Installment 1
Prologue and Chapters 1 - 3

Prologue

Buelly Knox, studied the make of the vehicles below. He placed one of his hamhock forearms atop the other and nodded to himself as if saying, “well done.” The parking lot was his lot. And those parked in it were his people. 

He watched his staff make their way in, most, eyes cast down. When he’d assumed the high post lording over the state’s expansive prison system 15 years earlier, the lot had only a scattering of high dollar SUVs. Now, it seemed everyone had a new glistening model of this or that.

A young woman slid out of her maroon-colored Ford Edge, her shoe heel momentarily caught a crack in the concrete, enough so she grabbed onto the door handle to stop herself from a fall. Her skirt slipped up showing her thighs. She held onto her briefcase as if she was carrying the King’s papers. She quickly looked upwards at the tinted office window, which ran the length of half of the south 9th floor high rise, realizing the papers in her briefcase were those Buelly Knox sent home with her the night before.         

She had been a good hire. Her name was Bernice. His name for her was Bernice the Buxom, something he only shared with his small group of trusted confederates, good ol boys he'd also hired who had worked their way up the system. She was one of those country girls who started working several years out of high school as a corrections officer and caught the attention of prison higher ups due to her thoroughness in report writing. 

He let the matters of the parking lot go, and walked across his office to his desk, an expansive oak, thinking the bland institutional carpeting laid some years ago had a tired appearance and should be replaced for a hard-wood floor look. His second wife, Clarice, a dark eyed, sultry looking 35 year old, who he’d plucked from the Tonopah facility had told him so. She was a former social worker, who now was a stay-at-home mom, raising her first child, but Buelly’s fifth, and his fourth son.     

He settled into his ergonomic chair, fitted for his girth, and checked his apple iphone for messages, then pulled out a manila folder from a stack entitled Classified Activity. He zeroed in on a blue tag on one of the folders labeled Tonopah, or TRAC, one of twenty plus prisons in the state. TRAC, short for Tonopah Receiving and Assessment Center, is where men are processed into the behemoth system. 

He let the chair do its trick adjusting to his move, pulling the report closer for better reading, noting a paragraph about federal law enforcement covertly placing prisoners in state facilities. “For the suits,” he said out loud. “But I owe my ol Fed buddy Gilley, the favor.” 

He shot a look at the double wide mahogany door, the passageway into his chambers, a horseshoe pitch away from his desk. Charlotte, his secretary, hadn't stuck her cherry cheeks in like she did in the early morning asking, “More coffee, Chief.” 

Yesterday she’d bolted in and come to a screeching halt at his desk, disturbing his morning reflection time.  “Look at this Chief,” she said, breathing heavily, “don’t know if it will fall under your bailiwick, but Arnold Hoister is running for a second term as Attorney General.” She laid down a copy of the small town weekly paper on his desk. He’d glared at the above-the-fold headline which read, “Hoister to seek second term.”  

She’d crowded in next to him, hovering over his shoulder, enough that her perfume, an extract which reminded him of his old aunt, almost made him sneeze.  

Buelly skimmed the three graf story, which recapped Hoister’s win of three years ago as Attorney General. He recalled something his buddy Gil Cummings had told him about a rumor concerning Hoister when he was a county prosecutor in a rural white county, west of KC, of being overzealous in prosecuting a black man.The defendant was given 25 years for a minor drug charge, under the state three strike statute. Some drug lawyer represented the defendant. 

Yesterday, he had thanked Charlotte and waved her off to her station just outside his office, saying, “Thanks Charlotte, good information to know.” 

Confident she wasn’t going to disturb him today, he eased himself back in his chair and zeroed in on the 8 by 5 photo of him smiling with a-then governor, when Tonopah was opened. A cutline below the picture read, Director Buelly Knox, gladly endorses naming the state's newest prison, Tonopah. An accompanying story said that Tonopah was a Shoshone name meaning, greasewood water. 

Buelly eyeballed the picture of an aerial view of the prison and made a mental note to call the warden there about his buddy’s Gilley’s request. Somewhere on the 1500-man prison roster was an inmate his buddy Gilley was investigating.

Chapter 1: A Favor

Wanda’s Donuts, is a converted brick cottage sitting just off the thoroughfare on the road to Tonopah Prison. I unclipped my ID which read Peter A. Cleary, Qualified Mental Health Professional, set it on the passenger seat and entered the eatery to chimes. 

Two local policemen dressed in uniform black and weighed down with their radios, mace, and weaponry were in line in front of me. They nodded with pleasantry. 

Wanda’s charcoal colored hair with streaks of gray drapes her blue blouse which is unbuttoned boldly showing cleavage. Her booming voice greets each customer with a hello, followed by, “We’ll be right with you.”

