TRADE SECRETS

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

"Others in Illinois were still counting carefully - measuring off the precious feet or sometimes just inches that their hastily piled sand bags reached above unbridled waters which climbed relentlessly upward."

Venerable Wrigley Field, since 1914 home to America's most beloved perennial major league futility, the Chicago Cubs, was festooned with gaudy multi-colored banners in brilliant display enhanced by turbulent shouts from patient sufferers rewarded, who Janus-like this day looked forward and back.

Responding to weeks of incessant attention, the outfield displayed a lush emerald hue that would inflame the heart of any Irishman, edged by absolutely straight ivory chalk lines strictly adjudicating fair from foul. Every unsightly spike mark imparted in the dirt by pregame practice was fully eradicated, leaving unblemished the sacred spaces between the bases, the green diamond within, and the raised area from which a wizard would attempt a dozen or a hundred times to hurl a small leather cover sphere past an opponent armed with a stout wooden club determined to redirect its flight. No puffy, alabaster cloud dared to intrude into the limitless azure above the stadium. Even the Windy City's capricious weather co-operated by delivering mild variable breezes, scarcely cooling the ardor of fans gathered in the near perfect low 70's.

No more perfect setting could be envisioned. But had the conditions been absolutely ghastly, fans and dignitaries would still have packed the park to overflowing for this most auspicious of all Opening Days, unlike any before seen in the stadium's annals. After a century in the wilderness, during a chilly October night in a distant site the year before, their beloved Cubbies reached the Promised Land of the World Championship of Baseball !

Today, commemorating and forever enshrining that unprecedented achievement, municipal and state dignitaries mingled with team members, hoping photographic evidence would establish their association with champions. Then, before the massed, awed, suddenly hushed audience, a flag which boldly asserted WORLD CHAMPIONS, was ceremoniously borne onto the field! A spontaneous, unceasing, boisterous roar engulfed the team president, mayor, and governor as they jointly tugged the ropes bearing the slowly unfurling hallowed emblem to the top of its newly erected separate pole.

Next came recognition for the individuals whose adroitness catapulted their club to preeminence. One by one each player bounded from the dugout as his number and name was announced. As each hero was awarded a diamond studded Championship ring, thunderous applause validated his contribution. But no player's applause could match the adulation poured forth upon the player whose .349 batting average, six homers as a pinch hitter, and 31 wins as pitcher had led his team to victory after victory. The second he stepped from the dugout and before the announcer's vain attempt at introduction was complete, the fans thundered, "CAR - LOS ! CAR - LOS ! CAR - LOS ! CAR-"

Carlos Ramirez awoke with a start. Despite dreamland glorification still lingering in his head, he cautiously scanned the dimly lit cell anxiously, alert for any abnormal sounds disclosing the arrival of the feared nighttime visitors. Angel Santos on the bunk across from him slept soundly though from time to time would snort abruptly, almost as if repulsing unwanted visions or vagrant ideas. With prisoners denied watches, Carlos's only clue to time was the single, barred, dust-encrusted glass high above near the peak of an equally grimy wall beside which he lay. Propping himself awkwardly on one arm, he twisted his stiffened body to glance hopefully at this portal to the world beyond, then grimaced at the persistent overcast feebly disclosed by the glaring light banks and powerful searchlights mounted on every guard tower. In an hour or so the morning sun would futilely struggle to break forth, but dimmed as it had been in the last few days by dense cloud cover, it would presage yet another soggy day. How long had it been since the sun last shown - a week, ten days ? All days, indeed even the hours, flowed together for a felon caged in a prison cell, subjected to an unvarying, monotonous routine which disparaged hope and fully deadened dreams. Overhead lights would flash on, clamorous bells would ring, and guards would issue imperious orders demanding instant conformity to their demeaning, dehumanizing regime.

Carlo flopped onto his back again though it protested against the metal slats so clearly felt through the thin mattress upon which he lay, and his head found little comfort from the threadbare, matted pillow. In the remaining hour before the lights flashed on and prisoners were crisply commanded to begin their daily existence, unable to sleep, his punishment would be enhanced by incessant, taunting rain drops splattering against the window. Rain meant no time outside today - no chance to escape, even if only for a short time, the petty commands of sadistic custodians and the senseless chatter of his cellmate Angel and the other inmates, all of whom he despised nearly as much as he hated himself. Outdoors, open air, regardless of weather, provided the solitary enjoyment he could still extract from life.

"Charlemagne, indeed," he mused.

