At a few minutes after midnight, I heard the CO making his rounds, doing the count.
He was using a handheld counter. The sound of his double clicks grew closer as he did, then faded away, like some kind of snap-clacky Doppler effect.
Then there was more quiet.
At exactly 12:40, I eased myself into a sitting position. Putting to use all I had learned about body control from many years of dance training, I gradually slid toward the edge of the bed, going slow enough its calcified bedsprings didn’t creak, then climbed down the ladder.
My socked feet were silent on the tile floor. Reversing what I had done earlier in the day, I eased up the fitted sheet, then located the seam on the plastic mattress cover. Working by feel, my fingers found the safety pins and unhooked them.
Then I slid out the package. The plastic bag rustled too loudly for my liking—the sighs of angels were too loud for my liking at the moment—but I slowly shifted it over to our desk, placing it lightly on top.
I reached inside. My hand hit rough fabric, and I pulled out the canvas pants. Then I eased into them, being careful not to let the fabric rustle. They were too large, of course, but I rolled cuffs and tightened the belt and judged them good enough. The shirt came next.
After putting on my own footwear—the black steel-toed boots issued to the COs were essentially indistinguishable from ours—the finishing touch was the radio, which I attached to my shirt, just like the COs I saw every day.
There was no mirror in the room to check that everything was squared away, but looking down, I judged myself to have passed muster. This getup only had to fool someone from a distance of twenty feet or more. If one of the nighttime staff members got closer to me than that, I’d probably be done for anyway.
I took a tentative step toward the door to my room, then I heard:
“Sir?”
It had come from the lower bunk. I froze. The ambient light coming in from our small window was faint. Could Frank see me in it?
“What’s up?” I whispered.
“Where you going?”
“The bathroom,” I said.
“Why you all dressed up like that?”
Crap.
Frank and I still hadn’t really talked. All I could say about him was that he was huge and black and that he had gone to church on Sunday and Bible study on Wednesday, the classic convict trying to get right—or stay right—with Jesus. I still didn’t know why he was in here. I hadn’t explored his feelings toward authority. I was uncertain if he’d snitch on me to curry favor with the administration.
“I’m just going out for a little errand,” I said.
“You runnin’ the hill?”
“That okay with you?”
I wished I could see his face so I could have some idea what he was thinking. He shifted position, rolling toward me.
“Could you get me some Slim Jims, sir?”
Feeling a rush of relief, I said, “You got it.”
“Okay,” he said. “You be careful, now. Them woods is dangerous. You never know what’s out there.”
I almost laughed. The incredible bulk was afraid of a few forest creatures?
“Thanks, Frank. I will be.”
I took two steps toward our door and paused, acutely aware that one of the most treacherous moments of the mission would be the first. Fact was, I didn’t know where the CO assigned to the cottages had chosen to spend his evening. There were five possibilities, which meant there was a one-in-five chance this was going to be an exceedingly brief exercise.
And I had no way of knowing. I had heard the CO leaving the cottage after the midnight count—the bar that opened the door from the inside made this metal-on-metal shriek from not having been oiled in an eternity. The problem was, the thumb button on the handle that let you back in was much quieter. He could have reentered silently.
With this in mind, I walked softly out of my room and up the corridor, passing the bathroom. The glass-enclosed office where the CO would most likely be hanging out was up front, by the entrance.
As soon as I turned into the hallway, I flattened myself against the wall, face-in, and edged slowly along. I was primed to bolt back toward my room the moment I saw anyone in the office. That’s if the CO was actually in the office. If he was doing what he was supposed to do—stay moving in and around the cottages—he could show up anywhere, including behind me. I was mostly relying on institutionalized laziness for protection.
I eased slowly forward. With each incremental bit of progress, more of the office came into my view. It was dark, which was a good sign. As long as he wasn’t hunkered down in there with the lights off.
Inch by inch, the office revealed itself: fifty percent, then seventy-five, then eighty-five. Still no one. When I got to the point where I could see it in its entirety—and it was entirely empty—I moved decisively toward the exit.
Speed was now my friend. The less time it took me to travel from Randolph to the safety of the woods, the better. I slowed momentarily at the door, pressing the bar gently so I wouldn’t trigger a squeal as I opened it. I found my stick lying on the ground where I left it and wedged it in the door.
