and was escorted by his marshal transporters to the booking desk.
The lead marshal pulled a folder out of a manila envelope. “We are hereby officially transferring custody to you of Dwayne Thompson, inmate #3694, Durban State Penitentiary,” he told the sergeant in charge. “Sign here.”
The sergeant signed the documents and handed them back. “He’s all yours,” the marshal said.
Dwayne was patiently waiting with his hands outstretched. The other marshal unlocked the shackles from Dwayne’s waist, then the handcuffs. Dwayne stepped out of the pile of metal at his feet, rubbed his wrists to start the circulation going again.
The marshal slipped the cuffs onto his belt loop and scooped the shackles off the floor, cradling them in his arms. “See you in a couple weeks, old son,” he told Dwayne. “Don’t fuck up too bad.”
Dwayne looked at him sideways. The marshals got back on the elevator, and the doors closed behind them.
“You’ve been here before,” the sergeant said to Dwayne as he led him where he would begin to be processed in. It was a statement, not a question.
“Couple times.”
“How long since it’s been?”
“Four years.” And four months, twenty-three days. He knew how much time he had done—to the day, and in which prisons and jails—and how much he had left to do. There was more left to do than had been done already. Not counting the other stretches he’d done over the years.
“Nothing’s changed much,” the sergeant told him. “The roaches are bigger and bolder, is about all.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Do I need to cuff you?” the sergeant asked. “While we’re checking you into our fair establishment?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Then until you give me cause, I won’t.”
“Thanks.”
He stood passively at the counter while a female clerk-deputy made up a housing card for him, copying down his vital information from the transfer papers. They lined him up against the wall and took a Polaroid, stapled the picture to the card. Then the sergeant led him out of the rotunda into a smaller room adjacent to it, where the formal processing took place. A complete set of fingerprints was taken, both in the computer and in traditional ink. If he had just been arrested they would have run the computer prints through the FBI in Washington, but in this case that wasn’t necessary. The ink prints were for their own records. After that, he stripped out of his prison clothes down to his shorts and faced the medical examiner, who was a male nurse. Most of the nurses in the jail were men.
“Healthy set of pictures,” the examiner commented, meaning the tattoos.
Dwayne didn’t reply—it was all bullshit.
They took body Polaroids of him, front and back.
“Any current problems, sickness? Open sores, chronic diseases? You wear glasses, a hearing aid, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Venereal disease. HIV-positive, AIDS, clap, herpes, whatever?”
“Nothing.”
“You aren’t gay, are you?”
If someone on the outside had asked Dwayne that question, Dwayne would have torn the offender’s head off. In here it was SOP, no offense meant. Which didn’t mean he liked being asked. Sexual orientation inside prison had a whole different context than it did in the free world. Dwayne’s criterion was that if he had a choice of fucking a man or fucking a woman, he’d fuck a woman, every time.
If he had a choice.
He was escorted into a small cubicle with a classifications officer. Because of who he was, and what he was here for, Dwayne’s interviewer was a lieutenant, who’d stayed on after his shift had ended earlier in, the evening. The lieutenant leafed through Dwayne’s prison documents. “You’ve been a good enough soldier,” he commented, mildly surprised. “Not many bad marks, considering how much time you’ve done.”
“I stay out of people’s ways, they stay out of mine.”
“Good policy.” The lieutenant picked some dinner crud out
The lead marshal pulled a folder out of a manila envelope. “We are hereby officially transferring custody to you of Dwayne Thompson, inmate #3694, Durban State Penitentiary,” he told the sergeant in charge. “Sign here.”
The sergeant signed the documents and handed them back. “He’s all yours,” the marshal said.
Dwayne was patiently waiting with his hands outstretched. The other marshal unlocked the shackles from Dwayne’s waist, then the handcuffs. Dwayne stepped out of the pile of metal at his feet, rubbed his wrists to start the circulation going again.
The marshal slipped the cuffs onto his belt loop and scooped the shackles off the floor, cradling them in his arms. “See you in a couple weeks, old son,” he told Dwayne. “Don’t fuck up too bad.”
Dwayne looked at him sideways. The marshals got back on the elevator, and the doors closed behind them.
“You’ve been here before,” the sergeant said to Dwayne as he led him where he would begin to be processed in. It was a statement, not a question.
“Couple times.”
“How long since it’s been?”
“Four years.” And four months, twenty-three days. He knew how much time he had done—to the day, and in which prisons and jails—and how much he had left to do. There was more left to do than had been done already. Not counting the other stretches he’d done over the years.
“Nothing’s changed much,” the sergeant told him. “The roaches are bigger and bolder, is about all.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Do I need to cuff you?” the sergeant asked. “While we’re checking you into our fair establishment?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Then until you give me cause, I won’t.”
“Thanks.”
He stood passively at the counter while a female clerk-deputy made up a housing card for him, copying down his vital information from the transfer papers. They lined him up against the wall and took a Polaroid, stapled the picture to the card. Then the sergeant led him out of the rotunda into a smaller room adjacent to it, where the formal processing took place. A complete set of fingerprints was taken, both in the computer and in traditional ink. If he had just been arrested they would have run the computer prints through the FBI in Washington, but in this case that wasn’t necessary. The ink prints were for their own records. After that, he stripped out of his prison clothes down to his shorts and faced the medical examiner, who was a male nurse. Most of the nurses in the jail were men.
“Healthy set of pictures,” the examiner commented, meaning the tattoos.
Dwayne didn’t reply—it was all bullshit.
They took body Polaroids of him, front and back.
“Any current problems, sickness? Open sores, chronic diseases? You wear glasses, a hearing aid, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Venereal disease. HIV-positive, AIDS, clap, herpes, whatever?”
“Nothing.”
“You aren’t gay, are you?”
If someone on the outside had asked Dwayne that question, Dwayne would have torn the offender’s head off. In here it was SOP, no offense meant. Which didn’t mean he liked being asked. Sexual orientation inside prison had a whole different context than it did in the free world. Dwayne’s criterion was that if he had a choice of fucking a man or fucking a woman, he’d fuck a woman, every time.
If he had a choice.
He was escorted into a small cubicle with a classifications officer. Because of who he was, and what he was here for, Dwayne’s interviewer was a lieutenant, who’d stayed on after his shift had ended earlier in, the evening. The lieutenant leafed through Dwayne’s prison documents. “You’ve been a good enough soldier,” he commented, mildly surprised. “Not many bad marks, considering how much time you’ve done.”
“I stay out of people’s ways, they stay out of mine.”
“Good policy.” The lieutenant picked some dinner crud out
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