“Bring your senior staffers in, tell them you have been relieved, and go home.”
“Only the night guards are here. We are finishing the dinner hour, then the prisoners will be locked down for the night.”
“That will do.”
“What do you intend to do, Colonel?”
“That isn’t your problem. As I said, I have my orders. I suggest you make a copy of that letter, keep the original, and let me have the copy.”
Arlen Kirkpatrick rose from behind his desk, made the copy on a machine in the outer office, called in the senior people on the night shift, and introduced Holly. The warden shook hands all around, the guards wished him well, and then he departed, leaving his half-eaten dinner on the desk.
Holly called for the records. His armed staff found seats in the outer office while the night shift, mostly guards, carried in the records in alphabetical order.
Holly read for several hours as darkness fell and made notes. He sent the captain and the senior NCO, a staff sergeant, to ensure the prisoners were indeed locked in their cells. Then he sat in the warden’s office and watched the security monitor high on the wall shift automatically around the security doors and corridors. About midnight, the guards were called in. “Gentlemen, we are sending all of you home for the evening.”
“You can’t do that,” one of the guards said curtly. “Regulations require—”
“The military is now in charge of this facility. With the prisoners locked up, I have enough men to see that they remain behind bars through the night. Report tomorrow at your usual shift time.”
The guards didn’t want to go, but Ezekiel Holly looked stern and every inch a senior military officer used to being obeyed. They went by the armory, turned in their weapons, which were locked up, and filed to the courtyard in front of the prison for their cars. One of the soldiers closed the gate behind them. Soldiers replaced guards at key checkpoints throughout the prison.
The colonel nodded at the security monitor. “Get all the tapes, or if the feed goes on a computer, the hard drive.”
When that was done, the colonel led a half-dozen soldiers, all that remained after the guard positions within the prison and at the gate were manned, to the security checkpoint outside Cell Block A. When they got there, the colonel consulted a list he had made from examining the files.
“James Abbott,” the colonel said. “Bring him here.” Two soldiers left their weapons on the desk and went through the checkpoint. Another manned the panel that opened the cell doors in the block.
In a few minutes, Abbott appeared. He was a pasty-faced man of medium height with a prominent spare tire. His hands were cuffed into a wide leather belt that encircled his waist, and he had cuffs on his ankles that were held together with about fifteen inches of chain. He had lively eyes and a semipermanent smile upon his lips. One of the Texas Guard soldiers that had accompanied Holly to the prison stood behind him.
“Mr. Abbott, according to your file, you were convicted of raping and murdering four girls. The Texas Rangers believed you raped and murdered at least six other girls over a period of nine years, but you refused to admit the crimes or tell where the bodies were buried.”
Abbott said nothing, merely looked from face to face with nervous eyes, wearing that smirk.
“You were sentenced to life in prison without parole.”
The smirk didn’t change.
“Do you want to tell us now how many other young women you murdered?”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
In the silence that followed, Ezekiel Holly looked at his list. When he looked up, Abbott had said nothing and was still wearing that semipermanent smirk.
Holly nodded at two of the guards who were still wearing sidearms.
The soldiers grasped Abbott, one on each arm, and started leading him to the corridor that led to the courtyard one story below.
“Hey,” Abbott said, trying to resist. “Where are you taking me?” That is when he really looked at the face of the soldier on his left side. “I know you,” he shrieked. “You are the brother of—”
He refused to walk, so the soldiers dragged him along, supporting his weight.
A minute later a young man was brought in, also wearing shackles and manacles.
“Jason Brodski. Apparently you opened fire with an assault rifle in a movie theater and killed a dozen people and wounded thirty-three more. Your attorneys argued that you were insane, and the jury rejected that defense. They convicted you but couldn’t agree on the death penalty, so you were sentenced to life without parole. Is that correct?”
A sneer crossed Brodski’s lips. He was a slightly built white man with a mop of unruly black hair and pimples. “Yeah,” he said.
“Mr. Brodski, the world has turned. The Republic of Texas is not going to force taxpayers to pay for your maintenance and medical care, nor for the guards to watch you. You will be executed tonight.”
“What the fuck! You can’t do that! Goddamn, I know my rights. I want my lawyer. I—”
Holly nodded to the two armed soldiers near Brodski, who grabbed his upper arms and removed him through the open security door along the corridor. The smell of feces was in the air. Holly glanced down the corridor and saw a dark stain spreading on the seat of Brodski’s pants.
The next prisoner was standing in front of Holly when the muffled sound of a shot could be heard through the window overlooking the interior basketball court.
“What was that?” the prisoner, a Latino, asked nervously. “What the fuck is going on here?” He had a thick accent, glowered, and shifted from foot to foot.
“Alfredo Mendez, citizen of Mexico. Apparently you were an assassin for a Mexican drug syndicate, and you were convicted of murdering six men with an automatic weapon as they sat in a Del Rio beer joint.”
Mendez merely glared. “What the hell is this, anyway?”
Another muffled shot could be heard from the basketball court.
Alfredo Mendez looked around wildly as the first two soldiers returned carrying the empty shackles and manacles. They handed them to the unarmed soldiers and grabbed Mendez.
“Madre de Dios! No! I can pay. My patron swore—”
The soldiers took Mendez down the corridor, still swearing and shouting.
The next man was a hulking black with scars on his face and tattoos on his knuckles and forehead. He had apparently been spending a lot of time in the weight room, because he was heavily bulked up.
“James Elvin Dallas,” Colonel Holly said. He looked Dallas straight in the eyes as he recited, “You were convicted of raping three women. Then, while in prison, you beat a man to death, apparently because he refused to be your butt-boy. It is thought you killed another with a homemade shiv, but you were never charged due to lack of evidence.”
“So?”
“Did you ever wonder what became of your victims?” Holly’s eyes scrutinized Dallas’ face.
Dallas’ eyes were roaming, measuring the men in the room.
Another shot was heard from the courtyard.
James Elvin Dallas went nuts. He lunged sideways and tried for the rifle on the table. Four of the soldiers tried to subdue him. That task was only accomplished when one of the soldiers struck him repeatedly on the head with a rifle butt. As Dallas lay immobilized upon the floor, Holly pulled his service pistol and, from a distance of one foot, shot him between the eyes. Brains and blood splattered across the concrete floor.
“Take him to the courtyard,” Holly ordered, “and shoot him again.”
The next prisoner was large and sloppy, with greasy, curly black hair springing from his head and his chest. He had a full beard too — something that had been banned in Texas until last year. “Muzzaffan Mehsud. You were convicted of throwing acid in your wife’s face because she went shopping without your permission. You were sentenced to twenty years.”