On the Chain

Preface

The punishments and terms used in this story are described in Robert Burns' memoir "I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang!" (1932) Burns saw or suffered treatment far worse than anything described herein. While this story is set in the 1930s, it takes place in a less severe border-state that is beginning to transition to a more modern prison system. Some elements of the old ways are kept as punishment, and this story explores how they affect the main character.

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Chapter 1

The waffles were just the way I liked them-crispy, buttery, and totally saturated with maple syrup. I didn't notice the two men staring at me as I single-mindedly dove into my breakfast. At least, not until one of the men slid into the chair opposite me while the other stood menacingly at my side.

"Is your name Robert Perez?" he accused.

I was taken aback for a moment. How did he know my name? But I supposed there was no harm in admitting what was true. "Yes, that's me. Is there something I can do for you? Why do you want to know?"

My companion reached into his pocket and threw a bounty hunter's badge onto the table in front of me. "You skipped out on a County bond, buddy. We're taking you in. It'll be easier on everyone if you just go quietly."

I smiled nervously. "Is this a joke? I haven't done anything wrong." One look at their serious expressions told me they were not kidding.

"Just get up and put your hands on top of your head," said the man at my side.

I reluctantly complied, while protesting "Are you sure it's me you're looking for?" as the handcuffs locked around my wrists. A murmur rose in the diner as the other patrons noticed what was going on.

"They caught a criminal," said one.

"Goodness, eating right here, not three feet from us!" said another.

A well dressed man snorted, "I hope he gets whats coming to him."

"He ought to be ashamed of himself!" scolded a little old lady.

A middle-aged mother remarked "now, children, you see what happens to bad men?"

Instinctively, impulsively, irresistibly, I lowered my head in shame.

The men searched my pockets and found my wallet, which contained a rent receipt made out in my name. This was enough to satisfy them that they had the right person. They paid my tab with the money in my wallet and escorted me out of the diner to their nearby vehicle. "Please listen to me! I'm not the person you're looking for! My name is Robert Perez, I live on Colleta Street, and I work as a teller at the bank!" I insisted as they secured me in the back seat, but I might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. Soon we were driving down Main Street.

Five minutes later we arrived at the County Prison on the outskirts of town, and I was escorted to a sleepy clerk. "Bill. Frank. Got another one, huh?"

"Yep, caught him down at the diner. Name's Robert Perez, wanted on a bench warrant for skipping a bond on an armed robbery charge."

The clerk chuckled through his next yawn. "Well, Senor Roberto! Since you saw fit to skip your court date, you're going to have the pleasure of staying with us until your hearing. That's in...ninety days."

I gasped. "But I'm innocent! They have the wrong man! My name is Robert Perez!" I blurted.

The clerk shook his head. "Why do they always have to be difficult," he sighed. "Let's see...yep, we have a bench warrant for a Robert Perez, 5' 7" 125 lbs male Hispanic." The clerk looked me over. "You're an inch or two shorter, and a bit fatter, but you meet the basic description. Look, just drop it. We get hard cases like you all the time. Why don't you make it easy on yourself and take what's coming to you?"

"That's my name, but I'm not the man you want!" I maintained.

The clerk sighed. "OK, fine, Senor Genius. Let's see how smart you are." He picked up a telephone. "Is Mike still short handed for the punishment detail? OK, good. I have one more for him. Three days. I'll have him ready." The clerk set the handset back in its cradle.

Meanwhile, the nearby bounty hunters could hardly contain their chuckles. The clerk wrote out a scrip for them to claim their reward for bringing me in, while he rattled off the basic rules. "This is a silent prison. You are not allowed to speak unless ordered to by a guard. All prisoners except those on the punishment detail work a half day on the prison farm. Prisoners on the punishment detail work from 6 am to 6 pm daily. We'll run you out to the work site after you've been set up."

He stood. "OK, Senor Genius. Follow me," said the clerk. He escorted me to a holding cell, placed socks, shoes, and a pair of striped cotton trousers on a bench, and ordered me to change clothes.

I blurted out "but my handcuffs!"

The clerk shook his head. "Don't play dumb. Put your wrists through the port in the door."

