be fed (twice while in intake) and that someone would deliver an envelope. “Normally when someone is in this cell, it’s for Administrative Segregation, and they get nothing to read. But when being processed in, you are expected to become familiar with our rules