On yet another day, in yet another line of men waiting to be told what to do, told where to go, to be barked at about something – lined up to go somewhere or lined up to come back from somewhere else; it didn’t matter. It was a line, and Seán was in it.
It happened quickly. One second he was in a line; the next, surrounded, and sprawled across the ground. He felt pressure against his ribs, but no pain.
He saw Kilmer stand over him. “Not him,” Seán attempted to point toward Kilmer, saw blood on the ground, then on himself, felt pain for the first time.
”What happened? Can ya get up?” A guard, bent over, “Ya know who did it?”
Seán felt his side, attempted to speak. His throat gurgled. He coughed, tasted copper, watched a bubble of blood escape from his mouth. An uncontrollable urge to stand came over him, he failed, then, in slow motion, crawled toward the bleachers, gently pulled himself up, and perched on the front row.
“Did you see who did it?”
Seán lied himself ignorant. Even in his battered state, he knew the guards didn’t believe him. He didn’t care, and, what he learned was, they didn’t either.
The next morning, drugged and painless, he awoke in the county hospital with a dark red swelling the size of a golf ball under his rib cage. He received ephemeral kindness from an English-as-a-sometimes-language nurse. A nameless doctor, who never looked directly at Seán, said, “They stabbed you just below the left side of your rib cage. Just missed having your bowels sliced open.” Walked away without another word.
He was sent to the three-bed infirmary inside the walls two days later. The next morning, he was escorted back to his cell with a pass to the nurse’s office for a dressing change.
That evening, Seán told a guard his toothbrush was missing. Three days, three reminders, and one cell search later, he received a new toothbrush and placed it in full view.
After the lights dimmed, Seán pulled his old toothbrush from a hollowed-out section of a book, scraped the bottom of it against the wall until it had a sharp point, placed it back inside the book. He thought for a moment, then decided. Not now. Now I need to focus. Concentrate on my appeal. No diversions. No revenge.
The next evening after supper, Seán stuffed his bag with three number two pencils (the maximum allowed), handwritten pages of case law (photocopying not available), and trudged up the iron fire escape to the library. His right hand held protectively below his ribs, Seán opened the door; saw movement in the shadows. His wife. He leaned close, heard her say, “Focus. Don’t get angry.” Then she was gone.
He adjusted his aviator frame bifocals (standard issue), pulled out a chair, sat next to Kilmer, and listened, “Seán, you gotta do something. You need to avenge this, or they’re gonna kill you.”
“I can’t.”
“But, you’ve been attacked. You have to.”
“I know,” said Seán, but I’m not gonna screw up my court appeals. That’s all I got left.”
Seán watched as Kilmer set his book on the table, “Is this your last appeal?”
“Nope, I’ve still got the federal courts. Who knows?” Seán watched as Kilmer’s eyes focused on him, “But I can’t risk it. I’ve bet everything on the courts. So I can’t retaliate against anyone.”
