Читать книгу Asylum Earth - Charles Bragg - Страница 10

God had dozed off.

Satan had planned for this carefully. Selecting the lushest, most verdant, fertile garden of paradise, he gleefully turned it into a desolate, barren wasteland where no life flourished, no flower grew. He felt ten feet tall.

This was his most malevolent masterpiece. This huge, festering, open sore in the earth's crust, with red oozing gashes where clear rivers once flowed.

God was stirring now. In his after-nap haze, he had trouble remembering exactly when and how he had created something as magnificent as the Grand Canyon.

The balance of nature?

I think we're talking leftovers.

FRANCIS OF AZUSA

The wild creatures of the world have never had a greater friend than Francis of Azusa.

His sweet nature and kind heart affected his ideas about the animals he loved so much, in a way that can only be viewed as poetic. Nature's indifferent ways were not his ways.

For example, Francis was sure that possums play dead for the same reason he prayed-so they would be ready when the real thing came along. He hoped that someday dolphins would let us in on what they found so amusing. He believed that almost all warthogs led celibate lives, and that the few who din't, imagined they were doing it with gazelles.

He felt that whales are bored stiff, that's why they beach themselves, that bumblebees and hummingbirds must be exhausted, woodpeckers get terrible headaches, and penguins are freezing their buns off. He was certain that bats used sonar because they can't stand the way they look either. He wanted to find out who ate dead vultures.

Those were just some of the things Francis of Azusa was determined to do something about.

Even sympathetic animal rights groups thought his methods extreme.

He ran with the morons at Pamplona and tried to reason with them. He tried to get cheetahs to develop a taste for acorns and berries and leave the wildebeests alone, but they chased his ass all over the Serengeti Plain.

He got a lamb to lie down with a lion, but when he got back from a lunch break he was surprised to find that the lamb had left.

He abandoned his crusade to turn nature's predators into vegetarians when he realized that some plants have central nervous systems.

Yet no sparrow fell that did not cause his heart to ache. The gentle and saintly Francis could not even bring himself to swat a mosquito.

He died of malaria.

The innocent wild creatures of the meadow, vale, forest, and plain did not mourn, nor really notice his passing. And in the spruce woods, deep in fern and thistle where he peacefully rests today, the rain falls and the wind blows just as it always has.

The Garden of Eden

I THINK ALOT, THEREFORE I AM A LOT.

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

General Robert E. Lee, the military commander of the Confederate forces, graciously accepted the complete surrender of Ulysses S. Grant and the Union Army at Appomattox. The bloody American Civil War was over. The South had won decisively.

President Jefferson Davis moved immediately into the White House.

Abraham Lincoln received a full pardon and spent the rest of his days peacefully caring for his lunatic wife, Mary Todd Lincoln.

The South had won the war, and, in effect, all the states now had the right to secede from the union and become independent nations, with their own flags, their own armies, and their own laws.

The Balkanization of the United States began not long after. The fragmentation of the states dwarfed the behavior of the very Balkans themselves.

There had always been the states of North Carolina and South Carolina, a Virginia and a West Virginia. Now they were countries. Then came a North New Jersey and a South New Jersey, a West Rhode Island as well as the regular Rhode Island. The Grand Canyon state became Lower Arizona and Upper Arizona. Greater Delaware and, would you believe, the oxymoronic Lesser Delaware were created. So was the independent Island Empire of Staten. There was a Main Maine and the Other Maine. All sovereign nations.

The corn growers of Kansas joined with the string bean farmers of Oklahoma to form the new nation of Succotash.

Portuguese was declared the official language of Kentucky.

Not long after declaring their independence, Arkansas and Mississippi went to war when the IQ test scores of the elected leaders of both of those states were released by Connecticut's ruling military junta headed by Generalissimo

G. Armstrong Custer.

About the same time, a most tragic confrontation occurred in Outer Pennsylvania. A buggy full of Amish thugs raided a Quaker quilting bee and stole several shawls. The conflict that followed will forever be known in military annals as the Plowshare War.

