Devour, p.3
Devour, page 3
Making his way across the city, Michael thought of all the hot restaurants vying for the hungry masses. While many were unique, some of them either tried too hard or felt “been there, done that.” A few restaurants, however, were as culturally significant as one that had intrigued him for years, Keiko at Nob Hill, a personal favorite that challenged him to reach higher. He figured if he kept pushing as hard as he had been for the past decade, kept choosing the best talent money could buy, and kept pushing the boundaries of what was unique—all the while working extra hours spreading his “gospel of good food”—he would achieve the top spot in the culinary world and gain all the accolades as a Master Chef.
He was nearly at the restaurant when he thought of how much he had missed of Natalie’s life. Kathryn’s right, he thought, trying to bury the guilt. While he was up early every day preparing Natalie’s breakfast before getting her to school, his schedule was simply too packed to provide much else.
Most days, he would either check in at the restaurant or go straight to a local television studio to record his highly-rated cooking show at 10. As soon as that wrapped, he was off to record his satellite-fed radio show. From there, he would head back to the restaurant for a quick lunch or drive the 90 minutes to Napa Valley where he taught a cooking class two days a week at CIA at Copia—affectionately known as “Disneyland for Food & Wine Geeks”—only to race back to the restaurant where he would work until late.
I know it’s a relentless schedule, he thought, but it’ll all be worth it. Some day.
4
Stoney Lonesome
Warden Frederick A. Dalton sat behind his utilitarian desk eating liver pate on English water crackers and sipping Earl Grey tea, staring out at the water and the city on the horizon, focused on something much further away than his current state of affairs.
Papers and folders—of which there were few—were stacked with precision, the space from each stack to each corner thoroughly symmetrical. The battleship grey 1950s Steelcase desk showed signs of wear at the center of the top middle drawer where it received the most traffic.
Dalton’s navy blue suit was neat and fitted. His black Oxford shoes were polished to a mirrored gleam. His white dress shirt was pressed to perfection with sleeve cuffs extending an exact inch from the jacket. His solid maroon tie was held in place by a silver tie clasp adorned with an enameled military insignia. A vintage Rolex Red Submariner 1680 on his wrist was his only other frill.
There was an edict upon which he prescribed his life: Order. Rules. Precision.
He had not gotten to his place in life without respecting the first, following the second, and observing the last.
A former soldier of war and current commander of structure was not something to be taken lightly. His way was the only way. His decisions—unquestioned. And while he may have suffered certain challenges with authority in the past, those days were gone. He had learned his lessons. The stallion had been broken. Now, he was a thoroughbred who raced faster than others, was stronger than most, and would be tamed by few. The new structure—the new regime—was thoroughly his own.
Dalton did not like weakness; in fact, he abhorred it. He believed everyone was put on this earth to be the ruler of his own domain; therefore, he had zero patience for anyone who could not be strong enough to master his own destiny. The only weakness a trained eye would observe in Dalton was his belly which was a bit more robust than the rest of his physique. As hard as he worked on it—spending countless hours in the gym—his tendency to overindulge was his Achilles heel.
So, I’m intemperate, he thought, finishing a last bite. Better paté than someone’s neck, he mused, flicking a tiny crumb from his desk into the top drawer before closing. Or is it, he smirked, quickly removing then transferring the crumb to the trash can beside his desk.
A knock at the door pulled his attention.
“Come in!” he barked.
Enter: Officer Drew Baxter, the Warden’s right hand man, secretary, and the protector and purveyor of all secrets buried within the walls of Administration where an enclave of the elite protected a mass of murderers.
San Quentin was a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation state prison for men, located north of San Francisco in the unincorporated town of San Quentin, Marin County. The oldest prison in California, it was home to less than 5,000 permanent, or in some cases semi-permanent, criminals; most of whom were notorious.
“Sir, apologies for interrupting, but you wanted me to remind you of today’s roster. We’re meeting the new recruits, reviewing the old ones, and saying goodbye to those who are outbound.”
