I felt foul. First, I was coated in a greasy sludge of body oil, sweat, dirt, leaves, and all the detritus one would expect to be on a half-naked man put to work all day with no ability to wash up. Second, my body was simply not used to sleeping in handcuffs and legirons, and I had woken up several times during the night. Still, I could see the drill and I followed along. Each prisoner was to stand at attention near his bunk, waiting for necessary order. As soon as the prisoners were ready and the squad chain unlocked, the order was given to march.

Jack marched us single-file to the privy, clanking and clattering as we went. We were allowed ten minutes to prepare ourselves for the day ahead, and we came to prize these few minutes. In addition to addressing our daily duties, this was the only time we were allowed out of our handcuffs for any purpose other than work. Of course, the privy was as foul a place as one can imagine with eight men chained together and using the facilities at the same time, but we didn't see it that way. To us, the privy was the place where had freedom, even if it was only ten minutes per day.

"Wipe and move!" came Jack's order. Our ten minutes were up, and each man finished as best he could. Jack whistled, and we lined up shoulder to shoulder with our wrists behind our backs, ready to be put back into handcuffs. Then we were led single-file to the front gate, where we waited silently at attention, facing the gate, with our heads lowered until the Boss arrived with the truck.

It had been three days since I had been arrested and taken to prison by the bounty hunters. I had been humiliated, kept chained like an animal, worked like a beast of burden, and denied basic signs of humanity such as the right to speak or to be fully clothed. By rights, I ought to be enraged at the men who had done this to me-the bounty hunters, the clerk who ignored my plea of mistaken identity, and the guards who brutalized me.

But I didn't feel anger. I was as happy as I could be, under the circumstances. Monday had arrived, and I was sure to be freed. Even if the wheels of bureaucracy ground slowly, Marie was sure to see to my release. And was I much worse for wear? No. In the end, I had done nothing wrong and only lost a weekend. The experience would make me a better person-more sympathetic to the sufferings of others. More confident in my ability to survive even when the basics were denied to me.

It would probably take a few hours for the paperwork to come through, and I resolved to be a model prisoner until my release. We arrived at the work site around 6 AM. The day was a scorcher and the punishment detail had the worst kind of work: laying tar onto a macadam highway. We worked like slaves with the hot sun beating on us, the filthy tar splattering onto us, clinking and clanking in our chains. The conditions were so brutal that the Boss allowed Jack to give us a double ration of water, which meant a drink every half-hour.

Around noon came the order to "Lay em down!" We had thirty minutes for dinner and rest. Each of us plopped down right where he stood when the order came, eager to enjoy every second of luxurious recuperation. Ol' Jack went down the line of prisoners with a bucket of red beans and deposited a heaping scoop into each of our cupped hands. I listened with disgust as the other prisoners slurped and licked and wolfed down their rations, but when my turn came, I found myself devouring the food just like everyone else. The bean course was followed by a hunk of corn pone about the size of a man's palm. Corn pone is just a simple cake made from cornmeal, baking soda, lard, and water, and baked on a griddle. Any free person would turn his nose up at such an unpalatable concoction, but we prisoners stuffed our hunk of corn pone into our mouths as if it were a delicacy that might be taken away at any moment. Finally, Jack returned with a bucket of water and a ladle, to wash down our sumptuous dinner.

The thirty minutes passed quickly. "Pick em up!" came the command, and it was back to the tar for us. By the early evening, my optimism had turned to despair. A man would be punished if he failed to "keep the lick," and I began to lag. My mind simply wasn't on my work, and I even craned my neck once to see if any messengers were coming with a release order.

"Lay em down!" came the order. It was time to return to the prison. We secured our tools and equipment in the truck, and then the command came to "line em up!" This was the signal for us to line up shoulder to shoulder for restraint.

Clickkkk! I felt as though my heart couldn't sink any lower as the handcuffs ratcheted around my wrists. The truck soon bounced its way back to the prison, pulling to a halt at the gate to the punishment detail's cage. "Step down!" came the Boss' order, and we slowly filed off the truck for inspection.

"Jack!" said the Boss, "take the last one off the chain. He's going to see the warden."