The bloodiest encounters were fought between the Irish Communist Militia of Massachussetts and the Falangistas of California. It came to an end when they joined forces to oppose barbarian invaders from the north-Viking dairy farmers from Wisconsin and Minnesota.

A seemingly minor border incident awoke the "sleeping tiger" of the retired elderly of Florida. They bravely repulsed the incursions of the beer guzzling Peckerwoods of Alabama.

As often happens in monumental upheavals, the lives of individuals as well as nations take dramatic turns.

For example, Al Jolson, while singing "Mammy" in a minstrel show in Biloxi, was arrested under the Fugitive Slave Act by John Wilkes Booth the 3rd, and returned to his rightful owner, a rabbi in the Bronx.

Incidentally, John Wilkes Booth the 3rd was shot shortly after that by Dred Scott the 4th.

In more recent times, the Mormon Bigamists of Utah attacked the Godless Opportunists of Nevada for complete control of casino gambling in that neck of the woods.

In 1972, after a geological survey made sure no oil was to be found there, the United Nations of North America voted the newly freed African slaves their own homeland. The Cherokee Indian Reservation on which it was to be located would forever be known as New Liberia. Details of the response of the ungrateful Cherokee people to this act of generosity are too depressing to dwell on at this particular time.

It's hard to say exactly what caused all the disparate states to reunite. But they did. Was it the Red Menace? The Yellow Peril? The Riders of the Purple Sage? Who's to say? Most likely it was the fear of a massive seaborne invasion of the North American continent by the Rice Farmers of North Vietnam.

The miraculous reunification of the states in response to imminent danger inspired a radiant period of reconciliation, unity, and brotherhood. It lasted for almost three weeks.

Some things didn't change-the Purple Mountain's Majesty, the Amber Waves of Grain. However, the Fruited Plain was now the name of the only completely gay state in the Union.

Amazingly, I believe that if all of the above historic events had actually happened, by now our national deficit would have reached monstrous proportions-our education system would be a disgrace; our bridges and infrastructure would be in shambles; drugs, crime, racism, and homelessness would be rampant in our streets; aimless youths would become mindless predators; and-most important of all-I would still be two months behind on my car payments.

"How can I hurt thee

Let me count the ways"

THE ONE-LEGGED BEEKEEPER

Old Silas, the one-legged beekeeper, was not even aware that the Crusades were over. He did not have time to keep up with events so far away. Tending his hives and raising a daughter was all a feeble one-eyed cripple could manage.

One morning, when he and Amanda were working among the hives beside Mill Pond, they were suddenly confronted by a rogue knight in black armor on a huge charger.

"Away, old wreckage! It is the maid that I want and it is the maid I shall have!!" he roared, as he dismounted and strode towards Amanda.

His massive arms lifted her as they might a child. The beautiful young peasant girl's struggles were as nothing to Sir Mordred. Her scratching and beating against his armor only heightened his evil passion.

"No!" the helpless old Silas wailed, picking up a stick. "If only I were strong and this hive were that knave's head, I would teach him a lesson."

Thwack!

"But no, I am old and weak, and take my anger out on these hives."

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Hive after hive he smashed and pummelled.

Silas paid no mind to the swarms of bees he had lashed into a fury. Seeking revenge, the bees now fairly covered the netting that he, like all beekeepers, wore over hisbroad-brimmed hat. So thick were the swarms of enraged bees, that when he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, he could barely make out the vague outline of a frenzied figure in black armor clanking at full speed towards the little stone bridge in the distance. When the knight reached the bridge, arms flailing left and right, surrounded by a roiling storm of infuriated bees, he threw himself over the wall and into the dark water.

Sir Mordred sank to the bottom of Mill Pond like a stone. The two thousand bees trapped inside his armor drowned about two minutes before he did.

During the Crusades, the chastity belt made it impossible for wives to fake orgasms while their husbands were recapturing the Holy Land.

THE NAIL

For the want of a nail, a shoe was lost.

For the want of a shoe, a horse was lost.

