interior watchtower. From that perch, Atcho saw that four armed guards observed every cell on every floor that ringed the outside walls. Already thirty-seven years old and having housed generations of prisoners, the building’s stench of effluent tropical dankness, and decades without proper cleaning stung Atcho’s nostrils. He felt the visceral press of multitudes of dirty human bodies in close proximity.
When the doors closed behind them, the guards who had escorted them stayed outside. A tall muscular inmate wearing a blue prison uniform approached the new group. “I am Javier,” he growled. “I am appointed by the prison warden to govern inside Circular 4.” He pointed to several other men in blue prison uniforms. “Those are my assistants. They will show you how things work here. Meanwhile, you’ve each been assigned a cell and a work group. Don’t give me any trouble.” He paused. “Your fellow inmates here,” he waved his hand to indicate the hundreds of prisoners milling about, “they think that they should not wear these blue uniforms, like mine.” He indicated his own. “They were already complaining earlier today. They think that because they are political prisoners that makes them better than us.” He leered at them and exchanged grins with his cohorts. “Don’t think it!” he snapped at the prisoners. “Now,” he looked over them, “I’m going to divide you into work groups, and you start work tomorrow morning.”
Moments later, Atcho stood with a group of young men roughly his own age. They were designated for the marble quarries. He stood awaiting further instruction when he heard a commotion off to his right. Suddenly, an old man, very skinny and bent over, walked deliberately up in front of Javier. He was dressed only in his underwear, and he carried his blue uniform in his arms. “These Circulars were built for nine hundred prisoners!” he yelled angrily. “There must be twice that many in here.” He threw the uniforms at Javier’s feet. “I will not wear these clothes of criminals!” He spat onto the floor. “I am not a common thief like you. I will not be ruled by criminals!”
Javier looked startled, then his face darkened with fury. The entire cavernous interior had gone quiet with only a murmur coming from a few who had not sensed the unfolding drama. On the watchtower, the guards moved uneasily, weapons pointed in the direction of Javier and the old man. Atcho tensed. Another prisoner walked in front of Javier and threw down his uniform, then a third, and a fourth. Within seconds, roughly twenty prisoners, clad in only their tattered, grimy underwear, stood defiantly in front of Javier, looking alternately between him and the guards in the watchtower.
Atcho saw one guard speak into a telephone. Moments later, the outside door swung open, and a band of guards rushed in. They grabbed the old man and began beating him, then dragged him outside.
“Silencio!” Javier yelled above the din. More prisoners quickly drowned him out as they stripped off their uniforms and threw them down. Around the walls, yet more inmates angrily left their cells and descended the narrow concrete stairs, stripping their uniforms off as they came.
Javier’s “assistants” drew close to him. On the watchtower, Atcho saw the same guard once again speak into the telephone. Atcho stepped quickly into the shadows to one side of Javier, and delivered two sharp blows, one to his stomach, the other directly into the bridge between his eyes. He heard a crack of bone, and Javier went down. The entire motion took barely a second, and Atcho stepped further into the shadows.
When Javier’s men saw him go down, they grouped around and helped him move toward the exit, encircled by the furious crowd of prisoners. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight broke through the doorway, and more guards rushed in. They grabbed Javier and his men, and made a quick exit, closing and locking the heavy iron door behind
When the doors closed behind them, the guards who had escorted them stayed outside. A tall muscular inmate wearing a blue prison uniform approached the new group. “I am Javier,” he growled. “I am appointed by the prison warden to govern inside Circular 4.” He pointed to several other men in blue prison uniforms. “Those are my assistants. They will show you how things work here. Meanwhile, you’ve each been assigned a cell and a work group. Don’t give me any trouble.” He paused. “Your fellow inmates here,” he waved his hand to indicate the hundreds of prisoners milling about, “they think that they should not wear these blue uniforms, like mine.” He indicated his own. “They were already complaining earlier today. They think that because they are political prisoners that makes them better than us.” He leered at them and exchanged grins with his cohorts. “Don’t think it!” he snapped at the prisoners. “Now,” he looked over them, “I’m going to divide you into work groups, and you start work tomorrow morning.”
Moments later, Atcho stood with a group of young men roughly his own age. They were designated for the marble quarries. He stood awaiting further instruction when he heard a commotion off to his right. Suddenly, an old man, very skinny and bent over, walked deliberately up in front of Javier. He was dressed only in his underwear, and he carried his blue uniform in his arms. “These Circulars were built for nine hundred prisoners!” he yelled angrily. “There must be twice that many in here.” He threw the uniforms at Javier’s feet. “I will not wear these clothes of criminals!” He spat onto the floor. “I am not a common thief like you. I will not be ruled by criminals!”
Javier looked startled, then his face darkened with fury. The entire cavernous interior had gone quiet with only a murmur coming from a few who had not sensed the unfolding drama. On the watchtower, the guards moved uneasily, weapons pointed in the direction of Javier and the old man. Atcho tensed. Another prisoner walked in front of Javier and threw down his uniform, then a third, and a fourth. Within seconds, roughly twenty prisoners, clad in only their tattered, grimy underwear, stood defiantly in front of Javier, looking alternately between him and the guards in the watchtower.
Atcho saw one guard speak into a telephone. Moments later, the outside door swung open, and a band of guards rushed in. They grabbed the old man and began beating him, then dragged him outside.
“Silencio!” Javier yelled above the din. More prisoners quickly drowned him out as they stripped off their uniforms and threw them down. Around the walls, yet more inmates angrily left their cells and descended the narrow concrete stairs, stripping their uniforms off as they came.
Javier’s “assistants” drew close to him. On the watchtower, Atcho saw the same guard once again speak into the telephone. Atcho stepped quickly into the shadows to one side of Javier, and delivered two sharp blows, one to his stomach, the other directly into the bridge between his eyes. He heard a crack of bone, and Javier went down. The entire motion took barely a second, and Atcho stepped further into the shadows.
When Javier’s men saw him go down, they grouped around and helped him move toward the exit, encircled by the furious crowd of prisoners. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight broke through the doorway, and more guards rushed in. They grabbed Javier and his men, and made a quick exit, closing and locking the heavy iron door behind
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