Clarence pointed out Wallace earlier that afternoon, and as they entered the dining hall, MacNally engaged the man in conversation while steering him toward the preselected location, near the kitchen.
Two minutes after getting their food, MacNally continued his discussion with Wallace before abruptly slamming his fork down. “What the hell did you say, motherfucker?” He jumped up from his seat and leaned across the table. “Go on-say it again.”
Wallace leaned back, his mouth agape, hands splayed in surrender.
Feigning an unsatisfactory response, MacNally tossed his bowl of chili into Wallace’s lap. The inmate reflexively sprung up, the shock of MacNally’s unexpected aggression-and the pain of the burning liquid against his skin-registering in the contortion of Wallace’s face. It was the sort of spontaneous reaction that was not possible unless it was a genuine response.
MacNally reached across the table and slammed a fist into Wallace’s jaw, and the man tipped backward over his bench, arms flailing in the air before he landed hard on his back. He shook his head to get his wits about himself, then tried to scramble away in retreat, his feet sliding against the slick ground.
But MacNally knew the altercation hadn’t lasted long enough to buy Anglin sufficient time to get Clarence loaded into the truck, so he clambered over the table and threw himself atop Wallace.
Shouting erupted from across the cavernous room: guards yelling orders to MacNally and Wallace to break it up; at each other to communicate what was going on; and at surrounding inmates to stay put.
MacNally drew back and punched Wallace repeatedly in the face until two correctional officers approached from opposite sides. While one guard fought his way through, the other grabbed MacNally by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to the side.
MacNally lunged at his prey-lest there be no question he was sincere-and landed another punch before the guards got a firmer hold. A kick to Wallace’s face served as MacNally’s parting shot as the officers slammed him to the floor, face first. They snapped handcuffs around his wrists while four other guards, who had just arrived, searched him for knives or shivs.
Wallace rolled along the floor, swiped at his bloody face with a sleeve, then looked up at MacNally, who was on his feet and being hauled away.
FOLLOWING THE DINING HALL INCIDENT, MacNally had been sent back to the Hole, a part of the institution with which he was unfortunately becoming familiar.
It would be his home for the foreseeable future while he awaited a disciplinary hearing to determine what punishment would be meted out. As MacNally stared at Henry’s photo, lost in thought, he heard a noise.
Voorhees was standing at the bars, a clipboard in his left hand, his jaw tight. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Voorhees did not answer, but led MacNally into an office off the corridor. The door had barely closed when Voorhees spun on him. “That was a goddamn bullshit stunt you pulled.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Clarence Anglin was caught. Goddamn idiot-thought he could sneak out in a box. A guard saw his brother and another inmate trying to lift the thing, which was supposedly filled with bread. A body weighs a whole lot more than fucking bread. Must’ve thought we’re all stupid or something.”
MacNally attempted to keep his face from betraying the intense sadness that flooded his thoughts. All that for nothing. He had done his part, though he doubted Anglin would help him now-or even be in a position to do so.
“Those Anglins aren’t too swift, ’cause if they were, they’da known that when there’s a fight in the dining hall, the rear gate’s immediately shut down. Any vehicles in the institution would be searched by several guards before it’d be let out off the grounds.”
“Good to know,” MacNally said impassively.
Voorhees lowered his voice. “Did you know they were gonna do this?”
MacNally forced a chuckle. “Why would they tell me anything? And why would I help J.W.’s brother escape-what’s in it for me?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, MacNally.” He was now speaking just above a whisper. “I’m giving you a last chance to work with me. Give me something I can use, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Remember what I told you that first day? Your time here’s gonna be defined by choices. Choices you make-good ones and bad ones.”
“I remember everything you told me,” MacNally said. “And you also told me you can’t protect me. And you told me I gotta learn con law. And you told me that if I don’t wanna get fucked again, I gotta stand up for myself and grow a set of balls. Do you remember telling me all that?”
Voorhees’s face burned red. Through a muscular jaw, he said, “That fight was all just a bullshit act to distract the guard and let Anglin get his brother loaded into the truck. Wasn’t it?”
MacNally looked down at his red and swollen hand. He held it up. “An act? I might’ve broken my hand, and you think it was bullshit?”
Voorhees refused to let his eyes find the inmate’s hand. “I don’t know if they’re gonna be able to prove it, but I know what you did.” He shook his head. “Fucking broke Wallace’s jaw and sent him to the hospital. Guess I’m the goddamn fool. I thought you were different from all these scumbags here. I even bought that sob story about your kid.”
At the mention of Henry, MacNally stepped forward-but Voorhees stood his ground, lips tight.
He felt bad that he had deceived the officer; the man had been straight with him since he had arrived. As much as he was able to, Voorhees had attempted to help MacNally navigate the difficult transition to incarceration in a place like this. He surmised now, in retrospect, and being less green than he was when he arrived, that Voorhees was probably taking substantial risk in striking up a relationship with him. But this place, he was learning, was not a place of friendships-it was a place of survival. You helped those who helped you, and the rest of the population could go to hell-until you required their assistance, and then you became their best buddy and screwed over the guy you had been friends with.
Deception and subterfuge were the method of operation-and currency-of penitentiary life. If MacNally was ever going to see his son again, he had to choose a side, and as well as Voorhees had treated him, there was a limit to what the guard could do. Anglin was going to help him escape, whereas the “value” of his relationship with Voorhees had already reached a pinnacle and, unless he turned into his snitch, would only diminish going forward.
“You’re just as fuckin’ bad as the rest of ’em,” Voorhees said.
“That’s not true. And you know it.” It was once true. Was it still?