For the want of a horse, a knight was lost.

For the want of a knight, the war was lost.

For the want of a brain, we listen to this drivel.

HISTORY IS BUNK

Arnold Toynbee surely must have looked the other way when writing his masterful A Study of History.

His research, as we all now know, found that in 1353 Marco Polo brought spaghetti to Italy from the Orient. He also brought back a wondrous new discovery from China-gunpowder!

Why Toynbee would suppress the fact that, for the first seven years after Marco Polo's return, the Italians thought they were supposed to sprinkle the gunpowder on their spaghetti is beyond me.

For me, the "Age of Bronze" was between 15 and 19.

THE HONOR FARM

Warden Coots always made a point of greeting new prisoner arrivals at Allenwood so there would be no misunderstandings about how he ran things, and to explain, in no uncertain terms, what was expected of them.

This morning's new arrival was different. It was the crew from the television show, 60 Minutes. Cameramen, soundmen, lighting technicians, makeup artists, and correspondent Morley Safer himself.

Safer graciously introduced himself to Warden Coots and added, "Call me Morley, please, Warden Coots."

"Call me Bubba, Mr. Morley, please," said Warden Coots, "I want you to know it's an honor to welcome you to Allenwood Federal Prison. I watch you all the time. You're on Sunday, right? You know, Geraldo Rivera wanted to do his TV show here too. But he was mainly interested in transvestites, animal fuckers, and cross-dresssing stockbrokers. I turned him down even though we do have quite a few of those types here."

Safer was amused but not surprised, "Warden Bubba, what we'd like to do on this segment of 60 Minutes is sort of a 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in Prison' piece. Many people have the perception that Wall Street crooks go to 'country club' prisons. You know, the Club Fed thing. So we'd like to find out just how many insider traders, stockbrokers, and savings and loan people you have here at Allenwood Federal Prison Camp."

"Well, we got our share, there's no doubt about that, more than our share if the truth be known, Mr. Morley. We got our doctors and lawyers too, plenty of 'em. We got senators, we got murderers, we got movie critics, and everything in between."

"Warden Bubba, Allenwood Prison is 4,000 manicured acres-no fences, no bars, no guard towers. You have a billiard room, a gym, a racquetball court, tennis courts. It's West Virginia and the Appalachians, not the Catskills. Can you understand that the public perception is that you run Allenwood more like a resort than a prison? Would that be a reasonable interpretation?"

"Well now, let me ask you, Mr. Morley, if you had to keep 1,200 prisoners busy twenty-four hours a day, don't you think your acres would be manicured? That's the whole point. Keeping everyone busy. Everybody works here. Not many people know it, but we make all the jockey shorts for the U .S. Army. All of them. Every soldier in Desert Storm was wearing a pair of our shorts, even General Schwartzkopf. It made us real proud that when our fighting men were bravely defending the New World Order, they had their prunes securely cradled in a product we make right here at Allenwood.

"We also make fine walnut executive desks for the government in our furniture factory. They're in every U.S. embassy in the world, and there's a waiting list for them. Our prison workforce earns eleven cents an hour to start, forty hours a week; thirty eight cents an hour after three years; last year we had $4.6 million in sales. If our people meet their quotas, their stays here may not be that unpleasant. If not, they don't get to use any of those little goodies you mentioned. Plus nobody wants to get transferred to Rahway or Attica and end up being someone's 'June Bride' and I do mean 'end up,' if you know what I mean."

"I think we get your meaning, Warden Bubba."

"Here's a story for you," said Warden Coots. "We got 'Pop' Scales transferred here from Leavenworth a while back. He was eighty-six years old, and had just six months left on a fifty year sentence, so they sent him here before he would be turned loose. He had been a model prisoner and seemed harmless enough, and after a half century of hard time in the slammer, you couldn't help but wonder if he could cope with life on the outside. We had planned to use that last six months to train him for a career as a busboy so he could earn an honest living in a competitive economy. But you know, here at Allenwood we don't have fences and that old fuck escaped. Can you believe it? Eighty-six years old and he walks right off the grounds and goes out and robs a 7 -Eleven store within twenty-four hours. They say he had a touch of Alzheimer's and that that's all he could remember how to do, so he went out and did it. Died in a shoot-out he did. Hard Copy did a piece on it on TV. Real poignant, but they really didn't know how mean that old prick was. Getting poked in the boomer since 1936 can do that to a man, I guess ."

