They granted him one day, August 21, for studies and family relations. He even got permission to shop and see friends. First day on the outside since he’d been locked up. They made a schedule. Would be a hectic day. Fantastic. Maybe he’d pull the whole thing off; he had to do a good job. Not a chance that J-boy was gonna rot in Osteraker for the rest of his life.
The one problem: This kind of parole always came with three screws.
D-day arrived: twelve hours of well-planned hysteria.
Jorge and the COs took the prison minivan into Stockholm at 9:00 a.m. Straight to the Stockholm Public Library.
Jorge’d joked with the COs on the ride in. “Am I going to see some Nazi or something?”
They didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
“A libr-ARIAN.”
They howled.
Spirits were high in the minivan.
The day was off to a good start.
Fifty minutes later, they parked in the city.
On Odengatan.
Got out.
Walked up the stairs to the public library. Inside: the rotunda. Jorge dug the high ceiling. The COs eyed him. Was he into architecture, or what?
He asked to see Riitta Lundberg. The super librarian. He’d told her his story over the phone already: He was in a penitentiary, studying to get his GED at a distance. Needed a proper high school transcript to start a new life on the outside. Wah, wah. Now he was doing an independent study about the history of Osteraker and the surrounding area in general. Was gonna study the cultural development of the place.
Riitta showed up. Looked like Jorge thought she would: Communist-academic in a knit sweater. A necklace that looked like a glazed pinecone. Straight from central casting.
The screws spread out in the rotunda. Sat by the exits. Kept an eye on him.
Jorge used his velvety voice. Toned down his ghetto accent. “Hi, are you Riitta Lundberg? I’m Jorge. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Of course. You’re the one writing about the cultural history of Osteraker.”
“Right. I think it’s a really interesting area. It’s been inhabited for thousands of years.” Jorge’d done his homework. There were brochures at the prison. Certain books could be checked out from the prison library. He felt like the master of cheap tricks.
As long as the screws didn’t hear.
She bought it. Had prepared what he needed after their phone conversation. A few books about the area. But, above all, maps and aerial photographs.
Sweet, sweet Riitta.
The screws checked that the windows in the reading room were high enough off the ground. Then they waited in the great hall, by the exits.
All clear. They were clocking nada.
Three hours of intellectual quibbling with maps and photos. Wasn’t used to this kind of stuff. But he wasn’t an idiot. Had checked the maps in the phone book and the map books in the prison library weeks before to learn how they were drawn. Regretted cutting geography class in school.
Spread the papers out in front of him. Asked to borrow a ruler. Went through them all, map by map. Aerial photo by aerial photo. Picked out the maps that showed the terrain and the roads best. Picked out the most detailed photos. Looked for nearby roads, the closest wooded areas, clear paths. Studied the guard towers he knew of, their placement and relation to one another. Checked out the connecting highway. Possible alternative routes. Learned the signs for marsh, hill, forest. Saw where the ground was okay. Visualized. Memorized. Measured. Marked. Mused.
What’s the best way out?
The inside: two one-story main buildings with the inmate cells and a two-story building with workshops and the chow hall. Then there was an infirmary, a several-story building for the screws, a chow hall for the screws, and visitation areas. Between the first- and the last-named buildings was an additional wall.
The outside of the facility: around a hundred feet of clear-cut area, with the exception of a few bushes, brush, and smaller trees. Then miles and miles of forest. But there were small back roads.
He closed his eyes. Committed everything to memory. Studied the pictures and maps again. Went through the pile. Made sure he understood which lines indicated difference in height level. Which were roads. Which were watercourses. Checked the scales. Different for different maps. One inch was fifty feet, one inch was three hundred feet, and so on. Jorge: more meticulous than he’d ever thought he could be. Created an overview of the area.
Finally, he had three alternative spots for the escape and three for a waiting car. He made a copy of a map. Marked the spots on the map. Numbered them. Spots A, B, and C. Spots one, two, and three. Memorized them.
Double-checked everything.
Walked out.
The COs’d been bored. Jorge apologized. Had to stay on good terms with them today. They looked pleased that he was done.
Next stop, the most important of the day: Jorge’s cousin, Sergio. Brother in arms from his time in Sollentuna. The key to the Plan.
Jorge plus screws stepped into the McDonald’s by the public library. The burger smell brought back memories.
They were met by a broad grin.
“?Primo! Good to see you, man.”
Sergio: tricked out in a black tracksuit. Hairnet like some kinda cook. Dapped knuckles in greeting. Ghetto classic. Unnecessary of his cuz to roll in all gangsta in front of the screws.
They sat down. Chatted. Kept to Spanish. Sergio treated all four of them to burgers. Heavenly. The screws sat at another table. Ate like real pigs.
McDonald’s seemed more modern since Jorge’d been there last. New interior. Chairs in light wood. The pictures of the burgers were sexed up. The chicks working the registers looked sexed up, too. More salads and greens. In Jorge’s opinion: rabbit food. And still it was the sign of freedom. Sure, it sounded soft, cheesy, but McDonald’s was special to J-boy His favorite restaurant. A meeting spot. Ghetto base feed. Soon he’d be able to hang there whenever he wanted.
He felt stressed. Had to get to the point.
Briefly described his escape plan to Sergio. “Six different spots are marked on a map. The car should be parked at a spot marked with a number. On one of the spots marked with a letter, you’re gonna do the rest of what I wrote in the instructions. I don’t know what spots are best yet. I have to go back and think about it. I’ll write you a letter telling you. I’ll put the letter and the number of the spots in the third line from the bottom. A copy of the map and the instructions are folded inside page forty-five in a book called Legal Philosophies. The writer’s name is Harris. At the public library, over there. You with me?” Jorge pointed.
Sergio: not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he understood this kinda shit. Jorge would be indebted to him forever, even though he had to take care of the planning himself. Sergio would do the best he could to deliver.
Jorge asked about his sister. The smell of McDonald’s in combination with memories of Paola. Junk food equaled nostalgia.
The rest of their conversation was nonsense. They talked about their family, old friends from Sollentuna, and chicks. Put on a show for the screws.
It was time to roll.
Jorge kissed Sergio four times on each cheek when they parted ways. Exchanged Chilean pleasantries.
It was already four o’clock. At seven o’clock, he and the screws had to go back.
Next stop: He was gonna buy shoes. Had ordered catalogs. Read up. Called the stores. Researched the hell out of it. Gel, Air, Torsion, and the rest of the techniques for comfy kicks. God knows how much crap/fake technology there was. You had to see through the bull. Really buy good stuff. The two desired features: good running shoes-important; best shock resistance ability on the market-even more important. The screws thought it’d be fun to check out lame sporting goods stores. Jorge in the know. Stadium on Kungsgatan had the biggest inventory.