The guards ignored every request, either without comment, with “I’ll see,” or with, “That’s not my job.” Taking care of prisoners? Not their job. Just signing papers. We were all there for a reason, right?
At noon, they brought lunch. Fake ham on soggy bread with corn chips and nasty chocolate chip cookies. Some analog of fruit punch in a bag, chew off the corner to drink, just like last time. That’s two sandwiches, an apple, fifty grams of corn chips and a third of a liter of liquid in twelve hours. Barely enough to keep someone from curling up with pangs, especially in the cold. One experienced inmate offered to swap his sandwich for another drink. He got no takers. The sandwiches were that bad. I choked it down in small nibbles and made it last. This was literally a low-grade version of the capture training I’d had, and would have bordered on war crimes if done against POWs.
At 1330, there was a court call. My name was called, last on the list, while I was using the toilet. I finished, ran to get my mattress (it has to leave the cell with you) while my cellmates yelled at the guard, “Sir, there’s one more bloke coming, please wait a moment.”
He slammed the gate in my face.
I said, “Sir, I’m your last person.”
“I’ll come back for you,” he said, back to me. He didn’t even have the guts to look me in the face while lying to me. He lied to me, in uniform, wearing a badge that he’d taken an oath for. As a veteran, I downgraded this guy to “scum” in my rating.
Every time the guard came back for someone, I’d politely ask him, “Sir, I missed my thirteen-thirty call. When is the next one?”
The responses varied from totally ignoring me, to telling me “Soon,” to telling me, “I don’t have a file on you.” Clearly, he did. He’d called my name. He was continually lying to me. A professional, he was not.
I finally called Silver around 1600, with a hefty five-pound charge to her phone. I told her I’d likely be there another day, and she said, “The Department says court runs until twenty-one.” I wasn’t hopeful. It might run until 2100, but the regulars were sure no one got called after 1600.
More prisoners came in, and there were no more mattresses. Another exchange took place, and in perfect Pythonesque fashion, the departing prisoners were required to remove the mattresses from the cell, even though there were those inside who had none. Repeated requests of, “Sir, we need some mattresses,” were met with the standard, “Soon,” but no mattresses. They were left outside the bars as a taunt. I couldn’t have set it up better myself as a means to psychologically break people. Except they weren’t interrogating anyone for intel, had laws against it, and was from sheer idiocy rather than intent. It amused and disgusted me. It didn’t intimidate me.
After shift change, we had two other guards, one young man, and a slender elderly lady with curly hair. These two people deserve thanks, promotions, and praise from the city, because they acted and treated us like human beings. They were genuinely embarrassed by the petty bullies around them, kept apologizing for them, and did their best to help us.
Let me reiterate: they did their jobs as required. That was unusual and worthy of note.
On missed court calls, they took names and made inquiries. They got no answers, but they did ask. The man who needed his medication, who had previously been told that the medics were “gone for the day,” was scheduled for sick call. They gave us the time. They explained procedures. They got us mattresses. They were treated exactly as they treated us—politely, and every request was complied with without hassle.
Eventually I was called for interrogation.
“Scholl! Is Scholl here?”
“That’s me,” I called loudly, and stood from my rack.
“Follow me.”
I was prepared for a lot of shouting, some shoving, threats, food deprivation, low-key harassment, which was illegal but probably SOP.
I was pleasantly surprised.
The guard led me through a dingy corridor, locking us through gates via the control center, to a room, directed me in and closed the door. I could see one camera, deduced where the others must be, and assumed they were recording already. Two floods lit the seats enough for visibility without being excessive. This seemed to be legit. I took the one facing the door. It was hard but adequately shaped, and fixed to the floor.
A few moments later, a man in his Caledonian thirties walked in and sat down. He wore a badge on his shirt.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Investigator Mead. May I have your name, please?”
“Andrew Scholl,” I said, making us both liars. He already had that ID, of course.