Safer thought for a moment, probably about how many bleeps would be in the final telecast, "Hmm ... yeah ... maybe so ... yes, kind of ironic ... Well now, Warden Coots, what we'd like to do today is photograph the grounds and facilities here with your commentary as we go. Sort of a voice-over. Do you have any problem with that?"

"Fuck no, I'm real proud of Allenwood. A couple of our inmates have been on the cover of Forbes magazine for chris-sake, four of them have books on the New York Times bestseller list, and a couple of them have had TV miniseries made about them already.

"I'm sure you make pretty good dough, Mr. Morley, but how would you like to match financial statements with some of these crooked buzzards? I don't think so. We got a guy here who robbed an auto workers' pension fund in Michigan. Just wiped it out. He was fined $400,000,000. He paid it out of petty cash and has plenty left over for when he gets out, which will be in ninety days or so. Of course he's going to have a lot of elderly, penniless, vengeful auto workers after his ass, but I don't think that will bother him too much on the French Riviera."

Coots adjusted his shorts. "Over there is our baseball diamond and miniature golf course. See that guy cutting the grass? That's ex-Supreme Court Justice Orlin Spencer. He keeps the field real nice. Used to umpire our games too but we had to stop that-too many bad judgment calls.

"We got a goddam Hall of Fame baseball player in here right now. But you know something? He can't hit a slow pitch softball to save his ass. Swings like a goddam girl. Now there you got an angle on a story- 'Home Run' Baker can't hit a beach ball thrown by a Wall Street faggot."

With the camera crew taping their every move, Safer and Coots walked past the vegetable garden where several dangerous looking men were spreading manure on the tomatoes. They entered the back door to the the mess hall kitchen.

"Tell me about the food here in prison, Warden Coots. "

"Well, I wouldn't claim it was Denny's or Sizzler's or anything fancy like that. You see that pansy at the grill over there? He's a fruit, gayer than ice cream, but he can really cook! He was the pastry chef at the White House during the Nixon administration. He's been here for eleven years. For what, I've forgotten. But I'll tell you this, when he gets out he's going to be bigger than Wolfgang Puck. He's working on a book, The Minimum Security Prison Diet Book of Recipes. I eat here three times a week, and I've lost forty pounds in the last eleven years. So it works. We got more than 1,200 prisoners here and you can't please 'em all. We got people here who are disappointed that he makes 'shit on a shingle' with meat. Geraldo was interested in that. Anyway, he makes 'Nachos Haldemann' and 'Enchiladas Erlichman' from the old state dinner parties, and they are out of this world. Really stick to your ribs. As a matter of fact, they stick to your ribs for three or four days.

"We got a kosher kitchen here too, 'strictly' as those people put it. Vegetarian food too. See that guy out there pulling up bean sprouts and eating them? Wouldn't harm a cow, but I think he killed his grandmother last year for changing channels on his TV. .. just kidding.

"There is one line we don't cross here-no booze. Cocktail hour here means a twist of lemon in your Diet Pepsi, or neutral spirits on the rocks, no salt, please."

"What are neutral spirits? "

"Water ... and that's tough for some, I guess. Even if you can't drink, you miss just ordering it. I wouldn't know, I've never had to do without it.

"You know we have a lot of brilliant assholes in here, all convicted felons. They're in prison! And yet you never hear about any trouble here at Allenwood, do you? I could dog and grind 'em ... break 'em, you know. But I don't. The secret of keeping peace and order in this place is psychology.

"What do you mean by 'psychology'?