Baxter stood at attention awaiting further orders.
Dalton was distracted, focused on the tidiness of his desk.
“There’s also…an issue in East Cellblock.”
Emotionless, Dalton slowly looked up and stared at Officer Baxter.
“Why has my trash can not been emptied?”
Baxter’s expression was priceless. “What?”
His youthful face and perfect physique pleased his boss because it showed pride. His manicured hair, nails, and attire were equally appreciated. However, below the surface, facts were different. He was a decade older than he looked, used a laundry list of ingredients to retain his gladiator-like physique, and as far as Dalton was concerned, had the personality of an egg carton.
Dalton frowned and waited.
“Sorry. I meant, what do you mean, Sir?”
Sitting rigid, Dalton slowly exhaled. “Exactly what I meant. Not. Emptied.”
Making a brisk motion forward, he said, “My apologies, Sir, I’ll get right—”
“Not this moment, Baxter,” Dalton barked, holding his hand up like a crossing guard. “After we decide what to do with the malcontents.”
Baxter stopped in his tracks and remained at attention, yet allowing a tiny smirk—if only to himself.
“Yes, Sir.”
Standing, Dalton shot his cuffs, pushed his chair under his desk, and crossed the room—stopping at a wall mirror to methodically adjust his tie and smooth his tightly cropped hair.
“All right. Let’s decide how to handle this,” he said in a clipped voice.
Like the soldier he had been trained to be, Baxter saluted, “Sir!”
Just through the door and with Baxter on his heels, Dalton spun around and got much-too-close to Baxter’s face and spat, “What are you doing?”
“Sir?”
“Empty my fucking trash, boy!”
As Dalton left the wing, Baxter hustled back and grabbed the can. Seeing a tiny scrap of paper and what appeared to be a solitary crumb, he rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Really?”
Crossing the lawn toward the main entrance, Dalton thought about the position he had worked so hard to attain. SQ was not only the oldest prison in the country but also an honorable place to work. The mystique and the reputation—not to mention the salary— were all priceless attributes for those who wanted to make it their life’s work. There were other added benefits, such as having a certain level of autonomy, a chance to work at a place for as long as one would want, and a place where one could bend, if not break, some of the rules.
Dalton knew he was an odd duck, but he also knew it took a certain sort of person to work at a place like this.
As Baxter arrived at his side, Dalton’s concentration was broken. With a sideways glance, he murmured, “They’re all the same.”
“Sir?”
“Disrespectful, ignorant, malfunctioning animals. And I will not stand for it.”
“Agreed, Sir.”
“None deserve to breathe the air we provide for them. Their chance at freedom was taken from them the moment they passed through these gates. Hell, the moment they took the lives of innocent people,” he shook his head defiantly. “This place—the entire country—would be far better without them.”
Baxter held his comments, knowing the Warden felt too much agreeing made one a suck up. Even though it was exactly what he was doing, he thought better of laying it on too thick.
Death Row was divided into three sections: East Block, North-Seg, and The Adjustment Center, aka the AC.
Passing through the main entrance, Dalton nodded to several officers, all of whom saluted as soldiers. This was not customary in other prisons, nor elsewhere in the country for that matter, but it was under the rule of Warden Frederick Dalton.
Dalton and Baxter continued through the Officers wing with little fanfare and into the AC, the vile permanent home for the most horrific offenders. The 102-cell facility was built to be a prison within a prison as solitary confinement was the most restrictive housing in the state. The security was so tight guards were not allowed out once they checked in for their shifts. The cells were small, and each unit had a tiny stainless sink and toilet, and a thin mattress atop a concrete slab for a bed. There was one small shelf to hold a few personal items. There were no windows, no apparent ventilation, and only one single light overhead. And because criminals would often “gas” the guards—tossing a variety of excrement at them—thick concrete doors replaced cell bars.
Welcome to the AC.