Could it be? It was! My heart twittered with excitement as I was unchained from the punishment detail. The Boss and another guard escorted me to the administration building, past the clerks and ringing telephones and other signs of modern civilization that I had almost forgotten in three days of the Dark Ages. The Boss knocked on Warden Samantha Richardson's office door. "Enter," answered a voice within.

Warden Richardson's office was beautifully appointed, considering it was located in a prison. The walls were paneled in mahogany, there were overstuffed leather chairs placed strategically around the room, and a gigantic southern pine desk as the centerpiece.

The Warden herself was an older woman, perhaps in her 50s, tall, dark haired, fair-skinned, and quite attractive, exuding the combination of beauty and confidence that only older women possess.

"Sergeant Reynolds, how are you? How's the wife and kids? Fine, fine," said Warden Richardson. "How can I help you?"

This was it! The moment I had waited three whole days to arrive!

"Ma'am, this prisoner arrived on Saturday and was placed on the punishment detail due to insolence. His first day, he ignored the rules and spoke with a civilian three times, for which I assigned him nine additional days of hard labor. Today, he was lagging the men and looking about instead of working. I believe the time has come for more severe intervention," said the Boss.

I was crushed! I hadn't been called in to be released. The Boss had brought me in for further punishment!

"I see," said Warden Richardson. "Ellen! Ellen, would you bring me this prisoner's file. What's his name, Sergeant?"

"Robert Perez, Ma'am," said the Boss loud enough for Ellen to hear in the outer office. A younger brunette in her mid-20s soon appeared, carrying a file folder which she handed to Warden Richardson.

"Thank you, dear. Now, let's see. Hmm... Drunk and disorderly, breaking and entering, fraud, theft, petty forgery, currently our guest on a charge of armed robbery. Served three stints on the punishment detail. Prisoner, you have quite a record. This is your first violent offense, but your record betrays a clear lack of discipline in your life. That is something we specialize in at this institution. What have you got to say for yourself?"

This was my only chance, but I was terrified. Here I was in chains, shirtless, filthy, stinking, exhausted, and from their point of view, guilty. Here I was, a deviant animal placed on trial before normal people. The Warden loomed before me, towering over me like a goddess of power, justice, and wrath.

"Well? Speak up. This is your only chance," said Warden Richardson.

The words began to spill out, in a soft, mouse-like voice that surprised me. "I can't hear you, Prisoner. Speak up!" commanded the Warden.

Reluctantly, as if I was a pig speaking to a Goddess, I spoke more distinctly. "Ma'am, I am innocent. I was arrested by bounty hunters in a case of mistaken identity. My name is Robert Perez but I'm not the person who belongs here. When I saw a friend of mine in town Saturday, I called to her to get help. Please, Ma'am. I was told my case would be heard by the judge today and I would be released if my story checked out. I don't know why it hasn't."

Ellen, the young file clerk, interjected. "Prisoner, did you say you were innocent? I want to put that in the file." She smiled sardonically. The Warden and the two guards grinned at the joke, but it was lost on me.

"Yes, Ma'am," I replied meekly.

The Warden paced slowly around me. "That is quite a story, prisoner. Well, there is a notation in your record that your allegations were referred to Judge Hawkins for possible adjudication. I know Judge Hawkins. She is one of the most competent jurists in this state, and she would have investigated your claims immediately. But let's find out for certain. Ellen, have any communications regarding a prisoner Perez been received from Judge Hawkins today?"

"No, Ma'am. Nothing for a 'Perez'" Ellen replied. "If you like, I can call the Clerk to inquire further."

"That won't be necessary, Ellen. Thank you." Warden Richardson slowly shook her head from side to side. "Prisoner, you cannot hope to ever become a productive member of society until you admit your failings. You cannot ever hope to become a productive member of society if you refuse to accept responsibility. You cannot ever hope to become a productive member of society until you learn discipline."

The Warden paced around me. I was an insect under a microscope. I was a snake in an eagle's talons. I was a supplicant before a queen whose job was to show no mercy. I wanted to run, but my legs were in irons. I wanted to hide my face, but my wrists were in handcuffs. I wanted to disappear, but I stood half-naked and filthy before a jury of my superiors.

