We both decline, Chuck with a silent wave of the hand.
Chuck grabs a New York Times and begins reading, so I take it as permission to close my eyes and nod off. I’m glad I had that beer. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I wake up an hour later at the hum of the landing gear. The plane touches down on a bumpy runway.
“Well rested?” Chuck asks me. His mood seems to have improved.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“The one and only Fernley. Good thing you slept. You’re going to need your strength.”
Shit.
57
We taxi down the runway and pull up alongside an electric fence. After a couple of minutes, the door of the airplane opens and the stairs flip down. “And so it begins,” Chuck says.
On the tarmac, a man and woman approach us, both dressed in a navy shirt and navy pants. The man motions Chuck to step to one side. He asks him to stand on a yellow line and put his hands up. He runs a metal-detector wand over him and conducts a surprisingly thorough search. Chuck stands there, expressionless; I can tell this is not his first visit to Fernley. When the search is complete, the guy pulls out handcuffs and leg restraints, all attached to a wide leather belt that he snaps around Chuck’s waist. I brace myself, waiting for the same thing to happen to me, but it doesn’t. “Ready!” the guard yells. I hear a loud buzz. The gate slides open. Chuck walks through, as if he knows the drill; the guy follows about six paces behind. The woman and I just stand there watching. I sense there is some sort of protocol, but I don’t have a clue what it is.
Chuck walks up the long yellow line that stretches from the landing strip to a massive concrete building. The guard towers, double fences, barbed wire, and floodlights indicate that it was and is a prison. I shudder. One more buzz and Chuck disappears into the building, followed by his minder. The door slams shut behind them.
The woman turns to me and smiles. “Welcome to Fernley,” she says in a friendly voice. Somehow, it doesn’t put me at ease.
She motions to our left, where a golf cart is waiting. I throw my bag into the back. She doesn’t say a word as we drive the length of the runway, around the entire prison complex, and up a long paved path. Alice said it was large, but I’m still stunned at the size of this place. We pull up in front of an ornate building that looks more like a mansion than a prison. The other side of the complex is all electric fences and concrete yards. On this side though, there is a row of green trees, a patch of brilliant grass, a tennis court, and a pool. The woman hops out of the golf cart and grabs my bag.
Inside, the mansion feels like a resort hotel. A clean-cut young man stands behind a gleaming mahogany desk. He’s in uniform—a double-breasted navy suit with absurd-looking epaulets.
“Jake?”
“Guilty as charged.” I instantly regret my choice of words.
“I’ve got you in the Kilkenny Suite.” He slides a typed sheet across the desk. “Here’s your schedule for tomorrow, with a map of the grounds and amenities. Mobile service is extremely limited, so if you need to make a call, let me know and I can set you up here in the conference room.” He sketches a map on a sheet of paper and then points the way to my room. “We’re here 24/7, so don’t hesitate to come down and ask for anything you might need.”
“The key?” I ask.
“You won’t be needing a key, of course. There are no locks in the luxury suites.”
I want to ask what the hell I did to deserve a luxury suite, but I can tell that’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to ask. This whole experience is beyond bizarre. If they’d led me away in handcuffs like Chuck, I’d be less freaked out than I am now.
The elevator has a chandelier. I glance up, looking for the camera. There it is, mounted in a corner of the ceiling. I’m in room 317, at the end of a long hallway with red carpeting. The spacious room has a king-sized bed, a flat-panel television, and a view out over the tennis courts and swimming pool. With the lack of light pollution, I can see a billion bright stars. Guiltily, I realize it couldn’t be any more different from Alice’s experience here.
I lie on the bed and turn on the television. It takes me a few trips through the channels to realize that the entire complex is connected to a European satellite. Eurosport, BBC One through BBC Four, a documentary on the potato famine, a special on the Baltic Coasts, Monty Python reruns, and some giant slalom contest from Sweden.
I check the itinerary and realize I’m supposed to be in the lounge downstairs at ten tomorrow morning. After that, it simply says “meeting” from ten to noon, then lunch, then two more hours of meetings. I’d be more comfortable if they had included a line that said “return flight: three P.M.”
I watch lame UEFA soccer for two hours before I finally fall asleep. Terrified of being late, I get up at six. Five minutes after I step out of the shower, there is a knock at the door. I open it to find a tray with French toast, a mug of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream, and the International New York Times.
I want to explore the grounds, the whole complex, but I’m too jittery, so I just sit in my room. I wonder what Alice is doing right now. I wonder if she misses me.
At 9:44, I take the elevator down to the lobby, dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. The desk clerk hurries over with another mug of hot chocolate and invites me to have a seat. I sink into a plush leather chair and wait. At exactly ten, a man walks into the lobby.
“Gordon,” he says, holding his hand out to me. He’s medium-build, his hair black with gray at the temples. He’s wearing a very nice suit.
I stand to greet him.
“Pleased to finally meet. I’ve read so much about you.”
“I hope it was all good.” I force a smile.
He winks. “There’s good and bad in all of us. Did you get a chance to explore the grounds?”
“No,” I say, regretting my hours in the room.
“Too bad. It really is a remarkable place.”