It was almost time.
Jorge sat still in the chow hall. Concentrated. He didn’t give a damn about the clatter, the crunching and munching. Today was the day.
Rolando called after him when he stood up. “Jorge, you gonna come blaze later?” Rolando was being ironic. The only one who knew.
Jorge said, “Don’t holler like that. The screw over there can hear you.”
Rolando grinned. “He don’t know words like that. He just a small-town guy.”
Jorge put his hand on Rolando’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, hombre.”
Rolando looked serious. “Damn, Jorge, you doin’ the right thing, you know it. Come on, wontcha tell old gangsta Rolando how you gonna do it? Who wanna be caged for the rest o’ his life?”
“Loco, I can’t tell you today. You’ll see for yourself. Just watch and enjoy. As long as you do your thing.” Jorge got up. He honestly felt like he would miss Rolando, his bullshit about cocaine paste, long lectures on the OG community and armored-car heists.
He’d tested Rolando several times. Revealed a few things to see what would happen. For example, that he exercised the way he did to prep an escape. If Rolando was gonna snitch, Jorge could’ve laughed it off as a joke. But it was cool. Rolando’d kept his mouth shut. No leaks. The Latino was trustworthy. Jorge’d made up his mind: Rolando would play an important part in the actual Plan. He would do his thing today.
But everything hinged on Sergio, who Jorge’d met on his jam roll. That he could fix what needed fixing on the outside. Thirty-odd yards beyond the walls: cleared land—would be hard to do anything that took too long without being spotted. If things worked out today, Jorge would be forever indebted to him. Jorge knew enough to fix this thing. The COs’ routines. Where Sergio’d come from. Where the car would be parked. The best way to drive. The forks in the roads. Jorge knew he could run 440 in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Knew people’d have to pick their jaws up off the ground. Jorge had the know. Jorge had the skill. He got this—without violence and without Sergio’s ass too much on the line. Man, he was el rey.
After lunch they had an hour break from work. Everything ready to go. Now was the time. The plan was simple and genius. Jorge, surprisingly calm. If the shit hit the fan, so be it.
Jorge went back to his cell. Closed the door. Removed the Che Guevara poster from the wall. Unscrewed the wooden panel with his fingernails. It came off easily. He’d done it many times before.
Took out the rope that lay coiled like a thin snake in the space he’d carved into the concrete. The only place the screws didn’t check when they searched the cell. A shallow but long hole. Perfect for a cable.
They thought that panel was smart. Jorge—the Salsa Breaker—was smarter. Honestly: He thought even his sister would be proud. No matter how college-educated she was, she could still recognize finesse when she saw it.
The rope: twined out of long strips of bedsheet. The ritual before turning his sheets into the laundry once a week: tearing off a strip, about half an inch wide. The dude who picked up the sheets was Colombian. Their deal: Hombre didn’t say anything about Jorge’s sheets looking funny in exchange for one pack of smokes a week.
The rope would hold. He’d tested every segment after every new foot he twisted into shape.
He walked out.
It was sunny outside. Sweet. Swedish summertime.
The rec yard was full of people. The screw on duty was playing soccer with the guys. Rolando was on the screw’s opposing team. Beautiful.
Jorge checked the time.
Showtime in exactly thirty seconds.
Rolando glanced at him. After ten seconds, he made the sign they’d agreed on. Rolando braced himself. Ran toward the screw. Full-on slide tackle à la Vieira. The screw went flying. Screamed like a pig. Writhed in pain. Attention: zero.
Jorge ran to the wall. Got in position.
Waited.
Saw what he’d planned now for so long: The top of an aluminum ladder appeared above the wall, on the other side.
Sergio, the savior, had followed instructions. Driven as close as he could, parked the car at the edge of the woods, where the cleared land was at its narrowest. Ran the last yards, placed the ladder, leaning, against the outside of the wall at the point they’d agreed upon. At the right place. At the right time. At the right second. Incredible.
Jorge got out the rope. Had kept it coiled in his pocket. Clasped the hook onto the end. It’d been crafted out of one of the rings on the basketball hoops, which he’d paid a pretty sum to have removed. Bent it into shape with Rolando’s help an hour ago.
Positioned himself opposite the top of the ladder. Looked up. He’d calculated this.
Felt the mass of the hook in his hand. Weighed it. This was the only part he hadn’t been able to practice. Everything depended on his succeeding in hooking the rope onto the top of the ladder and pulling it over the wall, to his side.
He pitched it. The white rope arched in the sky. Settled over the rounded edge of the wall. Didn’t connect with the top of the ladder. He pulled the rope to the side. Hoped to make the hook catch somewhere lower down on the ladder. Didn’t feel any resistance. Shit. Tugged again. Nothing. No resistance. He pulled at the rope. The hook fell down on his side of the wall. Fucking cock. He ran to it. Picked it up again and got into position. The ladder remained on the other side of the wall; he could see the top of it plainly. The way out. He had to get it right this time. Pitched it again. Come on. The clank of metal. Had he gotten it? He pulled the rope. There. Resistance. The hook had caught onto something—it was the ladder. He made a test tug. It worked. Started to pull. Pulled harder. The ladder scraped. More than half was visible over the wall. He tugged. Even though it was aluminum, it was heavy. Finally: It fell down on his side. He heard yelling in the background. He turned around. Saw the screw get up. Fumble for his walkie-talkie. Jorge moved quickly. Leaned the ladder up against the wall. Glanced over his shoulder. The screw was running toward him. Jorge climbed up as fast as he could. Good grip. Didn’t weigh too much. Strong arms. Up at the top. Looked down, then back: more screws in action. He kicked the ladder aside. It fell into the grass. He heaved himself down, dangling on the outside of the wall. Let go. Jumped. Sixteen feet down. Rough landing. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel—his foot still suffered the impact. Mierda.
He ran. Felt good to weigh 147 pounds today. The adrenaline pumped. The clearing like a mirage.
The map in his mind. His foot hurt. Sight set on point number two. Felt the sweat on his back. Heard himself pant. Heavily. Fuck, wasn’t he in better shape? Relax. Lower your shoulders. Enter the zone. Think about your breathing.
Remember: guaranteed the best shape you’ve ever been in. Guaranteed the best shape of any of the inmates. Guaranteed the smartest slumdog. For real. Fuck the fucked-up foot.
Run.
Through the woods. Along the small gravel road.
Sergio should’ve peaced long ago.
His back, completely drenched. In the middle of his mad rush, a thought about his sweat. His smell now: sharp, strong, stressed.
Keep going down the gravel road.
Never slow down.
And there was the car. Sergio’d parked it exactly where they’d agreed. Point number two. Oh, you beautiful new world. Jorge heard the sirens in the distance. Jumped in. The key was in the ignition. He gunned it.
There was a God.
The sirens in the distance came closer.