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I could see blue-garbed prisoners begin to move across the yards toward their
cells. Thomaston enclosed an area of eight or nine acres, including Haller
Field, the prison s playing field, its walls carved out of sheer rock.
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Unmarked, in a far corner beneath the walls, was the old execution site.
The warden offered me coffee, then played nervously with his own cup, spinning
it around the table by its handle. The colonel of the guards, who was almost
as imposing as the prison itself, remained standing and silent. If he was as
uneasy as the warden, then he didn t show it. His name was Joe Long and his
face displayed all the emotion of a cigar store Indian.
 You understand that this is highly unusual, Mr. Parker, the warden began.
 Visits are usually conducted in the visiting area, not through the bars of a
cell. And we rarely have the attorney general s office calling to request that
we facilitate alternative arrangements. He stopped talking and waited for me
to respond.
 The truth is, I d prefer not to be here myself, I said.  I don t want to
face Faulkner again, not until the trial.
The two men exchanged a look.  Rumor is that this trial has all the makings of
a disaster, said the warden. He seemed tired and vaguely disgusted.
I didn t answer, so he spoke to fill the silence.
 Which, I guess, is why the prosecutor is so anxious that you should talk to
Faulkner, he concluded.  You think he ll give anything away? The expression
on his face told me that he already knew the answer but I gave him the echo he
expected anyway.
 He s too smart for that, I said.
 Then why are you here, Mr. Parker? asked the colonel.
It was my turn to sigh.
 Frankly, colonel, I don t know.
The colonel didn t speak as he, along with a sergeant, led me through 7 Dorm,
past the infirmary where old men in wheel-chairs were given the drugs they
needed to maximize their life sentences. The 5 and 7 Dorms housed the older,
sicker prisoners, who shared multibed rooms decorated with hand-lettered signs
( Get Use To It,  Ed s Bed ). In the past, older special prisoners like
Faulkner might have been housed here, or placed in administrative segregation
in a cell among the general population, their movements restricted, until a
decision was made about them. But the main segregation unit was now at the
Supermax facility, which did not have the capacity to offer psychiatric
services to prisoners, and Faulkner s attempts to injure himself appeared to
require some form of psychiatric investigation. A suggestion that Faulkner be
transferred to the Augusta Mental Health Institute had been rejected by the
attorney general s office, which did not want to prejudice any future jurors
into making a pretrial association between Faulkner and insanity, and by
Faulkner s own lawyers, who feared that the state might use the opportunity to
discreetly place their client under more elaborate observation than was
possible elsewhere. Since the state regarded the county jail as unsuitable for
holding Faulkner, Thomaston became the compromise solution.
Faulkner had attempted to cut his wrists with a slim ceramic blade that he had
concealed in the spine of his Bible before his transfer to the MCI. He had
kept it, unused, until almost three months into his incarceration. A guard on
routine night rounds had spotted him and called for help just as Faulkner
appeared to be losing consciousness. The result was Faulkner s transfer to the
Mental Health Stabilization Unit at the western end of Thomaston prison, where
he was initially placed in the acute corridor. His clothing was taken away and
he was given instead a nylon smock. He was placed under constant camera watch,
as well as being monitored by a prison guard who noted any movement or
conversation in a logbook. In addition, all communication was recorded
electronically. After five days in acute, Faulkner was transferred to
sub-acute, where he was allowed state blues to replace his smock, hygiene
products (but no razors), hot meals, showers, and access to a telephone. He
had commenced one-on-one counseling with a prison psychologist and had been
examined by psychiatrists nominated by his legal team, but had remained
unresponsive. Then he had demanded a telephone call, contacted his lawyers and
asked that he be allowed to speak to me. His request that the interview should
be conducted from his cell was, perhaps surprisingly, met with approval.
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When I arrived in the MHSU, the guards were finishing off some chicken burgers
left over from the prisoners lunches. In the unit s main recreation area, the
inmates stopped what they were doing and stared at me. One, a stocky, hunched
man, barely five feet tall with lank dark hair, approached the bars and
appraised me silently. I caught his eye, didn t like what I felt, then looked
away again. The colonel and the sergeant sat on the edge of a desk and watched
as one of the unit s guards led me down the corridor to Faulkner s cell.
I felt the chill while I was still ten feet away from him. At first, I thought
it was brought on by my own reluctance to face the old man, until I felt the
guard beside me shiver slightly.
 What happened to the heating? I asked.
 Heating s on full blast, he replied.  This place leaks heat like it s
blowing through a sieve, but never like this.
He stopped while we were still out of sight of the cell s occupant, and his
voice dropped.  It s him. The preacher. His cell is freezing. We ve tried
installing two heaters outside, but they short out every time. He shifted
uneasily on his feet.  It s something to do with Faulkner. He just brings the
temperature right down somehow. His lawyers are screaming a blue fit about the
conditions, but there s nothing we can do.
As he concluded, something white moved to my right. The bars of the cell were
almost flush with my line of sight, so that the hand that emerged appeared to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]