White Collar Down

Jack Nelson’s friend, Alan, was driving. It was almost noon. This was the day. The day he would self-surrender to the Feds. They were sitting in the front seat of Alan’s ancient 1981 Volvo. The unique growl of its engine had kept them company on the two and one-half hour drive through the well known landscape north of Los Angeles, through Santa Barbara, along the coast, and finally over the hills and down into the fields of cut flowers. They finally had reached Lompoc, an out of the way government town mid-way up the central coast of California. Up at the crest of a small rise, out at the edge of the volley, they both saw it at the same time. At first it was a just a long metallic glint in the sun. Then Jack realized what it was. It was wire. There was nothing but wire, rolled and coiled, and stretched out into the distance as far as he could see. This was his destination. It was a high-tech cage with only one way in and no way out. Jack was completely unprepared. There were fences everywhere. Long rolls of razor wire lay across the top of what had to be a two- or three-mile perimeter. Not just one fence either. Two fences, four rows of razor wire marked out a misshapen square of earth. It was a big cage for people. Two white pick-up trucks slowly circled the wire on an asphalt road that ringed the perimeter. Jack watched a pick-up roll slowly past just outside the wire. It was like a shark, or an eerie angel of the unknown. He did not know it yet, but they carried electronic listening cones that could pick up a conversation halfway across the compound. They also carried shotguns and rifles, just in case. In case of what? In a few weeks his new friend, Big Al, would spell it out; “You touch that wire and make the wrong move – you’re chopped steak, buddy. I saw two guys try it back in Phoenix. Wasn’t very pretty.” Jack turned to Alan next to him. It was obvious, but Jack said it any way; “I think that’s it…” That was it alright. The Federal Correctional Institution, Lompoc, California, to be exact. It was what they called an FCI, not a camp. Once it had been a camp for middle and upper class unfortunates. As recently as twenty years ago they had laughed and called it the “Club Fed” of the system, back when wives, girlfriends, and beer by the caseload were routinely overlooked by a handful of guards, back when white collar criminals enjoyed a privileged status within the federal prison system. Not anymore. Now this was FCI Lompoc, stuffed with 1200 inmates in a space designed for 350. Most of them were drug dealers or bank robbers, with a few better-behaved killers mixed in. All of them were a lot different than Jack Nelson. Alan idled his old blue Volvo into the FCI parking lot. Jack studied the wire. At the far end of the lot the new off-white stucco Administration Building nestled into a corner of the fence, with the wire snarled and twisted in high evil looking bunches across the roof. Two balanced wings on either side of the building disappeared into the wire. The building looked like it was crouching in wait. How would he ever get used to it? Four rows of razor wire were piled one on top of the other wrapping the Administration Building like a stainless-steel crown of thorns. Alan gazed out his window and studied a smart brass hexagonal Federal Bureau of Prisons sign, full of greetings and instructions. These were the official notices of the obvious. You were theirs beyond this point. The rumble of the car shivered up Jack’s spine as he sat staring at his appointment with prison. He still felt the rawness of his separation from his wife and children earlier in the morning. He had been unable to speak, tears streaming down his face. How could he have brought those he loved most to this abyss, to the edge of utter ruin? Jack could not think of all that now. He looked at his watch. It was 11:50 AM. He was not due for ten minutes. His voice was full of gravel as he said, “I don’t want to go in there just yet.” He could hardly talk. He studied his hands. Waves of energy moved up his arms. His fingers were numb. What had he been clutching? With a conscious effort he looked down at a white office folder he was slowly strangling between his hands. The directions to the FCI had been in there. He released his grip. The folder fell to the floor of the car. He looked at it lying next to a California highway map, a half-crushed Kleenex box, old hamburger wrappers, all of it just plain trash, the leftover stuff that lives were made of, the overflow of life. This was all over now. It was time. Jack smiled an intelligent smile calculated to set those he met at ease. He was OK. He would cooperate. He could handle it. He was ready. He nodded, but did not look at Alan as he said, “I’m ready.” But was he? And for what? He wore a new sweat suit, both pants and shirt a flat institutional gray, a new pair of Reeboks, a cheap new plastic Timex, and thirteen or so dollars in change, including the roll of quarters he had bought at the bank in Lompoc that morning. He knew he could bring these things in. They had told him on the phone. It had taken five phone calls to find out even that much. The Federal Bureau of Prisons was an almost impenetrable institution. The wire fences extended into the mentality of the staff. No one got inside, or even any information by phone unless they allowed it. Jack had been lucky. They had told him what he could bring. Most guys never knew. They were arrested and jailed somewhere, often at the county jail. They could be there for months, or even years, awaiting trials and sentencing, before they were finally transferred to a facility like FCI Lompoc. So, today he was self-surrendering in a gray sweat suit, giving himself up directly from the streets into the arms of the Federal Bureau of Prisons. But right now he could hardly think at all. He walked with Alan into the building. A registration counter stood in the middle of the room. Jack walked up to face an officer behind the counter. The officer did not look up at once. Instead he picked up a clipboard, flipped over a page, and glanced up only briefly. He tapped the clipboard a couple of times with his finger, then he stood up straight and offered, “You must be Nelson?” “Yes, sir.” Jack nodded slightly. He stood with his back straight facing the officer. “You can say good-by to your friend. You’re coming with me.” As the officer stepped back Jack watched Alan allow a measured smile to reach halfway up his face. There was no reason to talk about the time, about when he would see him again. Once Jack went through that metal detector, he was not coming out again for a long time. In fact, at that exact moment, time would change for Jack Nelson; for at that moment he would enter a world where what was now unimaginable would be repeated daily, where every day was going to be so much like every other day that they would all eventually be indistinguishable in his mind, a refabricated texture of time, where it was possible to spend a decade or more of a man’s life in utterly trivial pursuits, a twisted sense of time where two years could be considered almost short. It would be the first moment for Jack of prison.