The Cell
Anyone who has driven
through Sedona would be in awe of this picturesque town set in the
middle of nowhere. Not far away ran the tributaries of Oak Creek.
The weather outside
was pretty crappy. The forecasts on TV only confirmed its further
deterioration. Somewhere off in the distance, gray clouds were moving
in, looming menacingly, and it might just become too dangerous to
walk the streets, even with an umbrella. Heavy showers of hail were
expected. Passers-by were in a hurry to get home. Such weather was
not at all usual for the state's climate.
The Sedona courthouse
courtroom was hushed, but every now and then the quiet buzz of
mosquitoes could be heard - a real scourge for the local population.
Everyone knew he was
innocent. Even the trial was pretty rocky. They did not grant him the
right to a duty counsel. The judge had returned from a business trip
and was now just observing all the formalities of the case and not
giving himself much trouble to go into the details. After hearing the
defendant, he appointed an expert. Everything was precise and clear
and matched like a textbook.
The magistrate
maintained his stern expression as he looked searchingly into the
defendant's face. Somewhere deep down, he too was convinced of his
innocence, even though all the evidence he had gathered pointed to
the contrary. He was more than certain that the best lawyer would
have a hard time getting him off without a plea bargain.
The jury stood
together with exam faces. They were well aware of it too. The man was
leaning meekly in the corner awaiting his verdict. He claimed
nothing. He was only staring at a point, and his hands and feet were
chained.
No sobs could be heard
from his wife, or the children, for he was a loner. Living extremely
modestly.
He had come to Arizona
to fulfill his dream - the famous American dream that so many people
believed in. He worked like an ox, paid off a mortgage for so many
years. No one had told him anything. The emptiness in his life was
murderous. He paid off his debts in no time, but then there came a
moment when he wondered what his next goal would be. He decided to
get a new car. He started working again and collecting money. He
settled on a nice Chevrolet model. It had a pretty big trunk and
tires capable of going over the roughest obstacles. Naturally he
bought it.
His neighbors had
remembered him as a kind, considerate and very well-mannered young
man in what they called his "second age." When you saw an
individual like that, living according to a pattern, and strictly
following the laws of the state in which he resided, you couldn't
help but feel sorry for him. He was simply single-mindedness itself.
There was also a
garage near the house. It wasn't anything special, but it was enough
to stow his vehicle inside with all the junk that invariably rolled
around such places.
When he first moved
in, the people around greeted him with the strawberry pie they had
prepared. It was an invariable act of hospitality with which he had
to comply and return the gesture a little later.
And that's when the
real trouble began. The man in question lived on the outskirts of the
settlement and had the opportunity to observe the Red Rocks. In fact,
the population of Sedona was small enough that everyone knew each
other.
His workplace was far
to the south. He traveled more than a hundred miles each day in his
own vehicle, which filled him with pride. He was a typical American,
living a very normal life, but completely devoid of human contact,
something all too typical of most workaholics.
The man's name was
Duncan Salt, a former Ranger who was currently just breaking from
working in one of the local factories and drinking beer on his porch
every Friday night.
The popular Budweiser
was definitely not the greatest drink, but compared to many others,
it was simply divine. It stood for hours, killing the huge amount of
mosquitoes that were introduced at this time of year. It was fun. And
he always used an old issue of the New York Times to do it with.
After the long and
exhausting day was over, he came home and realized all too clearly
that he was just wasting his life. He had accomplished a lot, but
only on paper. Nothing concrete in life - he had no one to fight for
but himself.
Suddenly he heard a
sound that was very strange. Apparently a thief had broken in. The
authorities were persuading anyone who allowed such a thing to happen
to avoid any kind of self-incrimination, and to call 911 immediately.
The phone was literally overheating with calls from all sorts of
lunatics, but the officers were forced to respond. There was no other
way.
For some inexplicable
reason, she decided to convince herself of her suspicions first.
Whoever the thief was,
he was very resourceful. Apparently he had cut the wire fence in the
backyard with some small and very sharp pliers.
Duncan glanced around
the perimeter, for there was a small wood behind the house, with an
avenue extending beyond. There was no living person.
And just as he was
turning around, he took a great punch to the face. He remembered
nothing after that except the courtroom where he was about to be
tried as an extremely dangerous first-degree felon in the
premeditated murder of a police officer.
The strange thing was
that whoever had walked in had left no trace. Duncan didn't even try
to defend himself, as there was obviously little point. Things seemed
more than clear. There wasn't much to think about or drag out. The
jurors simply had to rule within the prescribed time.
Before hearing his
verdict, the judge asked him if he had anything to say to them or if
he should try to have his case remanded, although the chance of that
was more than slim.