I understood. A small hatch opened in the door once I was locked in alone, which was large enough for my cuffed wrists. The cuffs were removed and I was able to change clothing. However, there was no shirt or underwear. I rapped lightly on the door and the small hatch opened again. "Sir, I'm missing a shirt and underwear" I said respectfully.

"You don't get 'em when you're on the punishment detail," came the reply. "Put your hands in the slot." There was something incredibly degrading about placing my hands blindly into a slot to be restrained.

The door opened again once I was back in handcuffs, and the clerk handed me over to a guard to be escorted to the blacksmith shop.

The blacksmith, an inmate who had earned trusty status, quickly rustled up the proper size leg irons and fitted them around my ankles. After placing my shackle over the anvil, he reached into a furnace with a pair of tongs, pulled out a red hot rivet, and rounded it over with a few skillful blows of the hammer. The rivet cooled in a few seconds and then he repeated the process on the other ankle. I suffered no physical harm, and the logical part of my brain knew that such rivets could be struck off with a cold chisel, but the apparent finality of the process caused my soul to shudder.

I was innocent to prison ways at the time, but eventually I learned that most prisoners were not chained; only those who were placed on the punishment detail suffered this punishment. Even though most prisoners would serve a limited amount of time on the punishment detail, their chains would not be removed until they completed their entire sentence. The reason for this was that many of the men who ended up on the punishment detail were troublemakers, and it simply made practical sense to keep them in leg-irons. I suppose the "Robert Perez" who deserved to be in my shoes had been a troublemaker, and my innocence regarding the ways of the prison had been interpreted as an attempt to play stupid.

It was bad enough to be in prison, but life was especially hard for the unfortunates who are chained. First, your ankles are connected with a "strad chain," which limits your stride to about 18 inches. In the middle of your strad chain is the "upright chain," which is about 3 feet long and ends in a ring. The ring is used to lock you onto the "squad chain," which connects you to the other prisoners on the detail. You can also carry your upright chain to take some of the leg-iron's weight off of your ankles when you're not on the squad chain.

As if the physical suffering wasn't enough, there were other consequences to being chained. Once restored to the general population, a chained prisoner knew that the guards were quicker to discipline him because he was a marked troublemaker. All privileges were timed in the prison, and a chained prisoner had no more time than anyone else to eat his meals, use the privy, or wash up. He was forced to balance the need to rush in order to have time to enjoy his privileges, against the need to move slowly due to his chains.

__

The blacksmith pounded the metal next to the rivet on each of my leg shackles one last time to prove to the guard that the restraints were permanent. Then I was led back to the reception area, clasping my upright chain behind my back to avoid tripping.

I clambered into a waiting truck and my upright chain was padlocked to a ring on the frame. Then I was driven out to join the punishment detail on the edge of town.

The truck slowed to a halt near a gang of seven shirtless, sweaty, stinking, filthy men, each restrained exactly as I was. Two guards stood watching them, each man menacingly cradling a shotgun. One of the guards approached the truck as the guard who had driven me there unlocked my upright chain and ordered me to step down and stand at attention, head lowered.

"Put em down" said one of the guards. The men all put down their tools and stood at attention.

"How long do I have him, Smith?" asked the guard as he walked to meet the driver.

"Three days, but Jones says not to worry. This one thinks he's smart."

The guard chuckled, inspected my restraints to make sure they were securely fashioned, and dismissed the truck. Then he gave me the welcome speech:

"Alright boy. You're on the punishment detail for a good reason. You're gonna get what you deserve-hard work and discipline. If you're smart, you'll play by the rules: You do exactly what you're told, and you do it right away. You're never allowed to talk except when spoken to or to ask permission. Watch and learn from the other prisoners. You call me "Boss." You break any rule, and you're on the chain another three days. Is that clear?"

"Yes Boss" I sputtered. It was hard to say the words. I was innocent, but for the moment, it didn't matter. I was less than nothing-I was a prisoner getting what he deserved. At least, in their eyes.

