Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (40 page)

What if it could’ve been explained away under the veil of interrogation tactics, the “getting into the perps head” kind of stuff?

What if the reports would’ve focused more on the killer instead of me, the man trying to solve the case?

What if Joshua would’ve been found not guilty, so I could kill him myself?

A new text comes in. Chelsea: Please call. Miss you much. I Love You. Do not let this ruin you

But what she, and even Cools himself, is unaware of is that he’s been looking for something to ruin him for a long time. And it is simply the subconscious, natural course for him to assume modest personal responsibility for his actions. Knowing it or not, he directs all of the blame toward his archenemy.

He starts the car, and the news comes on, stating, “Appeals have been filed concerning the Joshua Siconolfi case. And tomorrow he’ll be transported to the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, home to Gary Leon Ridgway (the Green River Killer) and David Lewis Rice, who in 1985 brutally murdered civil rights attorney Charles Goldmark, his wife Annie Goldmark, and two sons. Also some other infamous men that he’ll be living with include Indle G. King Jr. (the Russian-Mail-Order-Bride Killer), who murdered twenty-year-old Anastasia King, Christopher Merrill (the Night Prowler), and Dietfried Eiffel, the German-born pediatrician who in 1977 poisoned his Halloween candy with a homemade concoction of insecticides and cyanide, killing nine trick-or-treaters and sending dozens more to the emergency room. A side note is that while Eiffel is currently serving nine life sentences, he’s also attempting to publish his volumes of nursery rhymes, a real
bleeping
sicko, absolutely undeserving of a politically correct psychological diagnosis!”

Good. I hope they become cellmates.

Cools listens to as much as he can withstand before turning it off. Then heads for his apartment, so he can grab a quick shower—he wants to look his best for his official firing. Other than that he could care less. About the only thing keeping him going at this point in his life is the far-off hope that William will win the appeal of the century, a theory he’s given much consideration to over the last few days. And within this fantasy, Joshua will be released back to the streets, allowing Cools the opportunity to go down in history as the Lone Wolf of Justice.

.

Chapter Sixty-One

T
he prison bus, powered by a roaring diesel engine, labors hard as it crests the Blue Mountains. From there the small community of Walla Walla can be seen sleeping in the valley below. For Joshua, anxiety mounts after each passing mile; his thoughts are overrun by what lurks behind those walls. Soon the vehicle turns off the highway, then slows to a crawl, and cautiously begins navigating through a series of guarded gates. Its passengers, who are growing restless, are those who have affronted or injured humanity so much so that they’ve been elected to be removed from the world for lengthy periods of time, if not for the rest of their lives. For most it is their deserved consequence. And their journey to this place is nearing its end.

Final destination.

Sitting on the cramped metal seat, Joshua peeks out the slated window at the massive size of the old, brick building that supports lofty gun towers at every corner. Anticipation and fear swirls in his stomach as glimpses of being stabbed or being forced to stab others race through his thoughts. Trying not to think of such things, he averts his attention to the shackles that are cutting into his wrists and ankles, wondering of the man who bled on them beforehand and listening to conversations relating to the history of the penal complex itself.

Three seats back, an African American (a Crip) shares everything he knows for all to hear. Joshua turns briefly to catch a look. He’s in his midfifties, with leathery skin covered in facial tattoos. However, his eyes hold truth, knowledge, and the fact that this isn’t his first visit here. And seated next to him is a younger recruit, who will in short manner also grow to become a Crip and wear the same symbolic artwork.

The prison’s history is told.

“Washington State Penitentiary used to be the old territorial prison, set here because of its geographical location. Basically we’re in the middle of a desert. This place is known for two things: its famous Walla Walla sweet onions and the endgame for some of the most notorious criminals in the country. You’ll see many walking the yard that you’ve heard of or read about previously. It originally opened for business shortly after the Civil War. Then in the 1920s, they built a license plate factory, which continues to operate to this day, producing more than two and a half million plates each year.” The articulate and seemingly friendly black man pats his apprentice on the leg. “WSP is also known as the Walls, the very location where the executions of death-row inmates are carried out. Two methods are offered. The newest, and the one typically requested, is lethal injection, but still the option of hanging exists. One interesting case was that of Mitchell Rupe who, at the time in 1994, only had the choice of hanging and had his death-penalty overturned on the grounds that it was considered inhumane to hang him due to his obesity, since, being over four hundred pounds, he would’ve been decapitated during implementation.”

The youth listens intently as his teacher raises his voice.

“Pay close attention to my words! Most men
will
die here, either by the hands of another inmate or the gunfire from the guards’ M-16 assault rifles. In many cases, men with relatively short sentences, five to ten years, will end up with more charges during their stay—this is the personification of the Walls. Reality is what it is, my brother. Even the address itself leaves all black men who enter without hope: 1313 N. 13th Ave., Walla Walla, WA. This is the white man’s ultimate oppression.”

“Hey! Watch your mouth, nigger!” A snarling white guy from the rear yells. Right away the back and forth erupts, rage mounting with each bigoted phrase.

“Fuck you, cracker!”

“You’re dead, nigger!”

“Home sweet home, huh,
ese
?” says a Latino a few rows ahead, as many stretch to the end of their chains to get to each other.

“I’ll make you my bitch!”

“I’m going to cut you!”

“See you in the yard, punk!”

Joshua joins in, defending his kind. And although it’s somewhat feeble, he’s noticed by others—including the skinny man he’s shackled to.

Then the armed guard, standing behind the protective barrier at the front of the bus, hammers the butt of his shotgun on the sheet-metal-lined cab. The sound rings throughout the fuselage. “Settle down, savages, or I will use the other end of my weapon! Settle down now!”

