The Prison Doctor, page 5
So I’m one of his special girls, she thought, but said nothing.
“She’s coming to give a talk to the inmates in your care.”
“A talk?”
“She’s not a staff member, but while she’s here I want to make use of her as part of our rehabilitation programme. Like yourself, she’s very special to me.”
“May I ask her name?” But he was gone without hanging up. She heard him some distance from the phone and a female voice responding. Then he remembered the call and did hang up.
It was half an hour later when the warden’s other special girl arrived and was let in by the guard at the gate to the infirmary. Gillian was busy administering an injection and had to free herself of the patient. By the time she went to meet her visitor the other woman was standing in the centre of the ward, her hands hanging loose at her sides. Gillian thought she was singularly beautiful in a way that suggested intelligence rather than sensuality. Blonde hair, almost gold in the incandescent lighting of the ward, curled at her shoulders. A strand tumbled down to the small of her back. Only minimal cosmetic aids seemed to have been used on a face that was a slightly deeper gold than her hair. Blue eyes that were probing and direct gave the impression of curiosity and a degree of scepticism. Gillian’s impression was that this woman wanted to know and understand you before she allowed you to get close enough to understand her.
The way Gillian’s visitor was dressed was the result of some thought. She always, at least on first meeting someone who may be important to her, presented herself as a mixture of innocence and confidence. The colour of the suit she was wearing was white, but interrupted by a barely visible black stripe down the outside of either leg and along the edge of the collar. Her shoes were also white and they too carried a thin black flash. She wore a light blue cravat, held in place by a Tanzanite pin, the glowing black stone mounted in silver. Her outfit must have been designed to her own specification, Gillian thought.
She was nodding to some of the inmates and smiling. “Johnny, Baldy, Mose, good to see you all again.” She held out a hand to Gillian. “Beloved Childe,” she said.
There was a moment of surprise before Gillian realised that was the other woman’s name. She reacted, taking the proffered hand in hers, “Oh, your name. That is your name, is it?”
“I usually respond to that by saying that my parents, Mr and Mrs Childe, named me that.”
“Very nice,” Gillian said lamely and followed it up with the question that had been exercising her mind: “And what’s your position here?”
“I don’t have one, I’m sorry to say. I’m here on a mission to help the rehabilitation programme. I’m a freelance contractor. I’ll be here for another month. I hope we have a chance to chat in that time.”
“Let’s make time,” Gillian said.
“Yes, let’s.”
“And this morning you’ll be giving us a talk?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“If it’s all right with the warden, then I suppose it’s all right with me.”
“It was his idea.”
Beloved shook Gillian’s hand a second time, then turned her attention to the men in the ward. “Gentlemen, I’ve been reading about the advice you’ve been receiving on adapting to the world outside.”
Gillian went quickly to her surgery, opened the door wide and placed a chair for herself in the open doorway so that she could see Beloved and hear her talk.
Beloved was near the centre of the room next to Baldy. He was one of the older inmates, a cancer sufferer. He looked at her with eyes that reflected something akin to adoration. She spoke altogether without gestures at a volume that was never more than conversational, but her words were clear to everyone in the ward. No one spoke to interrupt or to try to engage her.
“Those of you who have been released and come back know that most of the advice you’ve received is nonsense. Let no one tell you that adjusting to the square world will be easy. You know how difficult your first taste of freedom is. When you’ve spent time inside you are at the bottom of the pile among those seeking employment. If this is your first time inside, don’t let anyone hide that from you. You need to know what lies ahead. That is why the halfway house system works and it is also why many successful former inmates only became successful after they started their own businesses.”
Gillian could see by the way she was speaking, without the slightest hint of flirtation and so full of certainty that no one could doubt that she knew the field, meant what she was saying and that they all understood what she was talking about. “I want to tell you this though. No matter how difficult it is to become a member of straight society, you have the ability. There is not a man here for whom this is not possible. There is not a man here who does not have the strength. I met a businessman in Africa who after he had served his time, started in business on a railway station selling cigarettes one at a time – yes, just one at a time – to commuters desperate for a smoke. After a few months he opened a kiosk on a platform of the same station, then went on to bigger things.”
She spoke at some length, telling the men in the ward that they all had their own strengths. All that was needed was to identify where their abilities could be used. Looking at the faces of the men in the ward, Gillian could see that by the time Beloved finished the men in the ward either believed her message or wanted to – badly. “Success is within your grasp when you leave this place. I want you to know that and hold onto it.” She stopped speaking and for the first time, she smiled. “I will be coming back to speak with each man separately. I will not have a lot of time for each individual, but I will do the best I can and together we will explore your possibilities for the future. In the mean time you need to accept that those possibilities are real. Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve met some of you before and I am delighted to have seen all of you now.”
Beloved approached Gillian who had retreated into her surgery. “There is something else the old man asked me to do. You have a condemned inmate called Magnuson, here from death row?”
