Odyssey of Revenge

By Lowell Stratton

Revenge and the desire for vengeance suddenly and violently intrude into the otherwise placid lives of the Spencer family. Often seen as an abstraction, they become reality with the death of a beautiful young teenage girl. Each person struggles with the personal definition of what it means to obtain retribution within their own minds and on the larger scale of everyday life in a small Southern town. Friendships are challenged. Political power and personal greed are the dark and sometimes-violent dictates of the chaos and misery everyone experiences. A mother's love for her only child culminates in the demise of a political dynasty. Three men, retired from the service, exacerbate the blurred lines of risk and danger, which culminates in the search for truth, justice, and honor. Different worldviews expose the filters through which assumptions are exposed and relationships threatened. Interpersonal conflict explores the spectrum of the constant debate between the validity of revenge as a human condition. What would anyone do if faced with the travesty of justice stolen and the murder of an innocent brother? Trust is violated on many levels. Death occurs by overt premeditation, proxy, and rage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645445173

Book preview

Cellblock 3D, Lethal Hierarchy

The warden was dwarfed by the convict who stood beside him as the duo scanned the biweekly ritual which unfolded below them. An unlikely pair, they waited for the chaos to organize. A slight down ramp into the shower room filled with fifteen stalls provided them a vantage point to watch the new man.

In the original building, Warden Girard recalled, the ramp had led down into a swimming pool designed to aid in prisoner rehabilitation, which had soon become a platitude in his penal system. The result had been an easy solution to wall off half of the pool with cinder blocks to the ceiling, cover the pool itself with a concrete floor, and construct the showers. There were five on each wall with hooks for clothing along the east side. As a result, the room was reminiscent of a sterile dungeon. The sun in the morning gave light, but not enough to remove an illusion of gloom. When he squinted and let his imagination emerge, the showerheads became wall chain anchors with a felon firmly attached by the neck, to await his fate. Though mid evil in fantasy and concept, there was a shared degree of reality to the catacomb image. It was far more than a place to bathe for the sake of hygiene. The center of the room was void of torture devices but had a similar function. Gangs used the space, away from the prying eyes of guards and trustees, to administer prison justice. It was a necessary inquisition which he, as the warden, condoned.

Fifteen naked men, mostly white, ghostlike among the pillars of steam, began to fill the stalls. The clamor of fifteen convicted felons waxed and waned, partially muffled by the hissing of the spray. A constant combination of poorly veiled yet empty threats, followed by forced, hallow laughter echoed off the high concrete ceiling. This rite of passage was required by prison law. Meekness, modesty, and vanity, if suspected, became additions to the list of deadly sins.

Girard asked, Which one is he?

His partner pointed down toward the end of the west wall and answered, That one, the stocky guy without any tats. I got this, boss. He’ll come around, don’t worry. Jimmy will see to that. The warden retreated and left.

Charles Leeper, a.k.a. the Boss, watched the ritual from the arched entryway. He knew them all and, in one way or another, owned them—all except one: the new guy. Just a matter of time. Lepper observed that, like most new cons, the guy had taken the shower stall at the far end. The constant movement of bodies covered by tattoos and scars and muscle shifted between naked and clothed—a charade for momentary raw superiority. For some, it was a continuous but daunting trial. Many, just gave up.

The Boss noted those cons who, when reduced to the lowest common denominator of human existence, battled to maintain some small shred of self-worth, even when naked. Those who didn’t, he marked to be used for special favors among his cellblock mates. To maintain their place in the prison hierarchy, most, if not all, repeatedly yelled out their tired, crude verbal taunts, which added to the din of a fabricated existence. Leeper’s hand raised and made a circle motion with his first finger—the signal.

The new man repeated silently in his mind, Sergeant Clay Wooden, Sergeant Clay Wooden. With his fists clenched against the wall, he vowed under his breath, I…will…never be…just…a…number.

He shut his eyes and plugged his ears; neither helped. Only when he turned on the shower and ducked his head under the full spray did the torment of prison disappear—his private cocoon. He stole three minutes of solitude before the spray abated, leaving him unmasked. In this prison, but not in his prison, he reverted to be a number.

There was no human movement. The gurgle of water, as it drained down the through the floor, provided the only break in the silence. Clay toweled off his face and saw no one. Fourteen empty shower stalls—not one other human sound in a prison shower room made of ceramic tiles, concrete, and stainless steel. He shivered.

