(2)

Milligan was awake a few hours later when they came to transfer him. He was handcuffed to a huge black man in a line of prisoners, which was led out of the lobby, down the stairs and out the back door to the parking area. They marched to the van bound for the Franklin County Jail.

The van drove to the center of the Columbus shopping area, to a futuristic fortress in the heart of the city. Its concrete walls jutted up two stories at an inward slope, massive and window-less. Above the second story, it loomed upward as a modem office building. The patio of the Franklin County Jail was presided over by a statue of Benjamin Franklin.

The van turned into an alleyway behind the jail and paused in front of the corrugated-steel garage door. From this angle, the jail stood in the shadow of the taller building it was attached to—the Franklin County Hall of Justice.

The steel door cranked upward. The van drove in and the door came down behind it. The handcuffed prisoners were led out of the van into the sally port, the area between the two steel drop doors beside the prison—that is, all except one. Milligan had slipped out of the handcuffs and was still in the van.

“Get down outta there, Milligan!” the officer shouted. “You goddamned sonofabitchin’ rapist. What do you think is going on here?”

The black man to whom Milligan had been manacled said, “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. I swears to God he just flipped ’em off.”

The jail door hissed open, and the six prisoners were herded into the passageway between the outer door and the barred area. Through the bars they could see the control center—TV monitors, computer terminals and dozens of officers, men and women in gray trousers or skirts and black shirts. When the outer door closed behind them, the inner barred gate opened and they were led inside.

The lobby was filled with black shirts moving around and the sound of computer terminal typewriters. At the entranceway, a woman officer held up a manila envelope. “Valuables,” she said. “Rings, watches, jewelry, wallet.” When Milligan emptied his pockets, she took his jacket, searching the lining before turning it over to the property room officer.

He was frisked again, more carefully, by the young officer, and then put into a holding cell with the other prisoners, waiting to be slated and booked. Eyes peered through the small square window. The black man nudged Milligan and said, “Ah guess you is the famous one. You got outta them cuffs. Now lets see y’all get us outta here.”

Milligan looked at him blankly.

“You just keep messin’ with these police,” he said, “they’s gonna beat you to death. You c’n jus’ take my word, ’cause I been in the joint many times. You evah been locked up?” Milligan nodded. “That’s why I don’t like it That’s why I like to leave.”

(3)