The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 14

"How are you?" he asked.

It seemed easy, in that moment, to admit the truth.

"A little overwhelmed."

He nodded with understanding. "There's been an epidemic of that lately. They have me under investigation now, did you know that?"

I did not know that.

From the kitchen counter he found a sheet of paper and pa.s.sed it over. A memo, marked disdainfully with a mug ring.

I read the official notice. Envelopes bearing Brother Mike's home address had been discovered in deceased inmate Jon Crowley's personal effects. This demonstrated an inappropriate and unprofessional degree of intimate contact, and a decision of suspension from employment was being deliberated.

"It's complete rubbish, of course. I don't deny that the correspondence occurred, but such things are overlooked," he said, "except when they are not." He sipped his tea. "They're putting a great deal of pressure on me. I can't enter the inst.i.tution without getting searched. My art cla.s.ses, when I'm allowed to hold them, are constantly interrupted. Even my private counseling sessions are cut short. Worse, my colleagues are experiencing similar problems, clearly because of my transgressions. They're being supportive, so far. I heard you were under investigation for inmate a.s.sault."

I raised my mug in a toast to that. "No wonder you didn't want to see me."

He smiled, a little sadly. "It wasn't that. I apologize if it sounded that way. But what is it that you're here for?"

I hesitated for only a second, and he grabbed my arm to interrupt.

"Hold that thought. I have something I want to show you."

We went out the back door. In the mudroom, he found me a pair of galoshes and a heavy sweater to wear, and I felt like a child traipsing behind him through the path worn into the snow. We approached the strange hut I'd seen from the kitchen window, and I sensed great warmth coming from it and an unusual but pleasant smell, like hay in a barn or recently harvested wheat baking in the sun.

"This is my kiln," he said. "I'm a potter by calling. The rest of it, the restorative justice work and the art cla.s.ses are duties I perform in service of my own conscience. If I were free from all that, here's where I would be. I'm firing right now. I only do it twice a year. Do you want to look?"

He lifted a tarp, and I heard a hushed roar from within, like the sound of the ocean in a seaside cave or a gurgling volcano. The air was hot in my nostrils, but I smelled charcoal and metal. When I could stand the heat blowing out, I saw a patch of darkness only a foot square and a show of shooting stars inside. It was beautiful, but I stepped out to get relief from the heat, and Brother Mike let the tarp fall back into place.

"My style is derivative of the j.a.panese masters who come from the region of Bizen. Most j.a.panese pottery making is extremely precise, involving many tests and carefully controlled temperatures. In Bizen-yaki, however, the kiln is a primitive s.p.a.ce fueled by kindling and logs, even branches, leaves, straw. In the heat and flame the contaminant materials disintegrate into fine particles and blow about in a maelstrom of sparks that collide with the fresh pottery and stick to it, burning into the clay like fossilized lines. It's a largely unpredictable process, and it brings out colors only G.o.d could come up with."

The energy radiated from him, his face glowing with excitement.

"It's comforting to me," he added, "that beauty can come from violence, if only in metaphor."

I huddled in the thick sweater he'd given me, cold now that the tarp was down, feeling a slightly feverish heat linger in my cheeks.

"I want to know more about Crowley's comic book," I said. "What was in it. What it meant."

No change in his face, nothing altered in his smile, but everything different nevertheless.

He began to walk slowly around the kiln, checking the tarps, feeling the heat with his hand a few inches away. I followed him. There was a pile of pottery shards in the back, where the woods edged up to his property.

"All sorts of animals are attracted to the warmth," he said. "Once, I unintentionally baked a cat or a muskrat in a large pot. It must have crawled in while my back was turned."

"Tell me about the character in the comic book," I insisted. "The Beggar."

He picked half of a vase up from the snow and swung it down casually to smash it further. There was nothing angry in the gesture, only preoccupation.

