American Carnifex
Spectator
An Innocent Bystander
The heavy, rusted iron door to the closet sized cell that I have called home 23 hours a day for the past five years slid open. Suddenly a blinding light from the central corridor abruptly flooded the dark of my cell. As I sat on the edge of my bed, I blinked, then squinted while looking toward the floor. I quickly shielded my eyes with my hands.
“Convict 70361, on your feet.”
I look up and as my eyes came to focus, I see the squat, heavyset African-American, Sergeant of the Guard standing in the doorway. She looked sternly at me and said, “Lets move it 361! There has been a final decision in your appeal. I’ve been instructed to take you to processing. Stand up and assume the position.”
I stand and face the wall of the cell placing my arms and hands next to each other at the small of my back. The Sergeant walks behind me to where I can only see her shadow as she grabs my wrists. First my left and then my right wrist are tightly shackled.
“Turn!” She orders.
I turn toward the door and with a bit of a smile on my face with the prospect of my nightmare being over I ask, “What about my things?”
“I don’t have any instructions on that. I suspect they’ll send a trustee for them. Let’s go I’m on break after I get you too Medical.”
“Medical?” I ask, “I thought I was going to processing.”
“First step, can’t have anybody say we abused that tight little body of yours while you were our guest. Everyone starts at Medical. Let’s go!”
I walk out of the door, briefly pausing and turning back to gaze at my cell one last time. I turn to walk down the metal catwalk with the bright yellow rails looking down at the empty corridor below. We walk down the stairs and stop by the heavy metal entrance to the cell block.
The Sergeant pressed the button to the video link, “70361, enroute to Medical.”
The door slowly opened revealing the brightly lit Central Corridor, or as we jokingly call it The Orange Blossom Trail after the road in Orlando. I step though it slowly with her guiding me to the right. We then stride down the corridor about 200 yards until we reach the white metal door with a red cross painted on it. The Sergeant once again presses a button on the wall and speaks into the wall speaker, “70361 for processing.”
The door swings open and we walk into an austere waiting room with metal benches bolted to the floor. The Sergeant orders me to sit on the bench, which I do and places the folder she had been carrying into the slot on the door opposite where we came in. Then she turns to leave, looking at me with a slight smile she says, “Good luck 361.”
“Thank you.” I reply as she turns to leave the waiting area. She presses the button and the medical staff open the door for her. Within seconds it is closed and I am now all alone in the cold waiting room. I shiver as the air conditioning surges from the roof vent flowing down over me. After years of living in a stifling cell, with no ventilation, I always find the A/C in the Administrative Units to be bitterly cold.
As I sit, I can’t believe it’s finally over. Over five years since that asshole I met in the bar started a fight and killed that kid from the University of Georgia. Some Spring Break! I hadn’t even known him for more than a half hour and he destroyed my life. The Jury refused to listen to my Public Defender’s argument that I had nothing to do with him or the fight, I was just there, an “Innocent Bystander!”
