No Plan B

Chapter 14

Factor in the fittings and fixtures, add on the value of the art that covers the walls, and the Minerva Reception Center in Winson cost more per square foot than any corporate headquarters in the State of Mississippi. That was a sound bite Bruno Hix loved to throw around. Especially to the press. It may even have been true. Hix didn’t care. He wasn’t a detail man. He was all about creating the right impression. Building the center was the first thing Minerva did after it bought the prison and the brief Hix gave the architects was simple: Make sure the place reeks of money.

The Reception Center was near the entrance to the site, on the opposite side from the secure units. The building was a single story high, faced in pale stone, and shaped like a V. Partly so that it would fit in the available space, which was limited. But mainly so that its windows, which were on its inner face only, did not have a view of the cell blocks and exercise yards. Its conference room took up one whole wing. Hix hustled through the maze of fenced-in walkways that crisscrossed the complex the minute the covert meeting in S2’s hub wrapped up but he still failed to get to it on time. When he burst through the double doors, a little pink and out of breath, six faces were already staring back at him. Three on one side of the long alder table. Two on the other. And one all the way at the far end. They were journalists, there to be briefed about the event planned for Friday. Plus whatever else Hix chose to spoon-feed them while they were his captive audience.

Hix waited for Damon Brockman, Minerva’s other co-founder, to take a seat and dismissed the guard who’d been keeping an eye on the visitors. Then he got the ball rolling the way he always did. He stood at the head of the table, stretched out his arms like a TV evangelist, and said, “Tell me the truth. Does this room feel like it’s part of a prison?”

Five of the journalists obediently shook their heads. Only the guy at the far end didn’t respond.

Hix smiled and moved on to some history. His own, and Brockman’s. He talked about how they met three decades ago as rookie wardens at a state facility in Lubbock, Texas. How horrified they had been at the conditions. The lack of resources. The dehumanizing treatment they witnessed. He threw in a little philosophy. Some Foucault. Some Bentham. And he pulled it all together to explain the foundation of Minerva Correctional. Named for the ancient goddess of wisdom and justice, among other things. Committed to seeing inmates for what they were: people. People who had made mistakes, for sure. Who had made bad choices. But who still had potential. Who could make a positive contribution. Who could have a future, given the right kind of environment and support. He described the vocational programs the company ran. The diet and exercise initiatives they had introduced. The proactive health screening they provided at all five of their locations. He backed up his examples with statistics. Some may even have been accurate. He claimed dramatic increases in post-release employment rates. A profound drop in recidivism. And he finished by tying everything back to Friday. The jewel in Minerva’s crown. The sponsored appeal scheme for well-behaved inmates who could credibly claim to be victims of miscarried justice.

Hix paused to give his concluding point some extra emphasis, then rested his palms on the table, leaned forward, and said, “Questions?”

Hix always got asked about a bunch of mundane details. The identity of his investors. Recruitment. Employment practices. Visitation rights. Violence. The presence of gangs. He figured there would be something about the environment and the impact of Minerva’s operations, too. That had become a hot potato of late. And there could be some wild cards. Spicier issues, which may or may not come up, depending on the feistiness of the audience. Issues like the morality of profiting from other people’s incarceration. Whether enough was being done to prevent the sexual abuse of vulnerable inmates. Evidence of racial bias among the guards. Things that required a little more thought and finesse.

Within a quarter of an hour the five journalists sitting close to Hix had ticked all the usual boxes. Hix had tried to make it sound like he had never heard their types of questions before. Like he was interested in them. He gave what he thought would be his final answer and was about to wind the session up when the sixth journalist sprang into life. The one at the far end of the table. He was the youngest of the group. He had a round, plump face, straggly blond hair, and was dressed in faded clothes from an army surplus store. Like a wannabe Che Guevara in need of a hat and a dye job, Hix thought. And some focus. Until that point the guy had shown little interest in anything going on around him. He had shown little sign of being awake.

“The death rate in Minerva’s prisons is shocking,” the guy said. “Why is it so high?”

Hix glanced down at Brockman and paused for a moment. Then he wet his lips and said, “The mortality rate at our centers is not high. What makes you think otherwise?”

Brockman slipped his phone out of his pocket. He held it low down, next to his leg, so no one could see him tap out a message with his thumb.

The Guevara guy said, “I have my sources.”

“Which you can’t reveal?” Hix said.

“Correct.”

Hix smiled. “You’re fishing, aren’t you, my friend? Well, you’re casting your hook in the wrong pond. The health and life expectancy of our inmates is significantly better than at comparable institutions. And that’s not down to chance. Or luck. It’s thanks to our unique, progressive, humanitarian policies. If fate leads you down the unfortunate path to incarceration, a Minerva facility is where you want to end up. There’s no question about that.”

“You’re saying your death rate isn’t sky high?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“You have the data to back it up?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t you publish it?”

“To what end? There’s nothing to see.”

“You should publish it anyway. For transparency.”

“We publish everything we’re required to by state and federal law.”

“Which is a fraction of what state and federal facilities have to publish.”

Hix shrugged. “We don’t make the law. We just comply with it. Scrupulously.”

“You’re using it as a smokescreen. You have a serious drug problem in your jails and you’re trying to hide it. Whenever an inmate overdoses and has to go to the hospital, you pass it off as some kind of preventative measure coming from your so-called humanitarianism. You’ve gotten good at hiding the truth about the ones who recover. But when they die? That’s where the real story is, right?”

“Wrong. Look, can I hand on heart say there won’t be a single drug taken in any of our facilities today? No. We live in the real world. I’m not naïve. But when it comes to drugs, just like everything else, Minerva is streets ahead of every other operator in helping and protecting our inmates. The idea that addicts are dying in droves in our care is ridiculous.”

“Prove it. Show us the data.”