"The Beggar," he replied. "I thought, for Jon's purposes, the name Beggar was quite apt. It has a fine historical and literary lineage."

I asked what he meant.

"I mean that historically, most inmates were debtors, or beggars. Ordinary people who'd committed no crime but being poor, not unlike today's minor drug offenders. As late as the early 1900s, if you walked by a prison in a city such as New York or Philadelphia, you would see hands outstretched, the prisoners inside begging for alms, sometimes dangling a shoe from an upper cell grate to the street below-the beggar's grate, as it was called. They could earn their freedom, you see, if they bribed the keepers. Another, more literary reference, perhaps, was John Gay's The Beggar's Opera. Have you seen it? You really must, as a corrections worker. It was inspired by Newgate Prison and featured a keeper who secretly runs a criminal organization from within the prison, using helpless inmates as lackeys. A brilliant lampoon of cla.s.s structure and a call for reform. If you believe that our inst.i.tution of prisons today is in part a tool of the capitalist system, whereby the undercla.s.ses are ruthlessly punished and only the rich have access to justice ..."

I couldn't take it anymore.

"I know the Beggar's name is Earl Hammond."

"You know about Hammond?" No pause in him, no stunned surprise.

"You do, also, apparently."

"I've heard of him. Most of us in the restorative justice field have followed his work. Hammond was another inspiration for Crowley."

His work. All those sources of inspiration. The pretension took me back, roused my irritation for the skewed sensibilities of weak sisters.

"Hammond killed a CO, a man working a dangerous job to keep the rest of you safe. Hammond was so violent even within a maxium security prison that they kept him in extreme isolation."

"Yes," Brother Mike acknowledged. "For years. But that was before my time, and I can't pretend to understand it all. And there was nothing about Hammond then that would have moved someone like Jon. It was what happened afterward, when Hammond was released from extreme isolation, that transformed him into someone worthy of admiration."

"What did happen?"

"Why, he changed."

He said it matter-of-factly, as if I should simply understand.

"Changed how?"

"He'd been a gang leader, drug dealer, and murderer. Through whatever miracle was visited upon him, years of isolation didn't destroy his mind but freed it. He became an anti-gang leader, a fearless and outspoken advocate for inst.i.tutional reform and restorative justice. Hammond was one of the first significant inmates to go public with such support. And that, as you can imagine, was no easy road. He tried to make amends for his own transgressions, even reconcile with the family of the CO he'd slain, but the COs lobbied for him to be isolated again. The gangs hated him, too, because he'd betrayed them, turned over all he knew about them to destroy their way of life, in exchange for more access to other inmates. He was fearless about being a model for personal responsibility and the power of forgiveness."

"You told Crowley about Hammond."

"I did. I used his example in the context of our conversations about restorative justice, and I saw how Hammond's spirit and example changed Jon's heart. Jon became a disciple of sorts. Hammond's voice had been silenced for so many years, and Jon wanted to tell the world Hammond's story, show the path that is possible. Jon's comic book was a way of chronicling Hammond's redemption. As an artwork, it was daring and bound to be controversial."

I did not want to argue about what Crowley's book had accomplished. Instead, I wanted to know more about Hammond.

"How was Hammond silenced? What happened to him?"

Brother Mike shrugged. "I have no idea. It was rumored that he'd been given a new ident.i.ty, for his own protection, and hidden somewhere in the federal detention system. But that's not a story I trust, since I doubt the Hammond I read about would have agreed to it. The worst side of me believes he was eliminated, if that's not too sinister a phrase. Perhaps I communicated that suspicion unintentionally to Jon, because it pervaded his work."

I was put off by the idea that Hammond might have been "eliminated," even though it seemed like a coherent and reasonable explanation. It jabbed against my own misgivings, the suspicion not of conspiracies, but of delusional fantasies. The comic book reeked of that.

"Why did he draw such a strange world? Why didn't he just show Hammond as he was? In Ditmarsh, in the City, in other inst.i.tutions, speaking to inmates."

