|
Lights out, but it was never quiet here. From every cell in the remand block
came the moans and fretful sleep talking that every new prisoner made in his
sleep. These were the men still haunted by their crimes, young men not yet
hardened by trial, justification or time. If anyone slept, it didn’t last long
and it wasn’t restful. Every moment of sleep was tortured by dreams of what
they had done.
The forensic psychiatrist couldn’t determine any temporary insanity in Mark at the time he robbed the petrol station and killed the attendant. He could understand Mark’s plight of wanting to help his mother, but that didn’t mean he had any psychiatric excuse for his actions.
The psychiatrist did point out Mark’s problem with his anger, which flared during times of stress, and featured this most of all in his report.
“This young man was obviously stressed at the time of the killing, knowing what he was doing was wrong, yet feeling that he had “no other choice” (patient’s words). This obviously flared his temper at the time, resulting in the attendant’s death. I’m sure this problem can be addressed with regular therapy, however I cannot determine in the meantime that he would not be a danger to others if released. Until he has addressed this problem and achieved positive results, I cannot see my way to having this prisoner released without some form of rehabilitation.”
Mark scrunched up the paper and threw it randomly. It flew through the bars of his cell and skitted out into the corridor. The moment after it stopped, a heavy boot crushed it. Mark looked up to see Vernon leering at him, that inane smile plastered across his face.
“This wouldn’t be a legal document, would it, boy?”
“Bugger off!”
“Wouldn’t want it falling into the wrong hands now, would you? These things are confidential,” Vernon bent over and picked up the paper, unfurled it and smoothed it between his palms. “Kind of thing getting out around here, people will know your weaknesses. They like to know stuff like that here, so they know what they can get away with doing to you.”
“Would that be the prisoners or the guards?” Mark spat.
“Depends who you piss off,” Vernon answered through clenched teeth, the smile disappearing. Mark jumped off his bed and darted over to the bars, arms reaching out wildly for Vernon.
“You want me to piss you off?” Mark yelled. “Fine! Come a bit closer, you bastard, and I’ll show you what I can do to you!”
Vernon didn’t move, but his smile returned. He shook his head. “Now now, boy, you’ll want to watch that temper of yours,” he said as he held the paper just out of Mark’s reach. Mark flailed his arms at it for a moment, then stopped and glared into Vernon’s eyes. Hate flicked from one man to the other, until Mark finally got sick of looking at him, turned and sat back down on his bed.
“Fine, stuff you, keep it! I don’t care what you do with it.”
Vernon was about to fold it up and put it into his own pocket, when the heavy footfalls of another guard came echoing down the corridor. He quickly tossed it through the bars of Mark’s cell and straightened up.
“Not such a tough bastard now, are you?” Mark whispered, just as another guard came into view.
The second guard regarded them both slowly, then asked, “Any problems here?”
“No sir, just doing a quick check,” Vernon replied, and darted a look at Mark. Mark tried to hide a sneer.
“Right then, well, back to your post please. Mr. Kingsland, you have a phone call,” the second guard said as he stepped forward to unlock Mark’s cell. Mark stepped out into the corridor as Vernon neared the corner. The two men stared at each other again just as Vernon rounded the corner and disappeared.
Mark’s lawyer was on the other end, and Mark knew it wouldn’t be good.
“You got my letter and the report?” Stephen Burrows asked.
“Yep.”
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“Go for a guilty plea.”
“Yes Mark. You can’t go through with a trial, they’ll bury you. I can maybe try to get your sentence to be carried out at a psychiatric hospital, with security of course, so that you’ll get this treatment that the psychiatrist suggested. I can’t promise anything, but it’s your one chance to keep out of jail.”
“Find anything on my father?”
“No. We found a few men by the name your mother gave us, but they all came to nothing. It seems like he just disappeared.”
“Figures.”
“Look, have a think about what I’ve just said. A serious think. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“I mean it Mark, think about it.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
As Mark hung up the phone and was escorted back to his cell, he wondered how a man who had sired him could just disappear into thin air, and why the hell he couldn’t too.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli 2003
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
