Noble Warrior (9 page)

“You saying he wants me dead?”

“Nah,” Puwolsky answered. “Not at all. Guy probably cares about you. But know this…he cares about himself, too.”

The Cadillac pulled up to the front gates of Jentles State Penitentiary, an institution built in 1896. It started as a rectangular facility of three hundred cells able to hold up to six hundred
prisoners, and operated on the “Two Bucket System.” One bucket for human waste, the other for fresh water. The only rule: don't mix the buckets.

Prisoners who caused the guards any grief would have their buckets mixed.

In the late nineteenth century Jentles gained fame as one of the worst penal institutions in the United States, and since that time it had done little to lessen its reputation. Many had tried to
shut it down. Many times, too. But the D.T. was like a nonstick frying pan; no matter how much the heat had been turned up, nothing stuck. Lawyers filed lawsuits, journalists did exposés,
and at one point, even the church refused to send any more clergy inside to provide spiritual guidance for the prisoners after two of their fathers were beaten by gang members for refusing to play
the role of drug mule, so the fiends inside could score their dope.

Inside the D.T. a chicken bone became a shank, mice became meat, and year after year mentally healthy people entered but institutionally deranged madmen came out. Over and over the case had been
made that the D.T. violated the Eighth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, specifically the prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment against those in detainment. As one of the briefings
said:

“An epidemic of beatings by deputies as well as by inmates, barely edible food, poor sanitation, and inadequate medical care puts the jail's residents in a constant state of risk
and harm.”

Like most lawsuits against Jentles, it was still being shuffled around in someone's case file inside the Court of Appeals.

The D.T. stood as a house of monsters housing monsters who had committed and were still committing horrible crimes. Yet, where were all these monsters supposed to go? Without an answer to that
question, the D.T. just kept right on rolling on, business as usual. Eighteen hundred men called the Devil's Toilet home, and while indoor plumbing, electricity, and telephone lines had
arrived since the gates first opened, the guards still ruled the complex with the same mentality as they did more than a century ago.

Old habits die hard.

Puwolsky waved his badge at an armed guard standing in a gray box, and a sheet of metal ground its way open, allowing the Cadillac to pass through the perimeter. A second gate with a second
guard box stood inside the first. Beyond stood an unmistakable stench of violence, abuse, and death oozing from the prison's walls.

M.D. spied a chimney in the back corner, smoke rising from its bleak stack. A place so primitive, M.D. thought, they still burned their trash.

“You may not like me, may think I'm a fuck, but from day one I have told you the truth,” Puwolsky said. “Your father is inside. That is the truth. The High Priest is
inside. That is the truth. Your father sold you out to the High Priest and if you don't go inside and take his life he's going to kevork up your girl. Detroit can't stop that.
Only you can. That is the truth.”

Puwolsky pulled up to the guard manning the second gate.

“Name's Puwolsky, I'm on the list.” The colonel had to practically shout to be heard through the downpour. “Notify Krewls I'll meet him in back by
delivery.”

The guard checked his clipboard, found Puwolsky's name, and waved the vehicle through. “Make a left at the fork,” the guard shouted as rain crashed down on his slicker.
Puwolsky rolled forward again and M.D. watched as the gate closed behind him.

“What's that mean, they're gonna kevork her?” McCutcheon asked.

“You know, kevork. Jack Kevorkian, that Doctor Death physician-assisted suicide guy,” Puwolsky said. “Some of his muscle will grab her and make the murder look like a suicide.
Probably tie it to her love for you to make it seem all the more legit.”

M.D. swallowed hard, feeling as if he might puke.

“Don't be so shocked. This is D-town, post bankruptcy, and there's a war going on for the soul of the city,” Puwolsky said. “The High Priest, his kind of
ruthlessness is unprecedented. That's why he needs to be stopped. That's what I'm doing here. That's what you're doing here. It's black and white.”

M.D. looked to his right. Cement, brick, iron, and steel. Not a blade of grass, not a tree, not even a rebellious weed.

“Look, kid, I knew you didn't know any of this stuff, and I ain't gonna hold it against you if you say no to me and want to turn around right now. You say the word and
we're gone, because the truth is, if you go in there, I can't protect you. All I can do is yank you out once you say you've had enough,” Puwolsky told him. “But your
first chance to pull that plug won't come for at least three days. That's seventy-two hours from now. In one way it's forever and in another, it's not that long at
all.”

“Why three days?”

Puwolsky reached under his seat and pulled out a file. On the front cover a seal read
STATE OF MICHIGAN
,
DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
.

“Because Lester Rawlins, who is doing forty-five years to life for two counts of murder one, needs to be processed. Jentles doesn't own the most efficient prisoner intake system in
the world. It'll take you a little bit to get things settled.”

M.D. opened the contents of the file and saw a picture of himself next to his new name.

Though the documents were forged, they looked real to McCutcheon. As real as it gets.

“You have my word that if on Thursday you want out, I'll pull you. Remember, I'm the guy who tells the truth.”

The Cadillac made its way around the side of the prison and drove past a kennel of black hounds living under a thin, silver roof behind a chain link fence. At the sight of the vehicle, the dogs
started barking, raging like feral beasts. If not for the metal fence keeping them quarantined, M.D. was sure, these huge animals would have attacked the car, biting bumpers and trying to break
through windshields. These weren't puppies, these were people chewers; and as soon as M.D. caught sight of the dogs he felt sure that more than a few unfortunate prisoners had been on the
wrong end of their teeth and claws.

