Revealed: The Missing Years
Page 50
John nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Yes, they’re trying other things. Mostly, I like how they’re getting her up, out of bed, and out of a chair. I hated that other place. They just put her in a wheelchair and moved her around. She’s capable of walking. I remembered her stories about hiking and gardening here at his estate.”
“It’s hers, too.” He reminded her.
“I told them she liked the outside,” Emily continued. “So they’ve added that to her schedule.”
John yawned. “I’ll get over there before I head back to California. I already like the way they take care of her better at Everwood.”
Emily cuddled against his side. “I think you should be open-minded about the job offer. Make sure it’s sincere and not just a ploy to keep us from telling the world the truth.”
“The court’s limited us on what we can say about the legal proceedings, but I get what you’re saying.”
“I think it could be good too. I liked all of those people when we first met them.”
“At Claire’s first wedding,” John said.
“I know I shouldn’t blame them for not knowing what was happening any more than I can blame us.”
John hugged Emily again as she closed her eyes and her breathing became steady. They weren’t dressed for bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to nudge her awake. He wanted this. He wanted to be able to cuddle and talk—not on the phone and from across the country. Could he look past the name on the letterhead? Could he work for Rawlings Industries—at corporate? Obviously, the company was successful and substantial, but was it legitimate? All the things Anthony has done personally: what if John got into the legalities of Rawlings Industries and found skeletons? Then again, what if he didn’t?
What if he could come home every night to Emily and the kids? What if he could help assure Claire and Nichol’s financial future? So many questions swirled as his eyes closed.
It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.
—Charles Darwin
Nothing could have prepared Tony for incarceration in the federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. Perhaps, to the experienced prisoner, or even from the outside, it was lovely, better than most. After all, it had only been a federal prison since 1988. From the outside, it still looked like the small, private, liberal arts college that it had once been. Most buildings were on the historical register and bore the names of alumni and benefactors. The grounds were beautiful with flowers, trees, and well-manicured grass. There wasn’t even a fence around the perimeter. Nevertheless, it was a prison.
Tony’s legal department had done their research: not only was Yankton relatively close to Iowa City, it was said to be one of the best all-male, minimum-security prisons in the United States. As most of the prisoners there were convicted of nonviolent crimes, it took some negotiation from the Rawlings’ legal team to secure Tony a spot in the highly sought-after facility. A large subsection of inmates were middle-aged men who’d been convicted of white-collar crimes. Anthony Rawlings wasn’t the only successful entrepreneur on the grounds. Brent and Tom had hoped that would help Tony’s transition. It didn’t.
Undergraduate school at NYU was the last time Tony had shared a room with another man apart from his travels through Europe while on the run from the FBI. During that time, he’d stayed in a few hostels with large shared-sleeping areas, but this was different. At Yankton, the inmates didn’t have private or even semi-private rooms. Prisoners slept in dormitories that in some ways reminded him of Blair Academy, only a million times worse. These rooms had beds, lockers, and desks. All the beds were bunked with an unspoken understanding that the eldest bunkmate received the prized lower bunk. Some of the dormitories held sixty men. Thankfully, Tony’s only held twenty, which was still nineteen more than he wanted.
Over the years he’d heard how these minimum-security prisons were just country clubs for the wealthy criminals. Anyone who said that had never been behind the walls. Though he’d researched the prison camp before he arrived, he wasn’t prepared. He remembered that most testimonials stated that the first few days were the most difficult. He hoped that was true. His first day was filled with interviews and screenings, but as Tony received his khaki shirt, khaki pants, cumbersome shoes, underwear, and bedding, the reality was overwhelming. There was no doubt that the next four years of his life would be drastically different from any of the first forty-nine. Not only did he yearn for the life he’d left behind, but his heart also ached for the time Claire had lost behind similar walls.
During the mental-health screening, Tony agreed to anger-management counseling. Before he was transported to Yankton, Brent told him that Judge Jefferies’ recommendation had truly been a gift. Since it wasn’t court-mandated, Tony’s willingness to undergo therapy would look good on his record and help when his case came up for review. Though parole wasn’t offered in federal penitentiaries, there was always hope of early release. After only hours as a number, not a full name, Tony knew he’d do whatever it took to make an early release a reality.
As if sleeping in a room with nineteen other men wasn’t difficult enough, he soon learned about counts. Counts happened every day at 12:01 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM, 10:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and 10:00 PM. The last two were standing counts. During a standing count each man was required to stand unmoving by his bunk while the correctional officer counted inmates. With wake-up being every day at 5:50 AM, Tony wondered why they couldn’t wait until then to do the count. Heaven knows that lights coming on and a correctional officer walking bunk to bunk three times in the middle of the night was not conducive to a good night’s sleep.