His threat brings an unexpected obedience, and the chaos slows to a halt as quickly as it began. At this very instant, Joshua realizes he might have more to fear from the guards than the inmates.

The bus pulls through the final gateway with only muted mumblings. And then the hard-edged, bony man that Joshua is chained to studies him through narrowing eyes and asks, “Is this your first time?”

“Yeah, it is,” he replies, welcoming the conversation and wanting of some experienced advice.

The man says nothing for ten seconds or so. He just stares, reading his face. Then he asks, “You’re Joshua…something—the Sickness, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he answers, amid disapproval for the label, adding, “but I didn’t do it. I’m working on my appeal.”

“No one cares whether you did or not, so if I were you, I’d just keep that to yourself.” Then he leans in closer, locks eyes, and embarks on a series of questions.

“Will you be having money sent in?”

“Well, yeah…. of course, my family is wealthy.”

“Good…that’s real good.” Joshua can see his stock go up in his questioner’s gaze. “Are you a snitch?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Good…and it better be true. And what if someone disrespects you—will you fight?”

“If I have to, I will.”

“You
always
have to,” the man counters. He allows the statement to sink in and then asks ever so bluntly, “And do you hate niggers, Jews, and spics?”

Joshua, knowing that this was going to come up sooner or later, responds without delay and convincingly, “Yeah, can’t fucking stand any of them.”

His response is scrutinized for a long moment. “You…” The man shakes his head. “You don’t seem to me to be the maniac they say you are.”

“Uh…well,” he stutters, void of any real answer, also realizing others are listening in on their little chat and that his reputation is at stake.

Then suddenly the bus comes to its final stop, diverting the attention of everyone on the bus—all except his strange inquisitor, who coarsely states his rules. “My name is Spider,” he says, “and I will tell you this one time, and one time only. If everything you just told me is one hundred percent on the money, I can help you on the inside.” Spider shakes his head with cutting eyes. “But if you’re not one hundred percent on the money, then you would do best to never speak to me or even glance in my direction. Understand?”

“I’m sure we will speak again,” Joshua replies shortly. Then his gut wrenches from the screech of the locks as they are taken off of the metal doors. There’s no escape; this is the moment of entrance into a new world, where survival through violence and constant warfare is commonplace. He is about to enter one of the most dangerous prisons in North America.

The Walls. The Walls of Hell.

“Okay, listen up, convicts! You will exit this transport as instructed. You will follow our orders without question. If we have any problems, you will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. If you do not understand this, you’re going to have a hard time here. I am not here to teach you. I am here to control you. So get off my transport, convicts, and try not to get yourselves shot.”

Shackled in twos they exit the bus. Joshua and Spider work well as a team, stepping carefully so as not to pull on each other’s chains. And soon they’re standing out in the open, where instantly the hot desert heat hits them. They stand still, watching the others. Angry black men, ugly white guys, tattooed Hispanics—hard-broiled creatures from every ethnicity, all with one thing in common: a diminished value of life. A quick look at the horde tells Joshua to wear an agitated, pissed-off face—an appearance he finds easy to emulate, since this is how he has felt most of his life. All he really needs to do now is concentrate on shrouding his sheer terror.

They’re corralled through the thick metal doors of the west wall that has a rusted “Inmate Entry” sign hanging above. Joshua turns against his restraints to catch one last glimpse of what is being left behind. A parking lot full of cars, sparse trees in the desert landscape, a woman wearing a dress, homes and businesses in the valley below—all sights he may never see again.

As he crosses the threshold, a guard whispers, “The Sickness, huh?” It’s beginning to be clear; this is going to be his new name.

Then another guard, with red hair and a beer belly, yells, “You two, stand against the wall and face forward!” He and Spider comply, and before long, their cuffs and shackles are removed. It is a relief to have them off, like when blistered feet are slipped out of sweaty roller skates. But their moment of ease is shortlived since they are next instructed to strip for search.

“Lift your ball sack.”

“Separate your penis from your scrotum.”

“Bend and spread your cheeks.”

And so on. All with the prying eyes of creepy prisoners suspiciously watching. Joshua tries not to link himself to their conduct, but human nature is curious. He catches sight of Spider’s tattoo. His entire back and shoulder blades depict one giant spiderweb. And when he turns, Joshua sees that he has two lightning bolts down his chest and “White Power” across his abdomen. Spider catches him observing his art and states, “The Aryan Brotherhood will be your only salvation, Sickness.”

“Keep quiet, convict!”

Then the guard shoves Joshua into an adjoining room, where he’s given clothes, bedding, the official rules, and taken inside the prison. It’s bigger than he’d imagined it to be. The cellblocks ascend four stories high, containing seventeen iron-barred cells on each level, the openness of which presents the sounds of loud radios, fighting, and the deafening screaming of bored and caged testosterone. Soon he will learn the noise is never ending. What’s more, the air is filled with the smoke of contraband—cigarettes, marijuana, even the burnt plastic of soda bottles as they are melted and reshaped into weapons that can pass through the metal detectors, Wall shanks.

Then they stop in front of his cell. It’s smaller than he imagined it to be. It is eight feet by ten feet, the minimum required by law to accommodate four men to live out their lives, furnished with nothing more than a toilet, a sink, one small writing table, two sets of bunk beds, and three curious-looking strangers.

Into the late hours, he gets to know a little of his new cellmates and is made aware of the real rules. Then he lies on the top bunk, thinking to himself that he must either become accustomed to this anxiety-fed environment or find a way to break out of it.