For obvious reasons, a warden should not be in charge of the incarceration of a prisoner to whom he is related, or who has committed a crime against the warden, or a member of the warden’s family.
Ordinarily this poses no problem. Such a prisoner is assigned to a prison where the warden has never heard of him.
The problem here for Willy the Lion was that if ever anybody deserved to spend twenty-three hours of every day for the rest of his life in a cell furnished with a poured-concrete bed, a sink and toilet, a television screen providing educational and religious channels only, and windows that permitted a limited view of the sky, it was the miserable Mexican sonofabitch who had murdered Clarence.
Sending Felix Abrego to any other prison would give him a better life, and he did not deserve a better life.
On the other hand, if Abrego were incarcerated at ADMAX, Willy the Lion would have to leave. He could not see the justice in that. Why should he have to give up being warden of Florence ADMAX? Not only had he earned that job, no one could handle it better than he could.
So he said nothing.
If he got caught, he would watch Abrego being sent in shackles somewhere else, or he would retire.
And until something happened, Abrego would be treated exactly like every other prisoner a judge had sentenced to life without the possibility of parole and sent to Florence ADMAX.
Assistant Warden (Administration) Kurt Grosch, a stocky, nearly bald fifty-five-year-old, stood in the open door of the warden’s office and waited to be noticed.
Willy the Lion finally looked up from a thick sheaf of paper on his desk, saw Grosch, and raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve got something I thought I better show you, Warden.”
Leon waved him in.
“What have you got, Dutch?” Leon asked.
What Grosch had was an Order to Transfer Prisoner, signed by Kenneth L. Brackin, deputy director, U.S. Bureau of Prisons, ordering the transfer of Felix Abrego, register number 97593-655, from Florence ADMAX to La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution in Anthony, Texas.
“This has got to be a mistake, Dutch,” Willy the Lion said. “La Tuna is a country club.”
“I know. So what do I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll call Brackin and get him to tear this up before Waters hears about it. Waters would shit a brick, and Brackin’s a pretty good guy.”
“What do I tell the Marshals?”
“What Marshals?”
“There’s four of them, and they more or less politely ask that we hand this guy over to them as soon as we can fit that into our busy schedule. Like right now.”
“Today’s Wednesday,” Leon said. “The next JPATS flight is next Monday, right?”
The Department of Justice operated several Boeing passenger jets to move prisoners between Bureau of Prisons institutions and-primarily-illegal aliens about to be deported to the border. It was commonly known by the acronym JPATS.
“The Marshals aren’t using JPATS. They have a DOJ jet, a little one”-he searched his memory-“a Gulfstream. At Butts.”
Butts Army Airfield served Fort Carson, Colorado, a short distance from Florence ADMAX.
“What the hell is going on here, Dutch?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Willy the Lion reached for his telephone and punched in a number from memory.
“Director Waters, please, Warden Leon calling.”
After a moment, Waters came on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Director. .
“I’m fine, thank you. Yourself? Dorothy and the kids?
“I’m really sorry to bother you, but something has come up. Four Marshals have shown up here in a DOJ Gulfstream with a transfer order signed by Ken Brackin moving a life-without-parole prisoner named Felix Abrego to the La Tuna facility in Texas. .
“Is there a problem? Yeah, there’s a problem. This guy Abrego murdered three DEA agents. Why is he being transferred to one of our more comfortable country clubs?
“Because the attorney general said so? Jesus Christ, Harry, what’s he thinking?
“I understand. Well, if it’s out of your hands, it’s out of mine. I’ll send Mr. Abrego on his way.”
He put the handset into its cradle and looked at Grosch.
“You heard that, Dutch?”
Grosch nodded.
Leon shook his head in disgust. “Waters said, ‘The question is not open for debate,’ and that this is one of those times when I have to smile and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Jesus, what the hell?”
“Give Abrego to the Marshals, Dutch, as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leon watched as Grosch left the office, and then rose from behind his desk and walked to the door, called “No calls, Doris” to his secretary, and then closed the door.
He knew what he wanted to do but had learned it was always better to think things over for two or three minutes when he was really pissed.
He took off his wristwatch and laid it on the desk in a position where he could see the sweep of the second hand. He watched as the hand made three revolutions.
Then he went to his laptop computer, clicked on his address book, found the name he wanted, and punched the number in his personal cell phone.
“Roscoe,” he said into the phone a moment later, “this is Bill Leon, the warden of the ADMAX prison in Colorado. Do you remember me?”
THREE
Apartment 606 The Watergate Apartments 2639 I Street, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1615 18 April 2007
Roscoe J. Danton, of the Washington Times-Post Writers Syndicate, and John David Parker, the newly appointed director of public relations of the LCBF Corporation, had tested their theory that the President’s firing of his press secretary was now old news and that it was therefore safe for Porky to move about Washington without having to dodge the White House Press Corps by having a drink at the Old Ebbitt Grill.
There had been half a dozen members of that elite body in the bar refreshing themselves after Mr. Clemens McCarthy’s afternoon briefing. Only two of them had even acknowledged Porky’s presence with so much as a nod.
Porky was indeed yesterday’s news.
That test had told them that it was safe for Porky to go back to his apartment in the Verizon, which had the added benefit that he would no longer be Roscoe’s roommate.
It wasn’t that Roscoe didn’t like Porky. Surprising to both of them was the fact that they had become quite close since President Clendennen had ordered Porky off his helicopter and Roscoe had offered him a ride home from Langley. But Porky’s presence in the apartment obviously prevented Roscoe from entertaining overnight female guests.
As Roscoe thought of it, he was a lover, not an exhibitionist.
So after having a second Bloody Mary in the Old Ebbitt, they had taken a cab to Roscoe’s apartment in the Watergate so that Porky could pick up his things.
The phone was ringing when they walked in.
“What the hell was that all about?” Porky asked when Roscoe had hung up.
“I was about to say I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“That would be a lot funnier if I hadn’t heard it before,” Porky replied.
“But then I realized you’re sort of a probationary member of the Merry Outlaws,” Roscoe went on, “so I guess you get a pass. That was J. William ‘Willy the Lion’ Leon. He’s the warden of the ADMAX prison in Colorado.”
“And?”
Roscoe told him what Willy the Lion had told him.
“So what are you going to do?”
Roscoe consulted his cell phone’s address book and dialed a number.
“Roscoe J. Danton of the Times-Post for the attorney general. .
“Well, I’m sorry he’s not available at the moment. When he becomes available, will you be good enough to tell him I tried to call him before I went on Wolf News to tell J. Pastor Jones’s three million viewers the attorney general’s version of the story I’ve got that he personally just moved a guy doing life without parole in Florence ADMAX for killing three DEA agents to a country club in Texas. .