Recton Hall Juvenile Detention Centre is in Bethesda, Maryland on the shores of the Dalecarlia Reservoir, to the north-west of the nation’s capital and just over the Potomac River from the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It caters for juvenile offenders up to the age of seventeen.
Like many other juvenile halls, or juvies, Recton takes pride in providing a secure environment that does not feel like a prison.
The high security fence that surrounds the facility is softened, completely hidden in some places, by the tall red maples and river birches planted on both sides of the razor wire.
Inside the perimeter a white picket fence adds a rustic touch and hides a proximity-and-thermal sensor. An observer with an eye for detail would also notice that the tops of the pickets are white painted metal, not wood, and are sharper than you would usually expect for a picket fence. Also that the fence, at four-foot high, is a little taller than usual, just high enough in fact to prevent anyone from casually stepping over it. It has to be climbed. The same innocent-looking fence delineates the area in which the inmates, referred to as guests, are allowed to roam.
Every inch of the ground between the picket fence, and the wire mesh security fence on the outside, is covered by cameras and monitored by motion sensors. There are plenty of blind spots among the trees, but none at all in the four-yard clear space on either side of the fence.
There is only one way in or out of Recton and that is through the “cage”, part of the administration block. Large metal gates on the outside and reinforced doors on the inside create a kind of holding area in which all prisoners, visitors, staff and supply vans must be cleared, before proceeding in or out of the facility.
The cage is on the first floor of the administration block, along with the inmate processing centre, the loading dock and the school office. The second floor contains administration offices, storerooms and the armoury, plus the guards’ rest area and washroom.
The third floor is the watch-house: the control room that runs Recton, monitoring comings and goings, and the activities of the guests.
Dormitories and classrooms are housed in separate buildings spread throughout the spacious grounds.
Recton Hall, known to guests as “Wrecking Ball”, “Rectum” or just “The Wreck” does not house gang members, drug addicts, game addicts or murderers. In the overall scheme of juvenile detention centres, Recton is at the top end. It is the place where white-collar juvenile criminals get sent for crimes like fraud, embezzlement, cybercrime and espionage.
It surprises most people to learn that the biggest category of offenders at Recton is not fraud but espionage. Industrial espionage mostly, plus a limited amount of military or governmental espionage. Generally, the culprits have parents in high-level positions in strategic organisations and are targeted by unscrupulous agents of corporations or foreign countries.
There are a few “common” criminals at the facility, usually because their parents were powerful or wealthy enough to pull the political strings necessary to get them transferred to a “safe” institution like Recton, away from the gangbangers and addicts that fill the halls of the other juvies.
Guests have limited access to a telephone, one per dormitory, although all phone calls are recorded. Cell phones are not allowed and a powerful network jammer ensures that even smuggled-in phones are useless.
All of this Sam found out simply by typing “Recton” into Google.
The trees shivered a little in a late afternoon breeze, and a few loose leaves twirled like butterflies down over the razor wire fence. One leaf caught for a moment on a spike before a stronger gust dislodged it.
A trio of Asian inmates were playing some complicated card game, sitting on the grass near the boundary, just a few yards away. Sam tried to figure out the rules, without staring. It involved a lot of picture cards and the queens seemed especially important, and every few moments one of them would reach over and slap one of the others hard across the face, then they would all fall about laughing.
It made no sense to Sam at all.
He looked back at the fence. So thin, so delicate, yet so vicious with its sharks’ teeth of jagged metal.
The idea had been in his mind from the moment he had found the codes for the electronic doors, but actually making the decision to escape was another thing.
On one hand there was an unspecified amount of time in jail. (Throw away the key, according to Kiwi.) On the other hand was a life of running and hiding, constantly looking over his shoulder. An outlaw, an outcast, a fugitive.
Would he ever be able to see his mother again? Or Fargas? Would he have to leave the country, sneak over the border into Canada or Mexico and live the rest of his life in some foreign land?
But then he looked around at the razor-topped fences and tried to imagine spending month after month of his life in this one small patch of land, constantly under watch by armed guards.
And worse. On his eighteenth birthday, the transfer to an adult prison. What kind of horrors would that hold, amidst the burglars, murderers and gangsters?
Recton was scary enough. The thought of some unknown adult prison “upstate” was simply terrifying.
Sam saw Kiwi walking over towards him, and stood up.
Together they strolled along the exercise track that ran around the circumference of Recton, a yard or two inside the white picket fence.
He counted his paces, although he was careful not to look like someone who was counting his paces.
It had been two weeks now since he had arrived. Two weeks of limp, flavourless food, communal showers (which he hated) and a horrible claustrophobic feeling every night as the electronic door beeped and locked itself at nine o’clock.
He had put that time to good use though. Noting the routines of the guards. Where their rounds were. Who was scrupulous, who was punctual, who was lazy and did the barest minimum to fulfil their duties.
He had drawn a map of the fences and sketched in the sensors and other hidden alarms that he located on the security system on the admin computer. He had measured distances on the ground, and compared those with the information online, working out times and distances.
He had full run of the computer networks and there was nothing he couldn’t find out if he wanted to.
Two weeks of researching, planning, and finally he was ready to go.
All he needed was an accomplice.
Sam casually picked up a stone from the path and tossed it over the picket fence where it landed among the trees. No alarms sounded. It would take more than a pebble to set off the motion sensors.
“Kiwi,” he began, glancing back at the watch-house. “I need your help.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Kiwi said.