16. Standard Protocol
Chapter sixteen
Standard Protocol
— Warren —
Idragged the soaked mop across the concrete floor of the tier.
The sting of industrial bleach burned my nostrils.
My lower back throbbed with a dull ache.
I pressed my weight into the rough wooden handle just to keep my knees from buckling under the strain.
A year of this physical labor had ruined my posture and callused my palms.
“Just get the grime up,” I muttered to myself, shoving the wet strings over a scuff mark.
The oversized orange jumpsuit scratched against my shoulders with every movement.
It offered zero insulation against the drafts sweeping down the corridor.
I hauled the mop back toward the cart and plunged it into the bucket.
I yanked the lever on the wringer. Dirty water sloshed over the rim and splashed onto my canvas shoes.
Nearby, a pair of thick rubber boots squeaked against the polished concrete.
I let go of the metal wringer and wiped my raw hands against my thighs.
A correctional officer marched down the center walkway, holding a clipboard against his chest. The brass keys swayed at his hip. This was my window of opportunity.
I needed an administrative detail. The constant threat of violence from the other men kept me awake every single night.
I abandoned the cleaning cart and stepped forward.
I stopped inches behind the faded yellow line painted on the floor.
I rolled my shoulders back, slipping into the authoritative posture I used to rely on in the corporate world.
I raised my chin and smoothed the front of the orange fabric. I forced my face into a polite, professional smile. He wasn’t a guard; he was just another mid-level manager waiting to be leveraged. I needed one supervisor to recognize my actual value.
“Excuse me, Officer,” I called out, pitching my voice to carry over the ambient clatter of the cell block. “I was hoping we could discuss my current work assignment. I have a corporate background that would be useful in the library.”
The guard did not break his stride. He kept his eyes fixed forward, refusing to even look at my face.
“Back behind the yellow line, inmate,” the officer said, his tone completely flat. “Put your request on a slip like everybody else.”
I held my hands up, palms facing outward. I refused to let the rejection stand. I needed to pivot the negotiation before he walked past my cell.
“I understand the standard protocol, sir,” I said, keeping my tone even and deferential. “I just thought a man of your obvious authority could appreciate someone who wants to make the facility run smoother.”
I stood at the yellow line, flashing my most polished smile, waiting for the pitch to finally land.
The officer barely slowed his pace. He sidestepped a puddle of dirty bleach water near my cleaning cart, keeping his black boots pristine.
He glanced at my open palms hovering in the air.
The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, highlighting every sharp edge of his pressed uniform.
He carried himself with the casual indifference of a man who ran the block.
“Keep your hands down,” the officer ordered.
I slowly lowered my arms, forcing myself to swallow the humiliation. I stared at the heavy ring of keys resting on his belt.
I had delivered the pitch seamlessly, channeling the smooth confidence that used to close million-dollar board meetings. I wasn’t begging; I was offering him a mutually beneficial deal.
He treated me like a nuisance. The officer finally stopped just outside the reach of my mop bucket. He looked me up and down, his eyes tracing the faded black digits stamped across my chest.
“You don’t have a corporate background anymore, Davenport. You’re just another number in an orange suit.”
He did not see the executive status or the vast bank accounts I used to control.
He did not care about my acting background, my tailored suits, or my curated charm.
He only saw the flimsy canvas shoes on my feet and the grime under my fingernails.
I was a man who scrubbed floors for thirty cents an hour. Just another number.
I reached backward, blindly grabbing the mop handle sticking out of the metal wringer. I gripped the rough wood with both hands to steady myself.
I needed this administrative job to survive the decade ahead. I needed a desk away from the violent men housed on this open block. I squeezed the mop handle harder and straightened my spine. I wasn’t going to let a minimum-wage guard dismiss me.
“I am simply trying to have a civilized conversation about my utility to this prison.”
The officer pulled a pen from his breast pocket and tapped it against his clipboard. The hollow click echoed down the empty corridor.
“Your utility is scrubbing toilets until your sentence is up. Now step back to your cell before I write you up for loitering.”
The officer turned his back on me without waiting for a response.
