Second Chance

Barbed wire spiraled along the cement walls that held the prison together. The chance of escape was slim to none; spotlight towers perched on every corner, guards stationed every ten feet. Nobody was getting out.

Two night guards stood on top of the wall gripping rifles with the spiraled barbed wire by their ankles. Tom looked across the darkened horizon as Brock crunched on a granola bar, crumbs raining down on his shoes. Tom’s eyes had locked itself into a trance, fixed on a spot in the universe he couldn’t make out, something beyond what he could see.

“You ever wonder how many of these guys we got locked up in here are clean?” Tom asked quietly, breaking a comfortable silence. Brock crunched on his granola bar without any urgency to answer.

“I wonder,” Tom continued, inviting Brock further in his query, “I mean, how many of them really are innocent?” Tom and Brock didn’t know each other too well. Well enough to work a full night shift together but if either of them invited the other over for dinner or even a drink after work it would shock them. They were like most co-workers: cordial; polite; willing to laugh at each other’s jokes; but if they never saw them again, life would go on and that’d be that. But tonight Tom had something weighing on his mind that needed an ear to hear.

“Hundreds of guys locked up, and odds are a least ten of them aren’t criminals.”

“Yeah. Well.” Brock wasn’t a contemplator. Life was fairly black and white for him. You did the right thing, good things would happen to you. You did something bad, like commit a crime, you got locked up. Simplifying life’s code to a blatant “yes” or “no” was what he did well. And if it didn’t matter to him – or, rather, interest him – he just wouldn’t think about it altogether.

“Some of these guys, Brock, you know… maybe they’re doing five, ten and they didn’t even do it.”

Brock stayed silent. He wasn’t interested in discussing the innocence of the inmates. Brock just wanted to come to work, go home, and get paid. It didn’t matter to him whether someone was really guilty.

“Imagine trying to explain to a judge that what they’re saying you did – murder, robbery, abuse, rape, whatever – and you didn’t do it, but they say you did. And you go to jail for it.” Tom turned his head to his left at Brock to justify he was, indeed, talking to him; but his eyes stayed fixed on the void beyond the horizon. “What would you do?”

Brock bit down on his granola bar and gave it hardly any thought. “Don’t know. Be pissed.”

Tom nodded, not because Brock’s answer was remotely profound but that at least he responded. Tom’s thoughts were overwhelming him and he didn’t want to be alone with them. “I’d be pissed, too,” he agreed with a light chuckle. “How would they ever know, though? The warden or a judge? Everybody thinks they’re innocent, except the crazies – the one’s that take pride in what they did. But the ones that really didn’t do it, how would they really convince them?”

“Sounds tough,” Brock hardly replied.

“Yeah. That’s tough.” Tom finally broke his gaze from the darkness before him and stared down at his feet, like a guilty child caught in a lie. Brock looked around at nothing, and then checked his watch.

“You know,” Tom fiddled with his rifle, “I just wonder if… how many of them are different now? You get busted, thrown in prison for years and years and years, but you’re different now. You’ve changed your ways.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Brock engaged.

Tom looked over at him, surprised by his confident remark. “What do you mean?”

“They did it. If they never do it again then good, but they still did it the first time. That’s why they’re here.”

“Right, but what if they truly turned their lives around?” Tom was beginning to open up about what else was haunting his thoughts. “I mean, isn’t that what prison is for? To punish until you know not to do it again?”

“The law is to punish you for what you did wrong. If you rob a bank, you’re locked up for as long as they think you should be locked up for robbing a bank, not as long as they think until you’ve learned your lesson. Prison’s not a timeout corner waiting for your apology.”

“Sure, but then what is the point of community service? Sometimes you get the chance to do good in the area to show them you’re a changed man, right?”

“Sometimes,” Brock reluctantly agreed.

“Right. So, then, what if it’s someone like a murderer or a rapist? What if they’ve changed their ways, too?” Tom could see Brock had reached his limit with thinking. “Look, all I’m asking is who determines who gets a second chance?”

Brock exhaled deeply and let his rifle swing by his hip. “Tom, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Guys commit murder and they say they won’t do it again but you never really know.” Brock looked out into the nothingness.

Tom stared at Brock with pain in his eyes as he began to imagine the families and loved ones of those locked up, who are innocent, never seeing them again. And those that have changed their ways never getting that shot at life. And Tom’s thoughts swelled into a throbbing anxiety.

A spotlight suddenly shot across the yard at a small figure flailing its arms recklessly as a siren wailed. The figure was an inmate trying to keep his balance as he ran with the largest strides he could humanely take. He looked around hopelessly, expecting to be captured from any direction. The spotlight tracked him like a slow moving ant in the dirt. It truly was hopeless.

Tom watched the man panic, barely hearing audible grunts and muttering cries of despair to himself; “No, no, no!” Tom couldn’t help but wonder what the man did to deserve prison. Or if he deserved it.

In an instance, Brock shoved his granola bar into his jacket and his trained reflexes thrust up his rifle into his arms and pressed the stock against his shoulder. He aimed down sight, found the runaway, and pulled the trigger.