“Yes, they’re trying other things. Mostly, I like how they’re getting her up, out of bed, and out of a chair. I hated that other place. They just put her in a wheelchair and moved her around. She’s capable of walking. I remembered her stories about hiking and gardening here at his estate.”
“It’s hers, too.” He reminded her.
“I told them she liked the outside,” Emily continued. “So they’ve added that to her schedule.”
John yawned. “I’ll get over there before I head back to California. I already like the way they take care of her better at Everwood.”
Emily cuddled against his side. “I think you should be open-minded about the job offer. Make sure it’s sincere and not just a ploy to keep us from telling the world the truth.”
“The court’s limited us on what we can say about the legal proceedings, but I get what you’re saying.”
“I think it could be good too. I liked all of those people when we first met them.”
“At Claire’s first wedding,” John said.
“I know I shouldn’t blame them for not knowing what was happening any more than I can blame us.”
John hugged Emily again as she closed her eyes and her breathing became steady. They weren’t dressed for bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to nudge her awake. He wanted this. He wanted to be able to cuddle and talk—not on the phone and from across the country. Could he look past the name on the letterhead? Could he work for Rawlings Industries—at corporate? Obviously, the company was successful and substantial, but was it legitimate? All the things Anthony has done personally: what if John got into the legalities of Rawlings Industries and found skeletons? Then again, what if he didn’t?
What if he could come home every night to Emily and the kids? What if he could help assure Claire and Nichol’s financial future? So many questions swirled as his eyes closed.
It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.
—Charles Darwin
Nothing could have prepared Tony for incarceration in the federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. Perhaps, to the experienced prisoner, or even from the outside, it was lovely, better than most. After all, it had only been a federal prison since 1988. From the outside, it still looked like the small, private, liberal arts college that it had once been. Most buildings were on the historical register and bore the names of alumni and benefactors. The grounds were beautiful with flowers, trees, and well-manicured grass. There wasn’t even a fence around the perimeter. Nevertheless, it was a prison.
Tony’s legal department had done their research: not only was Yankton relatively close to Iowa City, it was said to be one of the best all-male, minimum-security prisons in the United States. As most of the prisoners there were convicted of nonviolent crimes, it took some negotiation from the Rawlings’ legal team to secure Tony a spot in the highly sought-after facility. A large subsection of inmates were middle-aged men who’d been convicted of white-collar crimes. Anthony Rawlings wasn’t the only successful entrepreneur on the grounds. Brent and Tom had hoped that would help Tony’s transition. It didn’t.
Undergraduate school at NYU was the last time Tony had shared a room with another man apart from his travels through Europe while on the run from the FBI. During that time, he’d stayed in a few hostels with large shared-sleeping areas, but this was different. At Yankton, the inmates didn’t have private or even semi-private rooms. Prisoners slept in dormitories that in some ways reminded him of Blair Academy, only a million times worse. These rooms had beds, lockers, and desks. All the beds were bunked with an unspoken understanding that the eldest bunkmate received the prized lower bunk. Some of the dormitories held sixty men. Thankfully, Tony’s only held twenty, which was still nineteen more than he wanted.
Over the years he’d heard how these minimum-security prisons were just country clubs for the wealthy criminals. Anyone who said that had never been behind the walls. Though he’d researched the prison camp before he arrived, he wasn’t prepared. He remembered that most testimonials stated that the first few days were the most difficult. He hoped that was true. His first day was filled with interviews and screenings, but as Tony received his khaki shirt, khaki pants, cumbersome shoes, underwear, and bedding, the reality was overwhelming. There was no doubt that the next four years of his life would be drastically different from any of the first forty-nine. Not only did he yearn for the life he’d left behind, but his heart also ached for the time Claire had lost behind similar walls.
During the mental-health screening, Tony agreed to anger-management counseling. Before he was transported to Yankton, Brent told him that Judge Jefferies’ recommendation had truly been a gift. Since it wasn’t court-mandated, Tony’s willingness to undergo therapy would look good on his record and help when his case came up for review. Though parole wasn’t offered in federal penitentiaries, there was always hope of early release. After only hours as a number, not a full name, Tony knew he’d do whatever it took to make an early release a reality.
As if sleeping in a room with nineteen other men wasn’t difficult enough, he soon learned about counts. Counts happened every day at 12:01 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM, 10:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and 10:00 PM. The last two were standing counts. During a standing count each man was required to stand unmoving by his bunk while the correctional officer counted inmates. With wake-up being every day at 5:50 AM, Tony wondered why they couldn’t wait until then to do the count. Heaven knows that lights coming on and a correctional officer walking bunk to bunk three times in the middle of the night was not conducive to a good night’s sleep.
