There is never silence in a prison.
My “experimental” wing is circular with eighteen individual cells on the perimeter. The entrance still has old-school see-through bars. In one of the oddest moves, the stainless-steel toilet and sink—yes, they are combined into one—are right by the bars. Our cells, unlike general pop, each have a small private shower in the back corner. The guards have shutoff valves if you take too long. There is a poured-concrete bed with a mattress so thin it’s almost transparent. Handles are built into the bed’s corners for attaching four-point restraints. So far, that has not been necessary for me. There is also a poured-concrete desk and poured-concrete stool. I have a television and a radio that only broadcast religious or educational programming. A single narrow window slot is angled up, so I can only teasingly see the sky.
I lay on said concrete bed and stare up at the ceiling. I know this ceiling intimately. I close my eyes and try to sort through the facts. I go through the day again—that horrible day—and search for something I may have missed. I had taken Matthew out, first to the local playground by a duck pond and then to the supermarket on Oak Street. Had I noticed anybody suspicious at either? I hadn’t, of course, but I reach back now and comb my memory for new details. None are forthcoming. You’d think I would remember this day better, that every moment would still be vivid in my mind, but it all grows fuzzier day by day.
I had sat on a playground bench next to a young mother with an aggressively progressive baby stroller. The young mother had a daughter Matthew’s age. Had she told me her child’s name? Probably, but I don’t remember. She wore yoga clothing. What had we talked about? I don’t remember. What exactly am I searching for here? I don’t know that either. The owner of that hand, I guess—the adult man’s hand holding Matthew’s in Rachel’s photograph. Had he been watching us at the playground? Had he followed us?
I have no idea.
I go through the rest of it. Coming home. Putting Matthew to bed. Grabbing a drink. Flipping channels on the television. When had I fallen asleep? I don’t know that either. I only remember waking up to the smell of blood. I remember heading down the hallway…
The prison lights come on with a loud snap. I shoot up in bed, my face coated with sweat. It is morning. My heart thumps in my chest. I swallow down some breaths, trying to calm myself.
What I saw in those Marvel-themed pajamas, that awful misshapen bloody form…it was not Matthew. That was the key here. It was not my son.
Was it?
Doubt starts to worm its way into my brain. How could it not? But for now, I won’t let the doubt in. There is nothing to gain from doubting. If I’m wrong, I will eventually find out and then I’ll be back to where I am now. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So for now: No doubts. Just questions about how this could possibly be. Perhaps, I surmise, the brutality had been to cover up the victim’s—yes, good, think of him as a victim, not Matthew—identity. The victim was male, of course. He was Matthew’s size and general shape and skin tone. But they hadn’t run a DNA test or anything like that. Why would they? No one doubted the victim’s identity, right?
Right?
My fellow inmates began their daily rituals. We don’t have roommates in our twelve-feet-by-seven-feet cells, but we can look in on almost every other inmate. This is supposed to be “healthier” than the older ones where there was no social interaction and too much isolation. I wish they hadn’t bothered, because the less interaction the better. Earl Clemmons, a serial rapist, starts his day by offering the rest of us a play-by-play of his morning constitutional. He includes sound effects like cheering crowds and full sportscasting, mimicking one voice for the straight play-by-play and another offering color commentary. Ricky Krause, a serial killer who cut off his victims’ thumbs with pruning shears, likes to begin his day with a song parody of sorts. He twists lyrics, taking old classics and giving them his own perverse spin. Right now, Ricky is repeatedly belting out, “Someone’s in the kitchen, getting vagina,” and cracking up harder and harder as those around him shout for him to shut up.
We get in line for breakfast. In the past, those of us housed in this wing had our meals delivered, which makes it sound like we used DoorDash or something. No more. One of our fellow inmates protested that forcing a man to eat by himself in his cell was unconstitutional. He sued. Inmates love lawsuits. In this case, however, the prison system happily exploited the opening. Serving prisoners in their cells was expensive and labor-intensive.
