FCI Sheridan
Inmate Miller step forward
Joel was staring down at the spare khaki prison jumpsuit in his hands, his teeth grinding against each other as he seethed with anger.
He shouldn’t be here; he kept screaming to himself in his mind.
Elara Swan was an accident; it was her fault for coming to his place. She knew what was in store for her.
And all those fuckers on the rafts should have followed him. If he could paddle away, they all could have as well. How the hell was he to know they were still alive? The fucking sharks could have punctured their rafts and they could have died. How was he supposed to know? It was all their fault.
Xander entered his mind, and Joel felt a moment of fear as he remembered him chopping off his finger… then the cold stare he gave him as he so casually pulled the trigger of the machine gun. “It’s all his fault,” he seethed quietly.
“What you say, man?” came a voice from next to him.
Joel looked up at the man seated next to him and immediately noticed the tattoo of a spider web on his neck. “Nothing,” he muttered back.
“Hey?” the man whispered. “What you in for?”
Joel glanced up and, after a long moment, replied, “Murder. You?”
The man looked him up and down, then began chuckling in disbelief.
“You don’t watch the news much, do you? Seven counts,” Joel sneered.
“Hey, I know you now, man. You that movie guy!” the inmate replied.
A guard stepped up to them. “The sign says no talking. Shut up until your name is called.”
Both Joel and his fellow inmate shut their mouths.
Joel’s mind drifted back to his anger-filled thoughts.
That bitch, Halo… his teeth ground down hard at her memory.
She made a mockery of him in front of the world.
He should have just killed her right then and there when he had her at her house.
No, he should have done something better!
He should have had that asshole Xander, JJ, and Athena killed right in front of her, one by one as she pleaded helplessly for their lives.
Yeah! He grinned to himself at his fantasy.
Simo and the rest of his fuckers, too… and that fucker, Alabama, too.
If it wasn’t for them, he would be in Morocco right now soaking up the sun. It’s all their fucking fault...
“INMATE, MILLER! Joel, Kirby.”
Joel looked up, then stood and walked to the desk and the intake guard.
“Miller?”
“Yes,” Joel replied.
“Sit there. Here is your inmate handbook and identification card. Keep the card on you at all times. Read the handbook and understand it. If you have any questions, refer them to your unit leader.”
Joel nodded. “What about my commissary account being transferred up from California?”
“What about it, Inmate Miller?”
“When will it be transferred?”
The guard irritably looked back at Joel, then began typing on his computer terminal. “Not transferred yet. It can take up to thirty days. If you don’t have it by then, talk to your unit leader and he get you the proper forms.”
Joel jumped up, knocking the chair back. “You mean my account doesn’t have anything in it?” Joel asked, raising his voice.
“Inmate Miller!” the guard replied harshly. “You best adopt a better tone, like right now, and sit back down!”
“But that’s my money!” Joel angrily replied.
Next thing he knew, two guards were standing right next to him, ready to pounce. He regarded them both and quietly sat back down. “Sorry,” he grumbled.
The intake guard, without pause or care, began firing questions at him. “Have you ever or are you currently considering suicide?”
“No.”
“Which gender do you identify with?”
“What? Oh, male.”
The questions went on for several minutes, then the basic rules of conduct were explained, as well as points accrued for good behavior being applied toward his sentence.
It finally hit him at how old he would be when he could get a chance, if he was a model inmate, to get a parole hearing… age sixty-five.
Joel stood in the doorway of his cell when a voice behind him startled him. “So, what do I call you?”
“Uh… Joel, Joel Miller. And you are?”
“Just call me Randolph.” The man pushed past him and stabbed his finger at the lower bunk. “You get the lower bunk, and I sure as hell hope you don’t snore.”
Joel sighed and held up his pile of clothes.
“Your stuff goes in that locker there, and stay out of mine.”
Joel nodded, opened his locker, and placed his belongings away. He turned to see Randolph looking him up and down. “What?”
“So, why are you in the special segregation unit? You molest some kids or are you gay… is that it? I know, you have short eyes, right? You like to fuck kids.”
“Fuck no! What are YOU in for?”
“Was a cop once. They said I took money out of evidence… they said it was from a federal seizure. Federal crime.”
“Did you?”
“Hell no.” He laughed. “So, if you aren’t some child molester, you gotta be in for some white-collar crimes. Bank fraud?”
“No. Murder…”
“Bullshit!” Randolph laughed.
“Seven counts.” Joel glared at the man.
The man smiled. “You do it?”
“It was an accident, wasn’t my fucking fault,” Joel angrily shot back.
“Never is, is it?” The man started laughing. “Miller, I’m just messing with you; I know who you are. I also heard about that sexy little number, Halo Raines, dropping your ass onto that stage in front of all those cameras.”
Joel began to turn red with anger. “I wasn’t fucking ready!” he sneered.
“Hey, whatever.” Then Randolph pointed his finger at Joel’s face. “You just remember to stay out of my shit, don’t snore, and don’t jack off all over my shit and we’ll be fine. Otherwise…” He winked. “There are worse assholes to be roomed with.”
“Fine,” Joel shot back and sat down hard on his bunk, fuming at the world; praying for the chance to get back at Halo and that fucker, Xander.