Yes, Gillian thought, I have him here. I definitely have him here. “He’s in a solitary cell.”
“The old man has asked me to do a personal evaluation. I can’t think why. It’s a bit late for that sort of thing.”
“Very late,” Gillian said.
SEVEN
Ten days and one night to Magnuson’s date
Her work in the prisons dominated Beloved’s life. She found it to be both stimulating and fascinating and occasionally depressing. Every day since her university studies commenced, prisons and their populations had occupied her thoughts. Even during her school years she had read everything she could find on the problems surrounding the punishment of criminal offenders. From detailed academic studies to death row diaries: she consumed them all.
But for Beloved the day had not been easy. This evening she was tired. She had been in the prison all day and, apart from the relatively short time she had been in the infirmary, she had spent it listening to and feeling the pain of many men. They were hard men, many of whom had been inside and without a woman for years. They hid their pain deep, but it was felt so much more strongly because of that.
She undressed slowly, deep in the kind of thoughts that many people avoid. She was reliving her brief meeting with Magnuson after her talk in the infirmary. Beloved had visited him on other occasions before he was sentenced. All the meetings had been at her instigation. She was both fascinated and repulsed by men like him who had shown themselves ready, even anxious, to kill other human beings. She was never able to get past what she realised was an unprofessional reaction to such men. Of all the hundreds of prison inmates she had interviewed in the last decade, Magnuson was one of the few in whom she saw only evil. She barely admitted it to herself, but she could find no good in him.
In public and in conversation with almost everyone she met, she declared herself to be an opponent of the death penalty. For the courts to make a mistake was always possible, and there was no correcting a wrongful execution. All of that was true, but she nevertheless thought a world without Magnuson would be an improved place. She would not be rejoicing in his death, but she would not be mourning him either.
It was hard for her to admit her reaction to this prisoner, even to herself. She was ashamed that she saw him in those terms. In many lectures and in the best-selling book she had written she declared that there was no such thing as evil, that the word should be scrubbed from the language. According to Beloved’s earlier views, in all human behaviour there was only cause and effect. If you found the cause, the thing we call evil could be counteracted, sometimes even eradicated. Since those days, her views had altered somewhat. She thought she now had reason to believe that some people were born with a greater propensity for evil than the rest of us. She felt strongly that Magnuson was such a person.
But she was not sure enough to talk much about this particular aspect of her views. She hated what she felt when she was in Magnuson’s company. She did not believe any of his excuses for his actions or his claims of innocence. She also did not believe that he was guilty of only one murder. Of the country’s many unsolved killings, she wondered how many he was responsible for.
She had read the court transcript of the Arthur Daniels matter, how Magnuson had killed the officer when he was helpless and unable to defend himself. He had been a good man who was not quick to use his fire arm, but that characteristic had resulted in his death. She had discussed unsolved murders with the investigating officers in which Magnuson was the only suspect, but in none of them were the police able to assemble enough evidence for a guilty verdict. One of the crimes was the killing of an old man who owned a small bakery. The baker had reported to the police that a gang was trying to force him to pay protection money. A day later he was shot dead, from the front in much the same way as Arthur Daniels, the bullet entering near the centre of his forehead. The bullet that killed the old man was later identified as having come from a gun found on Magnuson. It was the prize piece of evidence, but the bullet went missing from the evidence store two days before his trial. The identity of the thief had never been discovered and the gun had not been found.
The jury believed Magnuson was guilty, but without the murder weapon and the bullet fired from it the smallest hint of doubt remained and he was sentenced to a term in prison, instead of death. Eleven years later, while out on parole that had been assisted by the university professor he thought of as a fairy, he went in search of the warden’s daughter, killed Arthur Daniels and was again arrested, and again found guilty of murder. This time he was sentenced to death and moved to death row where Gillian Patterson came upon him and thought she had discovered a sensitive being, a soul mate.
Police that Beloved had spoken to were satisfied with Magnuson’s death sentence for killing Daniels. It was not important that the old baker would not be avenged. After all, Magnuson could only be put to death once.
Both of Magnuson’s killings were personal to Beloved. She had been a regular customer of the old baker and had liked his friendly company. And Arthur Daniels had very briefly been her lover. Most of Beloved’s romantic entanglements were brief, and all ended at her determination, not that of the man partnering her. She had seen Arthur Daniels as a good man, too conventional for her in the long term, but a fine human being who should not have died that way.
Without conscious intention she put aside her revulsion at the thought of Magnuson, hung her suit in her closet and dropped her underwear over the only chair in her bedroom. Her figure, like her face was striking. Her legs were long, the thighs smooth and lean, the knees neat, and the calves narrowing to small ankles and feet. Her stomach was flat and her breasts round, possibly smaller than most, the nipples tending to point upward.