Like, I put a golf pro in the same cell with a coal miner, a faggot in with a bounty hunter ... team a preacher up with a pornographer, and let 'em learn from each other. As I say, I use psychology!"

And does it work?"

"I know it does. I'd like to put Jeffrey Dahmer in the same cell with Michael Milken. Then secretly tape what they have to say to each other. And have it transcribed. Who wouldn't want to read that?"

"Wouldn't that violate their basic constitutional right to privacy?"

"Oh my !! Let's see, let me check my copy of the Constitution . . . hmm ... Bill of Rights . .. hmm, First Amendment. .. uh huh, Fifth Amendment ... Eighth Amendment ... OK! Good, that's it!! It's constitutional! The Founding Fathers would definitely want to hear this. They'd just love it. There's no doubt the Founding Fathers would want to hear what Benedict Arnold said to Aaron Burr when he changed sides after the Battle of Bunker Hill. It's definitely constitutional!"

It occurred to Morley Safer that perhaps the prison system was not the only story here. Warden Coots was! As it so often had in his travels, the Demon of the Unexpected had struck again.

After a short break, Safer resumed the interview just to the west of the putting green.

"Warden Bubba, with so many millionaires and billion-aires as well as very powerful and influential people here, it's hard to believe that they don't get special treatment. What should the public know about that ?"

"Mr. Morley, let me just tell you a story. I was eating in the convicts' cafeteria one day, you know, to show that the food wasn't poisonous. I started to gag. I got numb. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I blacked out. I was choking to death in front of 600 convicts and I was unable to make a sound to let anyone know. Everything sounded like I was in an echo chamber. I was dying, no doubt about that. They tell me I was turning kind of blue when Big Boy Dorkin noticed I was in trouble. Well Dorkin is two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of dangerous and hostile muscles, and he put a Heimlich maneuver on me that hurled a piece of meatloaf across the room that knocked a guard unconscious. He also broke three of my ribs-but fuck, I'm alive! And I owe my life to that big slob. Big Boy is in here for stealing food stamps. Hasn't got a dime to his name, but I make sure he's treated just as good as any millionaire in this joint. On the other hand, Ivan Boesky, who was sitting across the table from me, just sat there like it was a fucking corporate takeover and watched me change colors. Didn't lift a fucking finger to help me. I made sure his last few months here were real memorable, I can assure you. So you see, I treat everyone the same-rich or poor, especially if they have saved my life."

"Just how do you make things especially memorable for someone here, Warden Coots?"

"Well, first off, no TV! Ever see the look on the face of a Rhodes scholar-millionaire-embezzler when you tell him his TV privileges are revoked? They lay in their cells and whimper like sick dogs. I'm talking about guys with 132 IQs. They miss three episodes of Days of Our Lives, and you never have any more trouble with them ever again.

"A while back, I had an attitude problem with 'The Honorable' Julius K. Felder- remember him? The mayor of Youngstown, Ohio. Ran a sports book from his office in City Hall. I had him pulling weeds in the yard all day on Super Bowl Sunday XXVI. Wouldn't let him watch the game. Monday Night Football was sort of a religious experience for him, so he claimed that not being allowed to watch the Super Bowl constituted 'cruel and unusual punishment.' He claimed that by missing the game, he had suffered not only mental and physical anguish, but a permanent psychological scar. Have you ever heard such bullshit? It's on appeal now, and probably will go all the way to the Supreme Court. I don't think I'll have any more problems with him though. I put him in the same cell with G. Gordon Liddy for six months.

"Also, little lessons in humility work real good too. See that guy busing the tables over there? Well, he was a big spender, a real party animal. You know, flew to Paris on the fucking Concorde, went to the Cannes Film Festival, winters in Monaco. You know, all that fancy bullshit. Threw himself a birthday party at the Waldorf Astoria for 400 of his best friends. Cost him $80,000 just for the flowers. Well, you know where that dickhead got his money? From the 'Magic Wish Foundation.' That outfit that gives kids with terminal illnesses their last wish, you know, make it come true. He was on the cover of People magazine. He just got beat out by Mother Theresa as Humanitarian of the Year in 1987. Raised millions. Guess how much he spent on the kids? Not one fucking dime! And then he prances in here on his first day like a goddam peacock-Gucci loafers, Rolex watch, Armani suit, and he looks around as if he's displeased with the accommodations. Well, within 10 minutes he was on his hands and knees scrubbing floors in the crapper. And he'll be there until he gives a pint of blood to the Red Cross every two weeks for the next year. After that he'll sort X -rays at the Children's Free Clinic in town until there's a cure for cancer."