In the military, there had been many naked showers. As he began to towel off, he scanned the room again. Unlike the army, the barren emptiness commanded a sudden foreboding. There was no one. He was isolated in enemy territory. His essence had always been that he was in control and under control. His scarred naked skin totally exposed, had no defense, a symbol of neither. A heaviness usurped his whole being like a demonic force and settled somewhere in his chest. If there was any salvation, petty as it were, it was his clothes. They hung across the room on the far wall like an expensive coat of steel armor. Clay shook off the dread, focused, and moved.

Where ya going, kid killer? The voice came from just inside the arch. Clay squinted through the steam as it dissipated and saw only a vague large shadow. The image was obscured by the sun which came through the double-paned steel meshed windows and created perfect rectangles on the floor.

Sergeant Wooden did not break stride or take the time to acknowledge his accuser. He maintained a laser fixation on the wall and his deliverance.

Leeper watched his new man move toward his clothes. He could not help but notice the scar that went from the guy’s chest down to his groin. The guy looked younger than fifty with a muscular upper torso and large forearms and hands. Buzzed head said military. He was built into a compact frame near five foot ten. Through the steam, now drifting away, Leeper could see a square firm jaw, but not the eyes. The Boss always wanted to see the eyes of a new friend when they were naked and alone. The eyes would tell him what he needed to know: what would it take to break him? Some took real pain and some just a little pain with a threat of more. Sex worked the same way. The new guy?

I said, Master Sergeant kid killer, where ya going in such a hurry?

Clay reached the wall. His clothes, his only badge of dignity, were a T-shirt, pants, shorts, socks, and shoes. His new identity echoed in his head: 404067. He dressed, and only then did he look up and ask, Who the hell are you, and what do you want?

Leeper saw the new convict’s tell, or more accurately, he heard it. No wavering in the voice—defiance. The eyes under heavy brows flashed anger, but no fear. That was not a good sign. This guy would require a lot of pain.

From the looks of your belly, you should have moved a little faster. You must have been too old or too slow.

Clay finished drying his feet and replied, You should see the other guy. He’s dead.

Fuck, am I scared now. You killed some guy after he cut you up like gutting a deer. I don’t think so. You’ve been under the knife. Some doc did that to you. Military?

A mortar. Iraq.

The utterance from the haze stated, I’m called the Boss. You need to talk to me before it’s too late, old man.

Clay sat to put on his shoes. He looked up at a massive tattoo who was a good six foot five, shirtless and all muscle. The ink began somewhere on the top of a shaved head and covered the forehead. It continued down over the face and both sides of his neck. The arms were sleeved with black-and-white ghouls and skulls. Scattered tats completed the chest and the belly. It all came out of the mist. White, if Clay had to guess. A wicked grin appeared from the shadows under a large crooked nose. The eyes came next and were wide set proportional to the size of the head.

Clay drawled his best poor Southern white boy and answered, Well, I’m always up for talk’en. Y’all come and sit so you can tell me why it is that I need to talk to you. I think I will call you Tattoo. I’m done having bosses. Too late in my life for that shit.

Tattoo man grunted and eased closer, but not quite within arm’s reach. He towered above, leaned forward, and hovered like a vulture. Most of his upper teeth were absent. Clay estimated him to be under forty but a little soft around the middle. Eye to eye, Clay continued to sit and tie his shoes but did not look down.

Tattoo noted the eyes again—fierce, penetrating. Certainly, a bad omen, but not unsurmountable. He was never wrong.

Two other convicts appeared beside Tattoo. They moved to brace Clay just at the edge of his peripheral vision. A black Mohawk edged into his vision. It was perched on top of a skinny head shaved on both sides. The convict underneath was tall (six three) and thin but well-muscled. He wore a wifebeater undershirt. His face was badly scared from old pustular acne. A tooth pick moved up and down in the corner of his mouth like a small wooden tongue. The stare from two dark lasers was intense and unblinking. Wooden was familiar with men like Mohawk. This one was trying hard to be menacing. The Mohawk kind of muscle would be sneaky tough but always from behind. A kidney puncher. He would not be the first to attack, only at the end, to clean up.

