Pasted Against The Glass - Franklin's Bennies Episode 9

Chapter 25: Pasted Against The Glass

As I walked out of the facility, day’s end, I surveyed the gated area just off the entry. Tomorrow, buses would be backed up there loading men into them for what was their final destination. One of the men on my caseload had called the transport vehicles, the concentration camp convoys. A correctional officer had dubbed the boarding area the final destination. The description had stuck, despite the horrific image it invoked. 

On the outgoing days, faces pasted against the glass of the buses, looking outward at the countryside as each transport made its way down the hillside to locations throughout the state. Tomorrow, my guess was Mr. Franklin would be one of those men. 

I checked for Franklin’s letter as I got in the Escape, still safely tucked under the car seat. I joined the procession of Ford 150’s and SUVs that made their way out of the parking lot. At the stop sign I caught a glimpse of a black sedan in my rear view mirror several vehicles back. It was clearly out of place. 

The way out of town was down a street called “prison row.” At the four-way where cars split up in all directions, I headed north and through the boulevard of the colleges, then toward the interstate. Still with me at the turn was the sedan. It stayed back, but I clearly saw two males in the front seat. I caught the connector highway, which led me home. 

Paranoia. I was confident Sergeant Boyce wasn’t doing duty beyond his shift. And besides he was more of a four wheel drive Chevy man anyway. 

I kept to the speed limit and minutes later made my turn onto  Interstate 70 heading west. In my rear view, at the on ramp, the sedan headed West too. 

I pulled Franklin’s letter out from under the seat and set it on the passenger seat. Keeping to the right, I slowed a bit to scroll down on my phone contact list. I speed dialed cousin Pat Riordan, fidgeting some to set the voice gizmo on speaker. 

He answered to my surprise. “My little cousin. Twice in two days. I am still working piecing together information about that Weiner character, but Leon, our secretary-investigator promises news soon. So what’s going on? Sounds like you're driving.”

I checked my rear view again. The sedan was several lengths back and apparently not interested in passing me like every other car on the road. “Well, yeah, heading home from the factory. Got a bit of a new twist I wanted to talk to you about. Will you be free this weekend?” 

“Weekends are good. Want to meet Friday night?” 

“Sounds good.”

“Friday, Hoffenhaus?”

“Sounds good.”

“And bring that little lady.” 

He hung up before I could answer. I dialed up Nora, knowing she’d be nearing getting her patients out the door. She got off a half an hour earlier than me. For the time being we were a one-car family. The indigent patients the clinic mostly saw often were slow to leave. Nora’s job, in addition to nursing, was to hurry them along. My call came at precisely the same time most days and was opportune, in that she used it as an excuse to tell the stragglers she had to answer an important call and they must go.

She was breathy when she answered. “Sounds like you have been running.”

“Wheelchair pushing, that’s all. Are you clooose?’

“Twenty minutes.”

“Drive safely. But hurry. I am ready to get home.”

I sped up. And my tail did too. I adjusted the rear view to get a better picture. Two men, middle age, possibly, hard to tell. The license plate looked official, with a letter and three numbers. But they stayed backed. I kept to the speed limit, cruise control set at 65.

At my city’s first exit, I veered off the highway, past cheap motels, and a strip club. My tail kept going on the interstate. 

I took a thoroughfare to Nora’s clinic and pulled into the front space of the building and waited. I checked texts and emails for any message, figuring Maria would have some follow up about our earlier meeting with the Sergeant, but nothing. 

Nora almost bolted out the door, her olive-colored tote bag slung over her shoulder. I put Franklin’s letter in my coat pocket. Did I need to come clean with her?   

She slid in. “Oh man. What a day,” she said, exasperated, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “So glad I have someone to pick me up.” 

As I pulled out of the lot I caught a look at the sedan across the intersection some 10 yards up the street. If it was my tail, they were smart enough not to follow me through town. Obviously they knew where Nora worked, which was unsettling. 

Chapter 26: Prison Transfer

I let Nora vent about her day and how she was appreciative of having work and that it was so sad so many people were poor. Irish were generally a caring lot. And given their history most sensitive to those in need. 

My tail made a turn before I could get to the intersection toward home and disappeared over a small hill, but in the direction of our house. 

“Are you listening?’ Nora asked. 

“What?” I said.

“Dinner,” I asked. “What do you want?”