Jasmine is her helper. She is quiet, has short cropped dyed red hair, and non descript tattoos which run the length of her skinny arms. She was hired after she got out of the women’s correctional center.  

Wanda herself has done a stint in prison and knows where I work. She is a testament to what can be done, regardless of one’s past. “Hello Doc,” she called out to me attending the drive-through window. “Your usual?” 

I gave her a thumbs up. She always addresses me as doc, because I am a mental health counselor. Doc” is the generic title all inmates use when talking to someone who works as a prison psychiatrist, counselor, psychologist or social worker. Even though I don’t have a doctorate and have told Wanda to call me Peter, she persists with the title of deference. My last trip to the bakery she said she has a favor to ask of me. 

I wait, checking my cell for any messages.

The two policemen ahead of me take their small bags and cups and leave, nodding again at me.

At the cash register, Jasmine sets my order down, two boxes of assorted pastries. “No charge, Doc.” Taped across the top of one box was an envelope. Wanda beams a smile at me from her station. A favor? Oh boy. I exit to the door chimes and three city workmen entering. 

The sunlight breaks.

Check-in time for me at the prison was still an hour away. I set the boxes on the car seat and napkin out a honey bun, sipping the coffee. A sticky note with folded paper is attached to one box. It reads, Please give to: Inmate Franklin. A Department of Correction number was written after the name. 

Wanda knew she crossed the line asking me to forward the letter onward. She also likely knew somehow I had an inmate named Franklin on my caseload. The prison network runs both ways, behind the walls to outside and from the free world-in.

I chomp on the honey bun and unfold the paper. It read: Coco, Sissy say closet needs cleaning, neighborhood getting loud, auntie wants to move.

My guess: the message was a code to Mr. Franklin. Except for the name Franklin and the name Coco, along with the prison number, the note had no alarming information. 

The correct action for me is to tell Wanda I can’t forward her letter to Mr. Franklin. My cousin Pat Riordan, a communication professor and sometimes unlicensed PI, has a friend Issac, an artist, who gave me a chiseled wood piece with lettering reading, Just Say No. It hangs in my home study.

I placed the note back in the envelope atop the boxes of donuts on the passenger seat and headed out for the Prison. 

My dawn drive into the facility takes a little less than an hour from my town and is usually pleasant. In rural America, or fly-over country as the coastal people called where I live, highway traffic on Interstate 70 is minimal compared to the congestion of cities. In harvest season corn stalks bump against the access roads. 

Tonopah Prison is just outside the main drag in the small town of Fairway and is home to two private liberal arts colleges. In the days before the onset of the corona virus and before online learning had surged, both schools in Fairway had healthy on-campus enrollments of over 3000. 

One college, Westerfield, had been all male, the other, Whitton, had been female. In recent years both schools have become coed. The schools have a 19th century Gothic and Tudor collegial atmosphere. Buildings are red brick, ornate, with stone archways. Many are on the historic register.

When I can break for a long lunch, my cohorts Mr. Downey and Dr. Fordham and I eat the buffets at the schools and soak in the memories of our college life of yesteryears. In prison protocol, staff members address each other with titles of mister or miss, or officer, so it becomes second nature to always address each other by our last names. I take the boulevard thoroughfare which connects both schools.

Minutes later, down some miles, east and away from the colleges onto a chuck hole road called Prison Row, I take a small hillside road upwards to the Tonopah prison parking lot. 

The graveyard shift is getting off. Correctional officers are lighting up smokes, exiting the main gate. Being an early bird for my 8 hour shift has parking benefits. 

I snuggled my old Escape under the Maple at the far end of the lot and breathed deep as if I were readying for some race. I placed my cell phone, not allowed inside the prison, under my car seat, grabbing my boxes of treats and coffee. The weather is cool. I leave my lunch packed by my wife Nora next to my cell.

I put Wanda’s note inside the pocket of my coat, a weathered Irish tweed I got in Donegal, Ireland, clipped on my name ID, then locked up. 

For people in the free world, October is a good month. The leaves are hues of gold and red. A crisp breeze is about. 

Chapter 2: The Walk

Just inside the prison gates, parked in a small circle drive, two gray transport vehicles spew exhaust. Faces, mostly white, youthful, now disenfranchised from America stare outward from behind the wired bus windows toward the booking area. The men just arrived from their county where they had been sentenced and will soon be processed inside. Another chapter begins.

Inside the small lobby, I dropped my coffee cup in the large institutional trash can. The administration offices are off to the left. An inmate trustee, thin arms painted with tattoos, sprayed down plastic chairs where family and friends sit, awaiting to be processed into a visitor area.    