"You're asking an artistic question, and a political one, and perhaps a practical question as well. There was no support for Hammond as a person. You saw Jon's fight with Lawrence in the yard. An inmate with gang a.s.sociations and any knowledge of Hammond's history would have loathed Hammond and hated anyone who wanted to glorify him. Same with the COs. It was too contentious. So Crowley's decision was to depict a figure like Hammond."

"So he made up this character of the Beggar?"

"Well, not exactly made up. I believe he modeled the Beggar after Cain, the firstborn son of Adam."

"Cain?" The surprises continued to accrue. "You mean Cain from the Bible?"

"Who slew his brother Abel with the jawbone of an a.s.s because he was jealous that Abel's sacrifice to G.o.d had been looked on more favorably. Who then hid his brother's body and fled."

I wondered where the h.e.l.l he was going now.

"Why Cain? Isn't Cain despised?"

"By us, yes. But think of it from an inmate's perspective. Cain is the first criminal in history. And like Job and Isaac and Jonah, he's the victim of a cosmic injustice. The G.o.d of the Old Testament was involved in some questionable episodes. Asking a father to sacrifice his son. Destroying innocent lives in the flood. Giving Adam and Eve the temptation for knowledge and banis.h.i.+ng them from paradise for choosing it. Why? Even the story of Judas has appeal to an inmate. Judas was blamed for Jesus' trial and crucifixion, but Jesus needed to be betrayed in order to reveal his divinity. Isn't it possible that Judas sacrificed himself in full knowledge of the role G.o.d needed him to play? If so, why scorn Judas for all history? It's the kind of sentiment an inmate can relate to."

The litany of arguments offended me, but I also suspected they were a deliberate attempt to divert my attention. It seemed pointless, now, to leave anything unsaid.

"I need the comic book," I told him.

"I don't have it," he answered.

"It is evidence in a very serious crime."

It was a bulls.h.i.+t claim, the last resort of a scoundrel, and he called my bluff.

"You're confused, Kali. Crowley's work concerned a spiritual mystery, not a criminal one. One of the biggest theological questions is unde malum. Where does evil come from? Crowley was interested in the opposite of that query. How do evil people find the strength to do good? That's why Crowley depicted Hammond. That's the answer to your mystery. Nothing less, but nothing more."

That got my back up. Lie to me, I thought. Tell me what you need to in order to get your way, but don't patronize me.

"You're not going to give it to me?" I bit the phrase off.

"As I said, I don't have it."

"Then who does?"

He shrugged. "You do."

I waited, intensely irritated. "What do you mean?"

"Keeper Wallace asked for it. I a.s.sumed you knew that."

Wallace had beaten me to it. Why did that surprise me? My anger and helplessness threatened the little composure I still held on to. I thanked Brother Mike for his time and left him standing by the kiln. I saw my own way through his house, changed back into my own d.a.m.n jacket and boots, and strode out the front door.

26.

My s.h.i.+ft was an exercise in frustration and delay. The lockdown was over. The inmates were sullen, vindictive, and wired. I wanted quite desperately to talk to Ruddik, but our paths didn't cross, and he was already gone when I was done. I did not like the way I was feeling so quickly hooked by that man, but I told myself that any emotional resonance was being amped up by the circ.u.mstances. Life at Ditmarsh was a daily labyrinth that left me isolated by each bewildering turn. Now I was exploring caverns and staircases and secret doors, and I wanted to share that news with the one person who could understand.

Instead, I found myself alone in the records room at Keeper's Hall, and I decided to poke around the files for information about Earl Hammond. The ancient file cabinets screeched when I opened them, but I found nothing about Hammond inside. So I sat down in front of a clunky coffee-stained desktop computer and googled his name.

