which all prisoners, visitors, staff, and supply vans must be cleared before proceeding in or out of the facility.
The cage is on the first floor of the administration block, along with the inmate-processing center, the loading dock, and the school office. The second floor contains administrative offices, storerooms, and the armory, plus the guards’ rest area and washroom.
The third floor is the watchhouse: the control room that runs Recton, monitoring comings and goings and the activities of the guests.
Dormitories and classrooms are housed in separate buildings spread throughout the spacious grounds.
Recton Hall, known to guests as Wrecking Ball, Rectum, or just the Wreck, does not house gang members, drug addicts, game addicts, or murderers. In the overall scheme of juvenile detention centers, Recton is at the top end. It is the place where white-collar juvenile criminals get sent for crimes like fraud, embezzlement, cybercrime, and espionage.
It surprises most people to learn that the biggest category of offenders at Recton is not fraud but espionage. Industrial espionage mostly, plus a limited amount of military or governmental espionage. Generally, the culprits have parents in high-level positions in strategic organizations and are targeted by unscrupulous agents of corporations or foreign countries.
There are a few “common” criminals at the facility, usually because their parents were powerful or wealthy enough to pull the political strings necessary to get them transferred to a “safe” institution like Recton, away from the gangbangers and addicts that fill the halls of the other juvies.
Guests have limited access to a telephone, one per dormitory, although all phone calls are recorded. Cell phones are not allowed, and a powerful network jammer ensures that even smuggled-in phones are useless.
All of this Sam found out simply by typing “Recton” into Google.
Kiwi was sitting at the end of a long table by himself and waved Sam over.
Sam had chosen a couple of salad sandwiches with some kind of unidentifiable sliced meat filling and an apple. Kiwi was biting into a grilled cheese sandwich and flicked some long stringy cheese bands with his finger as Sam sat down.
“You can toast any of the sandwiches,” Kiwi said. “There’re a couple of toasting machines over by the coffeepot. Tastes better that way. Probably kills some of the bacteria as well.”
Sam looked at the flat slices of meat in his sandwich and felt less hungry, but he took a bite anyway.
“When’s pizza night?” he asked.
“That’s Thursday,” Kiwi said. “Right after barbecued fillet steak Wednesday and before pigs-might-fly Friday.”
Sam nodded. “I figured as much. I’m gonna miss pizza, I think.”
“Pancakes,” Kiwi said. “I miss pancakes.”
“Yeah, with maple syrup and whipped butter,” Sam agreed.
“Nah, drizzled with lemon juice and a light sprinkle of sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Lemon juice?”
“That’s the way we do it back home.”
“Sounds disgusting.” Sam screwed up his face.
“Well, your way just sounds like fat and sugar with extra fat and sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Mmmm.” Sam licked his lips. “Fat and sugar!” Kiwi laughed.
Sam toyed with his sandwich for a moment, then said, “Kiwi, I’m going to need your help.”
“No worries,” Kiwi said. “What do you need?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Sam said.
The trees shivered a little in a late-afternoon breeze, and a few loose leaves twirled like butterflies down over the razor-wire fence. One leaf caught for a moment on a spike before a stronger gust dislodged it.
A trio of Asian inmates were playing some complicated card game, sitting on the grass near the boundary, just a few yards away. Sam tried to figure out the rules without staring. It involved a lot of picture cards, and the queens seemed especially important, and every few moments one of them would reach over and slap one of the others hard across the face;
The cage is on the first floor of the administration block, along with the inmate-processing center, the loading dock, and the school office. The second floor contains administrative offices, storerooms, and the armory, plus the guards’ rest area and washroom.
The third floor is the watchhouse: the control room that runs Recton, monitoring comings and goings and the activities of the guests.
Dormitories and classrooms are housed in separate buildings spread throughout the spacious grounds.
Recton Hall, known to guests as Wrecking Ball, Rectum, or just the Wreck, does not house gang members, drug addicts, game addicts, or murderers. In the overall scheme of juvenile detention centers, Recton is at the top end. It is the place where white-collar juvenile criminals get sent for crimes like fraud, embezzlement, cybercrime, and espionage.
It surprises most people to learn that the biggest category of offenders at Recton is not fraud but espionage. Industrial espionage mostly, plus a limited amount of military or governmental espionage. Generally, the culprits have parents in high-level positions in strategic organizations and are targeted by unscrupulous agents of corporations or foreign countries.
There are a few “common” criminals at the facility, usually because their parents were powerful or wealthy enough to pull the political strings necessary to get them transferred to a “safe” institution like Recton, away from the gangbangers and addicts that fill the halls of the other juvies.
Guests have limited access to a telephone, one per dormitory, although all phone calls are recorded. Cell phones are not allowed, and a powerful network jammer ensures that even smuggled-in phones are useless.
All of this Sam found out simply by typing “Recton” into Google.
Kiwi was sitting at the end of a long table by himself and waved Sam over.
Sam had chosen a couple of salad sandwiches with some kind of unidentifiable sliced meat filling and an apple. Kiwi was biting into a grilled cheese sandwich and flicked some long stringy cheese bands with his finger as Sam sat down.
“You can toast any of the sandwiches,” Kiwi said. “There’re a couple of toasting machines over by the coffeepot. Tastes better that way. Probably kills some of the bacteria as well.”
Sam looked at the flat slices of meat in his sandwich and felt less hungry, but he took a bite anyway.
“When’s pizza night?” he asked.
“That’s Thursday,” Kiwi said. “Right after barbecued fillet steak Wednesday and before pigs-might-fly Friday.”
Sam nodded. “I figured as much. I’m gonna miss pizza, I think.”
“Pancakes,” Kiwi said. “I miss pancakes.”
“Yeah, with maple syrup and whipped butter,” Sam agreed.
“Nah, drizzled with lemon juice and a light sprinkle of sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Lemon juice?”
“That’s the way we do it back home.”
“Sounds disgusting.” Sam screwed up his face.
“Well, your way just sounds like fat and sugar with extra fat and sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Mmmm.” Sam licked his lips. “Fat and sugar!” Kiwi laughed.
Sam toyed with his sandwich for a moment, then said, “Kiwi, I’m going to need your help.”
“No worries,” Kiwi said. “What do you need?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Sam said.
The trees shivered a little in a late-afternoon breeze, and a few loose leaves twirled like butterflies down over the razor-wire fence. One leaf caught for a moment on a spike before a stronger gust dislodged it.
A trio of Asian inmates were playing some complicated card game, sitting on the grass near the boundary, just a few yards away. Sam tried to figure out the rules without staring. It involved a lot of picture cards, and the queens seemed especially important, and every few moments one of them would reach over and slap one of the others hard across the face;
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