Carlos, learning about the glorious Frankish monarch's deeds and noting a similarity of name, had immediately rechristened himself "Charlemagne - Charles the Great". Unfortunately for him other similarities between the two were scant. Unlike the Emperor of Western Europe, who legend extolled as impressive in appearance, invincible in battle, and appreciative of learning, Prisoner Charles judged his black hair, brown-eyes, darkly tawny face totally unremarkable, saw his efforts thwarted repeatedly, and dropped out of high school immediately after his 17th birthday. He was a full foot shorter than the 6 1/2 foot idolized warrior-king and as a result was routinely pummeled in fights he was seldom clever enough to avoid nor strong enough to win.

The friends of Charlemagne concluded he was foolish, totally lacking insight about the likely consequences of his decisions, and prone to exaggerate every action, but they also noted his intense desire to be accepted. They decided Carlos was likeable enough, loyal to friends, and (perhaps most importantly) willing to minutely conform to their wishes.

His desire for recognition and lack of insight quickly got him involved in street-level drug peddling without his fully understanding why or how. Initially intending this a short term activity while he figured out the next steps in his life, his self-aggrandizement soon had him boasting of "important connections", while the not insignificant profits realized allowed liberal gift giving to his companions (along with an accompanying rise in status) in Chicago's Hispanic enclave.

The notoriety of this upstart quickly drew the attention of undercover narcotics officers. Eager to gather damning information against major suppliers with whom Ramirez hinted intimacy, they arranged a sting involving a substantial, varied assortment of illegal drugs. Carlos didn't calculate the risk of dealing with unknown customers nor suspect a trap until metal cuffs were closing around his wrists.

Carlos felt unjustly victimized. He was (as he now repeated assured his questioners) merely a small dealer whose only goal was easing the constant disheartening drudgery of life afflicting those in the ghetto. Besides, the heroin and PCP provided for this sale was not his usual fare, obtained only after the buyers repeatedly affirmed addiction to them. His state provided attorney pressed him to furnish detectives with whatever information or names he could, from which he insinuated he could negotiate for less than a year of jail time or perhaps even probation along with community service and a fine. The state demanded the identity of and evidence against the higher ups, but Carlos realized the likely fatal consequences of that. Ever vigilant, courageous knights protected Charlemagne. Once he produced the names demanded and provided the testimony sought, who would safeguard him ? Silence meant a safer, longer life - it also meant prison. Angered prosecutors obtained a doubly harsh sentence of five years and confinement at the notorious Cutler Valley Correctional Facility, hundreds of miles from his family and friends in Chicago. Just under four years from that sentence still remained to be completed.

The prison cell assigned "Ramirez, Carlos, #578427" was identical to the other small cages housing humans: almost square, cement floor, furnished with two identical metal slat cots securely fastened by four bolts to two of the cell's three thick stone walls (each provided with minimal bedding consisting of a thin mattress, a single sheet, a scratchy blanket, and a pillow), toilet, and stout vertical bars which served as an unwelcoming, privacy-denying front door.

Cutler Valley Correctional Facility's warden preferred Spartan conditions for inmates under his domination, believing criminal acts deserved hard time. His credo dictated restriction on his charges' living conditions, idle time, and free will. Instead of providing a restful resort where criminals spent an idyllic vacation between lawless escapades, he would recreate hell on earth for the worthless scum and social failures sent to his custody, giving them ample reason to reform. No small televisions, stereos, or radios cluttered cells. Privacy was effectively eradicated: the interior of cells subject to constant unobstructed viewing; concealed listening devices eavesdropping throughout the complex; phone conversations monitored, subject to arbitrary interruption or termination; incoming and outgoing mail censored; prison visits accompanied by intrusive supervision; cell inspections frequent, unannounced, thorough, and meddlesome. Magazines (of consistent moral content) and inspirational books were granted only to "obedient, deserving, non-disruptive inmates".

But most important to Mike ("Hard Time") Heaton was maintaining unblemished Cutler Valley's record of zero escapes during his nearly twelve year tenure as warden. A few inmates, burrowing under or clambering over the stout walls then scurrying across the broad valley floor and into the tree covered low hills beyond, had escaped prior to his advent. Following his arrival, security was made more stringent. Sharpened barbed wire topped every wall, while periodic probes searched for any trace of tunnels beneath. Vehicles seldom gained access through newly installed 4" solid steel inner gates, and those granted a necessary admittance were meticulously searched upon entrance and before departure. Darkness annihilating, oscillating searchlights and tower mounted light banks illuminated every square inch of the prison yard and the valley beyond after sunset. No one could employ darkness to aid his escape. Prominently displayed side by side behind the warden's imposing hickory desk were two plaques awarded by the American Jailers' Association, each bearing the image of a window having stark ebony bars surmounted by a golden V, boastfully affirming five consecutive years without a single escape effected. As far as Heaton could discover, no other state prison superintendent possessed more than one.

