Grant (part 2 of 3)

Grant

"No seriously Why is it so funky? Everyone's quiet,"

Simion, inmate, Marshall Islander, once corrupt business man

Light was fed from every area of the large open room so Cleaver’s shadow freyed into a blur beneath his feet as he walked away.  He had commanded the attention from Grant’s table and the surrounding inmates though many began to talk in muffled voices again.  Jiancarlo and Simion began cleaning up the board while Joseph sat back down with them. 

“You’re not about to kill me ambassador are you?” Simion asked.

Grant laughed, “Only if you keep calling me ambassador.”

They laughed. “No seriously.  Why is it so funky?  Everyone’s quiet.”

“It’s nothing that pup is trying to provoke me or something.  He yelled and that’s why everyone is quiet.”  Simion, apparently satisfied with the explanation turned to Jiancarlo speaking in Marshalese, the native language of the Marshal Islands.  A short, low tone sounded from the ceiling speakers indicating the end of ‘free time’ for the bottom tier cells.  The mood was somber and tense when the prisoners returned to their cells.  But Grant did not feel that nor was he going towards his cell.  He turn from the row of cells because every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he was required to help out Doctor Clair Newbody, the prison psychologist.  He would re-enter the data that had been lost recently due his outburst a week ago.  He copied information from hard copies in notebooks to an old Packard pc.

 Grant had originally thought he would use the computer to send out an e-mail to a McDonalds press agent, Margo Daenish about Baxton’s files.  Or maybe he would e-mail Norris Winterclock information on how to retrieve it.  She was one of the few people with the authority and skill to access his computer remotely.  But these hopes had been squashed when the computer began a series of flashes from the screen and then crashed the first time he started Internet Explorer.

The task set forth by Dr. Newbody itself had been certainly an enormous one; each day he found a large manila folder on the desk and sometimes two small ones.  More often than not a rigorous and uninterrupted hour and a half of typing could finish the task. As of today he had three days of typing behind him and one big manila folder in front of him.

The psychologist claimed Grant had fifty files remaining. “I have four interns working under me; they are conducting interviews and gathering data.”  He did not doubt her.

She would leave him alone with the folder and ancient computer for most of the time.  She would come back to complain about traffic, interns, and prisoners.  The socially guided questions she or her interns asked in the interview for the study were very insightful.  Having been the subject of one of the interviews himself, Grant compared his answers to the ones he recorded.  Some consistencies he quickly found were family and stories.  Horrible pasts and macabre views of life were all part of well rehearsed and held beliefs in many of the inmates..  None that could easily be compared to him or could they? 

Soon he found anecdotes and examples that were eerily like his own. Some described their thoughts right before their crime. They spoke about the urge to kill or embezzle.  The money laundering crimes had careful planning.  While some of the killings were sudden acts of rage.  When Grant had been suspended after the controversial Youtube video debuted he had similar primal violent lust.  He had begun a rant while drunk about in effective international diplomacy on Newtopia’s part.  A fan videotaped the fourteen minute debacle.  Afterwards the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs reassigned him to the Baxton case.  At the time Grant was outraged and felt wronged.  He thought of crashing his car into the undersecretary’s summer home in Sam’s Town, Newtopia.  He schemed to wire forty thousand dollars into the undersecretary’s bank account in order to incite possible incitements.

Grant had tried Newtopian politics before then and experienced similar selfish urges.  While campaigning for a local senate seat he mercilessly secured powerful collective votes with bribes and empty promises.  He lost anyway. Maybe I am supposed to be in here, Grant thought bleakly.

Screenage By Steve Roll see www.steverollart.com