“I–”

There was a hard rap on the door behind Hix and the guard who had been watching the group came back into the room. He said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a phone call for you.”

“Tell whoever it is I’ll call them back. I’m busy here.”

“It’s the governor, sir.”

“Oh. What does he want?”

“He didn’t say. Just that it was urgent.”

“OK. I guess I shouldn’t keep him waiting, then. Could you help these good folks find their way to the exit?”

The guard nodded. “Happy to.”

Hix turned back to the journalists. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to draw a line at this point. Which is a shame because I was really enjoying the debate. My friend at the end of the table, I’ll get you those mortality numbers. Assuming our legal guys give me the green light. We have to be careful about privileged information, SEC regulations, things like that. And I’ll also have a word with one of our inmates. See if he’ll talk to you. When Minerva took this place over the guy had something going on with one of his eyes. Damon and I had seen the same thing with a prisoner years ago, when we were working for a different corrections provider. That company wouldn’t bring in a doctor because of the cost. They didn’t provide insurance. The condition got worse and worse, and long story short the prisoner was left completely blind. The same would have happened to our guy, only we got him proactive treatment. Now he’s an artist. He paints watercolors. Some of them are on display in a gallery in Jackson. He can give you the real scoop on our humanitarian policies. With no dead junkies involved. I guarantee.”

Hix shook each journalist’s hand and when the last one had filed out of the room he flopped down into the seat at the head of the table. “Bad moment, back there. High death rates? That was a little too close to home.”

“Who is that kid?” Brockman said. “I like him. Great way to trace drug deaths. We should try it on those assholes at Curtis Correctional. Dig up some dirt. Hit them right when their contract is up in Kansas.”

“We have more urgent issues. That kid needs to be watched. Twenty-four/seven, until he leaves town.”

“No need. He’s no danger to us. He knows nothing. Like you said, he was fishing.”

“He’s no danger yet. But we can’t have him poking around. Asking questions. Not if he’s looking for drugs.”

“So what if he’s looking for drugs? He won’t find any. None he can connect to us, anyway.”

“You’re missing the point. Drugs don’t appear out of thin air. They have to be smuggled. And we can’t have anyone watching for packages getting taken into the prison. Or more important, out.”

Brockman thought for a moment. “You’re right. Leave it with me. I’ll have the guy watched. And discouraged, if necessary.”

“Good. But this leads us to something else. The guy from Colorado. Who may have looked in the envelope. I had thought it would be safe to wait and see if he showed up in town.”

“He won’t.”

“He might. And if he does, I don’t want there to be any chance of him crossing paths with the journalist kid. Or of us having to deal with the guy and the journalist getting wind of it.”

“You’re worrying over nothing.”

“I’m keeping us safe. And protecting our investment. So we’re going to make a change to the plan.”

“We’re not canceling the ceremony. Or doing it behind closed doors. Don’t listen to Riverdale. That guy…”

“I’m not worried about the publicity. I want it. And it can’t hurt us. Worst case? The guy sees a video or reads a report that has a picture with it. After the event it’s too late for him to make any waves. The danger is if he shows up. Causes a scene in real time. Gets that nosey kid all fired up. So this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to push the cordon farther out. Figure out how the guy might try to get here. He’s homeless, after all. That has to limit his options. So we’ll identify any potential approach routes and post our people at strategic locations.”

“Can’t hurt, I suppose. But I still don’t think he’ll come.”

“Assume he will. The question is, how? He doesn’t have a car. He can’t rent one because he doesn’t have a license.”

“He could steal one.”

“That’s possible. What else?”

“Someone he knows could drive him. Or he could hitch a ride with a stranger.”

“Possible. What else?”

“He could go old school. Take the bus. If he could afford a ticket. There’s a Greyhound station in Jackson. That must be the closest.”

“He could do that, I guess. In a pinch. Time would be tight if he hasn’t already set off. What else?”

Brockman was quiet for a moment. “That’s all I got.”

“OK. So here’s what I need you to do. Put two men on the Greyhound station in Jackson. Have them check every bus that comes in from anywhere west of here. Also put two men at the truck stop on I-20. If the guy tries to hitch a ride, what are the chances of finding one driver going all the way from Colorado to Winson? Zero. He’ll need to get multiple rides. The final pickup would have to be quite a distance away. Everyone knows better than to stop for hitchhikers near a prison. Put two more men at the intersection with US 61, in case he tries his luck there instead. And two more where there’s construction on US 87, halfway from Jackson. In case the guy stole a car or got a ride with a friend. It’s down to one lane, right there. And it’s slow. Easy to see who’s driving. Or being driven.”

“That’s a lot of manpower.”

“There’s a lot at stake.”

“What about the prison? And Angela’s house? Do we still watch them?”

“Of course. There’s no guarantee the guy won’t slip through.”

“That’s even more manpower.”

“We don’t have a choice. Pull a couple of guards out of each unit. Minerva people only. No legacy grunts. Cancel days off and double enough other shifts to pick up the slack. And find the biggest man we’ve got. Hold him in reserve. The idiots we sent to Colorado as well. If anyone calls in a sighting have them check it. If the ID is positive, dispatch them. Make sure the guy is properly neutralized this time.”

“If they get there fast enough. And if our guys spot him. They’re going to be stretched pretty thin.”

“I have an idea about that. Some insurance, in case he does somehow get through. Something that’ll throw him off the scent. I’ll take care of it while you handle the other logistics.”

“Understood. And I’ll tell Moseley to send out extra patrols. And make sure all his units have this Reacher guy’s description.”

“OK. But I want the cops on a watching brief only. We need to handle this ourselves. No official record. And, Damon? Double-check everything. Triple-check it. Make sure everyone is at the top of their game. You know what will happen if anything gets screwed up on Friday.”