My handcuffs were removed after I was locked onto the squad chain, and a trusty placed a pickaxe at my feet. "Pick em up" said the Boss, and we began to work, clearing a thicket of weeds and brush from a roadside culvert. It was brutal toiling in the blazing heat of high summer, with the brush poking and prodding and scraping at your skin, under the watchful gaze and shotguns of the guards. It was hard keeping up with the other prisoners, which was called "keeping the lick." I had to push myself to avoid falling behind, because I could only guess what kind of punishments were given to those who failed to keep up. About every hour the trusty gave us a ladle-full of water, for which we were all very grateful.

The work was along the main road into town, and suddenly I understood one of the primary reasons why the punishment detail was sent outside the prison to work. We were being publicly humiliated; we were an object lesson in the wages of sin. It was Saturday and a steady stream of cars and pedestrians drove down Main Street. Sometimes it was as obvious as a pedestrian pointing out a man he knew to a nearby friend, and sometimes it was as subtle as a car slowing a bit as it passed the line of worthy sufferers. I wasn't sure which was worse: the thought that people were looking at me and thinking "he deserves all that and more," or the thought that they looked at me and thought nothing of it. I was suddenly conscious of all the times I had seen men in my position and thought the former.

The day wore on. Although the conditions were brutal, I learned to adapt to the rhythm of the detail, to pace myself, and not to overthink things. Thank goodness a breeze whipped up around mid-afternoon. Yes, it stirred up dust and grass that stuck to my skin, but it also provided refreshment when I needed it badly.

I don't know what time it was, but I happened to glance up in time to notice a girl walking into town. It was my colleague at the bank, Marie! I hardly knew her, since she was a secretary and I was a teller. Marie was petite and mousy but not without her charms, and generally the quiet, innocent sort of girl. The kind of girl you invite to the church social.

She was walking right past the line of convicts, but she was looking in the opposite direction. Then her face turned towards us as she sought to catch the same cooling breeze, but although she was looking towards me, she did not notice me. Instead, she was one of those looking straight through us.

I had to risk it.

Marie was as near to me as she was going to get-8 or 10 feet. I said "Marie" as loud as I dared. She stopped, and glanced around.

"Marie!" I said more insistently. Finally, she noticed me.

"Bob? Oh my goodness! Bob, what are you doing there?"

The Boss yelled "Hey you!" but I had to risk it. "It's a mistake! Help me!" I blurted out.

Thank goodness! Marie nodded and walked away quickly, just as the Boss ran up to me screaming and sputtering. "What the hell do you think you're doing! You think you're smart? OK, that's three times you broke the rules. You're on the chain 9 more days!"

I lowered my head and said "Yes Boss," with as much humility and contrition as I could muster. The display seemed to appease him, and we went back to work. "Thank God for Marie," I thought to myself. "Tomorrow, or Monday at the latest, and I'll be free!"

But not today.

___

Marie pleaded with the passion of the most dedicated advocate. "So you see, Officer, you must have the wrong man. This couldn't possibly be the same Robert Perez you're looking for."

The officer examined the documents before him. A bank personnel record naming one Robert Perez, with slightly different identifying information from that which was on the bench warrant. "Well, Miss, you could be correct. I'll put in the request to have the case reviewed, and if everything checks out he'll be discharged soon. However, the process cannot start until Judge Hawkins returns on Monday. I know how you must feel, Miss, but we can't treat him any differently until his innocence is affirmed by the judge."

Marie looked down. "And there's nothing you can do for him until then? Can't you get him off that horrible work crew?" The image was seared in her mind: poor Bob, standing before her sweating, filthy, half-naked, and chained up like an animal.

The officer shook his head. "Once again, Miss, I'm sorry but I can't do it. We get requests like this fairly regularly, often from friends or relatives of the prisoner hoping to get lighter treatment. I know this doesn't help much, but he only has one more day to work, and then Monday his case will be heard."

Marie nodded despairingly, thanked the officer for his help, and said a silent prayer for her friend as she walked back to town.

The officer was true to his word, and he placed a report with the evidence Marie had given him into the outgoing mailbox.

