White Collar Down

By Craig Nieuwenhuyse Ph.D.

White Collar Down was written in 1994 in a creative writing class with inmates inside the Bureau of Prisons. All the inmates read the manuscript and agreed, "Yes, this is what it is like here." The novel is an edgy action adventure love story that takes you inside both the numbing bureaucratic tedium of life for inmates within the Bureau of Prisons and the inner dreams of the the inmates themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781982247119

Craig Nieuwenhuyse Ph.D.

Craig Nieuwenhuyse is a retired Theatre Professor who now lives in an octagonal home on several acres in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. A published author he enjoys having the time for yoga, meditation, and gardening in addition to writing.

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Copyright © 2020 Craig Nieuwenhuyse, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-4710-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-4712-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-4711-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020908489

Balboa Press rev. date: 06/09/2020

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

CHAPTER

ONE

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SUMMER, 1994

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 valley, 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. 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.

Jack took his friend’s hand. Their eyes met. Jack reached out further, meeting Alan in an embrace. Jack felt strength and compassion in Alan’s arms. The two men clung to one another, sharing something they could feel, but could not put into words. Jack pulled away and said simply, Thanks for everything. I’ll be in touch.

OK, Alan replied. Even these simple words took a while to come out.

Jack nodded and they both knew that the time had come. Jack offered, Give my best to the family. Alan nodded and turned, his head tucked at a formal angle, and walked out through the double glass doors.

Jack set his expression. His mind was still, his instincts on full alert. He turned to face a thick gray door. The officer tossed the clipboard onto the counter, and then proceeded to frisk his new inmate. It was all routine. Jack heard the officer announce, New inmate. He’s clean. Self-surrender. I’ve got the file. Jack did not look to see who he was talking to.

But then Jack heard another voice. A man’s official voice was explaining, I’m sorry, ma’am, but you will not be able to visit today. This other conversation knifed across the room with a sudden urgency.

An angry woman’s voice answered, You’re joking!

I never joke about these things, the official voice responded.

Well, check with someone.

I checked with the lieutenant. Your visiting privileges were suspended last week.

This is outrageous. Nobody told me.

He said you would know why.

Through the corner of his eye Jack saw a hard-looking woman in her thirties with a little too much make-up. Their eyes me in a quick flash. He could read her thoughts in her eyes, for in the quick mischief of her glance, she included him. Hang in there, buddy, she was thinking, They may think they’re on top, but you and me, buddy, we know better don’t we. He could not see her leave, but he saw in his mind her tight black skirt swaying as she huffed out of the building. He turned slightly to see the officer at the counter, his face frozen with a mask of duty, following her only with his eyes out into the harsh sunlit parking lot.

The officer who had just dismissed this lady looked over at Jack with a hint of sly cunning, and spoke softly, That’s what I do for a living. Then, after a quick glance at Jack, he spoke casually but officially to the other officer, He’s OK. Take him to registration.

The first officer had his clipboard again as he turned to face the gray door. With utter simplicity, he commanded, Entry door. He spoke directly to the door, as if it could hear, as if it could understand him. It was like saying magical words before an enchanted door in the tales of Aladdin.

Except that this was cold steel. After a brief pause there was a loud clicking sound as a large bolt slid back from the other side of the door. The door opened. The officer said, Let’s go, and took a position to the side and behind Jack.

Jack looked straight ahead and began to walk. The door opened into the outside air; but there were more fences with more gates. Jack looked from side to side. Tall chain link fences swept across the compound. They were everywhere, brand new twelve-foot fences. Simple strands of barbed wire lay atop the inside fences that ran through the compound; but ocean swells of razor wire covered the fences that circled the compound, as if it were an island set amidst an angry sea of steel.

The officer casually pointed out details of the landscape, but Jack could not recognize much. His mind was numb. He focused on one step at a time. Asphalt, cobblestones, grass, dirt, these he could comprehend. Not much else made sense.

The doctor was looking at the form, busily checking off long rows of boxes. He made several checks before and after each question. He had not looked up since he had started. As long as Jack was walking and breathing, apparently that was good enough. At the end of the third page of boxes he looked up actually seeming to recognize Jack. The doctor adjusted his glasses and looked right at him when he asked his next question. Do you know anybody who might have a reason not to like you?

Jack managed a bewildered expression. How was this a medical question?

The doctor realized that Jack did not understand. He looked down at his clipboard. Then, as he looked up, his face took on a new earnestness as he explained, Some of the guys who come in here, well, they have partners who don’t like them anymore. We try to keep them apart. Is there anyone else who was involved with your crime? Anyone who might be going to prison? Because sometimes guys do not get along too well together in here if they have had a problem out there. We like to stop that sort of thing before it starts. The doctor leaned towards Jack and squinted as he emphasized, Nip it in the bud if you know what I mean."

