The infirmary is a more orderly venue than most and its cleanup is quick and easy. They’re just finishing up when the storm crashes over the prison. The rain pounding the roof, thunderclaps ripping and blasting across the sky, the detonations tinkling the glass containers in the cabinets. When the overhead lights flicker, the other Mexican, Santos, says, “Ay, dios!” and makes the sign of the cross. With his back to the others, Cacho looks at Axel and silently mouths, “God loves us.”
Now there’s only the storeroom to attend to. It’s at the back of the infirmary, its rear door abutting a circular driveway where convicts requiring hospitalization are picked up and where medical shipments are delivered. The room’s sole window overlooks the driveway and glows with every lightning flash. Wind gusts fling the rain against it like gravel. Axel tells the crew to set the big trash bags next to the back door and he and Cacho will take them out to the Dumpster after they unload the coming delivery. “We’re anyway gonna get wet unloading, so what the hell,” he says. He glances at the digital clock on the wall. It’s ten after four.
Mason ushers the other three men of Axel’s crew back out to the waiting room, where he phones for a CO to come and provide the mandatory escort for them through the administration annex. Axel and Cacho stand at the storeroom window and stare out at the storm, the panes framing a rain-streaked view of the main fence about forty yards away and the high guard tower alongside it—Number Four Tower—its square booth bordered by an outer walkway. A narrow access lane connects the infirmary driveway to an inner perimeter road that runs all the way around the prison.
The lights are on in the tower booth and the guard inside is a vague figure. From his vantage he has a clear view of the infirmary door. One of his duties is to keep a close eye on every vehicle that makes a delivery there. He is another of the inside men.