The Cost of Commitment - KJ2 (29 page)

harm’s way, with state police officers supervising to ensure that none of the reporters gained access to the facility’s grounds. At last report, the number of journalists had tripled, with correspondents from the major networks and CNN being flown in to report live. It would be Kate’s job, every half hour, to walk from the sergeant’s office in B block that would serve as the command post, through the main cell block intersection at Times Square, down the long A block corridor, through the administration building, out the front gate, and across the street to brief the media. There would be at least one period of time during that trip when she could potentially come into contact with inmates.

Kate blinked. She couldn’t worry about that at the moment. She had a job to do, and people’s lives, both civilian and inmate, were on the line.

The inmates, many of whom had radios and access to televisions, would be watching, listening, and evaluating her every word.

She wished again that she had been able to contact Jay before getting on the plane. She felt so alone and out of sorts. She wanted to know that her lover was okay and to have a chance to talk to her about their argument. She couldn’t stand the idea of Jay being mad or disappointed in her.

On impulse, she pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of her briefcase.

Dear Jay,

I know it’s silly to be writing this down, since I’ll probably
talk to you before this could reach you, but it will make me feel
better, so here goes:

First of all, I want to apologize. I’m sorry if I said some things
I shouldn’t have; I’m sorry for raising my voice in my
exasperation; I’m sorry if my words hurt you in any way. I love
you so much, and I ache at the thought of causing you pain.

We both made assumptions, and that was wrong. What we
really needed to do was to sit down and discuss, together, what
we wanted to do about the holiday. I wish I had it to do over
again, baby, because I would be far more forthcoming about what
I had in mind. I wanted to surprise you, but I see now that I went
about that the wrong way.

At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is how much
we love and respect each other, and our willingness to work
through rough spots like this one. I believe we will be made
stronger by the experience and the knowledge we take away from
it.

I love you, Jamison Parker, and I will do whatever you want
on December 25th, as long as I can be with you.

The Cost of Commitment

Kate

She reread the note, then folded it and put it in her pants pocket. On a clean sheet of paper she wrote:

Jay,

I wish with all my heart I could have talked to you before
coming to Attica. I needed to hear your voice, to feel the
reassurance of your love, to know that you would be there when I
got back, and to tell you how much you mean to me.

Unfortunately, I had no way to reach you, so this will have to do.

Before you came into my life, my existence was sterile and
emotionless. You brought joy, happiness, and love into my world
and made me whole. I find myself trying to remember, from time
to time, what I did before you came along, stealing my heart and
soul as you did with little apparent effort. Each time I reach the
same conclusion: whatever I might have valued before pales in
comparison to what I have now.

Thank you, Jay, for being my light and my life. No matter what
else happens, knowing I have you by my side will be enough to
carry me through.

Every time I close my eyes and see your face in my mind, I
know I have come home.

I love you, sweetheart, with every fiber of my being, and I will
until the end of time and beyond.

Kate

She folded the second note and put it together with the first. After a long moment, she closed her eyes, trying to rest and enjoy the peace and quiet for what she figured would be the last time for at least the next few hours.

Jay stepped out of the medicine woman’s truck and brushed the road dust from her khakis. She was tired, having spent the last few days bumping along back roads to remote locations. She had watched, with great interest, parts of ancient rituals and healing ceremonies and spoken with tribal elders and the next generation of leaders. She had gathered almost all the information and done the interviews she needed to write her story, but when the singer had invited her to watch the harvesting of the raw materials for a sand painting, she could hardly turn that down.

After all, it could make a great sidebar to her piece, and it would only delay her return to Albany by one more day.

Lynn Ames

Jay felt a pang of guilt and longing. Over the past several days she’d had plenty of time to think and reflect. She missed Kate so much it was like a physical ache deep in her bones. Her anger over their Christmas discussion had long since dissipated. They would work out the Christmas thing together, as a couple, as it should have been all along. They both bore responsibility for the misunderstanding and would have to work harder at communicating. Jay was committed to making that happen.

Being out of synch with Kate left her feeling out of sorts and incomplete.

Spending time in the presence of the Navajo, a spiritually centered people, had taught her a thing or two about the importance of staying in harmony with her soul. There was no question in her mind that Kate was the very center of her soul, the other half of her heart.

She couldn’t wait to apologize and to share with her lover the valuable lessons she had learned on this trip. She considered picking up the phone, now that she was back where there was phone service. She wanted desperately to talk to Kate but didn’t want to wake her. It was late in New Mexico, and two hours later still in Albany. The next day, when they were both awake and fresh, would be better. On a Sunday morning Kate would most likely be lazing around, reading the newspaper and doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. The vision made Jay smile.

The first thing Kate noticed was the increased number of officers in the wall towers that overlooked each area of the massive facility. The towers were the only places in the prison where correction officers regularly carried guns. She could clearly see the weapons glinting in the moonlight as the officers kept vigil.

The newly arrived group dispersed upon entering the front gate. The members of the CERT team went into the administration building to be briefed by the CERT teams already on-site. The commissioner and the members of his executive team headed for the sergeant’s office on B

block near Times Square, where Redfield had said he wanted to set up a temporary command center. The prison superintendent was waiting for them.

“Commissioner, glad you’re here.”

“Edgar.” Redfield nodded at the paunchy, ruddy-faced man. His hair, what little of it there was, stuck straight up in all directions. He hardly resembled the picture of a prison warden.