The car came to a stop at the loading dock in the back and one thing immediately seemed clear to McCutcheon: Jentles State Penitentiary was a place where what happened inside remained
inside.

“So what's it gonna be?” Puwolsky asked. “Are you going to go for the…?”

“Cuff me.”

M.D. extended his arms. Puwolsky paused for a moment before taking any action.

Kid's brave
, he said to himself.
Ain't no doubt about that.

After parking the car by the loading dock, Puwolsky reached under the seat and lifted a set of silver handcuffs.

“Everyone said you're a warrior, kid.” Puwolsky clicked the steel bracelets over McCutcheon's wrists. “They weren't lying.”

O
n the outside, McCutcheon appeared calm, cool, and collected, but on the inside fear screamed through his veins. The sound of the handcuffs
clicking shut triggered a massive surge of terror.

He hadn't expected the suffocating feel of the steel shackles on his wrists to set off his internal panic alarms they way they did. Especially not as suddenly or as quickly or as
deeply.

But they did.

He took a slow, deep breath and reminded himself that in a fight-or-flight world, fear kept people alive. Sometimes fear pushed people to great heights. But sometimes fear paralyzed.

Ultimately, as McCutcheon knew, fear boiled down to choice. Fear could devastate him or it could propel him. Fear, as the martial arts taught, was nothing more than energy. The challenge for its
students became to properly channel it.

A very real sense of dread continued to grow in the pit of M.D.'s stomach. He knew he had to slow his inner world down, reflect on his feelings, and remind himself that there was only one
proper way to deal with this torrent of terror.

No, he could not control whether the fear existed, but he could take responsibility for his reaction to it.

Stay here
, he told himself.
Breathe into it. Sit with this fear, don't run or deny or hide from it. Listen to its message.

Yes, this fear felt immense. But also, M.D. reminded himself, it would not last. No emotion was ever permanent.

What was permanent then?
McCutcheon asked himself.
What existed past the clutter, beyond the ups and downs, beneath the seas of emotional turmoil?

He answered immediately:
My strength.

Nothing had transpired yet. Nothing at all. McCutcheon was merely sitting inside a Cadillac wearing handcuffs he'd voluntarily put on and could still ask to be removed. For all the horrors
his imagination could have created, all the anxiety he could have manifested by focusing on all the potential terror of entering an ominous prison as an undercover agent on a lone-wolf mission, as
of that exact moment nothing at all had yet occurred.

Love, he knew, was stronger than fear. Always.
Did he still want to go in?
McCutcheon asked himself.

Yes.

Am I sure?

Yes.

Why am I sure?

Because my motivation stems from a place of love.

So how, M.D. asked himself, was it best to go in, like a scared little child filled with worry and dread or like a brave and noble warrior owning courage, purpose, and strength?

On the inside, M.D. felt a surge of power rise up inside of him. Being anxious would negatively affect his ability to execute this mission. Did he want to be anxious?

No.

Did he need to be terrified?

Alert, yes. Terrified, no.

Was all this negative energy of any actual use to him?

Energy is just energy, which means this fear can be a gift if you rechannel it.

His inner power began to grow.

My body is ready, I am in the best shape of my life, and I am motivated by the purest reason that exists. I will be okay.

McCutcheon repeated the last line to himself a second time, knowing that once inside, the power of his mind would be his sharpest sword.

I will be more than okay. I will succeed.

He breathed in and breathed out, slowly, patiently, deeply.

Thank you, fear
, McCutcheon said.
Stay if you like
—
or go
—
but know that I hear and appreciate your concerns.

Poof!
The terror vanished. In its place was a reservoir of confidence, power, and poise.

“Hey,” Puwolsky asked, snapping his fingers. “Hey kid, are you okay?”

McCutcheon blinked his eyes open and they shined with the light of a wolf. He turned to the colonel.

“I'm ready.”

Whoa, Puwolsky thought. Who is this kid?

“Yeah, um...sure,” he said.

Puwolsky flashed his car lights as a signal to someone on the inside, and a few seconds later the back door by the loading dock cracked open.

A man approached. A skinny guy with bad teeth and yellow hair named Major Daniel Krewls. He was not particularly tall, not particularly muscular, but he stomped his black boots with authority
through the foreboding puddles on his way to meet the car.

Puwolsky rolled down the window. Krewls stuck his chin in the vehicle and looked around.

“LeRoyce didn't make the trip?”

“LeRoyce is no longer with us.”

“Too bad.”

“Shit happens.”

“So they say. This the guy?” Krewls shined a flashlight on McCutcheon's face. “Seems a little young to play with the big boys.”

“I wouldn't underestimate his abilities.”

“Where's my money?”

“Where are the details?” Puwolsky began. “The story goes that...”

Krewls interrupted. “The detail that comes first is my motherfuckin' money,” Krewls interrupted.

There was a stalemate but it was brief, and Puwolsky relented. He reached into his jacket. “You're like one of the damn prisoners, making sure you get paid first before anything
happens.” He passed Krewls an envelope.

“I'm worse than the prisoners,” Krewls said as he fingered through a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. “'Cause I got a badge.”

Wardens run state penitentiaries, but Jentles's warden, John Jeffrey Johannsen, had suffered a mild stroke and didn't want to lose his retirement package, so he went on temporary
sick leave in order to protect his benefit plan.

That was three years ago.