“Oh, whatever is easy.” Being a non-cook, unless boiling water was a qualifier, I was lucky, I had a wife who said she’d have it no other way, than she was the house chef. Somewhere in my unconscious reasoning, I was sure I married an Irish lass because she still believed in the old school separation of duties between husband and wife. Of course, if I had my druthers, I’d prefer to be the only breadwinner. Her at home and me solving world problems. Nora working and doing the cooking didn’t quite add up to parity.    

She socked me on the bicep. “Peter! Are you listening? Between burritos and pasta, what do you want? We have to go to the store.”

“Oh. Sorry. Uh. Burritos. Sorry hun.”

At Sylvester’s, the high-end grocery store near our house, I let Nora out and parked for a short wait. I pulled out Franklin’s letter and read down the pages to see if I’d missed anything. The store lot had filled up with shoppers doing what we were doing buying dinner. I searched for a dark sedan. But nothing. 

Tomorrow, I’d checked in the prison transfer area to see if Franklin was being shipped out. If he was, I’d hightail it over to the area to say a last minute goodbye, even though I realized that it was probably a bad idea, giving the guy the idea I might help him. I closed my eyes until the door swung open.

“The place is bursting at the seams in there, hun,” Nora said, depositing the grocery bags in the back seat. I hid the letter back in my coat. “I am glad that the virus mask mandate is over.” 

At our street, which by most standards was upper middle class, I slowed and stopped behind the school bus. A neighbor kid, whose name I thought was Keenen hopped off, backpack dangling, and skipped into his yard. The bus door shut with a swish and continued down the hill.  

I turned into our driveway. I was sure the neighbors, an eclectic group of college professors, with a scattered lawyer or two, were waiting for me to get busy with all that was needed in making our little home more appealing. As I grabbed the groceries, in my peripheral view, at little Keenen’s house, I saw the sedan, my tail, pull in that driveway and back out, then slowly move up the hillside and away from me. I squinted and could see the license plate looked official, but was unable to decipher the three digits, only the letter C; too far to ID the driver and a passenger. 

“Are you comin, darlin?”

“Coming.” Inside, I set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “Can I help?”

“I’ll put everything away. You take care of whatever it is that is troublin you.” 

I took a seat on my man-couch and did a goggle of government license plates, and found a list of letters, which are attached to government offices. The letter C in one search was identified as being connected to the Department of Commerce. My paranoia asked: what does the department of commerce investigate? One finding listed fraud crimes. 

Was I being tailed by men who were driving a government-issued car from the Department of Commerce.

Over dinner Nora asked why I was so quiet and was it work that was bothering me, or was it something about her. I assured her my state of mind was only related to my discontent with me, and that I would be fine. Afterwards she headed to her reading room, as she’d come to call a downstairs bedroom. I tuned into an old C-Span broadcast of Malcolm Gladwell speaking about his book, Talking to Strangers. I’d read Blink and Tipping Point. All, in some way applicable reading, I thought, for a prison counselor.

The weather was settling into the Fall crispness, so we left the windows open for good sleeping. Our new Futon could house a dog, Nora said. “That’s if you want to get one.” 

“If I want to get one!”

We made love, then fell asleep, me forgetting the government vehicle tailing me and the quandary about Mr. Franklin’s request. When morning arrived I was rested. 

Chapter 27: It’s A Sad Place

On the way in to work driving highway 70, I’d checked my rear view mirror for any Department of Commerce vehicle. And concluded I wasn’t being tailed. 

At my desk, I checked the transfer list and found Franklin’s name on it. I grabbed a cup of coffee made by the PRN who was filling in for a sick nurse Whiting, who had an altercation with an inmate the preceding day.

An encounter with a hostile inmate could break a day. At another camp, an inmate had stabbed a nurse. She survived. But likely would never be the same. Nurse Whiting had been verbally abused and was told to take some time off.  

Working in a prison is usually relatively safe for the staff, but we all carried belt alarms that were easily triggered if there was a sign of danger. If a threat occurs, a little pin which is inserted in the palm-size gizmo is pulled, triggering a shrieking fire alarm sound, loud enough for any CO to come to the rescue. The little gizmos are sensitive enough to be triggered if they were dropped. At least half-a-dozen times during the shift someone, somewhere in the prison would drop their alarm. COs nearby would come running and all business shuts down until the pin is again inserted into its holder. Caution is always a watchword. But first and foremost one has to be alert and notice the emotion of the men they are dealing with.   

