Jed stood up. He snatched up the coins and dropped them into his pocket. The only thing he didn’t have was time. He had been planning to buy some food. He was starving, but his meal was going to have to wait. Which in a way he could take as a bonus. He could conserve his cash for a little longer. Until he reached Dallas. He could last until then without eating. He was used to being hungry. That was one thing he could thank his foster mother for.
Jed hurried down the steps and ran the rest of the way back to the Greyhound station. He scurried through the terminal building, weaving his way around the knots of slow-moving passengers, but he stopped before he reached the exit to the concourse. He had spotted a vending machine. It was by the far wall. Next to the payphones. The day was hot. Hotter than he was used to. He had been rushing around in the sun. And the machine was full of all kinds of drinks.
Going without food was one thing. But water was different. He had read that not having enough could mess up your health. Damage your internal organs. Cause lasting harm. He didn’t want to start his new life all weak and sickly. But neither did he want to miss the bus. The doors closed a little before departure time. He had seen that happen in L.A., a hundred years ago. Or actually yesterday. He checked his watch. Decided it was worth the risk. Pulled the handful of change out of his pocket. Jammed the coins into the slot, one after another, and watched the total on the digital display creep up to the required amount. Then he grabbed the bottle from the delivery chute and raced to the bus.
Jed dashed up the stairs and the bus’s door hissed closed before he was three feet along the aisle. He took the same seat as before. Leaned against the window. And suddenly felt exposed without his backpack. Vulnerable. He craved the way it had felt on his lap. He would have given anything to hug it tight just then. Whether it made him look like a kid or not.
“Hey, buddy!”
Jed jumped. Someone had flopped into the seat next to him. A guy, a little scruffy, maybe eighteen. Jed recognized him. He had been on board all the way from L.A. Sitting near the back. Jed had thought he was part of a group. Now he wasn’t sure.
The guy said, “So. What’s happening?”
Jed said, “Nothing.”
The guy leaned in close. “You in trouble?”
“Me? No. Why?”
“Are the police looking for you?”
Jed felt like a steel belt had closed around his chest. His heart started to race. “The police? Of course not. Why would they be?”
“It’s OK. You can tell me. It’s why you didn’t get back on until the last moment, right? You were waiting for them to leave.”
“The police were here? On the bus?”
The guy nodded.
“I didn’t know that. I was just … slow.”
“Right.” The guy winked. “Slow. I’m with you.”
“OK, maybe they were here. But they’re not looking for me.”
“Are you sure? Because the cop had a photo. It was old. Four or five years, at least. But it sure looked like you. I guess no one else twigged. They just switched the driver and I bet all these old biddies are half-blind, but I could see it.”
Jed swallowed hard. “What did you say?”
“Don’t worry.” The guy slapped Jed’s shoulder. “I said I hadn’t seen you.”
“Thank you.” Jed could finally let out a breath.
“No problem.” The guy paused. “Hey, I have an idea. Maybe you could buy me breakfast? When we get to Dallas?”
“Buy you breakfast?” Jed thought about his cash supply. He was in no rush to spend any more than absolutely necessary. Then he thought about how easy it would be for the guy to dial 911. He probably had a cellphone. And even if he didn’t there were seven more stops before they would reach Dallas. In places where there would be payphones. He forced a smile and said, “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Cool.” The guy swung back into the aisle and headed for his own seat. “Traveling for hours makes me hungry. See you later…”
Chapter 19
Twelve hundred miles away, in Winson, Mississippi, it was time for Curtis Riverdale to get busy.
Riverdale was an anomaly within the Minerva corporation. An outlier. He was unusual because he was in his post when the prison got taken over. Minerva’s standard procedure was to sideline the existing warden when a new site was bought. Shift him into some kind of impotent, figurehead position. Wait for the boredom and humiliation to eat away at him until he found a job somewhere else. And if he tried to stick it out, fire him, hot on the heels of a third of his staff.
The process had gotten under way as usual. A bunch of new guards had been drafted in. Proven Minerva people from the company’s other facilities. Tailor made to slot in place of the guys who’d just been discarded. The new warden was installed at the same time. A tall, skinny forty-year-old who dressed like a banker and spoke like a radio host. He did all the usual new-boss things to prove he could walk and talk at the same time. But he didn’t settle in Winson. He kept getting sick. He spent more time in the hospital than at work. After six months he couldn’t take it anymore. He quit. And during the new guy’s many absences Riverdale took the opportunity to step back up. He proved himself invaluable. Adaptable. Discreet. Able to fit into Minerva’s mode of operation in a way Hix had never seen in a warden his company had inherited.
Some correctional corporations treat the business of incarceration as if they were supermarkets. They take a kind of pile-them-high, sell-them-cheap approach. But Minerva wasn’t like that. Right from the start Hix and Brockman had a different view of what they did. They saw themselves as being more like prospectors in the Old West. Their goal was the same. To sort the gold from the dirt. Only they didn’t use shovels and buckets and sieves. They had a system. One they had devised themselves. They had refined it. Improved it. And they used it to sift through the constant stream of inmates sent by the states they had contracts with.
The process started with the freshly convicted. The new fish. Lawyers evaluated their cases. Accountants reviewed their finances. Genealogists traced their family trees. Then aptitude tests were administered. Inmates with certain skills and talents were identified. Psychologists were brought in to assess their personalities. The suitable ones were selected. The rest were sent to the doctors along with the other prisoners. A whole bunch of screening procedures were carried out. Treatments were prescribed wherever necessary. And after each individual was fully scrutinized and categorized, it was decided which facility to send them to.
The first category of prisoner had the potential for their convictions to be quashed, either for PR or for profit. They were distributed evenly throughout Minerva’s sites. The second had no special potential. This was the largest group by far. The corporation’s bread and butter. Dull, but necessary. Most of its members went to Minerva’s older prisons but some were brought to Winson for appearance’s sake. The third category was smaller. More interesting. All its members came to Winson. And the fourth category was smaller still. It wasn’t interesting, exactly. But it was lucrative. Often there was only one person in it on any given day. Sometimes there were two. Sometimes there were none at all.
That afternoon there was a single prisoner in the fourth category. He was housed all alone in Unit S1. The segregation unit that was still selectively operational. So that was where Riverdale started his rounds. He had arrangements to make. Personnel to organize. Processing. Packaging. Distribution. There was a whole complex operation to keep on the rails.