The small cafeteria has four tables, each with metal stools, all bolted to the ground. I like to meander and wait until everyone else is seated, so that I can find the stool that will put me as far away from the more animated of my fellow inmates as possible. Not that the conversations aren’t stimulating. The other day, several inmates got into a heated one-upmanship over who had raped the oldest woman. Earl “bettered” his opponents with his claim of sodomizing an eighty-seven-year-old after he broke into her apartment via the fire escape. Other inmates questioned the veracity of Earl’s claim—they thought that he might be exaggerating just to impress them—but the next day Earl came back with saved newspaper clippings.
This morning I get lucky. One table is totally open. After scooping up some powdered eggs and bacon and toast—I’ll skip the obvious comment about how awful prison food is—I take a stool in the farthest corner and begin to eat. For the first time in forever, I have an appetite. I realize that my mind has stopped going back to that night or even that photograph and has started to focus on something ridiculous and fantastical.
How to escape from Briggs.
I have been here long enough to know the routines, the guards, the layout, the schedule, the personnel, whatever. Conclusion: There is no way to escape. None. I had to think outside the box.
A tray slamming down on the table startles me. A hand is stuck into my face for me to shake. I look up and into the man’s face. People say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s true, this man’s eyes flash NO VACANCY.
“David Burroughs, am I right?”
His name, I know, is Ross Sumner. He’d transferred in last week, purportedly waiting on an appeal that would never happen, but I am surprised they’d let him out of his cell at all. Sumner’s case made headlines, the stuff of streaming-service documentaries and true crime podcasts. He was a superrich prep—do they still use that term?—who’d gone psychotically bad. Ross, who was handsome in a Ralph Lauren–ad way, had murdered at least seventeen people—men, women, children of all ages—and eaten their intestinal tracts. That was it. Just the intestinal tract. Body parts were found in a top-of-the-line Sub-Zero freezer in the basement of his family estate. None of these facts are in dispute. Sumner’s appeal is based on the jury’s conclusion that he is sane.
Ross Sumner still holds his hand out and waits for me to take it. There is a smile on his face. I would rather French-kiss a live rodent than shake the man’s hand, but in prison, you do what you have to. I reluctantly shake the hand as fast as possible. His hand is surprisingly small, dainty. As I pull mine back, I can’t help it—I wonder what that hand has touched. Supposedly, he slit his victims open while they were still alive and used his hands—including that hand—to rip open the slit and reach inside the abdomen and grab hold of the intestine.
So much for having an appetite.
Ross Sumner smiles as though he can read my thoughts. He is about thirty years old with jet-black hair and delicate features. He takes the stool directly across from me. Lucky me.
“I’m Ross Sumner,” he says.
“Yeah, I know.”
“I hope you don’t mind me sitting with you.”
I say nothing.
“It’s just that the other men in here”—Ross shakes his head—“I find them rather coarse. Unrefined, if you will. Do you know that you and I are the only college graduates?”
“That so?”
I nod. I keep my eyes on my plate.
“You went to Amherst, am I right?”
He pronounced Amherst correctly, keeping the H silent.
“Fine school,” he continues. “I liked it better when they called themselves the Lord Jeffs. The Amherst Lord Jeffs. Such a majestic name. But of course, the woke crowd didn’t like that, did they? They have to hate on a man who died in the eighteenth century. Ridiculous, don’t you think?”
I play with my powdered eggs.
“I mean, now they call themselves the Amherst Mammoths. Mammoths. Please. That’s so pathetically PC, don’t you think? But here’s something you’ll enjoy knowing. I went to Williams College. The Ephs. That makes us rivals. Funny, no?”
Sumner gives me a boyish grin.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hilarious.”
Then he says, “I hear you had a visitor yesterday.”
I go stiff. Ross Sumner sees it.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised, David.”
He still wears the boyish grin. That grin had probably gotten him far. On a purely physical level, it was a nice grin, charming, the kind that opens doors and lowers inhibitions. It was also probably the last sight his victims saw.
“It’s a small prison. A man hears things.”
