Cold Frame

FIFTEEN

It took three hours to get down to the federal prison complex at Petersburg, Virginia. Av was taken to something called Annex Fourteen, which appeared to be a low-security installation within the outer perimeter of the higher security complex. It was almost midnight by the time he was processed in. The guards who did the in-processing didn’t look to Av like the typical corrections officers he was used to seeing. These guys appeared to be fit, young, with buzz-cut haircuts and a military air about them. They were surprisingly polite, always referring to Av as Sergeant Smith. They had him fill out some forms, undergo a more detailed body search, swap his clothes for an orange jumpsuit that actually fit, see a medical technician to answer questions about any medications he was taking or any other medical issues they might need to know about.

Then they escorted him to an office where he was turned over to an older but still military-looking guard, who greeted him politely and told him where to sit. He introduced himself as Master Sergeant Lawson and offered Av a cup of coffee. Av accepted, somewhat confused by the admissions process. He noticed the man had a globe and anchor tattoo on his upper right arm with the motto Semper Fi underneath, just like the one Av had.

“This is not a jail,” the master sergeant said. “This is a holding facility. I don’t know why the Bureau wants you held and I don’t need to know. But I do need to fill you in on how things work here.”

“I’m a homicide detective assigned to the Interagency Liaison Bureau of the Metro PD in Washington,” Av said. “And I don’t know why the Bureau wants me held, either. So I guess we’re even. And, yeah, I’d appreciate any gouge.”

The master sergeant smiled at the term “gouge.” “Saw your ball and crow. Where’d you serve?”

“PacFleet,” Av said. “Nothing exciting. Missed Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“Good timing,” the master sergeant said. “You familiar with the story of Uncle Remus?” he asked.

Av laughed. “Lemme guess: as in, tarbaby?”

“As in tarbaby,” the master sergeant said, nodding. “You have managed to grab, and with both hands apparently, the federal counterterrorism tarbaby known as person of interest. That’s what your form says, anyway.”

“That form signed by a guy named Tyree Miller, in the Bureau’s Professional Standards Division?”

The master sergeant glanced down at the form. “No,” he said. “The form signed by Assistant Director William Edrington, who runs the counterterrorism division of the Effa-B-Eye. Assistant director — that’s pretty high up. Wait — yeah, Miller signed before Edrington. So who’s Tyree Miller?”

Av blinked. He didn’t know what to say. The sergeant saw his confused expression.

“Look, it’s late. One of the guards will take you to your room. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. But first, I need to tell you what the important rules are, what you can do, what you cannot do, where you can go, all that good shit.”

“Room?” Av asked.

“Yeah, room. This is the Petersburg Federal Correctional ‘campus.’ Don’t you love that — campus? Anyway, there’s everything here from a Camp Fed for white-collar crooks like Bernie Madoff, to a supermax annex for some Hannibal the Cannibal wannabes. After nine-eleven, the government, in its federal wisdom, foresaw the need for a facility where they could detain people who were not yet convicted of any crime, but who were simply ‘of interest’ to some federal LE outfit, somewhere. Like you.”

“Without a whole lot of regard for the Constitution, either.”

“Ah, the Constitution. Not much in vogue these days, is it. Anyway, they had one of the motel chains come down here and build one of their motels right here on the ‘campus.’ Your room is a typical nonsmoking motel room. No sexually deprived roommates, a private bath, television, small refrigerator, windows, curtains, air-conditioning, and heat — the standard-issue cheap motel room. There’s a dining room, which is open from 0630 to 1930 daily. It’s catered by one of those geezer-heaven cafeterias downtown. You can go to meals or not as you please. They only ask that you tell them in the morning whether or not you’re coming for lunch and dinner. There’s no reveille. You can sleep in every day except Saturday, which is field day. You remember field day, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Field day here means everyone’s up at 0730 and ready to clean their rooms. Otherwise, there’s a library room, a weight room, even a small indoor lap pool. You can use what you want, when you want. If you’re a smoker, there’s a smoking area out behind the building. You a runner?”

“I’m not sure,” Av said.

The master sergeant laughed. “Yeah, I guess that can be taken two ways. No, I mean a regular runner, because if you are, you can run with the guard force. They go out every day except Sundays at 0630, rain or shine. Otherwise, like I said, your day is your own. You have to be in your room by 1930 every evening, but you will not be locked in. All exterior doors except mine open to an electrified fence, so, really, there’s nowhere to go, thus no need for you to be locked in.

“Now,” he said, pausing for emphasis. “There’s one hard-and-fast rule, and it’s kinda the price of all this easy living while you’re in federal custody: you may not speak to any of the other detainees. You can speak to the guards all you want, and they may or may not reply. You can speak to the service staff. But. You. May. Not. Speak. To. Any. Detainee. Is that clear?”

“I guess it is.”

“No, no, I need to know that I’ve made myself clear. Because if you do speak to any other detainee, your living accommodations will change in a heartbeat and not for the better. Trust me on that, okay? Think of yourself as a Benedictine. You will observe the Rule of Silence, and that includes signing, wall-tapping after hours, eyelid-blinking, note-passing — you name it, we know about it. You will be under audio and video surveillance at all times in this facility, even in your own room, even in the head — there are no women here, so that’s not a problem. It’s kinda like the Garden of Eden, Sergeant: God only gave ’em one rule: don’t touch the fucking apple tree. Look what happened. So: do not communicate with any other detainee. Not good morning, good night, or go to hell. Nothing, got it?”

“Got it,” Av said. “How about calls or visitors?”

“No calls out; no calls in,” the master sergeant said. “No Internet access, either. The only visitors you can expect will be LE.”

“How long will I be here?”

“Beats me, Sergeant Smith. Your detention order says indefinite. The record is three years and two months, but that was an unusual case, I’m told. Some detainees are retrieved and taken somewhere else for questioning. They either come back or they don’t. Some have gone overseas, for reasons I don’t want to know about. The population right now is forty-two. You’ll make forty-three. Okay — that’s enough for tonight. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

Once in his assigned room Av took a quick tour and then a shower. There was a laundry basket on the bed with clean towels, military-issue underwear, socks, and a second jumpsuit. He’d been wearing sneakers when they picked him up. At the initial in-briefing, he’d been fitted with a pair of desert boots and given a military-style baseball cap. His name had been stenciled on all the linens and both his jumpsuits. They were efficient, he thought.

Or, he realized, they’d known he was coming. How was that possible?

WTF.

He began to wonder if Tyree Miller had been right: Was he being used? And, if so, for what? And the overarching question of the day: by whom?

His marine training took over. When in doubt, get some sleep. He decided to turn in.