Beyond, down the hallway there is a security check, which consists of a conveyor belt and a walk-through metal detector. 

“Got your favorites, Officer Wells.” Pause. “Sorry about Maggie,” I said to the well-formed 50ish year-old woman, with a pinkish complexion and short cropped blond hair. I was sure she was grieving over her 25 year-old mare she had to put down. 

I handed over one box of donuts from Wanda’s to her. She smiled, breaking her usual glower and set the box behind her on a small desk. “You're a sweetheart, Doc.”

“Don’t let her keep them all to herself, Doc,” a female voice called out from behind plexiglass in the office, dubbed the Bubble, just across from security. I smiled at the young officer over my shoulder, setting my car keys in a tray and the other box of donuts on a conveyor belt. “Doc Amman has already picked up the key to your place,” she said.

“Thanks.”    

Through the metal detector, I nervously checked for the note from Wanda. Technically, I am violating protocol by bringing in mail from the outside that is to be given to an inmate. A pang of fear. I had visions of a squad of correctional officers in swat garb throwing me to the ground and pulling out Wanda’s note.

I picked up my car keys and the other donut box off the conveyor belt and headed toward the second security Bubble, yards away.  

Two parole officers, Ms. Curley and Ms. Cawkins, wait their turn to be passed through. Both smiled back. “Nice day,” Ms. Cawkins said. 

“It is.” 

“Too nice to be stuck here all day,” Ms. Curley said. 

Our IDs were held up in unison to the Bubble corrections officer, known as a CO. We waited until the metal door cranked itself open. All the metal doors throughout the prison grind and rattle as they open.

We stepped through to the other side to a short hallway which leads to the prison courtyard and the buildings and housing units. The door behind us clacked shut.

The concrete path which connects everything in the courtyard is called “The Walk.” 

I followed Ms. Calkins and Ms. Curley who were dressed in blue jeans and low-heeled shoes. Wearing dresses and high-heels is against institutional rules, the common belief being such clothing is too provocative and enticing to the men.  

An early lesson one has to learn when working in a prison is that they are paramilitary organizations. Rules are followed. In my five years as counselor I’ve seen nurses, carrying their small box of belongings, accompanied by correction officers, escorted to the gate of the prison for fraternizing with inmates, a mental health counselor escorted out due to losing her antidepressant medication and a plethora of other staff fired on the spot for insubordination. The process is called “a walk out”on The Walk. It wasn’t a policy started by Bulley Knox, but a protocol that is consistent with most prison systems.

The Walk forks outward toward all the eight housing units and other buildings. A prison in some ways can be described as a little city, complete with a library, a school, chow hall, chapel, hospital and more. Parole and mental health share a building. 

Two trustees, in their blue jumpsuits sweep debris off the concrete. The men stopped talking as the women walked by. Both men nod.   “Gentlemen,” I said. 

I checked for Wanda’s note again, half contemplating what I’ll do with it. Even though bringing in the note in the scheme of things seemed harmless, my better self said I’d gotten away with a small crime. For all anybody knows I’d found it on the ground on the way into the prison. I am far too jittery. But my paranoia, I’d come to understand, is somewhat normal. Most staff live a “walking on eggshells” existence for fear of being Walked Out.

My building, like all the buildings inside the yard, is a predesigned metal structure, commonly referred to as a Butler building. It is reasonably new. The downside is the AC system, which is too cold in winter and too hot in the summer.

Four House, a housing unit where some 200 men live, lies across the Walk directly in front of our building. Although it is early, I see faces staring out of the second floor. Tobacco in cells is prohibited in the institution, but a smoke ring bellows out of one window. From several other windows men stared down. Whistling at female staff was once something that staff had to contend with. But swift consequences (placing an inmate in the hole for abusive behaviors) made any such gesture long a thing of the past. 

An inmate picking weeds just outside my building, hopped up and opened the door. Ms. Curly and Ms. Calkins said thank you. 

Chapter 3: The Job is Front Line

Inside the building, Officer Babcock, the correctional officer in charge of keeping the peace in our building, which mostly results in calling out inmates to talk to parole officers and mental health, perked up from behind a counter and warmly said, “Good morning, ladies.” 

“Cleary,” he said to me in a curt tone, returning his eyes to his desk, “Call outs are going to be half-an-hour early today. Let your people know.” Calls out is the term for the request mental health, parole and medical make to summon an inmate to their office. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” I said, with a twinge of sarcasm. 

Babcock does his job well, but makes it known with his gruff tone, he thinks mental health is the step child in the institution and not part of the correction family. In part, I understand, given our salaries are very healthy compared to his. Babcock is a lifer in the system, once being a death row CO, he now is spending his last assignment in a less traumatic post. 