All were hushed. The
whole trial had now been going on for almost ten minutes, a slightly
unusual thing for Judge Douglas, who usually rehearsed his cases in
no more than five. It was so annoying to him. He'd rather just do his
job and get rid of having to listen to stupid explanations from
already doomed people. That was his philosophy of life.
The defendant nodded
negatively.
The bailiff rose, but
the magistrate motioned for him to wait a moment longer. Something
inside him was burning. Why such a man, such a model citizen, had not
made the faintest attempt to put forward something in his own
defence, or at least to avail himself of his right to use a lawyer.
He looked at him
testily over his horn-rimmed glasses. Then he waved at the bailiff.
"If he wants to kill himself, right on his way. I've done my
job," he thought and signed his name to the deed.
They locked him up in
custody while they transported him to one of the scariest jails in
the state. Arizona State Prison was known for its vegetarian habits,
as the warden wanted to shine as an innovator and see his name in the
papers. But from there on the perversions began, as they did in every
other prison, by the way. It was a prison full of all kinds of scum
from several states, because very often there were not enough places
in other prisons.
In the morning the
truck with the convicts started. It wasn't anything special - just a
bunch of condemned to death or life in prison with no right of
appeal. Naturally their security was too tight.
On the way to the
prison Duncan Salt could see again the Red Rocks, so characteristic
of Arizona.
The warders were not
afraid that anyone would attempt an escape since everything appeared
to be quite calm and the convoy was further reinforced by two patrol
cars.
It was not uncommon
for prisoners to try to break windows or attack guards with their
handcuffs or even their teeth. The law enforcement officers' huge
ebon batons should have talked them out of doing anything stupid.
Sergeant Stalker was
downright green with anger because these "monkeys" as he
called them were only opening up extra work for them. Not that the
prisoners had anywhere to run, but they were trying their best, like
a caged tiger, to survive.
When they arrived at
the prison, Duncan had a chance to look around for a second or two.
The huge towers and the wide main courtyard were impressive. Then
they were quickly ushered into the rooms and given numbers. They had
them hand over their belongings to the management and that was that.
Now they had lost their human identity.
A quote popped into
Salt's mind, "Don't imagine that when they strip you of your
civil rights they won't strip you of your human rights."
So far, as a new
prisoner, he hadn't had time to become the object of ridicule as he
had accidentally been left alone in his cell. But it wouldn't be for
long. They'd be sure to put a mate on him. Maybe some bigger and
meaner tanned pimp.
On the dirty wall it
said "Rogers. Spent more than half his life here." The
inscription was unreadable. And it hardly had any hidden meaning.
Salt turned his face
to the wall and fell asleep.
In the middle of the
night he was awakened by wild roars and curses. Apparently one of the
prisoners had seen fit simply to throw a Molotov cocktail into the
next cell. The other inmate was cursing as he put out the fire with
all his strength. Immediately the warders rushed in and ground them
to a pulp.
Salt pretended to be
asleep. Then he heard a voice from behind the wall:
- Have they gone?
The hoarse voice was
simply unrecognizable, but it seemed to be that of a high school
teacher. It sounded rather reassuring. The white bricks in the wall
moved and he slipped into the cell.
- I'm Jasper. I'll be
back in the morning before morning check.
Then he returned the
bricks to the wall and the cell regained its original appearance.
Salt knew they were
going to send him to the electric chair. Regardless, there was no
certain confirmation of his guilt. After all, the law was the law.
He remembered the long
years of deprivation, the house and car he'd bought, his dreams of
just being left alone. All things that were too simple on the surface
but very difficult in reality.
Somewhere inside he
knew it was caused by a bureaucratic machine that didn't care about
people's feelings. It was crushing them at will. And no one had the
right to be angry.
Jasper's offer seemed
as tempting and sweet as a chance to win the lottery.
Salt figured he could
be useful with his ranger skills and the two of them could slip under
the barricades. It was the most common method of escape. He didn't
know if his partner had the prison plan, though.
In the middle of the
night he was approached by Dave Cooper, a large sergeant of
African-American descent, who simply told him that in four or five
hours he would be moved to solitary confinement, where he would be
safe until his sentence was finally carried out.
- Man, to tell you the
truth I don't care if you're guilty or innocent. I wouldn't want to
be in your shoes.
He turned his back and
walked away. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, slow and
measured. When everything quieted down, Salt now knew for sure what
to do.
There wasn't a
prisoner who wasn't aware of a sentence of this kind. The very
thought of such a fate made his hair stand on end.
Naturally the
defendant was due a confessor. Father Benedict had to undertake this
uneasy task.
He entered his cell.