I opted for one last visit to see Franklin. On my way out to the transfer area, I grabbed a copy of the Zen book, Be Free Where You Are, by Thich Nhat Hahn. The stack of books were donated by a Buddhist center out of California. 

The small book will act as a cover for something to give to him should the COs become suspicious. I’d left his letter stashed away in my little home study, Wanda’s letter, still hidden under my office desk calendar.

I never liked going to the transfer station. It’s a sad place. Those who have been given long sentences know their next stop is likely the place where they’ll spend many years. 

I passed through two security doors, monitored by a CO perched in the control room. I flashed my ID up to both control COs and waited as the steel doors slowly opened with electric gurgling.

Inside the transfer station, three rows of men sat, most with far off forlorn looks, some holding plastic carrying bags with their possession. A TV played a Disney movie. Several young COs walked about enforcing a no-talking rule. In a corner, head bowed, a little plastic bag in his lap, sat my man. 

Being mental health staff, I can come and go throughout the facility without too many questions.

I took the vacant seat next to him and handed over the copy of the book. Next to me sat a young white kid, foot shaking, a small bag on the floor. His eyes are focused on the COs who roamed, announcing the upcoming transit buses. 

“Book by a Chinaman,” Franklin said, looking at the picture of Thich Nhat Hanh on the back of the little reader. “Last book by a white dude you gave me. Now this one by a Chinaman. No, brothers writing books except MLK.” 

“Yours to do, if you want,” I said. “That man just died. He was 95,” I said pointing at the book cover picture.

Franklin sighed, staring ahead at some twenty men moving single-file toward the transfer gate. “So I am going to that Nazi camp. No way out. You read my letter?”

I checked the kid next to me to see if he was tuned into our conversation. His foot still shaking, head still focused on the traffic moving out toward the gate. “I read it.” 

“So you goin to hep me? Not pressing you or anything. Know this isn’t something a doc does for an inmate. But my secret be your secret too.”

I didn’t answer his question. One of the COs approached us, clipboard in hand. “Franklin?” he asked, walking up to us. 

“Your wagon is up next.”

Franklin bit back. “What’s you mean, wagon? No bus?”

The COs looked at his clipboard. “Only six of you going down south this week. No need for a bus. Head on over to the line after the men for Boonville board their bus.” 

Franklin was about to blurt-out something, but held his words back. “Got it, inmate?” the CO said.

Franklin nodded without looking up at the man. The CO gave me the once over. 

For several minutes we both took in the movement about the area. The motors of the large gray buses with the bold lettering, Department of Corrections printed on the side, rumbled. Each parked in the semi circle, moving up when the bus in front of them was loaded and moved out. A CO walked to an aisle in front of us and called out five names. Five men, grouped together, all said, “Here.” 

“You five are taking the wagon down south.” He looked at Franklin and motioned him over.

Two of the inmates had swastika insignias on the back of their necks. Each inmate was covered with letterings of some kind from their forearms to their wrists, prominent also are shamrock tattoos.

I knew the boys going down south with Franklin were Aryan Brotherhood. Some believe the AB, also known as The Brand, Alice Baker or One-Two is the most lethal of all gangs. They’d been around for decades. Their main motivation for existence is money. For Franklin to survive, if he is pressed, he might have to shed light on his new-found riches and their whereabouts. No doubt some AB on the street would gladly tear into the wall in his aunt’s garage and help themselves, if they got orders from the inside

“Told you, Doc,” Franklin said. 

I wanted to give him reassurance that all will be well. But I felt the uneasiness myself. The kid next to me peeked around me at Franklin.  “Them boys are bad,” he said. 

Franklin bit back. “Shut up, you little bitch or I’ll take you down there with me.”

The kid jolted back. It was my first encounter of Franklin acting the bad ass I was sure he could be and would need to be. “Sorry, Doc,” he immediately said. 

The last of the men boarding the Boonville bus had disappeared into the gated area to board. The CO then called out Franklin’s name, followed by calling out the names of the other five men. Franklin breathed deeply, picking up his plastic bag. I stood. He gave me a fist bump. “Good to know you, Doc. You been good to me. Maybe we’ll meet up again.” 

The CO shouted out, “Let’s move, gentlemen.” 

One of the men with a swastika inked into his neck poked his partner, nodding toward Franklin who had moved toward the CO. Both men chuckled. 

I headed out as Franklin followed his line to the down-south transport. I coughed to ward off a tear.