Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [60]
A commotion led them back into the unit, where a naked inmate, standing in the tiny shower stall, was hollering. “C’mon, man! I been here more’n an hour and I’m cold!”
From the watchtower a staticky voice came over the intercom. “He’s coming. Just hold on.”
“Then turn the shower back on, man!”
Silence.
The con recited a litany of vile curses.
“The shower runs for ten minutes,” Yanno told Thomas. “Then it’s off for three; then it runs for two more. The guys have to learn to wash up, then rinse off. Sometimes the water’s cold. We try to keep it hot, but sometimes there are other priorities. Once it’s run through both cycles, hot or cold, the inmate has to wait there until his officer comes back to chain him up and get him back to his house.
“The guys get issued a razor when they get in there, but they have to return it when they’re done, and it has to be totally intact. These guys’ll make a weapon out of anything.”
“Where would they be able to use it?”
“You’d be surprised. That’s why they’re searched every time they’re removed from or returned to their houses. And often we search the houses when they’re out for a shower or exercise. The worst problem is feces bombs.”
“Oh, my. Do I want to know?”
“Probably not, but you need to. This ain’t grade school. Yes, these guys will collect their own feces, wrap it in paper, and when an officer tries to deliver their food through the slot in the door—during which the inmate is supposed to stay at the back of his cell—the con will race forward and fire the mess at the officer, sometimes hitting him in the face. Regardless, as you can imagine, that’s a horrible, disgusting attack and can be dangerous. The officers wear rubber gloves and sometimes face masks, but we’ve had personnel injured. That is a felony and carries dire consequences.”
“Such as?”
“He’s forcefully extracted from his cell by our goon squad. That name was made up by the population, but it fits, so we use it too. A group of at least six officers, wearing full body armor and one of them carrying a Plexiglas shield, approaches the cell and orders the inmate to back up to the food slot and extend his hands behind him to be cuffed. If he cooperates, they shackle him and take him back to the intake cell for what we call Administrative Segregation, or Ad Seg. Depending on how long you’re assigned to stay, it’s the worst experience a man can have here. He’s in his underwear for days, no shower, no exercise, no place to sit or lie except the bare floor. No pillow or even a blanket. Eats sack lunches of thin lunchmeat sandwiches. No contact with anyone.”
“What if they refuse to allow themselves to be cuffed?”
“We inject noxious gas into their house. Sometimes it takes two canisters, but not even the toughest can stand that for long. Either they back up to the slot and get cuffed, or we burst in and subdue them. Some of these guys have a high pain threshold. They’ll camp out at the back of their cell, coughing, wheezing, crying, but they won’t surrender. And when the squad comes in with pepper spray and Tasers and all, they kick and punch and pinch and scratch and bite until the team forces them flat on the floor. It’s a game to them. They have nothing to lose. We videotape every extraction to cover ourselves legally.”
“But they have to know they’re going to Ad Seg, right?”
“Sure. Some of ’em do it just to be obstinate, some for the attention—any is better than none, they figure—and some do it just for the change of pace and scenery. Listen, some guys eat pieces of their cell. Anything small enough to fit in their mouths, they try to ingest it. Plastic around the light fixture. Wire mesh. Anything that will get them in trouble, give them a health issue—which we’re required to treat. These guys are the most innovative on earth.
“There’s all kinds of ways for a guy to break