The Right Mistake
““Socrates,” a voice said somewhere up ahead, maybe around the corner at the end of the corridor. He was on his way down the long hall, flanked by Hennie Brown and Bertrand Sawman, two guards who he’d known longer than any other person-not-a-convict. They hadn’t told him where they were taking him but his hands were shackled and his ankles were chained together. This circumstance filled the convict with glee but he didn’t show it.
Brown had been nineteen years at the prison. Sawman had seen twen...ty-one birthdays come and go since donning the graygreen uniform. But Socrates had them both beat. He was at the twenty-seven-year mark and counting.
He was happy because the chains on his feet meant that he was going to see the warden. That walk unnerved many a hardened con but Socrates wasn’t worried about the punishment he might receive. He only wanted a glance out the window. “Socrates.” For eight years Bearclaw, Socrates’ third warden, would call convicts to his office in order to discipline them.MoreLess
Brown had been nineteen years at the prison. Sawman had seen twen...ty-one birthdays come and go since donning the graygreen uniform. But Socrates had them both beat. He was at the twenty-seven-year mark and counting.
He was happy because the chains on his feet meant that he was going to see the warden. That walk unnerved many a hardened con but Socrates wasn’t worried about the punishment he might receive. He only wanted a glance out the window. “Socrates.” For eight years Bearclaw, Socrates’ third warden, would call convicts to his office in order to discipline them.MoreLess
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