That is true. Rumor has it that the Sumner family is not afraid to use their money to influence his treatment. I believe those rumors.
“I try to make it a point of staying informed.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, keeping my eyes on the eggs.
“So how did it go?” he asks.
“How did what go?”
“Your visit. With your…sister-in-law, was it?”
I say nothing.
“It must have been something, right? Your first visitor after all this time. You seemed distracted before I came over.”
I look up. “Look, Ross, I’m trying to eat here, okay?”
Ross throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, pardon me, David. I didn’t mean to pry. I wanted us to be friends. I have been starving for any sort of intellectual stimulation. I imagine you must feel the same. Both of us being graduates of the Small Ivies, I thought we would have a bond. A rapport, if you will. But I see now that I’ve caught you at a bad time. Please forgive me.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter. I take another bite. I can feel Sumner’s eyes on me.
Then he whispers, “Are you thinking about your son?”
The chill starts at the base of my skull and scurries down my spine. “What?”
“How did it feel, David?” His eyes are ablaze. “I am talking on a purely intellectual level. A proper discussion between educated men. I consider myself a student of the human condition. So I want to know. Be analytical or emotional, that’s up to you. But when you lifted that baseball bat above your head and smashed it down on your own child’s skull, what went through your mind? Was it a release? I mean, did you feel you had to do it? Or were you trying to quiet voices in your head? Or was the feeling more euphoric—”
“Go fuck yourself, Ross.”
Sumner frowned. “Go fuck myself? Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? Really, David, I’m disappointed. I came here for a serious philosophical discussion. We know things others don’t. I want to understand what could possess a man to do something so barbaric. To kill his own son. The flesh of your own flesh. I know that might make me sound like a hypocrite—”
“Lunatic,” I correct.
“—but you see, I kill strangers. Strangers are life’s props, don’t you think? Stage dressing. Deep background for our worlds—the inner world we create. We are all that matter in the end, don’t you think? Think about it. We cry harder when a beloved pet dies than when a tsunami kills hundreds of thousands of humans. Do you see my point?”
I see no reason to open my mouth. That will just encourage him.
Ross Sumner leans toward me. “I killed strangers. Props. Scenery. Window dressing. But to kill your own child, your own flesh and blood…”
He shakes his head as though mystified. I seethe but stay silent. What’s the point? I don’t need to win favor with this psychopath. I look for another seat, but it isn’t as though another table companion would be less disturbing.
Ross Sumner daintily unfolds his paper napkin and lays it on his lap. He takes a tiny bite of the eggs and makes a face. “This food is simply awful,” he says. “Absolutely tasteless.”
I can’t help myself. “As opposed to, say, human intestines?”
Sumner stares at me for a moment. I stare back. You never show fear in here. Not ever. Not for a second. It is, in part, why I made the wisecrack in the first place. Much as you might want to wallow in silence, you can never take shit in here because the shit will just grow exponentially.
Ross Sumner keeps up the eye contact for another second or two before throwing his head back and bursting out in laughter. Everyone turns toward us.
“Now that,” he exclaims when he catches his breath, “was funny! No, really, David, that’s what I was talking about. That’s why I sat here. For that kind of give-n-take. For that kind of mental stimulation. Thank you. Thank you, David.”
I don’t reply.
He is still laughing as he rises and says, “I’m going to grab some toast. May I get you something while I’m up?”
“I’m good.”
I close my eyes for a moment and rub my temples. A headache is crashing through me like a freight train. They started after that first beating, the remnants of a concussion and cracked skull. The prison doctor called them “cluster” headaches. I am still massaging my temples, stupidly letting my guard down, when an arm snakes around my neck. Before I can react, the arm snaps back hard, crushing my windpipe. My throat feels as though it’s about to spurt out the back of my neck. My eyes bulge, my hand clawing impotently at his forearm.
Ross Sumner tightens his grip. He pulls back harder now. My legs shoot up, my shins smacking the table. The utensils jump. I start falling backward. Sumner releases his iron grip as the back of my head slams against the floor.