Salt still stood facing the wall, keeping the secret of his soon
deliverance.
Father coughed.
- Son, I believe you
are innocent, despite the evidence. But you've clearly been the
victim of bad circumstances. And consequently you have come to this.
Let me help you in your final minutes.
Salt wasn't religious
or fanatic about confessions. He had heard that they put a special
sponge over the victim's head to avoid the short-circuiting when the
voltage increased. A special officer wet it with water beforehand.
There was also the possibility that the execution could be observed,
but no one was likely to be present at his.
- Father, there is no
point in lying to you. I am guilty in spite of everything. The fact
that I got hit by my attacker doesn't change things much.
Father Benedict
listened intently. For the first time he found it difficult to
anticipate what sort of man he had in his sights. His appearance said
he was innocent, but inwardly he felt he was dealing with an
excellent artist who could hide his true feelings and intentions.
Far beyond the Red
Cliffs, the sun was about to rise. It was very early in the morning.
The execution would be in little more than three hours.
- "Do you at
least regret your actions? Do you repent before God?,"
the holy officer whispered.
- "It was my
destiny," muttered Salt, "I tried to become a Ranger and
serve my country. To live honestly, pay my taxes, buy a house and a
car. But it didn't work out. Now I'll take my punishment."
- "You are
clearly in the hands of powerful higher powers," Father summed
up, "I will try to beg a little reprieve from your execution and
your right to one last walk around the prison yard. Even a man like
you deserves that."
The father turned his
back and walked out.
Not fifteen minutes
had passed when Jasper stirred the bricks again. He had kept his
promise.
- "Shall we act,
man?," he uttered breathlessly. - "We haven't much time to
think it over. The guard will change, and then we'll lose this last
chance."
- "All right,"
replied Salt shortly.
The two slipped into
the tunnel Jasper had dug.
Jasper Skoules had a
reputation as the most brutal gangster and psychopath in the Central
Arizona State Prison. He needed Salt because of his physique - there
was no way he could jump the fence without someone else's help. They
walked quickly through the kitchen areas, and then through the
laundry room. The typical escape plan. Jasper had tried at least a
dozen times, but he'd always failed and been stopped before he even
got close to the enclosure.
Father Benedict soon
returned and was astonished to find the cell empty. He immediately
gave the alarm and everyone was on their feet. Naturally the
fugitives already had some lead of about twenty minutes.
They had emerged from
the courtyard and were no more than ten yards from the outer wire
fence. The sentries on the towers had not yet made their presence
felt, and so they were able to reach their destination unmolested.
Jasper appeared to be carrying a pair of pliers with which to cut the
wire and get away.
He handed them to
Duncan:
- "You're more
experienced and good than me. Weren't you a ranger? Act!,"
he muttered.
Salt handled himself
with ease. He'd been to Afghanistan and done far more complicated
things. He'd even killed people with his bare hands. It was child's
work.
They began to squirm.
First it was Salt, and shortly after him, Jasper. Then the spotlight
shone on them. They couldn't have gotten any faster. Jasper hung on
to the fence. He started wriggling like a worm.
- "For God's
sake, man, I got tangled up. Pull me out. I want to live!,"
he almost cried.
Salt dragged his feet
and turned.
- The important thing
is that I saved myself. I fooled even the priest. Let that be a
lesson to you.
Then he quickly hid in
the night. The cursed Jasper took his place at the execution in the
morning. The prison authorities looked to whitewash the situation as
much as was at all possible and to release false news. But somewhere
out there in the darkness Duncan Salt was laughing evilly. He had
slipped away rather meanly. All he had to do was head to the next
state to sell his numbers. Smarter, stronger, and not least a lot
more cunning than before.
The morning's
execution began rather unusually. The defendant's face was pinned up
to make the escape unintelligible. They put the damp sponge on his
forehead.
The prison director
felt very uneasy. When they turned on the electricity and the wretch
began to writhe in agony, the mask on his face became soaked with
blood and his eyes popped out of their orbits. The inside of his
brain was turned to charcoal, and bloody foam rose from his mouth.
-
"I can't look," said one of the prison officers, covering
his face with his hand.
This was the end of
Jasper Scholes's life. He was betrayed by the man whose life he had
saved.
Somewhere far away in
the state of Nevada, Duncan Salt had bought brand new clothes and
fake papers with stolen money. And a little while later, he'd gotten
himself a gun. His final destination was Alaska. And then no one
heard from him. So divine and human justice was served.
After the execution,
they buried Jasper in the prison cemetery. A stone angel was placed
on the grave next to his. Because the morning was damp, a dewdrop had
fallen on his eye and he appeared to be weeping.
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