MacNally pointed out that should West be given the job painting the cellhouse, not only would it provide them clandestine storage space, but it would give them access to the mint-colored paint they needed for wall touch-up each night to conceal the holes they were making around their ventilation grilles.
But carving holes in the cement was tedious work that required them to work after lights out for hours at a time, always exercising care not to drop their tools-heavy-gauge steel spoons they had smuggled out of the dining hall. With few exceptions, because inmates were prevented from having metal objects in their possession, the signature clank of metal on concrete in a prison facility stood out like a gunshot in a kindergarten class.
Now, as MacNally lined up with the rest of the workforce in the recreation yard, he felt the morning mist from a dense fog prickling his cheeks. It made him feel alive. The whistle blew and the men began moving through the steel door that swung open in the middle of the tall cement wall. From that vantage point, as he looked down the steep set of dozens of concrete stairs, he saw the trail of workers headed to the Industries entrance directly below him.
To the far right, beyond that structure, stood the old three-story Model Industries that housed all the prison’s industrial infrastructure until 1940, when it was deemed an escape risk after a number of cons had gotten out of the building and made their way to the adjacent water’s edge. Since the new factory had opened, the former facility remained vacant, though it served as the support base for the Model Tower, a guard lookout and catwalk that provided officers with a birds-eye view of that side of the island.
Ahead of MacNally, for those inmates who dared look, was the Golden Gate Bridge, a majestic span that reached from the city to his left across the Bay, to the tony community of Marin on his right. Each time the prisoners left the rec yard for their work detail, the postcard-perfect view of the city and bridge served as a powerful reminder of a vibrant life they were missing.
MacNally walked through Industries’ second story doors and onto the shop floor. It was densely packed, with endless rows of machines and work tables, where inmates manufactured various products in the glove, brush, and tailor shops, and the furniture and wood-working factories.
Circular columns rose regularly across the floor, and tall sectional windows along the left wall brought a gray luminosity into the building. Pipes and wire conduits crisscrossed the ceiling, hanging down alongside single-bulb light fixtures that supplied readily available electrical outlets for the trade-specific machines such as drill presses, saws, specialized cutting tools, routers, and sanders.
Officers stood watch throughout the expansive, rectangular interior. Along the right wall, a guard’s catwalk stretched the length of the building, patrolled by men with Winchester rifles slung over their shoulders and tear-gas guns at the ready.
MacNally took his place at the assigned station, where a long, thick bobbin of heavy gauge thread sat to his right, already spooled into the machinery, just as he had left it yesterday. He began the task of slicing the raw material canvas and leather sections that would then be cut into templates and sewn into gloves.
As MacNally reached into the bin to his left, he saw a blur coming at him out of the extreme periphery of his vision. He instinctively flinched and curled away as something razor sharp sliced into his side. He was body slammed toward the cold cement floor, but his hip struck the worktop on his way down, flipping him onto his back and spilling his metal glove-making tools all around him.
That’s when he saw Harlan Rucker bringing up a glistening knife, about to plunge it into his chest.
“FUCK YOU!” RUCKER YELLED AS he arced his weapon through the air.
MacNally kicked up his knee, catching Rucker’s forearm and deflecting the blow. He slapped at the floor with his feet, trying to get up, or get away-but his leather soles kept slipping on the slick cement.
MacNally yelled, then flailed his left hand along his side, trying to grab something-anything-to defend himself. But his palm brushed clumsily against round tools, scattering them from his reach.
Rucker again jabbed the knife toward him, but MacNally twisted away and it struck the hard concrete floor. The impact sent the weapon skittering out of Rucker’s hand. He dove sideways to gather it up, giving MacNally room to move.
Off to his right-a cold metal rod. He wrapped his fingers around it and whipped it toward Rucker.
The clunk of steel-on-steel reverberated throughout the room as Rucker’s knife flew from his hand.
Rucker yelped, his hand paralyzed, likely fractured.
In the distance, shouts echoed from guards.
Again, MacNally swung his rod-
violently
hard and
fast
Then a thud-metal against bone.
And Rucker went down.
MacNally got to his knees and brought his weapon back-winding up for a full swing-then slammed it against the asshole’s shoulder, then his cheek, then his nose, and then-
– someone grabbed MacNally’s arm, driving him backwards and pinning him to the ground.
A guard? Or one of Rucker’s lieutenants?
MacNally swung his head around and saw a fist blurring toward him. Before he could react, the punch landed on his right cheek and whipped his neck around.
MacNally struck out-a wild backhand with the metal bar-and landed a blow across the man’s back. He stiffened, as if he’d lost his breath-and swung again, striking him across the buttocks-
“MacNally! Lindahl,” yelled a voice from behind him somewhere.
Whistles blew, footsteps.
“Drop it! Drop your weapon!”
MacNally did not realize he was still holding the rod. He was hyperventilating, eyes wide, chest heaving, heart pounding in his ears.
A hand pried angrily at his fingers, and he released his grip. Two officers yanked him onto his stomach, then fastened handcuffs around his wrists.
“Rucker. He started it,” MacNally said as they pulled him to his feet.
“You’ll have a chance to tell your story,” one of them said. “After we get you to the hospital.”
It was then that MacNally felt the pain in his side, where his cleanly sliced blood-soaked denim shirt was adhering to his skin.
Rucker lay unconscious on the floor, blood oozing from his nose and a deep gash on his forehead. Lindahl, his buddy, was on his knees, writhing in pain as another set of officers gathered him up and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.
Dozens of nearby inmates appeared to be looking at MacNally with newfound respect-and fear.
“Everyone back to work,” an officer called out.