"Very well, Prisoner. If we cannot reach you logically, we will reach you physically. You have served three days of hard labor on the punishment detail. Sergeant Reynolds has awarded you nine additional days for disobedience. I will triple that-you will serve 27 additional days at hard labor, beyond the nine you earned from the Sergeant. Furthermore, I order you to be flogged tomorrow evening. Sergeant, you will give this prisoner ten lashes on the bare back, well laid on."

"Yes, Ma'am," said the Boss.

The Warden turned to Ellen. "Dear, please record that the prisoner is to receive 27 additional days at hard labor, plus ten lashes tomorrow evening. Do you have anything to add?"

Ellen looked me over. "Ma'am, perhaps the prisoner would learn faster with the necklace."

The Warden smiled wryly. "Yes. I do believe you're right. Thirty days in the necklace. I must say, Ellen...you're coming along quite well in your...training." The warden patted the girl on the head, and Ellen beamed.

"Prisoner, your education has begun. We have many methods available to correct attitude problems like yours. I suggest that you accept the fact that you are a prisoner here, that you do belong here, and that your suffering is justice. You are dismissed. Sergeant, place him in the necklace tonight, and call me tomorrow when you're ready to begin his flogging. Oh, and leave me a pair of handcuffs. Thank you."

Needless to say, I was in shock. I managed a "Thank you, Ma'am" because I knew I had to, and I was marched out. I felt like gelatin as the Boss led me back to the punishment detail's cell, where I learned what the "necklace" was. A steel collar was locked around the prisoner's neck, with a three foot long length of heavy gauge chain. The unfortunate prisoner was locked to his bed at night by his collar, and during the day, he had the additional burden of the collar and chain to accompany him as he worked. Finally, I was locked back on the squad chain.

I thought I had been miserable before, but my situation was now infinitely worse. It was hard enough sleeping handcuffed, filthy, and chained to seven other men. Now, I couldn't even get up to relieve myself by using the night bucket. Thank God I was exhausted from a full day of work. Eventually, the thoughts of "This is forever. No one cares. You deserve this" died away, and I fell asleep.

Chapter 3 and Conclusion

The clerk slowly shook her head as she watched a young woman nervously ascend the walk to the visitor's office. The girl fit a certain profile: young, reasonably attractive, shoe-button eyes, modest dress, and a sweet, doe-like face. "Another one," the clerk muttered to a nearby co-worker as the girl turned the door-handle and entered the room.

"Can I help you, miss?"

The girl's story spilled out a mile a minute. "I hope so. I think a friend of mine is...is here. It's a case of mistaken identity.

They have the wrong man; I just know it. I spoke to an officer Saturday, and he said my friend would be out Monday but he never turned up. Could you check for me? His name is Robert Perez."

"Certainly, miss" said the clerk reassuringly. She ran her finger down the prison roster while thinking "the poor dear" to herself. "Peabody, Pepper, Perez. Robert Perez...ah! Yes, we have a prisoner by that name. He's being held on a bench warrant until his trial, which is in about three months."

The girl gasped, and the words flowed in a torrent. "Three months! There must be a mistake! He's innocent! It's mistaken identity! Didn't the court hear his case?"

"Miss, if there was even the slightest doubt about the prisoner's identity, the court would have summoned him for a habeus corpus hearing the first business day, which would be Monday. His file would have been notated regardless of the outcome, and since there is no such notation, then the court must not have found cause for further investigation."

Marie brushed away a tear. "May I see him?" she asked despondently.

The clerk glanced at the record again. "No, miss. That prisoner is on the punishment detail for 36 days, and he is not allowed visitors until he completes his privileges are restored." The clerk noticed additional details on the prisoner's record, but she felt sorry for the girl and did not mention them.

"36 days, on that horrible chain gang? Oh, God!" cried Marie.

This was too much for the clerk, who clasped her hand over the girl's sympathetically. "Yes, miss. I'm sorry, but I've seen so many nice girls like you shedding tears over men who weren't worth it. Maybe this one is worth the tears. I don't know. But I do know that nice men don't end up here. And most of our prisoners never end up on the punishment detail, let alone for 36 days. Only you can decide if this one is worth it, but my advice is to let this one go. He deserves what he's getting."

Marie buried her face in her hands. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't help thinking about what the clerk had said. It was the same thing Reverend Michaels had asked: How well did she really know Robert? If Robert was innocent, how did he end up on the punishment detail right off the bat, and for so long? Could he just be playing her for a fool?