I see stars.
I blink. When I look up, Ross Sumner is leaping high in the air. That boyish grin is way north of maniacal now. I try to roll away. I try to raise my hands to ward him off. But I’m too late. Ross lands on me with his full weight, both knees pulverizing my rib cage.
I see more stars now.
I try to call out, try to scramble away, but Sumner straddles me. I wait for him to start throwing punches, wondering what I can do to stop him. But that’s not what he does. Instead, he opens his mouth wide and lowers his head toward my chest.
Even through my prison jumpsuit, the bite breaks my skin.
I howl. Ross sinks his teeth deeper into the fleshy area right below my nipple. The pain is excruciating. The other inmates quickly surround us and lock arms, a fairly common prison technique to keep the guards away. But somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I know that no guards will step in. Not yet anyway. Not until one of us is unconscious. It’s safer for them. Guards don’t like risking injury.
I am on my own.
Still on my back, his teeth drawing blood, I draw on whatever reserves are left in my empty tank. I lift my hands up, palms facing each other, and with all my limited strength, I box Ross Sumner’s ears. The blows do not land flush, but Sumner’s jaw still unclenches. That’s all I could have hoped for. I roll hard, trying to get him off me. He goes with my momentum. When his feet hit the ground, he pounces on my back. He threads the arm back around my windpipe.
His grip tightens.
I can’t get air.
I twist back and forth. Ross holds on. I try to buck and flail. Ross’s grip does not slacken. Pressure is building in my head. My lungs are crying out for air. The stars are back, swirling, but what I mostly see now is night. I struggle for one breath, just one, but that’s a no-go.
I can’t breathe.
My eyes start to close. My fellow inmates’ cheers are one indistinct blur. Ross Sumner lowers his head closer to me.
“That ear looks tasty.”
He is about to bite down on my ear. I barely care. I try again to buck, but there is nothing behind it. All I can think about is being able to breathe. Just one breath. That’s all. His lips are right up against my ear now. I struggle like a dying fish on the line.
Where the hell are the guards?
By now, they should be stepping in. They don’t want a dead inmate. That’s not good for anyone. But then I remember Ross Sumner’s wealth, his family’s proclivity for payoffs, and again I realize that no one is going to save me.
If I lose consciousness—and I’m about to—I die.
And if I die, where would that leave Matthew?
Seconds now from passing out, capillaries bursting in my closed eyes, I lower my chin and let myself go limp. This isn’t easy. It goes against every instinct. But I pull it off. There is only one thing left to do. Fight fire with fire.
I open my mouth and bite down on Ross Sumner’s arm.
Hard.
His cry of pain is the most satisfying sound I have heard in a long time.
The grip on my windpipe immediately eases as he tries to pull his arm away. I greedily gulp air through flaring lips. But my teeth don’t let go. He screams again. My jaw clenches down even stronger. He shakes his arm. I hang on like a bulldog. I feel the hairs of his arm against my face. I bite down even harder.
His blood trickles into my mouth. I don’t care.
Ross has managed to stand. I am on my knees. He throws a punch. I think it hits the top of my head, but I don’t feel it. He tries to gather enough leverage to pull his arm free, but I’m ready. The crowd is on my side now. I throw an elbow at his groin. Ross Sumner collapses like a folding chair. His weight tears his arm free from my teeth, but some flesh stays behind.
I spit it out.
I jump on him, straddle his chest, and start throwing punches.
I flatten his nose. I can actually feel the cartilage spread under my knuckles. I grab his collar and pull him up. Then I cock my fist again, take my time, and throw hard at his face. Splat. I do it again. Then again. Sumner’s head lolls now as though his neck is a weak spring. I’m almost giddy now. My eyes are wide. I pull back again to hit him, but this time, someone hooks my arm. Then someone tackles me from behind.
The guards are on me now, pinning me to the ground. I don’t resist. I keep my eyes on the bloody mess of a man lying on the floor in front of me.
And for a brief moment, I actually smile.