cells. It made Danny wonder how many inmates were being held in segregation.
When they drew abreast the cell of the whimpering man, the facilitator banged his stick against the steel door. “That’s another week, Perkins. Shut your foul mouth!”
The whimpering shriveled to a whisper. No due warning, no filing, no due process or hearing. A clear violation of the California penal protocol.
They passed eight additional cells before the guard stopped him. “Hold up.”
The facilitator unlocked the cell door and swung the door wide. Inside was a concrete room four feet wide and maybe eight feet deep. A raised slab of cement, three feet wide, formed a bed of sorts next to a sealed steel panel on the floor. A metal sink and toilet combo hugged the corner. That was it. No bedding. Nothing else.
“Take off your shoes, your socks, your pants, and your underwear.”
Still cuffed, Danny did as ordered.
“Inside.”
He stepped into the concrete box, immediately aware of the temperature drop. Behind him, the cell door clanked shut. A bolt was thrown and the upper slat door squealed open.
“Back up to the slat.”
The facilitator uncuffed him through the opening and withdrew the restraint, leaving Danny free to move his arms.
“Take off your shirt and pass it out.”
He unbuttoned the shirt, shrugged out of it, and passed it out.
“You can consider due process served. The warden will make his recommendation. If you’re lucky you’ll be out in a few days.”
The slat cover slammed shut, leaving Danny naked in the dark. The accommodations were poor. It was cold. There wasn’t a single soft surface in the small room. He stepped to the sink and turned the faucet. No water. It was likely on a timer or controlled manually from the outside, as was the water for the toilet.
It was rumored that some of the cells in the death-row segregation ward at San Quentin were set up similarly, although the inmates were allowed to wear their shorts. Cups had been banned because any vessel could be used to collect urine and feces to throw at an officer who opened the slat. Clothing and sheets could be used to commit suicide by way of strangulation. Mattresses could be torn apart or used to block entry into the cell.
But this wasn’t San Quentin. Danny wondered if anyone outside these walls knew the true nature of administrative segregation in the bowels of Basal.
The door at the end of the hall slammed shut, leaving the entire floor in an eerie calm.
Danny found the edge of the raised slab and eased down onto the bed. He lay back on the cold concrete, stared up into the darkness for a full minute, then shut his eyes and sought God, who is love.
Slowly, he let his mind still, seeking out the light between his thoughts and emotions. There, in simply being still, he found solace.
7
WEDNESDAY
KEITH HAMMOND, THE sheriff’s deputy who’d taken down Bruce Randell, wasn’t eager to be found. I might have just given up and gone to the authorities to find him if not for my own aversion to the law. Danny had done a good job steering me clear, and when my dedication finally paid off two days later, I was relieved to learn that Keith was no longer professionally tied to the law.
He lived in a condo on Acacia Avenue in Huntington Beach, a twenty-five-minute drive from my home in Long Beach without traffic. The neighborhood, only ten blocks from the ocean, was populated by free-spirited types who would rather head to the beach than to work. The condo was nice enough—white with green bushes along the base of the building and a bright green canopy leading up from the sidewalk. Several large palm trees in the back rose over the roof. But it wasn’t the neighborhood I cared about, it was the man who lived inside 1245 Acacia Street #3. I was now pinning my hopes on him. All of them.
I sat in my Corolla down and across the street, gently picking at my lower lip as I obsessed over how best to meet him. When to make my move. What to say. How
When they drew abreast the cell of the whimpering man, the facilitator banged his stick against the steel door. “That’s another week, Perkins. Shut your foul mouth!”
The whimpering shriveled to a whisper. No due warning, no filing, no due process or hearing. A clear violation of the California penal protocol.
They passed eight additional cells before the guard stopped him. “Hold up.”
The facilitator unlocked the cell door and swung the door wide. Inside was a concrete room four feet wide and maybe eight feet deep. A raised slab of cement, three feet wide, formed a bed of sorts next to a sealed steel panel on the floor. A metal sink and toilet combo hugged the corner. That was it. No bedding. Nothing else.
“Take off your shoes, your socks, your pants, and your underwear.”
Still cuffed, Danny did as ordered.
“Inside.”
He stepped into the concrete box, immediately aware of the temperature drop. Behind him, the cell door clanked shut. A bolt was thrown and the upper slat door squealed open.
“Back up to the slat.”
The facilitator uncuffed him through the opening and withdrew the restraint, leaving Danny free to move his arms.
“Take off your shirt and pass it out.”
He unbuttoned the shirt, shrugged out of it, and passed it out.
“You can consider due process served. The warden will make his recommendation. If you’re lucky you’ll be out in a few days.”
The slat cover slammed shut, leaving Danny naked in the dark. The accommodations were poor. It was cold. There wasn’t a single soft surface in the small room. He stepped to the sink and turned the faucet. No water. It was likely on a timer or controlled manually from the outside, as was the water for the toilet.
It was rumored that some of the cells in the death-row segregation ward at San Quentin were set up similarly, although the inmates were allowed to wear their shorts. Cups had been banned because any vessel could be used to collect urine and feces to throw at an officer who opened the slat. Clothing and sheets could be used to commit suicide by way of strangulation. Mattresses could be torn apart or used to block entry into the cell.
But this wasn’t San Quentin. Danny wondered if anyone outside these walls knew the true nature of administrative segregation in the bowels of Basal.
The door at the end of the hall slammed shut, leaving the entire floor in an eerie calm.
Danny found the edge of the raised slab and eased down onto the bed. He lay back on the cold concrete, stared up into the darkness for a full minute, then shut his eyes and sought God, who is love.
Slowly, he let his mind still, seeking out the light between his thoughts and emotions. There, in simply being still, he found solace.
7
WEDNESDAY
KEITH HAMMOND, THE sheriff’s deputy who’d taken down Bruce Randell, wasn’t eager to be found. I might have just given up and gone to the authorities to find him if not for my own aversion to the law. Danny had done a good job steering me clear, and when my dedication finally paid off two days later, I was relieved to learn that Keith was no longer professionally tied to the law.
He lived in a condo on Acacia Avenue in Huntington Beach, a twenty-five-minute drive from my home in Long Beach without traffic. The neighborhood, only ten blocks from the ocean, was populated by free-spirited types who would rather head to the beach than to work. The condo was nice enough—white with green bushes along the base of the building and a bright green canopy leading up from the sidewalk. Several large palm trees in the back rose over the roof. But it wasn’t the neighborhood I cared about, it was the man who lived inside 1245 Acacia Street #3. I was now pinning my hopes on him. All of them.
I sat in my Corolla down and across the street, gently picking at my lower lip as I obsessed over how best to meet him. When to make my move. What to say. How
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