***

The cell block buzzed, and Smith’s door opened. He stepped out, a ring of sweat around the collar of his state-issued orange jumpsuit. The correctional officer chained his wrists and ankles. Smith shuffled forward, struggling to keep up with the officer’s pace and tripping a few times. The physical restriction was what made prison the worst. The food was terrible, the crowd was a rough sort, but the limited mobility trumped everything else.

Fellow inmates, degenerates charged with murder and rape, watched Smith parade down the cellblock. The rumors had spread about the congressman charged with treason, a man from the body of government responsible for writing the very laws each of them were charged with. There wasn’t a single face that Smith passed that wasn’t smiling.

The correctional officer hit the buzzer. The iron gate rolled along its tracks and opened on a false pretense of freedom into the visitor’s area. Smith’s thoughts had been jumbled over the past twenty-four hours. But earlier this morning, he had finally managed to find his own light at the end of the tunnel. It gave him something to steady himself in the raging storm bellowing within. He found it comforting that the shape the light took was Jones.

Beth was already waiting for him when the officer dragged him into the tiny conference room reserved for inmates and their legal advisors. Smith landed in his chair with a forceful thud from the officer escorting him.

“That’ll be all, officer,” Beth said.

While the correctional officer’s grimace was different than those of his orange-jumpsuited peers, that was where the differences ended. Both inmates and guards offered their own unique form of cruelty. The door clicked shut as the officer left. Beth grabbed Smith’s hand.

“Treason doesn’t make you a lot of friends on either side of the aisle here,” Smith said.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. Where do we stand?”

“I found out today that the attorney general will be handling the prosecution himself.”

“Jones’s doing, no doubt.”

“It’s a long shot for the charges to stick. I think Jones is just trying to focus attention elsewhere to distract people from the war and exile, and you happen to be a big news story right now.”

Beth opened one of the manila folders containing the map she had used earlier. Smith flipped the paper over and took in each red X. The map looked like it was bleeding.

“No luck with finding a suitable location?” Smith asked.

“No. Any property that would work has already been seized by local authorities. Jones knows we’ll be looking for another spot. He’s giving us the full-court press.”

Smith slammed his fists against the table. Beth jumped. “Then we press back!” Smith felt like he could pull the chains around his wrists apart. Smokescreens, misdirection, and lies had tangled him in a web, thwarting any action he could take.

“David, there is another option,” Beth said. “Dr. Carlson mentioned to me that he has colleagues in Canada who would be willing to help.”

“You want us to take him across the border?”

“I know it’s a long shot, but I have tried searching for anything that would work, and there is nothing here. We don’t have a lot of other options.”

Smith closed his eyes. He searched for that light he had found earlier in the day, but his mind was so fogged and cluttered that he didn’t think it was there anymore. He could feel the icy grip of panic. He kept thinking, trying to push forward. What could he do?

“Where do we stand with Mexico?” Smith asked.

“The president will be asking for a declaration of war in a few hours.”

“And it’s a sure bet that Congress will give him what he wants. My trial starts in two days. If we can get Dr. Carlson out by then and into Canada for a head start, we might be able to pull it off. Jones won’t be able to touch the doctor if he’s out of the country. It could work.”

“You want me to proceed?”

“Yes. Grant the doctor’s request. And set up a meeting with the Canadian ambassador for the day after my trial.”

“That’s cutting it close. They could extend the hearings.”

“You said it yourself: the charges are thin. This is a smear campaign, and when it’s over, we need to be ready to smear back.”

Beth jotted her notes onto her legal pad then dropped the pen. She kept her head down, rubbing her hands together. “David, there’s something else we need to discuss. Worst-case scenario.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I was speaking with Edwards’s advisor and he has a plan to get him and his family out of the country. It’s going to be expensive, but I can start setting up the accounts and passports for the trip.”

“Do it. And make sure we have something in place for Daniel.”

“What? David, Daniel is a part of the reason why you’re here.”

“It’s not for him. It’s for his family. They didn’t ask for all of this, and I won’t have their innocent blood spilled for my mistakes!”

Beth exhaled. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”

Two different correctional officers entered the room. They were larger than Smith’s previous escort. They crossed their arms, muscles rippling from the movement. “Time’s up,” one of them said.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I know more,” Beth said.

Beth gathered up her papers and briefcase and walked out the door. Once she was gone, the officer that had spoken unchained Smith’s shackles from the floor. Before Smith could stand, the officer kicked the legs of the chair, causing it to slide from underneath Smith. Unable to brace himself against the fall, he smacked his shoulder on the concrete.

“Easy, Congressman,” the chair-kicking officer said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself walking around in those chains.”

“Remember what the warden said. Don’t hit him the face.”

“Right.”

The chains scraped across the concrete floor as Smith crawled on his belly to the other end of the room. Each move forward sent a sharp stab into his shoulder. He could hear the officers laughing at his attempts to escape.

“Where are you going? There aren’t any loopholes to pull you out of this one.”

The CO drove his heel into Smith’s left hamstring. Smith gritted his teeth, moaning at the impact and strain on his muscles. The CO twisted and dug his heel deeper until Smith could no longer move. Finally he removed it, offering a brief moment of reprieve before the other officer sent the toe of his boot into Smith’s side. Smith curled into himself, his brain diverting signals from his hamstring to his rib cage. Smith placed both palms flat on the floor. His face grew purple from the strain of trying to push himself up, the restraints around his wrists not allowing him to get very far.

Both COs pulled out their batons. They brought successive blows down on Smith’s back, each thud followed by a cry or scream. The bulky shoulders of each officer rotated to bring more force with each hit. The officers’ exertion caused drops of sweat to join in the barrage against Smith’s back.

After a few minutes, the noises coming from Smith’s body ceased. Each strike into his bones and flesh was answered with unconscious spasms of pain, Smith’s last piece of evidence signaling that while he might be blacked out, his brain was still alive. At last, one of the officers placed his baton back in his belt.

“All right. That’s enough,” he said.

But the other man didn’t stop. He brought the baton down harder, each clout fueled by a grunt of force.

“Frank, stop,” his partner said, grabbing Frank’s wrist before he could land another hit.

Frank yanked his wrist out of his partner’s grip and gave one last defiant whack.

“Jesus, man. We were hired to hurt him, not kill him. Take it easy.”

Frank hawked some phlegm, and the spit stained the orange spot on Smith’s back with a greenish blob. He put his baton back in his belt, breathing heavily after the assault. The medical ward was called, and Smith was picked up by a few nurses and put on a stretcher.