Staffers called it The Hole.
Convicts called it Hell.
Dalton called it Home.
“What in the fuck is going on here?” Dalton barked as he passed through the Sally Port, an airlock between the outside and the inside of the building. Before ending on the other side, he yelled again, “What. The. Fuck?”
His voice visibly jarred two enormous guards who stood on either side of the massive doors.
Standing at attention, a guard whose badge read Officer Stein said, “It’s Crush. He’s banging on the old man again, and the old fart took a pretty good beating. Couple guys said he was minding his own business when Crush smacked a handful of quarters from his hand. Word is, Geezer mumbled something Crush didn’t like, so he hit the old man—knocking him to the ground and cracking his elbow on the concrete in the process.”
“Okay, enough with the entire history lesson, Steinberg. Just tell me where the fuck he is!” Dalton scowled.
“In the infirmary.”
Dalton glared without budging.
“In the infirmary, Sir!”
Patrick Lewis Sheffield, aka Crush, was a 59 year-old certifiable delinquent. A two-time offender, he had carelessly murdered not once, but twice in the same weekend. The story was that late one night, after leaving a bar drunk out of his mind, he stopped to grab a snack at a gas station and killed the clerk by crushing his skull with a can of 10W40 motor oil. The very next night, he hit a fast food restaurant. Witnesses reported a large, ugly man waiting outside the burger joint while a customer placed a food order at the drive-through window. As the customer exited the drive-through, Crush walked up, jerked the driver from the car, and knocked him to the ground, whereupon he proceeded to slam his head into the driveway until he crushed the man’s skull—then stole the car and drove away. He was caught hours later asleep in the front seat of the stolen car amidst a pile of greasy food wrappers.
Dalton shook his head. “If that moron got any stupider…” he sighed, looking at Sheffield’s cell. “Put him in the closet.”
Stein looked to his partner and the two of them went one way while Dalton and Baxter headed the opposite direction.
The Closet—providing the cruelest of punishment—was even worse than the AC because inmates would spend anywhere from five hours to five weeks in a space literally the size of a broom closet, barely offering enough room for sitting much less lying down or anything else. Each of the four walls were made from two feet of concrete and had a slit for a window the size of a mail drop used for delivering food. The closet had no heat, no air, and meant only one of two things: Sometimes prisoners baked; Sometimes they froze. Seldom did they return a second time to learn their lesson.
5
Blunt Force
The prison’s infirmary—besides the Officers wing—was the most decent of all sections of the prison. It was clean, bright, and as pleasant a respite as one could find from the rest of hell. It smelled of antiseptic and received its fair share of traffic, thanks to repeated breakouts of fights among the prisoners. Men came in cut, broken, or dead. Cuts received a bandage, breaks got a rudimentary splint, and the dead got a body bag.
Dalton had lost his patience hours ago. In fact, he had not begun the day with much patience at all.
Crossing the grounds, he was lost in thought, I’ve done my own time, maybe I should do something else. Nodding to a passing officer, he thought—While I still have the goods.
Dalton was 52 and tired.
Tired of the chains.
Tired of the locks.
Tired of the bullshit.
The two men passed East Cellblock, the oldest part of the compound, passed through the dining hall where his stomach grumbled as he smelled food cooking, and then passed the gymnasium where a small handful of inmates played ball.
Dalton shot barbed stares at officers along the route and received snapped salutes in return. That is, until they approached the medical ward. Evidently, there was one officer who did not care who ran the place.
As Dalton approached, Officer Jansen gave a nod.
A nod may have worked with the last regime, Dalton fumed. Since he knew every detail about every man on the grounds, he was well aware that Jansen was a fresh recruit. Dalton got as far as the door when he spun around and got up in Jansen’s face.
“Officer Jansen, did you not see me and Lieutenant Baxter approach?”
“What?”
“What did you say?” He sneered. “Do you think my name is What? Where are your fucking manners?”