"Make the punishment fit the crime, is that it, Warden?" Safer said. "Sounds like a story Andy Rooney could really sink his teeth into. But let's move on. Many people feel that most of the inmates are in here for the least of their crimes, and that smart lawyers always plea bargain them out of the real jams."

Coots was amused. "Well, let me just say that a good portion of our prison population is made up of 'smart' lawyers."

Morley Safer smiled, "That doesn't surprise me one bit. Clear up something else for me, Warden - sex! There have been rumors that during visiting hours there's a lot of it going on here at Allenwood behind your back. Is there any truth to that?"

"Well, let me ask you how you would handle it. I got 1,200 testosterone-burdened felons in here, and some of them are so horny they glow in the dark. So some of those rumors may be true. I let a few of them have a little Sunday picnic in the bushes now and then. If they've earned it. We got 4,000 acres here, and you can't watch everyone all the time. Besides, a little pussy from time to time never hurt anyone. It's better than having them humping each other during the week isn't it? Also, it's a perk that they don't want to lose, so it helps to make everyone easier to deal with the rest of the time. I think it might be an idea whose time has come, don't you?"

"I think you'd have a lot of resistance from conservatives and Fundamentalist Christians on that one, Warden Coots."

"Oh really! Well, we have plenty of them in here too, and I can tell you they look forward to their picnics just as much as everyone else. They disappear into the woods and come out with just as many grass stains on their chins as anybody else-maybe more. Let's face it, Mr. Safer, you can whip the old willow for just so long, and then you want a little human contact. Right?"

"Well ... " Safer paused. "Tell me more about your thoughts on this ."

"Hey, don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those bleeding hearts. You know, that 'human potential, anyone can be rehabilitated' bullshit. A rapist shouldn't get for free what he broke the law to get in the first place. No. His fucking days are definitely over.

"When someone goes to prison, all they can think of is how to get sex. I think that's why people get sent to prison. So they'll never bump their uglies again, you know what I mean? A guy robs a liquor store, kills a couple of people. The pollsters come out ... 'Should he get the death penalty?' Well, I'm undecided about that but I do know I don't want him to ever get laid again!

"Look, I'd pull the switch on a lot of these so-called members of the human race and sleep like a baby that very night. But listen, the stakes here at Allenwood are peace and tranquility versus trouble and mayhem. That's the way I run things here. Produce! Earn! Reward! Produce! Earn! Reward! Shit, man!! It's fucking capitalism! It's Darwin and the 'survival of the least humane.' What's that you say pal!? You're going to fall short!? You didn't prosper!? String his ass up!!"

It was getting late now, and Morley Safer had to get to the studio. He had a long day of heavy editing ahead of him.

After the segment on 60 Minutes was aired, Warden Coots became something of a national celebrity, which put him on equal footing with many of the inmates in Allenwood Prison. The media's general consensus on Coots' success at Allenwood was that he was a man who not only suffered fools gladly, but who got a genuine kick out of them. And there were more than enough fools at Allenwood to keep him amused.

For example, take the Garbanzo Brothers, Bruno and Vito. Identical twins, they were not unlike the Corsican Brothers - when one brother got hurt, he made sure the other brother got hurt; when something good happened to one of them, he made sure the other one found out about it. They were in Salt Lake City in the FBI's witness protection program. Four Brooklyn Mafia Dons were doing hard time because of their testimony. Common sense would presumably assure that they would keep a low profile. No one had ever accused the Garbanzos of having common sense.

