The Enemy Inside

FORTY-EIGHT

The US Federal Penitentiary, Maximum Administrative Facility (ADX), goes by several names: Florence ADMAX, Supermax, and the Alcatraz of the Rockies.

It’s actually situated to the east of the Rocky Mountains on the downward slope in a ragged area leading to the Great Plains, dry and desolate, middle of nowhere.

It is there for a reason. It houses the most dangerous inmates in the federal prison system, people notorious for violence. Its occupants include members of the Mexican drug cartels, Islamic terrorists, and inmates who habitually cause problems in other institutions. Some of them are notorious escape artists.

Tonight I am doing research, working from home, looking for anything I can find on the Florence, Colorado, facility. I am also searching for background on Betz and his case. Harry has pulled everything he can find on the trial and is trying to locate a copy of the transcript.

Fremont County, where the town of Florence is situated, sits about one hundred miles from Denver and about forty miles south of Colorado Springs and the US Air Force Academy. Mostly rural, sparse grasslands, rolling hills and desert, it has a population of a little over forty-seven thousand people.

But in the fifteen hundred square miles that comprise the county there are thirteen prisons, including state, local, and federal correctional facilities. These house almost nine thousand inmates.

The people at ADX, the federal Supermax, are a veritable rogue’s gallery. Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, is there, as is Richard Reid, the Shoe Bomber. Terry Nichols, who was convicted in the Oklahoma City bombing, is also incarcerated there. Ramzi Yousef, who was involved in the first World Trade Center bombing, and Robert Hanssen, the FBI agent turned Russian spy, are doing fifteen consecutive life sentences at Florence. In all, there is room for 490 prisoners. Nowhere on the Internet is the name Rubin Betz listed. He languishes below the radar, perhaps by government design.

On first blush I would say that housing Betz at Supermax is itself an act of cruel and unusual punishment. You would think it is also highly dangerous, given the informational powder keg he is sitting on.

According to what I’m reading, inmates at Florence generally serve solitary time, one man to a cell. They spend twenty-three hours a day locked up. They are allowed out for five hours every week for private recreational activity.

Each cell boasts poured concrete amenities: a fixed bed, a fixed concrete stool in front of a fixed concrete desk. The commode includes a basin and drinking fountain all built into one, and there is a built-in concrete shower. All of the water to the cells is on a timer so that inmates can’t flood the cubicles. A tiny opening the size of an arrow slit is the only window.

For entertainment they have a small black-and-white television that shows only educational and religious programs. According to one article, inmates do not know the location of their cell with reference to other parts of the institution. I can only assume this means that perhaps they are hooded and disoriented when they are being moved. They are also ankle and waist chained when on the move.

For the hard-core inmates, those who haven’t earned other privileges, all recreation occurs in a subterranean concrete-sided pit similar to a swimming pool to maintain the sense of disorientation to prevent escape attempts.

The minimum term for a stay at Supermax is generally twenty-five years, though there are exceptions. For those who have earned benefits, there is limited interaction with other inmates.

In Betz’s case, I’m assuming, except for a few guards and other prison staff, he is alone twenty-four hours a day. They wouldn’t dare expose him to any of the other inmates, not in this place. They may as well shoot him.

I have been in contact with Proffit’s office, which is acting as the intermediary between Grimes and me. For some reason the senator wants no direct contact. You would think I had the plague.

At one point they offered to transport Betz to California, to MCC, the Metropolitan Correctional Center in San Diego, as a “convenience” to me. This tells me precisely what kind of a threat he is. MCC is a twenty-three-story tower downtown where they house defendants pending trial. At one time inmates were punching holes in the concrete walls and letting themselves down on bedsheets to the sidewalks outside.

I told them no. If I was going to represent Betz I wanted to see him in his surroundings, where he’s incarcerated. They haggled over this, as if perhaps they weren’t anxious to have me view this. I can’t imagine why. I told them it was that or nothing. I figured I might as well test them early and see what their reactions were. They caved.

Then, to my surprise, they offered a government jet to fly me there. I had been joking when I quipped about this with Harry. They are not. I’m only hoping it’s round trip.

It goes without saying that I will not be allowed to take any of the usual electronics inside-no computer or cell phone, camera, or recording devices.

But there are certain things I will insist on which are nonnegotiable. I have no intention of telling them what these are in advance or asking permission. Otherwise they will deploy countermeasures to defeat them. Either these will be accepted or the entire exercise ends there. Unless they use force, I will leave.

I’m sure I will get the usual search, and probably more, along with the requirement that I sign a waiver of liability in the event that I’m taken hostage, wounded, or killed while inside.

Even thinking about this under the circumstances sends a chill up my spine.

The phone on my desk rings. I look at the clock. It’s nearly midnight. It must be Harry. I pick it up.

“Hello.”

“Hey! Finally caught you at home.” It’s Herman. “Where the hell have you guys been?”

“Long story. Where are you? No, on second thought, don’t tell me. Are you guys OK?”

“For now,” he says.

“How are you making this call?”

“SIM card,” he says. “Not to worry. Got an endless supply. Soon as we’re done, I’ll toss this one, open another.”

“Still, there’s the tower.” I’m concerned that perhaps they can track his location.

“Not to worry,” says Herman. “Got it covered, but let’s keep it short.”

“Things look as if they may be coming to a head. You’re gonna want to keep in touch. Can you check in, maybe every other day?”

“Can do,” says Herman.

“Good. How’s your charge?” I’m talking about Alex.

“He’s OK, but like me, he wants to get home.”

“Anything you need?”

“What’s the sense of telling you?” he says. “You wouldn’t be able to get it to us if I did.”

He’s right. “The messenger service was a problem, I take it?”

“Big-time. Very messy. You might check the local news there, couple of online sites. They reported it, but were a little wide of the mark on the details. You wanna read between the lines.”

“Listen, we want to get you guys out of there.”

“Couldn’t be soon enough for me,” says Herman. “Where and when?”

“Remember the place you used before?”

Herman thinks for a second, then realizes I’m talking about the place where they dropped in. The dirt strip thirty miles east of Ixtapa. “Oh, that one?” he says.

“That’s the one. Can you get there?”

“No problem.”

“How much lead time you need?”

“Minimal,” says Herman.

I’m not sure what this means, but one thing’s for certain, unless they have a rocket ship they’re nowhere near Tampico, over on the Gulf Coast. “We’ll make the arrangements at this end, let you know when,” I tell him.

“How you gonna do that?”

“You call me?” I say.

“Better idea,” says Herman. “There’s an online message board.” He gives me the name. It’s in Tampico. I’m assuming Herman is doing this to throw anybody listening in off his track. He could collect the message from anywhere in the world. “Should have thought of this earlier,” he says. “You know my handle. One I used to use for Telex.”

“I do.”

He uses the name Diggsme along with a traveling e-mail address.

“One message,” he says. “Keep it cryptic and don’t use it again. Just give us the time and the day.”

“You’re sure the location is OK?”

“It’s good,” he says.

“Give us a few days. Watch the board.”

“I’ll do it. Gotta go now.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” he says, and he hangs up.