The clerk was pleased to see the girl collect herself. "Thank you for the information, ma'am" said the girl, who turned a bit hesitantly, and then decisively strode from the room, closing the door behind her.

"Maybe this one will listen" said the clerk to her co-worker, adding "get this-her little boyfriend has a date with the whip, and he's got the necklace for a month besides."

The co-worker shook her head, and muttered "I guess it's true. The good girls always go for the bad boys."

--

"On yer feet! On yer feet! I mean you! I mean you!" boomed the trusty through the predawn air. I attempted to rise, but I had forgotten that my necklace was tethered to the bunk. As soon as the other prisoners were ready to move, Ol' Jack released the lock that kept me attached to my bunk.

"On yer feet. I gotta fix yer chain" he said. The trusty took the dangling chain from my necklace, ran it once around my waist, and locked it tightly, like a belt. This helped keep the chain out of my way so that I could work, and it added another element of pain any time the shifting links pinched my flesh.

We were marched to the privy for our ten minutes of freedom. The handcuffs were locked back on after we had finished, as they always were when we weren't working, and we were led to the gate to wait for the Boss. Presently, a truck arrived and the Boss jumped off, with two guards. We stood at attention while the Boss inspected our restraints. I was the last prisoner on the squad chain, and the Boss chuckled when he came to me. "Did you have a nice evening, boy?" he asked sarcastically. There was only one reply I could give, and we both knew it. But I had to say it. "Yes Boss!" "Now, you get a whipping tonight, boy. You want me to go hard on you, don't you?" "Yes Boss!" We both knew what was going on. I had to do what I was told. I had to take whatever they dished out. I had to say what I was told to say. If I refused, I suffered. If I complied, I became theirs.

--

We were loaded onto the truck, and it was off to work, topping the hedges that ran along the county road. I suffered that day like no other. My necklace chain soon abraded the skin over my hip bones, and the torture was all the worse as my sweat mixed into the raw flesh. But still I worked. I had no choice. If I failed to keep the lick, my suffering would be much worse. I had to keep up with the other prisoners, no matter how much it hurt.

Somehow I made it through that day. I honestly don't know how, because I suffered every second and every minute I was out there. Just when I thought I couldn't take any more, the order sang out "lay em down! Bring em in!" I was so relieved-because I had forgotten.

We were all locked back into handcuffs and loaded into the truck for the trip back to prison. The gates were opened and we were offloaded for inspection. The Boss stopped when he got to me. "Set him up," he said to Jack. Then I remembered. Terror gripped me, but there was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to hide. The trusty unlocked my upright from the squad chain, and he led me shuffling to the to the gate's steel bars. There was a horizontal bar a few inches above my head, and Ol' Jack deftly unlocked one of my wrists, quickly pivoted my arms, and then slipped my handcuffs around the gate bar before locking the loose end around my unrestrained wrist.

"Just give in, boy," whispered Jack, in a tone that suggested genuine sympathy as he released the buttons on my trousers.

We waited. I don't know how long. I assumed that this was intentional-I was an example to the other prisoners: exposed and vulnerable, subject to the whip's caprice. My wrists were hurting, but then I heard the Boss say "Warden, the prisoner is ready for discipline."

"Excellent, Sergeant," said Warden Richardson. "Ellen, I want you to see this, so that you will know how seriously we take discipline here. I would like you to call out the strokes after they fall. Now, Sergeant, you may proceed."

I heard the sharp sound of plaited leather slicing air, and I felt more pain than I have ever felt in my life.

"One," yelled Ellen. Her voice was feminine and playful, in the way only a girl's voice can be. Ellen's role in the event added to its cruelty: like many men, I associated women with kindness and compassion, and there was something perverse about the way her sweet voice narrated my suffering.

I tried to suppress my urge to scream, my body contorting in agony as much as my restraints would allow.

"Two," Ellen yelled.

I couldn't help myself. I let out a yelp of pain. Then a pause. I wondered if they had finished.

"Three." Through the pain, I understood. They were waiting. Letting the pain subside so that I would feel the full impact of every stroke.

"Four." It was useless. I screamed every time the whip fell, and I moaned and begged for mercy in between.