THE PRISON YARD for A-block is a large swath of concrete and dead grass, plus a full basketball court, all of it surrounded by fence and razor wire. It is unseasonably mild in late February, but most of the inmates still wear the allotted jacket and cap.
Noah Walker moves into the yard with a purpose, turning in the direction of the basketball court. He is not wearing either the jacket or the cap, because he doesn’t plan to be out here very long.
Beyond the basketball court, on a set of low wooden bleachers, Eric Wheaton and four of his Aryan brothers sit, smoking cigarettes and engaging in animated banter. They snap to attention when they see Noah Walker heading their way. For a moment, they look amused, even pleased, but the closer Noah gets, his body tensed, his fists closed tightly, the more they sense this is not a social call.
Two of the biggest Aryans—the bodyguards, they call themselves—jump to their feet and approach Noah. They aren’t looking for a fight, but they won’t back down from one, either.
“Well, well,” says Eric Wheaton, getting to his feet as well.
“How are the hands?” calls out one of the bodyguards.
Noah slows. His hands are not fully healed. A couple of the tendons were damaged badly, and a couple of the fingers on his left hand do not fully close into a grip.
Luckily, Noah is right-handed.
Noah looks to his right, then spins left and lands his right fist on the jaw of one of the bodyguards, feeling a satisfying crunch. The other two goons with Wheaton, plus the other bodyguard, converge on Noah, but he lowers his head and plows through the center of them like a halfback running for daylight. Prepared for a fistfight, and not expecting his evasive move, the Aryan brothers are unable to stop him.
“No!” Eric Wheaton calls out, raising his arms and trying in vain to move along the bleachers to avoid Noah’s charge. Noah bears down on Wheaton and leaves his feet, tackling Wheaton in midair and knocking him over the back of the wood supports. They both fall hard to the ground, but Wheaton gets the worst of it, hitting his head with a wicked thud. Noah turns him over on his back and puts his hands on Wheaton’s neck, pressing his thumbs on his throat with all his might. He hears the calls of the other Aryans; the roar of the other inmates enjoying the show; the whistles of the COs; the voice over the loudspeaker calling for the inmates to retreat to the far corner, like a referee moving a boxer during a ten-count.
Someone knocks him off Wheaton with a force that feels like a truck. It could be an Aryan. Could be a CO. He doesn’t care. Several bodies fall on top of him. He hears utter chaos around him and closes his eyes and his mind to it. He takes several hits to the back of the head, and then his hands are zip-tied behind his back and he is lifted off his feet, facedown, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He doesn’t care about this, either. He doesn’t care if he killed Eric Wheaton or just gave him a very, very sore throat. Either way, the ultimate result will be the same for Noah.
“You’re going to the Box, tough guy,” one of the COs grunts at him. The Box, officially the Special Housing Unit—solitary confinement—is a short, wide building separated from A-Block. The upper floors are reserved for inmates in protective custody because they are rats or because they are believed to be on the verge of violence, usually attack victims expected to retaliate when they return to general pop. But the bottom floor is where Noah will be sent. In a prison known to house the worst of the worst criminals, the lower level of the Box is for the worst of the worst of the worst—humans by designation, but closer to animals, violent predators, locked in small cells with tiny windows and low ceilings.
Noah is thrown inside one of those cells, the floor sticky and reeking of urine and feces. His fellow inmates howl like hyenas and scratch and claw at their cell bars. Noah’s zip-ties are cut, the COs make a hasty retreat, and the door slams him into darkness.
It will come now. It won’t take long. A correctional officer, probably, aligned with the Brotherhood. The saying in Sing Sing is The only difference between an inmate and a CO is the color of the uniform. But it doesn’t matter to Noah. It doesn’t matter if it’s a shank in the mess hall or an assault in the yard, or a visit from a CO late in the night. It will come soon now.
Time passes. He can’t measure it, doesn’t even try. But at some point, the outside door to the Box opens, and then he hears footsteps. One, two, three COs, wearing full inmate-extraction gear—hats and bats, they call it: helmets with face shields, heavy boots and gloves, vests, pads on their knees and elbows, thick batons. In the darkness of his cell, he can’t see their faces, only their silhouettes from the light streaming in behind them: The men are as big as houses, more muscular than the Aryan bodyguards, and prepared for action.