A slight rotation to the left was met pupil to pupil by the third convict of the trio. He was under six foot but compact with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The shirt he wore was barely able to cover his pecs. There were guns for biceps and six-pack abs. Brown hair closely cropped made him appear military. There were teardrop tattoos at the corners of his eyes. Both arms were inked. A fierce scowl, hopefully not permanent, meant to be lethal defined an otherwise-unremarkable face. The nostrils actually flared. This guy was a brawler and would come first for the beatdown. He ached to get inside and up real close and personal. His kind enjoyed inflicting pain with his fists. He was a head butter, a nose breaker. Clay had been up against men like this before, hurt but never beaten.

Tattoo man would come in last, if at all, to maim, to leave a lasting reminder that he was the cellblock king. Fear was the hierarchy of any prison. The tattoo man’s power was the threat of death preceded by a lot of pain. Fear was loyalty. Even the guards would remain distant.

With a hint of good ole boy camaraderie, Tattoo smiled and leaned against the wall. Clay knew what was likely to happen in the next few minutes, as he had worked in prisons, just not how bad it might be. The new kid had to be initiated into the pecking order. Clay assessed, as he scoped out the crew, they were here to hurt him, but not to kill him.

The sergeant knew his own body, which was in good—actually better than good—shape…for an old man. However, the years behind him would not tolerate too much damage. He could do hurt but could not be crippled, not in this place. An inkling of self-doubt danced at the edge of his consciousness. He pushed it away. No way was he going to go to the bottom of the pecking order, never had, not since basic training. He took a deep breath, let it out, and took another. With his breathing calm, he captured his mind and pictured how it would go down. His training took over. He still listened, but only from a distracted distance.

Surprisingly eloquent, Clay thought, for his appearance, Tattoo man almost cooed in a soft and condescending tone, Since you are the new asshole around here, just to be polite, we thought we would introduce ourselves and explain how things work. You need us to have your back. We want you to know that there are some really bad dudes in here who might just take a dislike to an old military guy who gets drunk and kills little girls. We want to be your friends.

Well, that is mighty nice of you all, Clay quipped. But how could I repay such a magnanimous offer?

An educated asshole, Brawler snorted.

Tattoo cut off his buddy, A gesture of appreciation for our help could be some cigarettes from time to time and some magazines from your sister. Sharing some of your grub. Little things.

Clay bristled underneath; smokes and food were no little things. Tattoo was such a prince. Likely smarter than his toothless amphetamine smile would suggest but still more brute force than brains or cunning.

The sergeant asked, as he continued the banter of sarcasm, I can’t imagine anyone not liking me, but just who are these really bad dudes?

Mohawk interjected, spitting out his toothpick, Just the spics and the black brothers, shithead.

The master sergeant casually rose and took one step back. He was only two strides from the rear wall. He would need the wall.

Sergeant Wooden, ret., looked directly, without turning his body, to engage Mohawk’s and, with a wry grin, said, I’m going to call you Mohawk since you did not introduce yourself properly. I have to say, Mohawk, there is no need for disrespect here with all that name-calling. I will let it pass this time, but try to keep a civil tongue in your ugly fucking head.

The brawler did not need any more goading. He was already locked and loaded. Mohawk was nearly there.

Wooden wanted them to use what had always worked for them in the past—rage. It was a wicked mistress. Unmitigated rage caused fatalities on both sides. Clay had seen it work its charm. Now, he preferred sudden, unexpected, calculated carnage, unmarried to rage or anger. He was ready. Nothing was personal, not at his age of nearly fifty, not after all the hell his body had been through. He had been framed and railroaded into prison. These guys were going to be his compensation.

Mohawk took a step forward, but a large tattooed hand pushed him back.

Tattoo, Clay said, as he addressed the massive inked man, What if I just want to play in my own sand box and not with any of you guys? I don’t do cigarettes or homo stuff. I’m just too old for all of this brother shit. So, I will respectfully decline your most generous offer. He took two steps back.

Tattoo man pushed off of the wall and said, That’s too bad. I had you figured for a real team player. You’re making a very bad fucking mistake, jar head."

First of all, genius, I am not a marine: Master Sgt. Clay Wooden, retired, Army. Second, I am a really big believer in being a team player, but just not on your team or any other team, in here. And third, I am going to be your worst nightmare right here, right now, unless you get out of my fucking face! Faggot! You can’t be dumber than you look.