Jack had been a winner for most of his life. He had been a cross country running champion at Piedmont High School outside St. Louis. The utter exhaustion of that last hill before he would charge down across the rolling grassy field, that was nothing compared to this. He had lost the state finals by three seconds. What did that matter now? So what if he had led the debate team to five consecutive victories, or that he had been hired onto the English faculty at the State University when jobs had been impossible to find. All this squinting doctor wanted to know was whether there was someone out there who wanted to hurt him.

And maybe there was. Axel Bjornstand, he might.

Jack had joined Axel in developing a business venture to promote energy conservation. The attorneys had liked it, and the press had written them up as a new venture to watch. When they had started he had been able to see success and little else. His family would be beyond economic concerns forever. But it had failed miserably. Investor’s money had been lost and he was now in prison. Now he would be fingerprints and a number. Just another guy in line.

They had started it too big, with too many partners, and basically everyone else in the business that mattered had lied. Their commercial contacts never opened accounts, they spent money beyond reason, and they argued away precious afternoons. Until, at last, the money had run out.

Jack had raised the money.

Axel had told him not to worry. But they did not indict Axel. Only Jack was going to prison. No one else. Only Jack. Jack understood it better now. At least some of it. Some of his partners had wanted him to fail. They had wanted to remake the business all for themselves. Well, they had it now.

Jack felt pretty stupid as all this raced through his mind. Axel carried a Glock semi-automatic pistol under his jacket. He had made sure that Jack knew about it, sharing all the details, that it carried an eighteen-round clip, and that it was no heavier than the standard nine-millimeter automatic. Axel like to answer questions about it. The only question he never answered was why he always had it.

Jack looked at the doctor and shook his head, answering, No, I don’t know anyone like that. Axel was not coming here, and, besides, he did not want to think about this now. He could sort it out later. He certainly was not going to discuss it with this doctor.

The doctor seemed satisfied and smiled with a certain self-satisfaction as he gave Jack one last piece of advice; You just stick to yourself, Nelson. You’ll get along. And then the doctor was gone.

Jack did not move. Just he and the correctional officer who had paraded him out of the Administration building hours earlier were left in the aging wooden registration room. He and Officer Bulkingham. Bulkingham had a plastic name tag that Jack had noticed in the last several hours they had spent together, filling out forms, and waiting. Officer Bulkingham had the mannerisms of a gelded cat. He began to stir again now that the doctor was gone. He repacked his forms in a neat bundle and looked up at the new inmate. Jack could see the officer put on the official face he had worn when they had first met. Come on, Mr. Nelson. I’ll take you to quarters.

The blond-haired lady leaned against the concrete wall of the pavilion. It was getting warm today and she could feel the heat stored in the cinder block wall. Her gray slacks and white shirt were freshly pressed. She liked them that way. It was worth a few bucks a week. The heat was making her a little sleepy. The sunglasses could hide her eyes. They had to look tired after last night. And her legs ached. It was a good feeling, a warm spent feeling that she craved. She savored the glow. Just standing there in the sun. She did not feel like walking. This was just about perfect.

If they only knew. A thousand men, all just a little different. This was her playground. But what if they did find out? So what? Nothing that good could last forever.

She saw Officer Bulkingham strut down the asphalt path, carrying his clipboard like a little swagger stick. Did he realize what a fool he was?

But then something clicked. It was the guy in the gray sweat suit following Bulkingham by a step and a half. His body was lean, and he had a certain quality about him. Who was this? She watched them walk past, and then casually followed them with her eyes until they disappeared around the corner of the B-side dormitory.

Another new guy. They just keep them coming, don’t they.

It looked like an utterly innocent moment. But when Correctional Officer Slocum, Alabama to her friends, leaned away from the wall and put her weight on the other foot, those who knew her secrets, they knew that behind those mirrored sunglasses those slate gray eyes were not missing a moment.

Jack looked up as he placed his newly issued khaki prison uniform in his locker. He had a problem. He had to buy a lock. But the commissary would not open for four days.

The young Mexican was coming at him with maybe a half a mouth of teeth. Stick figure tattoos popped out the edges of his tight short sleeve tee shirt. Jack looked blankly at the smiling face. You need a lock? The young man sort of sung these words with the unmistakable ethnic lilt of the Spanish speaking culture embedded and growing in Southern California. The smile was melting the young man’s face as he spoke. I have one if you want to borrow it.

God, that would be great, Jack answered, utterly unprepared. Here, suddenly, there was honor amongst thieves. Jesus, this felt good. Yes, there was a chance after all.

Only the numbers are not too clear, the Mexican added as he offered a standard looking pad lock to Jack. Somebody scrape them off. I don’t know why. You can use it though. Sure enough, as the Mexican held up the lock, it had only a 5 and a