Released

Chapter One "I ought to sue you! I can, you know!" Clarence Timmelsen screamed at the warden. He stiffened and shuddered. Tears of rage stung his eyes. "You're kicking me out of prison to send me to a nursing home?" He shook his fist and growled, "I'm gonna sue your ass!" The warden hung his head as the cell door clanged shut. He turned to face Clarence through the bars, buttoning his black suit, his back rigid, emphasizing each word. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I have no control over the matter." Then he added, "It'll be better for you in the long run." Clarence rushed the cell bars, white-knuckle-gripped them and glared. "In the long run? You mean till I die. That's what you mean. You're just kicking me out to get rid of me." His voice broke. "This is my home!" He jerked away, but not before catching sight of inmates gathered behind the bars of each cell near his, across the commons area, upper and lower level. "What are you staring at?" Clarence bellowed. His deep gravelly voice ricocheted off the walls of the cellblock canyon. The warden tapped his foot. "Good-bye, Clarence." He checked his watch. "All the wardens before me knew it would come to this." He cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I'm the one on watch to carry out this final demand set forth in the proceedings by your judge." Clarence stared at the warden. Ice shards crackled in his veins, just like when he'd heard the word "guilty" sixty years ago. "You mean that bastard judge set this up? Clear back then?" The visual of the judge's eyes burning with malice and the sharp rap of the gavel invaded his memory, just as it had every day of every year since then. The warden slowly nodded and stepped away from the bars. Clarence stumbled. He knew his eyes betrayed anguish as he stared at the warden. He gripped the bars, threw his head back and roared like a wounded, trapped lion. Silence echoed off the entire cellblock until someone in the next cell snickered. Clarence slowly rotated his head, following the sound. His eyes met Barred's. The rookie. Behind the rookie stood Dirk, the huge professional inmate. Clarence locked eyes with Dirk. Barred snickered again. "Ooo, the little ol' ladies'll like you." Another snicker. "You're f--" Dirk rose up behind Barred, drew his fist back and pummeled him. Clarence held his breath. Dirk finally stopped, and the rookie crunched onto the concrete floor. Three guards raced past the warden, sticks poised. Keys rattled. Handcuffs clicked. One guard pushed Dirk past Clarence's cell. The guard shook his head. "Stupid, stupid Dorko." The inmate towered over the guard. "M'name's Dirk." A toothless grin spread across his face. "I got yur back, Clarence. See ya on the—" The officer yanked on the cuffs and dragged Dirk past the cell. Clarence's eyes shifted back to the warden's face. Old people's home. Wheelchairs lined up in rows. Vacant eyes. People forgotten. The guards dragged an unconscious Barred past, one eye already swollen shut and purple. His slack jaw trailed blood. Randy Gerald stepped over the trickle of blood and stood before the cell door. "Clarence." He dipped his head in greeting, smoothing a drab brown uniform over his big belly. He picked at a dark spot on his shirt. Looked like chocolate pudding. He lifted his head, his eyes direct. "I'm here to escort you to your new home." Clarence glowered. Randy adjusted his pants. Keys jingled from his belt. "We better get a move on. We have a long drive ahead of us." Clarence braced himself. "We can make this easy or hard—you choose," Randy said, hand on his gun. He turned toward the central station and waved at the guard. "You can open." "Sure thing, Sir," blared the overhead speakers. The lock on the cell door echoed as it unlatched. Randy entered the cell and tossed a flimsy shopping bag onto the cot. Clarence stared at him a long time. At the warden even longer. His thoughts spun in a million directions: stay in prison, die, maim the warden, escape. None landed on the option facing him right now—a nursing home—his final resting place. Maybe it was his age, or being caught in a new and unexpected situation, or both, but he wanted to bust out bawling. Only once before had he felt this helpless. He stepped to the lavatory, intending to gather his belongings, but became distracted by the image in the mirror: steel gray hair combed back from his forehead and falling in waves to a black T shirt, a full beard mostly obscuring a deep scar on his right cheek, blue eyes glaring back at him, and wrinkles in places he didn't remember. Memories floated between reality in the mirror and the image of a much younger man, his hopes and dreams not yet