But the overly meticulous warden never considered physical barriers enough and instituted methods to so cow his charges that any lingering fantasies of escape were extinguished. On the 13th day of every month, a dozen inmates with wrists securely manacled and ankles cuffed, surrounded by heavily armed guards, laboriously dragged prisoner sized mannequins arrayed in frayed, discarded inmate uniforms stuffed with old rags or wooden slabs bearing painted human silhouettes into the surrounding valley at varying distances from the guard towers. After the prisoners were once again securely encaged, exulting, yelping guards spent the next hour perfecting their marksmanship on these targets. To ensure the lesson had been adequately driven home, once the crack of rifle shots ended, a prisoner detail (as carefully restrained and supervised as the earlier one) retrieved the bullet-shredded objects and posted them throughout the prison's commons area, encouraging the warden's minions to visualize their appearance were they to attempt flight.

Adding humiliation to their miseries, prisoner strip searches were carried out publicly before their fellows with contempt and endless ridicule heaped by guards upon each victim's perceived or imagined physical defects. Other inmates were allowed, indeed heartily encouraged, to add their insulting evaluations. Lengthy periods of solitary confinement were arbitrarily meted out for seemingly minor violations of prescribed procedures or tardiness in responding to a guard's orders, while beatings of convicts showing the least sign of stouthearted resistance were routinely inflicted before their quivering cellmates after lights out, their piteous low moans scarcely stifled by the gags stuffed in their mouths held in with cloth rags stretched taut between their parted teeth.

Carlos's cell held a single decoration containing unintended, continuing mockery. Guard capriciousness had allowed him to string colored paper loops, in no ways uniquely unlike those constructed by some kindergartener, from one corner of his cell to the other and back again. The prisoner, hindered by a lack of cellophane tape, scissors, or a stapler, tore colored paper or newsprint into small strips, carefully fitting shaped slits of one into precisely ripped holes in another. Each loop symbolic of a week of prison time left in his sentence was intended to allow him to anticipate his restoration of freedom. At first Carlos conscientiously removed one loop every Saturday night with great solemnity and counted the remainder just before lights out, but he soon discovered the removal of a single loop and his weekly count of the remaining total of over one hundred demoralizing and irksome. Prison guards rejected his pleas to remove the horrid albatross.

Others in Illinois (as well as those in other states bordering the Missouri, Mississippi, and Ohio Rivers) were still counting carefully - measuring off the precious feet or sometimes just inches that their hastily piled sand bags reached above unbridled waters which climbed relentlessly upward. Spring melt-offs, which seasonally sent water levels higher, were an annual event, and the prior winter's moderate snowfall provided no portend of disaster. But the cold lingered later than normal. Just as temperatures sufficiently moderated to allow the banked snow to melt, sky shrouding black clouds let loose torrents on the upper Midwest in seemingly limitless amounts day after day.

Across the state of Missouri the wide, shallow river sharing the state's name gathered more and more runoff and rainwater, gaining speed and height as it charged eastward to join the majestic Father of Waters at Saint Louis. Kansas City hurriedly threw up sandbag dikes to withstand the climbing water as it rumbled past. Interstate 70, reduced to a single lane in each direction by mounds of sandbags holding back waters threatening to lap over the bridge near Columbia, from time to time closed completely. The state's capital, Jefferson City, was totally cut off to the north. Millions of gallons of water arrived daily at the river's terminus, eager to merge with the Mississippi.

East of the Mighty River, matters were little different. Racing atop still partially frozen ground, melted slush abetted by rainwater glutted shallow creeks which poured into rivers - the Raccoon, Scioto, White Oak, and Great Miami - gorging the Ohio River even before it reached the overflowing Little Pigeon and Wabash Rivers. Climbing well above flood stage, the combined rivers' waters sped toward their rendezvous with the Mississippi.

Nurtured by southward rushing waters from Minnesota's and Wisconsin's soggy fields and swelled by the Rock and Illinois Rivers, the Missouri, and then the Ohio, the mid-continent's mightiest waterway could accept no more. Levees on both sides of the river brimmed beyond capacity before many gave way completely. With nowhere else to go, grey threatening waters crept inexorably onto the land along both shores. Barge traffic halted; railroads found major trestles joining East and West impassible. Along St. Louis's entire waterfront, touristy haunts beside the river disappeared under water. Spring's ferocious intruder bounded the hill toward the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial and Gateway Arch, whose safety now rested on hastily constructing a dirt and sand barricade. A desperate appeal went forth for still more volunteers capable of shoveling sand, pushing sackladen wheelbarrows, or stacking bags atop the wall.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from TRADE SECRETSby Robert L. Brielmaier Copyright © 2012 by Robert L. Brielmaier. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.