“Uh, Warden Dalton, I said, I mean, what I meant to say was…is…uh…what can I do for you?”
Dalton got so close to the man’s face, he could count the pores on the end of his nose.
“I’ll tell you what you can do for me, Officer Jansen.”
And with each barking line, he got louder.
“You can answer me with Sir! And after that, you can get down on your knees and beg me not to kick your pearly whites down your throat. Do you understand me, son?”
With fear in his eyes, Jansen said, “Yes, Sir!”
“Yes, Sir, what, Jansen?”
Startled, he said, “Yes, I’ll answer with sir, Sir!”
Dalton reared back and delivered a crushing blow to the man’s lower gut. As the air left his lungs, Jansen bent over, trying to catch his breath, and then fell to his knees.
“Excellent, Jansen. I see you took my advice and got on your knees. Now, since you’re down there, why don’t you kindly suck my cock,” he shouted.
Anyone within earshot turned to look at the commotion. Even Baxter was surprised and reached out for Dalton’s arm. Dalton whipped his head toward Baxter, leveling him with a death stare, and barked, “What in the HELL are you doing, Baxter? Are you touching me? Do you like me? Do you want to fuck me, Baxter? Does my asshole look like a candy lifesaver you want to lick? Can’t you see I’m kindly instructing Officer Jansen as to the proper way to greet another Officer?”
“Yes, Sir, but—”
“But NOTHING, Baxter. Shut the hell up, you lazy old woman, and let me do my job! That is, unless you think you can do my job better than I can.”
No one said a word or moved a muscle.
Baxter took a step back. “No, Sir,” and punctuated the response with a salute. “You’re in charge, Sir!”
Ignoring Baxter and with nostrils flaring, Dalton slowly bent over to where Jansen was still trying to regain composure.
“Am I interrupting something, Officer Jansen? Did you drop a contact? A coin? A common courtesy?” he sneered.
Standing, Jansen wiped the sweat from his upper lip, smoothed back his hair, and said, “My apologies, Sir. My mind must have been elsewhere. Will you please accept my apologies, Sir?”
The Warden leaned closer, let out a long exhale, and allowed a wicked grin to slide across his face. “Now, that’s more like it, Officer Jansen. And of course I will accept your insipid apology. We all make mistakes. No problem. Thank you for admitting your ignorance,” then dismissed him with a wave and stepped into Trauma 1.
He and Baxter saw the man everyone called Geezer, a 62 year old man who did not look good. Beaten down by life, blind in one eye, and the color of weathered parchment paper, Geezer displayed a sad demeanor with sunken cheeks, a wiry frame, and a broken elbow. His face was squeezed together like someone had pulled his fingernails out.
As Dalton entered, Doctor Bellows was setting his elbow with a splint.
“Give him a cast, Doc.”
With a surprised expression, he said, “Yes, Sir. Gladly.”
As Dalton motioned for Baxter to get him a chair, he approached the old man and sat. “What’s up…you old Geezer.”
With a pained smile, he said, “Same shit. Just a different year.”
“Right,” Dalton grinned, before tossing a chin toward the man’s arm. “And that?”
“This? Oh, it’s nothing. Just slipped on a wet spot on the floor. Musta been a water leak on these marble floors. You know how slick they can get, especially when the fountains in the courtyard spill over,” he said, looking out the window.
Outside, the courtyard was only dirt and concrete.
Laying his head on the pillow, Geezer quietly said, “Hope you don’t mind, Warden, but I’m mighty tired and could use just a few minutes while our nice practitioner here fixes me up. I’ll get back to work as soon as—”
“No you won’t,” Dalton patted the man’s leg. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve done your time and paid your dues.”
He winked at the doctor and smiled at Geezer. “You get yourself all fixed up. And when you do, my man servant here,” he thumbed toward Baxter, “Will get you a hot meal and a fresh cot.”
Dalton looked as though he was about to leave when he turned back toward the old man.