“Mr. Garston, Ms. Kyle.” The superintendent acknowledged the deputy commissioner for operations, who was his direct boss, and Kate.

“What’s the situation, Edgar?”

“Here’s where we are right now.” He motioned them to chairs around a small makeshift conference table on which he had spread out a
The Cost of Commitment

schematic of the prison. “There are still 457 inmates in the yards; the numbers on the color-coded tags indicate how many inmates are in each yard. They have burned pretty much everything there is to burn at this point and destroyed all of the officers’ stations. They’re still trying to climb the outside of the blocks, breaking windows and attempting to pass weight bars in through the windows. So far, they haven’t succeeded, but they’re getting closer.”

“What’s happening in Times Square?”

“Nothing at the moment. Earlier they were trying to gain access by busting the window frames, but they seem to have given up on that for now. We still have a sergeant and two officers on the roof of Times Square, along with two CERT team members from the Collins Correctional Facility.”

“Good.” Redfield nodded. “Have all of the towers been reinforced?”

“Yes, sir. CERT team members from each of the four teams have been assigned to specific towers. They are already in place.”

“All right. How are we doing on the blocks? Everyone back in their cells?”

“The keep-lock inmates, who of course haven’t been out of their cells, are getting rambunctious, breaking lights and such. They can hear what’s going on, and the other inmates who are coming back onto the tiers from outside are filling them in. There are some fires in isolated pockets on some of the galleries, but we’ve been able to contain those so far.”

“Have you met with the Inmate Liaison Committee yet?”

“Yes, sir. Three inmate representatives from each of the yards met with me an hour ago.”

“What do they say?”

“They’re convinced that we killed an inmate last night. One of the keep-lock inmates died of natural causes—had a seizure episode and help arrived too late. But they don’t see it that way. They want us to take responsibility for the murder, as they call it, and, of course, they want better living conditions. You know, the usual stuff. More pay for their jobs with reduced hours, better health care, more edible food...”

“What did you tell them?”

“I offered to show them the preliminary autopsy report as soon as it becomes available and told them if they want anything else, they need to get their people under control and back in their cells. If they could do that, we could talk about the other items on their list.”

“What was their response?”

“Go to hell, or something a bit more colorful.”

“I bet. Kate?”

“Yes, sir?” Kate stepped forward.

Lynn Ames

“Time for the first update. I want you to go out there and tell the media as much of the truth as you need to without delving into causes or demands, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep them from speculating wildly and making this worse than it already is, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get moving.”

Kate pivoted on her heel and headed for Times Square and a date with a pack of crazed reporters.
Maybe facing the inmates wouldn’t be so
bad after all,
she mused silently.

At 5:12 a.m. she strode into the rotundalike area that was Times Square, with its putty-colored cement block walls, four steel doors—one leading to each of the cell blocks A through D—and highly polished floor. The surface was littered with broken glass, and through the barred windows, she could see a number of inmates in the yards milling around burning fires, which shot angry fingers of orange and yellow into the sky.

She could hear the pounding of weights against the iron bars that protected the windows and their frames.

She tried to shut out the noise and kept walking, head held high, stride purposeful, nodding to the officer posted inside Times Square who unlocked the door to the A block corridor for her. She made her way down the long corridor to the administration building and knocked on the door. Another officer on the other side of the door viewed her credentials and let her in. He escorted her through the administration building and outside. Along the way, she passed the memorial to the eleven correction officers slain in the 1971 riot and continued across the street to the waiting throng of journalists. The entire trip took less than five minutes, but to Kate it seemed like hours.

“Kate, how bad is it?”

“Kate, is it true that there are hostages?”

“Kate, has anyone been killed yet?”

She held up a hand for quiet, taking a moment to scan the crowd surreptitiously. Two national news reporters from ABC and CBS were present, along with Wanda Nelson from
America’s Heartbeat
and an anchor from CNN. By the red light on one of the cameras and the nearby satellite truck, she knew her press conference was being covered live.

Wendy Ashton was in the second row of reporters, along with print journalists from the
New York Times
, the
Post
, the
Daily News
, the

Buffalo News,
and
Newsday
. Radio stations like WBEN and WBUF in Buffalo were also represented.

The Cost of Commitment

“First of all, let me say that our main concern is for the safety of all individuals involved, both civilian and inmates.” She added the last knowing that television sets on the tiers were no doubt tuned to CNN and interested prisoners were watching.

“There are no reports of any casualties at the moment, and we’d like to keep it that way. Nor are there any hostages that we are aware of. Our count of correction officers, administrative personnel, and others is still underway, but so far there is no reason to believe that there are any hostages in this situation.”

“Who’s unaccounted for?”

“No one is unaccounted for, per se,” she answered, “but you have to recognize that there are folks who leave once their shift is over, and we are running a thorough check to make sure that all third-shift personnel have been accounted for.

“Here’s the situation as it exists right now: There are a number of inmates in each of the four recreation yards who are congregating, burning materials in the centers of the yards, destroying guard stations.

All officers have been safely evacuated from the yards. There are also several small, containable fires burning on several of the galleries—the hallways on some of the tiers inside the blocks.”

“Not to ask a stupid question, Kate, but what’s a tier?”

“Trust me, I’ve heard worse.” She smiled at the young reporter with a microphone flag she recognized as belonging to one of the Buffalo radio stations. “A tier is a unit within a block. There are five blocks in the prison, lettered A through E. Each inmate is assigned to a block, a tier, and a cell on that tier.” She looked at the reporter kindly. “Does that help?”