An image fused with an impression flashed through his mind: Clay saw three little boys in big boy bodies, followed by an instance of pity. It passed. The magic formula of blind ego fueled by rage would ignite the action. It would be over quickly for either him or them.

Tattoo, first to take the bait, spit out, No, you have a choice to make, motherfucker. Either get on board or get beaten down, motherfucker! That’s the only way it works around here!

Clay rocked slightly forward onto the balls of his feet for balance. Quietly, practically inaudibly, he said, I guess then it’s your call…Tattoo.

The boss deferred momentarily as he studied his new foe: the stance, the face, the eyes, but mainly the attitude. It gave off an ominous vibe.

Wooden, unknown to them, had the advantage: his hands, his shoes, his back to the wall, and almost a lifetime of brutally practical experience. Though his eyes, they appeared clown-like, a masquerade of cruel vaudevillian proportion. The rigid confines of prison life had stifled any ability to think outside the box that he might be a lethal threat. They had no way of knowing in his years of training he had developed an ability to evaluate violence, keep a narrow focus, and plan an assault. He could attack with unrelenting but controlled fury and ignore momentary pain. The sergeant knew how to inflict pain without killing and how to kill. He was a master of hand-to-hand combat because he had taught it in the Army for thirty years.

Life became simple: him or them.

The tattooed cellblock boss stood up to his full height and spread his legs. Fists clenched, he did not move but grimaced, a look of pure sinister pleasure. The man actually drooled.

As he wiped away the saliva, Tattoo ordered the brawler, eyes on Clay, Go get him, Jimmy!

Predictable as to his violent calling, Jimmy, the brawler, literally jumped at Clay with his fists clenched near the sides of his head as he led with his face, an unleashed rabid dog. Clay pivoted, crouched slightly, and then launched off the balls of his feet into the oncoming madness. Two seconds was insufficient time for Jimmy to comprehend the unexpected threat coming at him before Clay’s left hand, fingers extended, pierced both eye sockets.

Jimmy’s face exploded with blood. Blind momentum carried him past Clay, who shouldered him onward. With intense pain but no sight, the blind brawler careened, hands to his face, across the tiles and slammed headfirst into the wall under a showerhead. He slipped on the wet floor and fell backward. The back of his head bounced on the floor, which rendered him blissfully unconsciousness.

Mohawk began his ill-fated journey into the sergeant’s wrath as his friend rocketed past him. He also was too late to recognize the danger: the beauty of rage. He came in high with a poorly directed haymaker aimed at Clay, which Wooden ducked adeptly. The convict’s momentum, now off-balance, carried him forward directly into the rigid extended knuckles of Clay’s right hand. Well-timed and aimed, they struck the base of the convict’s neck with such force the larynx was crushed. Mohawk staggered sideways, banged off of the wall, while digging at his throat. Loud, guttural, animallike sounds gurgled out as he attempted to breathe by opening and closing his mouth and stretching his neck. Nothing worked. Clay pushed the dying man on his way. It would only take three to four minutes.

Tattoo did not wait for backup but screamed slurred profanities, kicked out at Clay, and caught him with a glancing blow to his shoulder. Down on one knee, the sergeant managed to right himself, crouched, and waited. Tattoo regained his balance and advanced with his feet spread, fists cocked. He feigned once with his left foot but crept forward toward his prey.

Clay slowed his breath and watched the eyes, which would telegraph the next move. There was a smell of blood and sweat. It was time to finish. No one now could attack from the rear or flank. He shot forward and caught Tattoo off guard. With a half spin, he whipped inside the massive arms and delivered a right-left hand flurry, which broke Tattoo’s nose and loosened his front lower teeth. Clay’s hands were now covered with blood, some of it his own. The master sergeant backed out quickly from Tattoo’s reach. Never still, he became a difficult target. The sounds of Mohawk’s death throws were ignored.

Tattoo spit out blood and shook his head to clear his vision. He came in all hands and legs and elbows. Clay moved always away from the force of the blows and backpedaled. There would be an opening. It came. After a wild barrage of blows and kicks left Tattoo exposed, a right-hand lead struck Tattoo viciously in his left eye, which drove his head up toward the ceiling. Clay stepped back, ducked his head, and buried the toe of his shoe into the base of Tattoo’s scrotum. The knees buckled when the big man dropped fracturing his knee caps. Both hands cradled his crotch. The Boss, the big man, pitched forward as if in prayer. Clay’s pendulum-like foot crushed most of the facial bones and ejected Tattoo sideways into the wall, which finished the job to his face while sending him into his own oblivion.