Then I scampered down the steps and slipped into the night.
The nearest light stanchion was several hundred yards away and behind me. Its output was meager enough I barely cast a shadow. The moonless sky above was dark, save for the stars, which twinkled like an array of tiny, distant LEDs.
I set off toward the rec area, trying not to appear in too much of a hurry. I reminded myself of the role I was taking on: FCI Morgantown corrections officer. I walked confidently, without fear of anyone or anything. I was a little bored, of course. I did this every night. Nothing ever happened.
The administration at FCI Morgantown did a fine job hiding its cameras, so I wasn’t aware of when I was on video or when I was in a black zone. But that was the point of the unicorn. Even if someone was monitoring the feed, the grainy image of a CO walking along in a navy blue blur wouldn’t appear unusual.
I slid past the handball wall, then the pavilion, keeping my head down. There was no one out. At least no one I could see.
The last buildings I passed were Alexander and Bates, where inmates slept barracks-style. Each one housed a few hundred men. I didn’t know if they had one CO each at night, or if they shared one—who might therefore be passing between them.
That wasn’t my concern. I was just a CO myself. If I saw anyone, I’d just nod and carry on. The captain who commanded the night shift had told me to go check out something he saw on the camera, so that’s what I was doing.
It was now just upward-sloping open space between me and the forest. My roiled stomach flip-flopped a little extra as I crossed over the perimeter road, the ring of asphalt that formed the outermost boundary of our lives. Beyond it was no-man’s-land.
I scuffled quickly across, then plunged into the trees, safe for the moment. In theory, I had until sometime before the three A.M. count to get back. I still elongated my strides to cover more ground. My thighs burned from the incline. Freshly fallen leaves rustled under my feet. It was nice not to worry about the noise they were making.
My breathing grew heavier as the slope increased. My eyes were getting better adjusted to the darkness as I got farther away from the facility. I purposefully did not look back at the light stanchions, so my pupils would stay as widely dilated as possible.
The canopy of trees above me was mature enough that the undergrowth was not too imposing. I stumbled now and then as my steel-toed boots hit a root or rock but otherwise had no trouble navigating the darkness.
After maybe four or five minutes of steady climbing, the slope abruptly leveled out. I had reached the ridge that ran atop Dorsey’s Knob.
I quickly flashed the light on my Timex. 12:56. Perfect.
According to my map study, I would crest a ridge, then come to a clearing. Sure enough, I found it after a small descent. Once in the open, I took a right turn, pointing myself in the direction of the picnic area, and broke into a brisk jog.
There were no lights on. The park was closed. But I could soon see the shape of a man, sitting on one of the tables. He was dressed in black.
When I was maybe fifteen feet away, I realized it wasn’t Danny Ruiz.
It was Rick Gilmartin. His black shirt had the letters FBI printed in gray.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Where’s Danny?” I asked.
“New York. We have other cases, you know.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, let’s get on with it, then. I have to get back.”
He stood and walked over to another picnic bench mounded with dark shapes that turned out to be a backpack and two duffel bags.
“Per your request, these are stuffed with Chicken of the Sea fillet of mackerel packets,” he said, patting the backpack. “You’re looking at more than three hundred pounds of fish here. I had to go to one of their distribution centers in Maryland to pick this up. They looked at me like there was something wrong with me even after I flashed my badge.”
The backpack was a large, military-style item, and Gilmartin had expanded its zip-out compartments to their full size. It had been packed solid. I tentatively tried to lift one of the duffel bags by its strap. It barely budged. I had no idea mackerel packets weighed so much. I might as well have asked for sacks of bricks.
“This is great,” I said, using my own voice for a change. Pete Goodrich needed a break.
“I suggest you take at least two trips. I used three to get them here from the parking lot.”
“Good call,” I said.
I could squat more than three hundred pounds. But that was in the controlled environment of a weight room. I didn’t want to know what the compound fracture would look like if I took an awkward step with three hundred pounds on my back.
“And, of course, there’s this,” he said solemnly. He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and handed it to me.
Inside were a small handful of what I assumed were marijuana seeds. I stuffed them in my pocket.