His heavy footsteps thudded against the wet concrete as he resumed his patrol.
Up on the second tier, a metal cup rattled against steel bars, the noise ringing down the massive block.
I wanted to step over the painted boundary and demand his attention.
I wanted to explain that I was better than the men caged around me.
I forced my feet to stay planted behind the painted line. A write-up meant a transfer to solitary confinement, a concrete box with no windows and twenty-three hours a day of isolation. I could not survive that.
I stood frozen behind the yellow paint, clutching the mop handle as his footsteps faded down the corridor.
I released my grip on the splintered wood. The tool clattered against the side of the metal wringer. I stepped backward, dragging my canvas shoes over the faded line painted on the concrete. I retreated through the narrow steel frame of my cell just as the automated system cycled.
The heavy electronic door slid shut along its track. The steel engaged with a metallic clack.
“Just a number,” I whispered to the empty tier.
I turned away from the bars. The cell offered exactly three paces of space. The lingering smell of industrial bleach followed me inside, mingling with the stale odor of unwashed laundry. I crossed the cramped space and collapsed onto the thin, lumpy cot bolted to the floor.
The cheap mattress provided zero support. My weight pressed directly into the solid steel pan underneath.
I drew my knees tight to my chest and flattened my back against the cinderblock wall. The freezing chill of the concrete seeped through the thin fabric of my uniform.
“You signed a continuous audio release form,” Juniper had told me on that stage.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hating how easily I could still hear her voice in that conservatory.
She had outplayed me. I had controlled millions of dollars and the perfect cover story, and I threw it all away because I underestimated a pregnant woman.
I thought I was untouchable, but I handed her the exact evidence she needed to destroy me.
I opened my eyes. The gray cinderblock wall loomed inches from my face.
My tailored suits, my millions, and my practiced charm were dead. The guard’s sheer apathy proved it. The fortune I plotted to steal meant nothing inside this cage.
I held zero leverage. I had no hidden bank accounts to bribe my way onto a safer tier. I was invisible to the system.
“Decades,” I mumbled into the collar of my jumpsuit.
I would spend every single night for the next thirty years waking up to the sounds of men screaming down the corridor.
I would spend every day scrubbing their filth off the floors.
I curled into a tight ball on the miserable cot, knowing I would spend the rest of my life rotting at the bottom of the food chain.
— Naomi —
I sat in the molded plastic chair of the visitation booth.
The harsh overhead lighting hummed endlessly, casting a sickly glare across the sterile room.
I stared through the thick plexiglass divider separating me from the outside world.
Greasy fingerprints smeared the clear surface.
On the other side, my defense attorney dropped his leather briefcase out of sight.
I picked up the heavy plastic intercom receiver and pressed it against my ear. Static crackled over the line.
I caught my reflection in the glass. I hated the drab, oversized prison uniform hanging off my shoulders. My hair was tied back in a messy knot. Without my expensive makeup, the lighting washed me out completely. I looked exactly like the rest of the desperate women sitting in this room.
My lawyer unlatched his briefcase. He looked terrible. His tie was loosened, and deep shadows bruised the skin under his eyes.
“You look exhausted,” I told him through the receiver. “But I didn’t hire you to sleep. Did you file the paperwork?”
He exhaled slowly. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and rummaged through his files.
“The warden rejected my request for a private consultation room,” he said over the line. “We have to do this out here in the main visitation hall.”
“Then you need to try harder,” I said, glaring at the smudged barrier between us. “I am not conducting a custody battle while sitting next to thieves. I instructed you to get me transferred to the medical wing.”
He paused, his hands hovering over his open bag. He pulled out a thick manila folder and set it on the metal counter dividing our booths. He did not offer an apology. He did not scramble to assure me he would fix the housing issue.
“Sit back, Naomi,” he said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “We need to go over these documents.”
I bristled at his tone. He spoke to me with the flat, drained demeanor of a public defender managing a lost cause.
He forgot who he was dealing with. I was the one paying his exorbitant retainer fees with the remnants of my savings.
I leaned forward instead, resting my elbows on the metal shelf beneath the window.