Harsh, short breaths punctuated the silence. The ex-Army man stood with his hands on his knees. Three unconscious bodies spread about the room said it all, but Sergeant Clay Wooden blurted out, One for the judge, one for the DA, and one for my attorney.

The sound of a voice, his voice, brought Clay into his own reality. As he grabbed his towel to step away, the last few minutes rewound. He knew this did not have to happen but accepted the fact that he had wanted it to happen—compensation. For a brief moment, his mind, now released from its task, wondered if overkill was an oxymoron in prison.

Caution was now required. There most assuredly would be more attacks. He moved warily to the door out of the shower room. The two inmates who had been on guard saw him arrive and abandoned their posts. The hall was empty. The guards would come soon enough. He slid down the wall in the hall to take a seat and waited. It did not take long.

Solitary

404067 tried to sleep as much as possible, but after two days, the mind would not shut off. The only breaks were three meals a day. The guards never spoke. They banged on his cell door with their batons when it was time to eat. The food trays were shoved through the slot in the door by nameless, faceless clones. He lost count of the push-ups and sit-ups. Running in place on the concrete he found hurt the soles of his feet. To maintain his sanity, he started a mental biography of his life, chronologically. Clay tried to see every face and recall every name and nickname of the men and women he had known and trained. He tried not to go back to the war, but that was impossible. The bright light in his cell was on sixteen hours, a bare recessed bulb. If he lay on his stomach and put his flimsy pillow over his head, he could block out the glare. There was no way to orient for time. Time was an Army thing, and he had no watch. During the night, the guards would turn on the light to supposedly check on his well-being but, often as not, leave it on until the next check. Night and day begin to blur. Only what passed as breakfast signaled the beginning of a new day of isolation.

By the fifth day, in his estimation, Clay was drifting among sleep, his memories, and semiconscious naps. He began to sing out loud songs he could remember. His waist was thinner, and his pants sagged without a belt, but his muscles were better defined. It took a great effort to bury his fury because it fatigued and distracted him. Despair would creep in, if he let himself ask the question, Would he ever get out? Would he ever see the sun again? Other than his watch, he missed the sun the most. The few occasions he did allow hopelessness to weasel its way in to his consciousness, he yelled profanities. Vulgar profanities directed at his cell door and at unnamed enemies past and present. It helped. It helped, a lot, as the only act of defiance remaining, more than a number. During boot camp, in his cot, in the dark, under his breath, he had yelled. It had got him through.

By the tenth day, after ten breakfasts, depression hovered as solitary became more deeply ingrained and impossible to ignore.

You motherfuckers! You cocksuckers! You’ll never beat me down! I’ll die first before you sons of bitches ever get to me. You will never own me. I own me! He took a deep breath as his shoulders relaxed. Sweat covered his face. Nap time.

As if orchestrated by his own will, the cell door opened. Clay could see down the narrow hall to the light. Three guards stood in a semicircle, each holding a baton waist-high at the ready.

The guard in charge commanded. Get up, get dressed. The warden wants to see you.

Startled by the first spoken words he had heard in ten days, Clay bantered, I guess I showed you guys.

Shut up, Wooden, the guard demanded. We’re sick of hearing your rants. All you showed us is that you can swear and kill girls. You’re just a drunk. You got off easy with only six years. I would have thrown the book at you if it had been my kid. My bet, you will be back here in solitary, soon. Get a move on.

Clay, almost giddy, added with a grin, What if I told you I was innocent?

I’d say you are full of shit, like all the rest in here. Turn around.

Shackled hands and feet, no one spoke on the journey from solitary to his cell then to the shower and on to the warden’s office. He remained shackled. The door opened, and he was pushed in to stand just inside the door. The warden, a George Girard, by the nameplate on the door, sat at his desk and continued to pore over paperwork. A small but intentional slight for number 404067.