___

A truck lumbered up the driveway, carrying eight hungry, thirsty, filthy, shackled, handcuffed, exhausted prisoners. The truck pulled past the prison gate to a loading area next to a large, open air cell adjacent to the recreation courtyard. The unfortunate men shambled off the truck and lined up for inspection. Their shackles and handcuffs were checked to see that they were securely fastened, and then they were led to their bunks inside. Each bunk served as the prisoner's dining table, and a trusty had laid out a sumptuous supper of corn pone and fried pig fat on a tin plate. Boss said that prisoners on the punishment detail were not allowed to use their hands for anything but working and wiping, so the men had to kneel and eat like animals with their faces in their food. The meager meal was always devoured in a few seconds, and the trusty then collected the tin plates.

"In your bunks! In your bunks!" came the command, and the prisoners rolled into the eight crude bunks. The squad chain was then locked to a ring set into the concrete floor. Sleeping shackled and handcuffed and hungry would have been a difficult challenge, had the men not been dead exhausted from their day's labor.

A courier left the jail heading towards the courthouse across town. The court clerk was about to lock the doors when she received the courier's packet. "Are any urgent?" she asked. "Judge Hawkins is in Templeton for two weeks to hear a murder trial."

"No, just the usual appeals from the little angels in prison."

The clerk chuckled, "Yeah, they're all innocent!" She placed the unopened envelope on the Judge's desk; there wasn't anything in it that couldn't wait two weeks.

Chapter 2

The early morning sun streamed through a stained-glass window, creating whimsical patterns of color on the church pews. An elderly woman noticed that a pretty young girl standing next to her was crying. "Now dear, you mustn't carry on so," whispered the gentle old lady as she offered the girl her hand. "Whatever it is, let us pray together." The two women prayed; the girl for her friend Robert, and the older woman that the poor, suffering girl would find solace.

The older woman smiled at the girl, whose eyes were dark and reddened by tears and insomnia. The poor thing was the picture of a tortured soul, thought the older woman. "What's your name, dearie?" she inquired.

"Marie."

"Well, Marie, my name is Emma. I don't know what you're going through, but I know a man who can help."

Emma waved to Reverend Michaels, and discreetly said "this poor girl is suffering. Will you speak with her, and help her with her burden?"

The Reverend smiled comfortingly. "Why certainly, Emma. Come, child," he said, giving her a moment to thank the older woman before gently leading her to his office.

The minister closed the door and invited Marie to sit in a comfortable chair, while he sat down across from her. "Now, child, tell me what pains you."

Marie related the story. How she had seen a man she knew from work suffering on the chain gang, how he was innocent and it was a case of mistaken identity, how she had spoken to the prison clerk, and how agonized she was as she waited for his release.

"I see. This is certainly a troubling story," said the minister. "Are you...involved...with this man?" he asked. Marie said that she wasn't. "How long have you known him?" he asked. Marie admitted that they had only been loosely acquainted for a few weeks.

The minister leaned back, and thought a moment. "My child, it is to your credit that you feel such compassion for your friend as he suffers in prison. We all should feel such compassion for those who suffer. But my child, you must consider the possibility that your friend is where he belongs. You do not know him very well, and you would not be the first innocent to be so victimized."

Marie gasped. She seemed about to cry. Reverend Michaels acted quickly. "My child, please don't think I'm saying that your friend IS guilty, and that he DOES belong there. Only God knows, and I am asking you to trust to Him. I know it is difficult, but you must have faith in His justice. You must have faith that whatever happens is right. If he is innocent, he will need your compassion. If he is guilty, then he is receiving justice, and that justice, if it leads to his redemption, shall set him free" preached the minister.

Marie rallied herself. "Thank you, Reverend," she said as she wrung her wrists nervously. "I suppose you're right. He could be guilty. But I'll hope and I'll pray that he's not, and that he is released from that awful place soon."

The Reverend smiled on her with kindness in his eyes. "My child, let us both pray for that" he said, and the two shared a silent prayer before Marie left for work.

--

"Let's go! Let's go! I mean you! I mean you!"

Ol' Jack hollered the words at the top of his lungs, and the groggy prisoners rolled out of their bunks. It was about 4:30 AM. Jack was the trusty assigned to keep the punishment detail functioning, which meant waking them up in the morning, preparing their meals, having them on the chain in time for inspection, and anything else required to get them to work on time. Ol' Jack knew his job inside and out, having spent a good half of his own life on the chain.