Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [48]
“Mornin’, Russ,” the man said, leaning in and glancing at the laminated ID card hanging around the chaplain’s neck. “This Carey?”
“The Reverend Thomas Carey,” Russ said. “Yes, sir.”
“Good morning, officer,” Thomas said.
The man nodded. “Bring the pastries for the warden, Russ?”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Right.”
The officer moved around to Thomas’s side of the car and motioned for him to lower the window. “Full ID, please, including Social Security number.”
Thomas produced the documents and the officer clipped them onto his board, studying them and leaning close to compare Thomas’s face with his photo. “Still live in Alabama, Reverend Carey?”
“No. Settling here soon, I hope.”
“You’ve been instructed regarding contraband and are carrying nothing that would violate our policy or give the admittance officers any reason to detain you?”
“Correct.”
“Thank you, sir, and have a good day.”
The officer returned Thomas’s documents and waved Russ through.
“That pastry business was a code, you know,” Russ said.
“Code?”
“He knew you were coming, of course. But on the off chance that someone else knew that, incapacitated you, and forced me to drive him into the facility, I’d have one chance to let the officer know. All I had to do was say I forgot the pastries, and there’s no way this car would have moved another inch.”
“Interesting.”
“And you’d have had a nine-millimeter Glock pressed against your temple until backup arrived to disarm and subdue you.”
Thomas shook his head. “So, similar to Sunday school.”
Russ pulled into a parking lot a hundred yards from the front gate. Most of the forty spaces were already filled. Each had a name painted on a reserved sign. “If all goes well, your name will be here by the time you start. Down there’s the warden’s spot and those of his staff.”
“And you say the warden is also the executive director of the state’s Department of Corrections?”
Russ nodded. “Which makes him the dictator here.”
“That’s not all bad.”
“Not at all. Streamlines everything. Less paperwork. He reports directly to the governor, and like I told you, they’re tight.”
Russ led Thomas to the great iron gate, wide enough to allow vehicles through, where they were met by another officer and run through the same routine as at the guardhouse. “What could have changed between there and here?” Thomas said. “I’m not challenging procedures. Just wondering.”
Russ shrugged. “Nothing is left to chance; that’s all.”
Both emptied their pockets and took off shoes and belts before passing through a metal detector. They were admitted through a narrow single door cut into the gates. When the door was shut and locked behind them, Thomas finally saw the main complex, which dwarfed several smaller buildings.
“All the inmates are housed in the main unit. The outbuildings are only for staff. The warden’s office, the administrative offices, and your office are in the main building.”
Stark sidewalks took them from the gate to the big building about fifty yards inside. The ground was bare dirt, and there were no trees, shrubs, or landscaping of any kind. Russ’s ID tag worked as a passkey for the lock on the entrance, and they were soon inside.
“We’re buffered from the cells by this wing of offices,” Russ said. “But you’ll see the rest soon enough. And then you’ll know why all prisons are clichés. I’ve been in lots of ’em, and regardless the level of security, the size, the location, anything, they’re all the same. Slamming, swearing, smells, sights, sounds—all of it. Welcome to hell, Thomas.”
18
Forest View High School
Brady sat in English late in the morning, knowing he should speak to Mrs. Stevens at the end of class and also knowing he wouldn’t. Diagramming sentences and parts of speech would make up more than half the next exam, the diminutive lady told the class, “so don’t say you didn’t know. You have ample time to master this material.”
Maybe if I had a clue. Brady hadn’t been so lost since