The Usher

The white van turned off of the pavement and onto a long dirt road. The dust covered the horizon behind the van. It appeared as if the van brought the end of the world with it. They pulled up to one guard shack in front of a double ten foot tall fence topped with razor wire and cameras on each corner. The guard approached the van and spoke with the Marshal who was driving. He observed the cargo through a window reinforced with a steel caged barrier.

Young’s wrists were chafed from the long ride to Beaumont Texas federal correctional facility. He had been in the cuffs and shackles for twelve hours now as the passenger door opened up, a Federal Marshal climbed out and grunted as he stretched. Then he walked a few steps, looked inside through the bars and opened the side door to the van. The prisoner opened his eyes with a squint and then made eye contact with his transporters.

He said nothing as one deputy marshal climbed in and removed the chain from a steel loop holding him to the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and his legs were numb from the long ride.

“On your feet prisoner,” the marshal snapped, as he backed out of the van and moved to the side. Young squatted as he found his footing.

Young had noticed that all of the guards were staring at him as he climbed out of the van. They had all heard what he had done. He was a disgrace to any man who wore a badge, and he would not make friends here easily. He knew that he would have to keep to himself until he was free. The guards weren’t his primary concern; the inmates hate dirty cops just as much.