From what he’d seen so far, the only clear indicators that Basal was a high-security facility were the series of locked doors that separated the administrative wing from the rest of the prison, the twin heavy-gauge doors at the entrance, and the three impassable perimeter fences around the entire compound.
The warden’s door opened. A tall man with a balding head, dressed in dark brown slacks and a white shirt, filled the frame and stared at Danny with drooping blue eyes. This was the warden. Marshall Pape.
Danny stood. The man’s cheekbones were high, hardening his long face, but otherwise he looked like any middle-aged executive who might be seen entering or leaving a bank.
“Welcome to hell,” Pape said.
His eyes held on Danny for a long beat before a smile brightened his face.
“So to speak. Please. Come in.”
Danny dipped his head and walked into the room. The door closed quietly behind him and an electric latch fell into place, sealing him off from any attempt to get out using the warden as a hostage.
Three red camera lights winked at them from the corners of the ceiling. Whoever had constructed this new facility had surely covered all the bases using less conventional and far more sophisticated measures than in older prisons. For all Danny knew, there was a gun trained on his head at that very moment, waiting for him to grab a pen on the warden’s cherrywood desk in an attempt to stab him.
The office was large and plush, with dark wood-paneled walls, bookcases, globes, several lamps, and two large family portraits. These showed a gray-haired woman, presumably the warden’s wife, and two adolescent children, a boy and a girl. A sheer lace curtain covered the room’s only window.
“Have a seat, Danny.” The warden’s voice was low and soothing. He indicated one of three high-backed leather chairs positioned opposite his desk. “Just so you know, this interview is being watched and recorded. Do you have a family?”
“No, sir.”
“No?” He looked at one of the family portraits. “That’s too bad. Everyone needs a family. There’s nothing more important in this world than loving and being loved by your family. It’s why I do what I do, you know. To keep families like mine safe. Society demands this from me, and I would give my life for it.”
Danny said nothing.
The warden slowly opened a file folder, studied Danny for a moment, then settled into his chair.
“Let’s start at the beginning, if you don’t mind. Do you know how many people in the United States are incarcerated, Mr. Hansen?”
“No.”
“According to the latest statistics, one out of every hundred adults in America is behind bars at any given time. Purely by the numbers, the average adult male in this country stands a fifteen percent chance of being imprisoned sometime during his life. Does that strike you as high?”
He’d heard it was ten percent. “It does.”
“Yes, it does. And thank you for being so direct in your responses. I appreciate that.”
Danny nodded.
“The sheer number of people imprisoned in this country becomes truly alarming when you consider that, although the Unites States makes up only five percent of the world’s population, it has twenty-five percent of the world’s prison population. On average, our incarceration rate is five times the rest of the world. Per capita, we have six times the incarceration rate of Canada, twenty times that of Japan. That’s a seven hundred percent increase since 1970. Few realize it, but the United States is fast becoming a penal colony. Does this alarm you?”
“It does.”
“Bear with me, because I need you to understand where I’m headed with all of this. One out of every thirty-one men in the United States today is either in jail today or under the supervision of corrections. The recidivism rate in California is seventy percent. As you know, the gyms at Ironwood are no longer used for recreation but to house hundreds of bunk beds, an attempt to handle more than twice the number of prisoners the facility was designed to hold. And through it all you have to ask yourself one question: why? Why are so many people going to prison, Danny? And why are seventy percent of those released being dragged back into prison?”
It sounded like a rhetorical question, so Danny said nothing.
“Go ahead, take a stab at an answer.”
“Because they exit the system more hardened than when they entered it,” Danny said. “Survival in the system requires adaptation to the environment. It’s only human.”
“Only human, very good. It’s America’s biggest tragedy. We have these manufacturing plants called prisons that accept deviants, turn them into hardened criminals, and send them back out into the world to wreak havoc. It’s like boot camp for storm troopers.”
“Not everyone who comes out—”
“Shut up, Danny.”
The man’s tone surprised him. But then Pape smiled. “This is a nice prison, you’ll see that, but we have rules. One of those rules is that you will speak to me only when I ask you to. It may seem harsh, but it’s one of the ways we maintain order. Fair?”
“Fair.”
The warden continued. “Now, not all those who enter the monster factory come out as hardened criminals. But you, being a man of the cloth, surely realize that we are all monsters in need of help, don’t you?”
Danny remained silent, not sure if he was expected to respond.
“That was a question, Danny. You may respond.”
“I would say everyone needs help.”
“Because we are all monsters?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily go that far.”
Pape kept his eyes steady above a gentle smile. “Then maybe you’ll learn that in here. To the earlier point, you’re right. A third of those who leave prison never return to it. But that leaves two-thirds who yield to the machinery and come out ready to prey on the weak. It’s not society’s intention, naturally, but it’s real, nonetheless. You have to wonder why society doesn’t rise up in protest and insist the government close down these manufacturing plants for criminals, don’t you?”
Danny wasn’t sure how to respond to such a sweeping generalization of the system, but Pape compelled him to answer. “Perhaps.”
“No matter how you look at it, the system in this country’s a hopeless mess,” Pape said. “And no one has the will to fix it. That, my friend, is where I come in. Basal is the first facility to look the problem square in the eyes and fix what’s broken, from the ground up. It’s why the department of corrections signed off on spending $150 million to build and operate Basal. It took too many years and far too much political maneuvering to line up everyone, but now we have it. It’s my turn to help fix the world.”
His voice was like a purr, comforting, engendering trust. The warden looked down at the file and picked up a sheet of photocopied snapshots that Danny recognized from his original processing.
“I see you’ve put on a few muscles since they first sent you away. You like working out?”
“It helps me focus, yes.”
“Good. You’re going to need that focus to become a better man in here, Danny. All of it.”
The warden set the pictures down and folded his hands on the desk.
“I’m guessing that you’re wondering why you were transferred to our facility? Am I correct?”
“The question has crossed my mind, yes.”
“For starters you should know that I’m very particular about who I invite into the program. Each candidate is carefully vetted. No attitudes, no violent criminals, no gang members, no racists, no drug addicts. We operate near full capacity. You’re the first transfer in four months. I accept only two kinds of members: those with very long or indeterminate life sentences who have proven they can follow rules, and the newly incarcerated who believe they are innocent. It’s critical that all of our members get off on the right foot, which is why I personally indoctrinate them. Consider this your gateway into a new world. Within these walls you will find true life or you will find hell. Do you understand?”