Among the many hats I wear is to assess whether a man is a danger to himself or others, both when he is processed in and throughout his stay at Tonopah. If he is crying, has a despondent manner, or is hostile, or claims any signs of suicide he can be quickly confined to what is called the “hole.” There, he is stripped of his prison clothes, given a smock to wear and left until later evaluated for eligibility to be housed in the general population.   

The job is as front-line as one gets. I am one of six mental health therapists. When asked what I do by outsiders, I say I am a prison counselor. All in all, the work is a good fit for me. Except for being called into the facility for emergencies, it is a Monday through Friday job. And I count my blessings that I was hired. By standards of counselor salaries, the job pays well. 

Getting along with the men on my caseload, most repeat offenders, is as simple as giving them respect.

The job is a busy one. And there is no time to swat flies. If you don't have the ability to move fast and make quick judgments then the company I work for hands you your walking papers. In some states mental health prison counselors are state employees. But in my state, the job is contracted out to an out-of-state company in Virginia, who does the hiring and firing. The department of corrections is the overseer and ultimately has the final say in matters of the budget or any prurient behaviors presented by staff. Hiring is always occurring, because so is firing. 

The smell of the morning coffee, some vanilla extract, was brewing in my wing. Mental health has two large rooms with a metal wall dividing one from the other. One area office is relegated to cubicle work space for Dr. Amman and the other psychiatrist, Dr.Yamum, and their nurse, Karla Whiting, a tall, slinky looking RN with Emmie Lou Harris gray hair falling onto her shoulders. She has consistently been advised to keep it tied in a bun. It is believed long hair, like high heeled shoes and dresses, is too arousing for men behind bars. 

I detoured before taking a turn to my office area and peeked in to say hi to Dr. Amman. He is an early bird too. He sat at his desk sipping coffee out of a large ceramic mug with a big black cat on its face. A National Geographic magazine laid on the desk is opened to a colorful photo of a waterfall. Dr. Amman has a small streak of gray in a full head of hair, despite still working and nearing 80. 

I knocked on the metal partition of his door. He lit up, “Peter.” 

“Planning your next vacation, Dr. Amman?” I said, gesturing at the magazine, 

Nurse Whiting slid into the room behind me and handed Dr. Amman a note. “Your first emergency,” she said.

The doctor looked at the message, nodded and said, unperturbed, “OK.” 

“For you,” I said, handing my box of donuts to Nurse Whiting.

“You certainly know how to win friends, Peter. Or, is it influencing enemies?”   

“Both.” 

Since our staff shares a coffee room with parole, she reminds me of the last time donuts were brought in parole absconded with most of them. “I am going to write a no trespassing sign and stick it on the box today,” she said.

“Good idea.” She left with the box.

I took a seat in the chair across the desk from Dr. Amman, which is the only other piece of furniture in the small cubicle. A DSM V, which stands for Diagnostic Statistical Manual, the bible for mental health workers, is the only book on his desk. “Yes, my wife and I hope to do an AARP bus trip to Yellowstone. So many things to see in our country. Thanks for asking. Have you been?”  

“Years ago when I was in college, a friend of mine and I went out there to get jobs. It was June and snow was still on the ground. I remember a bear attacked some campers when we were there.” 

“Oh my. We better stay in the bus.” Chuckles. 

“So did you get jobs?” 

“No. It was more of a vacation than a job hunt I think. We were 19.”

Babcock announced over the PA, that callouts will be one-half an hour earlier this morning. 

Dr. Amman looked at a copy of his callout sheet. All ten spaces are filled in. “This very busy job, Peter. But you are like me, I think, like to keep busy.” 

“I do.” 

Dr. Amman is from Syria. He has a slight accent, English being a second language. He has not told many people in the prison where he is from, preferring to say instead he is from Lebanon, where he went to medical school. In an earlier conversation he said he believed some people still discriminate against persons from Syria. He is a devout Christian and if asked, makes certain one knows that. He is also a devout anti communist and advocates a hard stance toward any radical middle eastern leaders. 

For a moment we sat silently, then briefly chatted about the push by Buelly Knox and staff to curtail the prescribing of psychotropic medications. He has been working as a psychiatrist in the prison system for over 40 years. Recently he has scaled down his work load to three days a week. He showed me nurse Whiting’s note and asked me if I knew the name of the man on the message. 

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Seems he is in a panic in Three House.” 

“Well, I better let you get to it. Busy morning. Let me know about your bus trip plans.” I tapped the desk three times and said the best I can, ila-liqaa, which is the Arabic word for until we meet again. 

Dr. Amman repeated the word.