There were no Ditmarsh-related hits, but in a general search, there he was, an article in Time magazine from June 7, 1994. I leaned in. The article was from northern California, Pelican Bay. There was a picture of a white man who had thick, Afro-like hair rising from a high forehead, and earrings in both ears. His eyes, however, were blocked out by a black bar across the page, the way some gossip magazines hide bystanders. The caption read, "Could this convicted killer and crime leader bring an end to prison gangs as we know them?" You looked at the picture and answered the question for yourself: no f.u.c.king way. And then you read on. In the interview, Hammond related with intriguing frankness his gang past, the murders he'd committed or ordered, and the criminal activities he'd orchestrated. There was a sense of typical inmate boasting to the confession. "I led one of the most successful criminal organizations in the United States, from inside a maximum security inst.i.tution, while under constant supervision. No one was more ruthless or strategic. I know I can bring those same capabilities to destroy what I helped build." And the article then detailed his virtuous activities, the small groups of inmates he spoke to all the time, his cooperation with the FBI in breaking gangs down, the talks and courses he led that had been taped and distributed to other inst.i.tutions across the country. He was, the reporter noted, quite moving in his speeches. He talked about his remorse for all the wasted lives, those of victims and perpetrators, and he insisted the only real power one person had over another came from the heart. You needed to be lost to be found.

From the way he talked and the way he manipulated those who listened to him, including the writer of the article, you could tell that Hammond had charisma. I'd met my share of psychopathic egotists, but few were as sophisticated. It was easy to find him chilling and intriguing, and it was just as easy to dismiss the article for falling for such horses.h.i.+t. I was sensitive to the way outsiders could romanticize even brutal criminals-they got a brief glimpse, overdosed on the inmate's composed moments of charm, and didn't have to experience the other moments, the sudden rage, the horrifying viciousness, the s.a.d.i.s.tic cruelty, and the undercurrent of extreme narcissism.

In the truck after work, I called Ruddik's number. I didn't care how late it had become. He answered this time, a quiet voice, as if he were trying not to wake someone. I hoped, even though it was ridiculous, that there was no one else living with him. Plowing on, I told him about Hammond and the comic book and Brother Mike's explanations. He asked me where the comic book was now, and I told him Wallace had retrieved it already. I heard the disappointment in his silence.

"Have we been outmaneuvered?" I asked, fearing the answer.

But he surprised me. "I don't think so. I think the comic book's a dead end."

I started to protest and then stopped. He was the professional.

"Think about it," Ruddik continued. "What could Hammond have to do with what's happening at Ditmarsh now? Wallace is real. The Ditmarsh Social Club is real. We have to focus on what's in front of us, not get lost in the details of something that happened years ago."

I let my silence go on. I didn't want to sound naive by arguing.

"Okay," I said.

"I've been thinking a lot about next steps, and I want you to hear me out on this."

"On what?" I asked.

His voice was calm, but I had a feeling he was being very careful with me, and that made me wonder where he was going.

"What we've learned so far has been helpful, but it's not helping us track the real economy of the prison."

"The real economy," I said. "You mean contraband. Deals."

"Exactly. In a perfect world, I'd have full access to the Pen Squad. I'd know what they know about intercepted s.h.i.+pments and I'd get reports on what their informants have been telling them. But this is far from a perfect world."

I could hardly disagree.

"So what I'd like to do is set up our own experiment."

"Meaning what?"

"I want to see what happens when you approach an inmate and offer a trade."

"What kind of trade?"

"The kind of trade that goes on all the time. In exchange for money or some other valued service, you offer to supply some information, bring in some contraband, arrange to have one inmate housed near another. You know what I mean."

"Jesus, Ruddik. Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious." That grave and muted tone again, the lone lawman vibe. "This is the kind of thing we do in undercover operations all the time. It's only unusual because you're not officially part of the team. I'm getting creative because I don't have the budget or the resources to bring in another professional, and I can't do it myself right now, because I'm currently very much on their radar. That's why I'm asking you."