Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [159]
Rather, Brady had been seeing his future as clearly as if he had already lived it. It never crossed his mind to try to get out of this mess to end all messes. Other than to kill himself, escape was not an option. He wouldn’t lie, deny, excuse, anything. He wouldn’t stay silent or demand a lawyer. No, for the first time in his life, he would accept the consequences.
He had committed an unthinking and unthinkable act, and as he heard the blaring sirens in the distance, he saw himself cuffed, searched, Mirandized, ushered into a squad car, interrogated, delivered to County, processed in, and assigned a defense attorney. That hadn’t taken any special powers of foresight. He’d been through this many times, though not on this scale and never for anything with so many mortal repercussions.
Brady had to admit he had not expected it to be so hard to simply insist on a death sentence and have it finally come, and the mandatory appeal process still frustrated him. But otherwise, none of this had been a surprise. He had watched it unfold from some dark spot deep within his soul. Oh, the various personalities had been unique, and he had not imagined the supermax to look or be like this, but he knew this was where he would wind up.
No clock. No food. No cigarettes. Nothing to read. No clothes. He wasn’t sure what the point was. Wasn’t his accepting the ultimate punishment enough for these people? He didn’t care, really. It just didn’t make sense. Maybe they felt the need to personally make him pay. Fair enough. It simply irritated Brady that he began to long for those things that were deprived him.
“Excuse me, guard,” he said, “what time is it?”
The man looked offended that Brady would even address him. “First of all, don’t call me guard. I’m a corrections officer. As for what time it is, scumbag, it’s time for you to shut that hole in your face before I come in there and shut it for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Get smart with me, you’ll be in here for a week before you get a cell.”
“Sorry.”
“The only response I want from you is silence!”
Brady held up his hands. What did he care what time it was anyway? It wasn’t like he had a schedule.
He guessed it was half an hour later when he heard guards—officers—making the rounds for roll call. What was he to say? “Here, sir,” as he had done in phys ed class years before?
An officer stopped before his cage. “Brady Wayne Darby!”
“Yes, sir!”
“On your feet! This is the standing roll call so we can verify you’re in one piece.”
“I am.”
“Shut up! You haven’t received your induction packet yet, have you?”
Brady wanted to say, “Do you see one in here?” But he knew saying anything seemed to upset these guys. So he simply shook his head.
“I can’t hear you!”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Dinner’s comin’.”
Instinct told him to say thanks, but Brady resisted the urge. He was hungry, maybe for the first time since he’d been arrested, and even the mention of dinner made it worse. Funny, he hadn’t slept or eaten much while at County during all the briefings and hearings and pleadings. He had lost weight, he was sure, and now wondered if he would ever be hungry again.
But the next visitor was an officer who slipped an envelope into the meal slot. It slapped onto the floor. Brady decided he wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to read it before he ate anyway.
When his tray finally came, Brady found one slice of lunchmeat bologna between two slices of slightly stale white bread with neither butter nor any other condiment. This was accompanied by a room-temperature box of some kind of fruit juice that was more sugar than real. Had it not been for the tepid liquid, he would not have been able to force down the dry sandwich. And hadn’t the warden said he would get only two meals here in twenty-four hours?
He set the tray aside and opened the