With a final flourish, he cleared his desk and looked up. A nod to the guards let them know the warden could manage his own affairs. There was a panic button. Girard took one file and placed it squarely in the center of his desk. Clay waited for the unknown. He clenched his fists against the handcuffs. It reminded him of his lack of being in control of his body; he quit. By shutting his eyes, he could leave the room.

Warden Girard gauged his convict and started, Mr. Wooden, number 404067, you have caused me a great deal of trouble. I’m just not sure what to do with you. His look implied an answer was expected.

I didn’t volunteer to come to your place.

Girard chuckled, No, indeed, you did not, but here we are, just you and me trying to figure out a solution to the problem at hand.

And just what is the problem at hand?

The warden opened the file on his desk and took a moment to began to read but did not look up. On the afternoon of the fourth of this month, you were apparently involved in an altercation in the shower room in cellblock 3D. I will read this, and then you can respond, so hold your questions. When the guards arrived, you were found sitting in the hall. In the shower room were three fellow inmates, all unconscious or semiconscious. I will skip some of the details, but if needed, we can later revisit the narratives from the guards and medical personnel.

The warden looked up briefly, as if deferring to Clay for his approval, though it was not a reciprocal social conversation. He continued, scanning for specific relevant information to better define the problem.

First, Jimmy Collins is blind in one eye and has about 10 percent vision in the other. This makes him vulnerable in a prison population such as we have here, so he will have to be moved to an appropriate facility, at much taxpayer expense. As he is a lifer, it will be many years of added care.

Second, Charles Leeper, who is also in for life, required twelve hours of maxillofacial surgery and will require more. He will be in the infirmary for some time, again causing much expense for the taxpayer.

Third, William Cross died at the scene of suffocation.

Girard shifted his gaze to Clay and asked, Well, there you have it, Mr. Wooden, the crux of our problem, yours and mine. Those are the facts as we see them as to the incident. Any comments, questions, or corrections? Do you need any more of the details?

No, I was there. Seems pretty straightforward.

The required question: Just what was the reason for the altercation?

Clay delayed before stating, We had a disagreement as to the social structure and functioning of the block. No resolution seemed to be able to be negotiated among the parties involved. The three gentlemen you referred to in your report were inclined to use force, rather than defer to a later time for more understanding and deliberation. It appeared to me that they felt that there was a time-sensitive issue regarding my safety, which was thoughtful, on their account, but truly unnecessary. The situation did require that I defend myself as they were quite skilled ruffians.

Girard laughed out loud in admiration for the inmate’s ability to construct such wonderful bullshit. It changed nothing.

Well done, Mr. Wooden, I think I understand the cause. Now on to effect.

Clay interrupted, Iraq was a problem. This is just a minor situation.

Warden Girard came around the desk and leaned against it, arms crossed, all levity forgotten.

That appears to be in the eyes of the beholder. I go home at night. You don’t. So, you have a problem, or a…situation.

Clay had no comment.

Let me make it clear and as concise as possible. You are an intelligent man as indicated by your military record. You have demonstrated that you can be a threat to those around you, even lethal. By historical accounts of prison life, you will definitely be seen as a challenge to the hierarchy. They will want a piece of you or all of you, especially the men left on 3D. You have been in the military, and not unlike men in prison, I am sure you can see the similarities—minus, of course, the interpersonal violence.

I have to make a decision. Transfer you to another prison, which is not easy. Keep you in solitary for your safety and others. Or, return you to general population and let the chips fall. I am ultimately responsible for your health and safety. The state’s attorney has not decided yet whether to charge you with a homicide. Comments?

Clay replied with a dismissive tone, Mr. Girard, I do see the dilemma, your dilemma. I am at the mercy of your decision. Life, my life, has been best served by just doing it a day at a time. Whatever is in store for me will just have to happen. Why not just make it easy on yourself as a dedicated public lackey? I will not even try to imagine what it will be like to be imprisoned here for the next four years of my sentence. It will be just be a day at a time. I have enough memories. Do what you gotta do.

Warden Girard retreated behind his desk without comment and tapped the button. The guards reappeared, and 404067 was dismissed with a backhand wave. Before the door closed, You will be in solitary until the decision is final.

The Decision

Fifteen days later, Clay again left solitary. There had still been times when swearing was required, not knowing if solitary would be his home for the next four years. He ate little but still worked out and sang. Clay shuffled down the hall to 3D, shackled again feet and hands. He held on to his only