She had a full length mirror which she could have used to admire herself. But tonight, as on every other night, she barely glanced at it. Its function was to prepare a fully clothed Beloved for the impression she was going to make in the day ahead. She replaced the discarded clothing with a silk dressing gown, poured herself a whiskey and sat down in her lounge.
Beloved knew that, after a day in prison, the whiskey was a necessity. For that reason she was careful to ensure that she never, under any circumstances, took a second. She needed the whiskey, but she knew she needed to be the one in charge. There could be just one drink after a day like today, or any other day, or else it could happen that the whiskey might become the one in charge. Her other need was still half an hour away, but that was all right. She was happy to relax while she waited.
The warden had handed her the commission on which she was working for a number of reasons. She was there because of her reputation, because she was not overly expensive, and because she was an outsider who would see things completely afresh. These were all thoughts she had planted in his mind during their first interview and that he now thought originated in himself. The tactic had worked with other prison wardens, always for the same reason. What made her pitch more effective was that much of it was true, an outsider did bring a fresh perspective, she did not charge overly much and she was good, very good. She knew that. It was also true that prison wardens did not often have someone who looked like Beloved on the premises and liked the idea of seeing her every day for a while.
They also liked the effect she had on the inmates. Instead of the excitement that could have been expected, Beloved and her way of speaking and reacting to the inmates had a calming effect. On occasion when she had been alone with an inmate who was considered to be dangerous, anxious guards had afterwards discovered a calmer prisoner who was taking part in the sort of discussion they never thought possible for him. The only unsuccessful prison commission she had ever undertaken was in an all-female institution. Her effect was less marked among female inmates
The warden had explained his reason for wanting her to visit Magnuson. “I hate him and I am not proud of that. I have allowed his case to become personal. Please visit him for me and see if you see any finer quality that I have missed. It would ease my soul.”
It was a strange request. Beloved did not know if the warden’s soul would be eased by the knowledge that they were soon to execute a man in whom some good resided. Perhaps, for personal reasons the old man needed an assurance that this man was as evil as he thought.
The commission on which she had just started working was two-fold. The warden had asked her to assess the inmates to see which would be more amenable to rehabilitation. Given the number of inmates, it was a considerable task. She expected to be busy with it for three months, twelve hours a day, maybe more. He also wanted her to give motivational talks to groups of twenty or thirty of the likeliest inmates to emerge from the interviewing process. Then finally, he wanted her to see if she could find any weaknesses in their system that would open the way for escape attempts.
The warden did not expect any escape attempt from his institution to progress very far. Had he thought there was any serious possibility of anyone getting out he would have called in a security specialist, a man. Like many men, he saw Beloved only as a specialist in the softer skills he wanted practised in his prison. If any of the inmates could be rehabilitated, he wanted to help them to achieve it. He did not expect her to be effective in applying security measures.
He was wrong about that. Beloved had already made an assessment that had not yet been passed on to the warden. She believed the infirmary, where a new doctor was in charge, was the prison’s security weakness. A gate in the back of the infirmary opened into a walkway that led to the kitchen, the purpose of which was to deliver food directly to the infirmary. At the end of the walkway, the door into the kitchen was an ordinary wooden one. Once you passed through it you found yourself faced by a formidable, barred steel gate. But between the door and the gate an extractor fan to remove fumes from the kitchen was mounted into a ceiling that was almost four metres off the floor. But, if you reached the ceiling and got past the fan, you would be in a large air-conditioning duct that led outside and was blocked only by heavy wire mesh. Once the escaper passed that, he would be on the prison’s main driveway. Then the only barrier to freedom then was a three metre high motor gate that anyone could climb. It was guarded by men with rifles on guard towers, but they were not always the most attentive.
Beloved knew all this. She had discovered it on her own tour of the prison, but she had not yet reported it to the warden. What she had not discovered was that Magnuson also knew it.
It was almost eight o’clock by the time she emptied her whiskey glass. The drink had satisfied that need admirably. She felt relaxed and at peace with the world. The phone that linked her to the foyer signalled an incoming call and the security man’s voice. “He’s here. Can I send him up?”
“Please do,” she told him.
Just seconds later she heard the knock on her door. The solution to her other need for the night had arrived. She hoped he would be as satisfactory as the whiskey. “It’s unlocked,” she called out.
The door opened. He looked very young, eager and nervous, the kind she had always found easy to control. He started towards her, but was stopped by a wave of one hand. “Over there,” she said. “Pour yourself a drink.”
He stopped, hesitated, then followed her instruction. She hoped this one was not going to be too young and too nervous.
EIGHT
Ten days to Magnuson’s date
The prison awards dinner took place on the same day every year. For the occasion, the staff on duty was replaced by officers from another prison. “This is the time every year when we are all equals,” the warden told his staff. “Every guard, every officer, professionals, myself. On this evening we are all equal rank, and we are all celebrating our mutual achievements.”