“Those were about to be destroyed,” he said. “As far as the United States government is concerned, they have been destroyed. So do everyone involved a favor and never discuss this again.”
“You got it.”
He looked down at the bags. “I’ll help you carry those things as far as the tree line if you’d like. After that, I wouldn’t want to have to explain to the BOP what I was doing in their facility at one o’clock in the morning with a bunch of fish.”
“Actually, there’s something else I’d rather you do, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a GoMart right down the road from here,” I said. “Would you mind picking up some caramel M&M’S and some Slim Jims?”
I took the backpack first. It easily weighed as much as I did and only became manageable—barely—when I got the weight balanced right.
Still, I was able to work my way down through the forest until I was as close as I could get to the maintenance warehouse, which was conveniently located near the perimeter road.
Masri’s key worked fine, and I was soon inside, hiding the backpack under a tarp that was exactly where he said it would be.
Then it was back up the hill. Even though it was a cool night, I was sweating profusely. I wondered if I could get away with laundering the unicorn when this was over. Otherwise I feared the COs would find it based on odor alone.
Back up in the picnic area, Gilmartin was waiting for me with a plastic sack containing five bags of caramel M&M’S and a fistful of Slim Jims.
“Here you go,” he said. “This was all they had.”
“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the sack in one of the duffel bags.
I checked my Timex: 1:48. I was doing fine, though I still couldn’t dawdle. I shouldered the first of the two duffel bags, then balanced myself off with the second. Again, the load was awkward but doable.
“All right,” I said, then summoned my best Henry V. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”
“Wait, there’s one more thing,” Gilmartin said, reaching into his pocket and producing a small Ziploc bag. “I want you to install these in the phones at Randolph. There are instructions inside. I included some double-adhesive strips. All you have to do is unscrew the mouthpiece and attach them.”
“What . . . what are they?” I said, setting the bags back down.
“Listening devices,” he said.
Now I finally understood why Danny had asked how many phones there were.
“But the calls are monitored already,” I said.
“By the BOP. Not by us. And the BOP doesn’t share well. We gave them the we’re-all-on-the-same-team-here argument, and they told us they could only let us listen if there was evidence of lawbreaking. Then they told us if we had a problem with that to talk to their lawyers. This way is a lot easier.”
I still hadn’t taken the bag from him. I thought about sneaking out to the phones, unscrewing them in the dark, fumbling around with adhesive strips. . . .
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m taking enough risk for you guys already. If you can’t get the BOP to play with you, that’s not my problem.”
“This is not a request,” Gilmartin said.
“What, you’re giving me orders now? I don’t work for you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I signed a contract where I agreed to perform a role for a specific length of time. This has nothing to do with that role.”
“You signed a contract that says you are to perform the duties asked of you by bureau personnel. That’s me. And I’ll remind you we’re paying you quite handsomely for that. As a matter of fact, if you’ll recall, I went to bat for you when you wanted more money.”
“That contract also says I can’t break the law,” I pointed out.
“This isn’t breaking the law.”
“Yeah? Then show me a warrant.”
“We don’t need one. This is no different than you tapping the phones in your own home. West Virginia is a one-party-consent state. That means you’re the only one who needs to be aware of it.”
I had no idea if that was true. Frankly, I didn’t care if I was breaking the law—and, obviously, neither did the FBI, since Gilmartin had just handed me a bunch of marijuana seeds. I just wasn’t sure how much more danger my stomach could handle. This is why the bureau had sent Gilmartin to do this errand. Danny wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to be this much of a prick.
Sensing he had gained the advantage, Gilmartin moved quickly to finish me off.
“If you don’t want to fulfill the terms of your contract, that’s fine,” he said. “I’ll pull you out tomorrow, if you like. Is that what you want?”
“Just give me the bag,” I said.
I took it from him and stuffed it in my pocket. “If you guys hear Dupree say something on those phone calls that leads to indictments against New Colima, I get my bonus, right?”
“Of course,” Gilmartin said.
“Great,” I said, shouldering the duffel bags again. “Thanks for the fish.”
Then I started back down the hill. I wasn’t wild about implanting the devices; or the way I’d have to do it; or that the FBI was now going to be listening to everything I said, too.
But mostly I disliked the precedent it established.
What were they going to make me do next?