The warden let that sink in. He turned to Ed and Sam. “Well, then. How can we help?”
Ed said, “First off, how many inmates are we talking about?”
“I believe the current population is five hundred and twenty-seven, both male and female. We’ll confirm that number, of course.”
“Where are they?”
The warden pulled down a large cross-sectional diagram of the prison and settled into the role of tour guide. “The MCC is a transition facility; that is, this is a way station for inmates who have been found guilty and are awaiting the details of their sentencing. Almost all of the inmates are waiting for further court hearings or to be transferred to a more permanent home. The average length of incarceration, at least within the MCC, is less than six months. We also feature a state-of the-art hospital, and anywhere from five to ten percent of our population have been transferred from other prisons within Illinois to receive treatment.”
He pointed to the diagram. The building had a triangle footprint, giving the guards clear sight lines for each narrow floor. “No prisoners are ever housed beneath the tenth floor. That gives us seventeen floors to utilize, and we have found it works to both our advantage and the inmates’ safety to spread them out, housing as few inmates as possible per floor. We pride ourselves on keeping our guests calm and comfortable.”
“Good. That’s our key,” Ed said and caught Sam’s eye.
The transitory nature of the prison made their jobs easier. The detectives realized that because inmates did not stay at the prison for any significant length of time, the institutionalized tribes that flourished wherever prisoners would spend decades behind bars, in crews bound by race or gang or belief, had failed to find a foothold. In a typical maximum-security prison, many of the inmates were facing life sentences, and had the time to establish structured organizations, forming hierarchies, protecting their tribe, as well as coordinating clever, vicious attacks against other gangs or the guards.
“Best way to avoid problems,” Ed said. “Keep everybody comfortable, but off-balance. I don’t want them to know what is going to happening next.”
Sam said, “We don’t want to give them a chance to get friendly with each other. If these boys ever got organized, they could overpower a bus without much trouble, and then we’ve got a mobile hostage situation on our hands.”
Ed addressed the entire room. “Understand this. Safety and security are our only responsibilities. There are only two things you are to communicate to the inmates. One, a state of emergency exists, and two, they are being transferred to a different location for their own safety. That is it. Don’t tell them anything else.”
“Except,” Sam said.
Ed said, “Except that a policy of zero tolerance has been implemented. If anyone steps out of line, guards will be shooting to kill.”
Ed and Sam watched as the guards had to fight their delight and hide their satisfied, victorious grins at finally being able to bolster their careers with a stamp of authority. Ed glanced at Sam. Sam closed his eyes and gave an imperceptible nod. The guards had been exposed to the institutionalized violence for too long, with no outlet, no way of turning the fear loose in a meaningful manner, no way of exorcising the demons that grew and multiplied in the dark in a place like this. In fact, letting off this kind of steam was frowned upon, and sometimes, it was flat-out illegal. Shooting ranges could only provide so much relief. It was like drinking near beer for an alcoholic.
Eventually, something had to give.
The guards were going to be a problem.
Sam could smell violence in the air, like a lightning storm on the horizon.
CHAPTER 58
12:39 PM
August 14
“That’s not the suit you’re wearing tonight, I hope.” Phil’s first words.
“No. It’s the suit I’m wearing right now,” Lee said. “The good ones are at the office.” Phil’s condescending attitude was getting tougher to swallow. “Never thought you’d be worrying about men’s fashion.”
“This might be the most important press conference of our lives. I’m worrying about everything.”
Bryan accelerated and shot down the side street to Upper Wacker. Phil explained, “All the interior roads are blocked. Right now, the only streets open to get into the Loop are Clark and Congress.”
“Shit. These people are serious.”
“You have no fucking idea.”
Bryan turned left on Clark, where they were met by staggered walls of sandbags and four soldiers, all carrying assault rifles and wearing surgical masks. They inspected Phil’s ID and checked their list. They came back and looked at Lee’s ID as well as Bryan’s. It must have checked out, because the soldiers waved them through.
“So listen, please, no jokes, okay? Don’t try to be funny,” Phil said.
“Why not? Nothing wrong with my sense of humor.” Lee tried to dismiss the whole thing.
Phil shook his head. “Absolutely not. Even those dago pricks only laugh to be polite, and they laugh at everything. You? You’re about as funny as a case of the clap.”
Bryan weaved through the sandbags and followed Clark down to City Hall. Lee glanced at the open plaza to the left, by the Daley Center, and was astonished to see that the giant Picasso sculpture was gone. He finally spotted it, lying on its side in the intersection of Dearborn and Washington, acting as a kind of barricade.
Phil caught his stunned expression and said, “They took it down because they wanted room to land the helicopters.”
Lee actually liked the sculpture, the way it had some sort of invisible tether to the heavens, as if it was some sort of pet from someone above. Lee thought it was a bad omen, this desecration of a Chicago landmark. But Phil was pissing him off, so Lee didn’t say anything. Bryan dropped them off in front of City Hall on the Cook County side. More soldiers checked their IDs once again.
Inside, they were directed upstairs to a large briefing room. The room had been built like an amphitheater, with descending rows of seats and tables curving around a central stage. A soldier directed Lee and Phil to one of the smooth tables with low lamps near the back. Some high-ranking official was down in the center, using a laser pointer to highlight areas of maps of the Loop and the subway system projected on the screens behind him.
The official, some major or general or something—Lee wasn’t too clear on these things—was laying out plans in a dry, almost disinterested tone. He was tall, with dark, vigorous eyebrows that didn’t match the gray, lifeless hair that had been cut close to his scalp. “Phase two is nearly complete, a total relocation of civilians to a neutral zone where they can be properly examined before being released into the public at large. Phase three preliminaries are complete and are ready to implement immediately. As we proceed with these two phases, phase four and five are being prepped.” He gestured at the map. “Every bridge, with the sole exception of the Congress Street Bridge, has been raised. The river has been irradiated with a compound that will . . . inhibit life.”
The officer traced the boundaries of the quarantine zone with his laser pointer. “The subway tunnels have been neutralized.” Lee figured this was code for blowing the shit out of the things. He sniggered.
Phil refused to look at him.
Lee got the hint. Play along. Don’t make waves. And above all, don’t draw any attention to yourself. Fine. Lee decided to play along. For now.
“To repeat, every bridge has been raised, except for Congress, and that will be raised within the hour. The river has been treated. No rat will survive the swim. And here”—the red dot swept along Roosevelt Avenue—“a continuous firebreak has been established, stretching from the Chicago River to Lake Shore Drive. We have squads spread out along Roosevelt Avenue, equipped with both .50 caliber firepower and flamethrowers.” He checked his watch. “In less than thirty minutes, the only access to downtown Chicago, in or out, will be restricted to this one lane of Lake Shore Drive.” The red dot seared into a spot just to the left of the Field Museum.