shattered by life. The memories stirred emotion buried deep. Emotion Clarence long ago had declared not worth the pain and horror of digging up. So it had remained entombed, sealed with a capstone. Until now. "You ready to go, Clarence? Chicago traffic will be fierce this time of day." Clarence swallowed, smoothed his old wool flap hat over his hair and donned his light tan jacket. He carefully pulled on his gloves and picked up the bag, gathering what was left of a toothpaste tube, the rest of his toiletries and his brush. He scanned the cell one last time. Each cold concrete block, every crack, the stained out-in-the-open facilities, and the blue-white light overhead. It had held the years of his life, since ... Clarence stepped to the cot, reached under the mattress and removed a folder. Stuffing it into the bag, he turned to exit the cell only to face three beat sticks in his face. "Really?" His face burned, chin jutted. "It's been there sixty years, already." The warden shoved around the guards, holding his hand out, fingers beckoning. "Hand it over." Clarence's nostrils flared as he reached into the bag and produced the folder. The warden opened it, revealing paperwork, yellowed newspaper clippings and an old picture of a young woman. Another growl rose in Clarence's throat. He wiped perspiration off his upper lip. The warden picked up the picture and studied it a long time. He slowly met Clarence's eyes. Shoulders back, Clarence raised his head and looked him square in the face. The warden carefully replaced the picture, closed the folder and held it out to Clarence. Guards backed down, beat sticks replaced at their belts. "Let's get going, shall we?" Randy stood aside to let Clarence through. Clarence stepped onto the walkway overlooking the cellblock and froze. Inmates stood inside each cell across from his, both upper and lower levels, pounding on cell bars, stomping on the floor. Some saluted. Inmates, security guards, administrators, and board members lined the way out. He swallowed, his jaw clenched. Lower lip threatened to quiver. "Let's make this fast, huh?" "Yes, Sir." Randy caught hold of his bag and led him down the walkway. Sir? He said Sir? As Clarence followed, visual of the train station sixty years ago assaulted reality. People had lined the boardwalk then, like they lined the walkway now. His white-haired preacher appeared, shaking his head, judging from across time. Randy glanced over his shoulder and hesitated. "You coming?" Clarence hung his head and nodded. He waited with Randy at a heavy windowed door while the security guard gave the okay and the lock release buzzed. The door slid open, and as it did, his neighborhood paperboy appeared from the past—the edition of the newspaper crumpled in his hand. Randy stepped aside to let Clarence through the door. He couldn't help looking back. An inmate paced behind the bars of one cell. His hand rapped against the bars, third finger of his other hand raised in salute, eyes burned into Clarence's. Clarence shivered. A lot of men in this prison owed him because of legal favors, but not everyone would miss him. Randy checked his watch. Clarence nodded. A young woman, still in a dietary uniform, rushed to his side and touched his arm. "Sir, good luck." She swallowed. "With your life." She brought something from behind her back. "I made you this. I hope it's okay. I mean, I hope you can use it." She practically curtsied and pressed a beautiful knitted scarf into his hands, all blues and greens with a scratchy brown fringe. He stopped once more and bowed his head. Another vision popped before him—his old neighbor lady. Eyes expressed pain she felt for him, what her mouth could never say. Hand extended with a plate of cookies he couldn't take. Randy pushed through the door. Clarence sucked in a breath against the chilly air. A van waited at the curb. Brown, barren land stretched behind it. One last person from his past appeared next to the van: Judge Green glared him down. He had gleefully and vengefully sentenced him. Clarence spat and yelled, "I hope you're rotting in hell, you old bastard!" He stumbled, braced his hands against the doorway and backed into a guard. Randy turned. "Hey buddy. Don't. Don't do that. Don't make this hard." Clarence struggled against the guards surrounding him, growled, punched and pushed away from Randy. "God, he's strong. Do we cuff him?" Clarence snarled and spat as they each grabbed a limb and hoisted him off the ground, through the door, down the sidewalk. "Don't hurt him. He's eighty years old. Careful." "Are you kidding? He's a wild man." Clarence struggled until he could fight no longer and shuddered a sob as the van loomed closer.