Now anyone who has been there knows, Salt Lake City is probably the worst town in America to open a topless bar in. A town so uptight you have to belong to a private club to order ketchup, and laughing out loud is a felony. To call the club "The Tush and Bush" and distribute graphic handbills at town hall meetings was something only the Garbanzo twins could have come up with.

They began to dabble in soft-core pornography on weekends and were busted with their movie, Mormon Hormones, only half completed.

The cops that made the arrest and the prosecutor who tried the case didn't know identical twins were involved so only one Garbanzo brother was tried and convicted.

The brothers very honorably alternated doing time at Allenwood. Bruno would serve six weeks and then on visiting day, when the opportunity presented itself, he would switch places with Vito. Warden Coots was probably aware of all this, but as long as one or the other brother was doing the time why make a big deal out of it?

Coots took a personal interest in greeting his newest guest.

There he was, Charles Keating, America's number one champion for a return to the Judeo-Christian ethic and Richard Nixon's most outspoken anti-pornographer, waiting in line for his Allenwood prison uniform. Charles Keating, President and CEO of Lincoln Savings and Loan. Tall, straight and stiff, white haired and born again grim, his wire rimmed glasses wedged on a long pale face. In his silver suit, steel gray tie, and aluminum ass he could have been the Tin Woodsman's uncle. The great Rembrandt could have rendered his portrait with nothing more than a No. 2 graphite pencil and gotten a perfect lifelike likeness. However, his appearance was a veritable rainbow compared to his personality, which was reported missing long before the 250 million dollars he had embezzled from trusting senile retirees-one of which was Warden Coots' mother.

The wind chill factor in Keating's eyes was numbing. To picture him laughing or smiling would require the imagination of Salvador Dali.

In short, Keating was the very image of what H .L. Mencken termed "that most dangerous of nature's predators the Christian businessman."

He had been an elder at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Scottsdale, Arizona. And he had not missed teaching his Sunday School Bible class in twenty years. Some believe that young children are morally strengthened when confronted with the torment of going to hell forever. A sample of what it might be like every Sunday morning could very well turn those young innocents into good God-fearing Christians.

Warden Coots decided to bunk Keating with Icey Kool Jazzy Zee, who had won last year's Soul Train award for being the most irritating and incoherent rap artist of the year. He not only won the award but actually talked that way all the time.

Coots was not only a superb prison administrator, but a world class voyeur and eavesdropper. He loved his Thursdays. That was when he relaxed at home, had a few belts of Jack Daniels, and reviewed his secret tapes to find out how his ingenious combinations of prisoners were working out. He had spent some time in London in the sixties and remembered that, after a week, he started talking with an English accent. Linguistically speaking, he wondered how the pairing of Icey Kool Jazzy Zee and Charles Keating would work out.

Oscar Nerlman woke up in a cold sweat.

This wasn't the first time he had survived a death sentence in his dreams. His recurring nightmares always ended with him going to the chair or scaffold-and always for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person. It was his gift. A gift that certainly didn't enhance his career as a criminal defense lawyer. As a matter of fact, it had turned many an otherwise brilliant defense into disaster. When he delivered his summations to the jury he invariably miss poke.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it's better that a hundred guilty child molesting murderers go free than that one innocent man be imprisoned unjustly for even one day," he proclaimed and pointed to his client, the defendant Matt "Psycho" Terbloch, accused serial killer, rapist, and pederast.

Somehow the jury didn't feel Terbloch should get the benefit of that doubt, and sentenced him to 4 50 years in Attica-after which he was to be executed. It took the jury four minutes to reach their verdict.

That was long ago. Now Oscar Nerlman was in Allenwood himself. He had made a mistake by deciding to represent himself at his own trial for mail fraud.

"No one has ever been hurt by an envelope! " he shouted with all the sincerity he could subpoena to his lips, " ... except for maybe by a paper cut." He then rested his case.

He was sentenced to two years for an offense that usually got six months, and here he was in Allenwood in a dorm with three of his former clients.