He turned off Highway 5 and onto the stark,
industrial City Drive of Orange, California. Sun reflected off a homeless man’s shopping cart and the broken
glass in the gutter. A jaywalker lunged across the street. Grady swung the
steering wheel to miss him, tires squealing over the concrete. Ahead at the red
stoplight, three kids, about the age of his son, crossed the street on their
way to school. They jabbered in Spanish but giggled just like his son. A
sharp-edged thought boiled up.
Grady’s rancorous custody battle continued
post-divorce, and he’d relocated to be closer to seven-year-old Shane. How long
would his job-hopping ex-wife stay in Long Beach? He stuffed a wishful dream to
coach soccer into the caverns of his mind.
Ahead, a sign marked the penitentiary run by the
most hard-hearted Godzillas of the human race. A shrill hiss grew to an
ear-piercing whistle. At its command, prisoners rose at sunrise and appeared at
their cell doors. Doors opened, and they stood on the threshold. “Right face.”
All wheeled to the right. “March!” Without energy, the inmates zombied along
for two hours of labor before breakfast. They made license plates, jeans,
jackets, T-shirts, and hats. They worked in the laundry room, kitchen, or in
the sewing room where they cut, basted, and stitched.
Color televisions, said to be available for viewing
by those who earned the privilege, amounted to one set per eighty offenders. In
the dayroom, they watched a nine-inch screen while seated on metal benches
bolted to the floor. Correctional officers held remote controls and flipped
through basic networks, sports, and educational channels. From there prisoners
marched to dinner, out in the yard, and then back to cramped stone cells.
On the bright side, according to his cousin Finn,
Tori took college classes. She’d spent her college years in prison but earned a
degree in restaurant management and planned to run a food truck.
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