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their own set of rules, plus bureaucratic protection. It was difficult to tell the bad guys from the hired help at most prisons. Graterford State Correctional Institute was no exception.

    Built on empty farmlands in 1929, the prison was far enough away from Philadelphia to remain forgotten and unchanged for sixty years. Lazy cattle wandered the green hills surrounding the prison and slept in a spacious red barn at night. Fat free-range chickens scratched over dusty roads and fed in buggy cornfields. It would have been a normal Pennsylvania sight, except for the farm workers in drab brown jumpsuits and the armed guards on horseback. 
    In 1989, the maximum security facility was upgraded. Eighty million dollars went into improvements and expansion—a modern infirmary, a plush administrative building and additional cells. The prison was self-sufficient, operating its own steam, sewer and power plants. With its abundance of cheap labor, Graterford had at once become a money making machine, manufacturing garments, shoes, hosiery and providing weaving services. Most convicts earned their keep working directly for the prison, in the kitchen, the fields or the hot, noisy laundry facility. There was no unemployment behind these walls.

    Ray and Shazad carried their trays to the recently vacated end of a long stained table and sat on the attached bench.
    “Going to work outside today,” Shazad said. “It is a beautiful day for picking up the garbage of mankind.”
    Shazad had pulled road duty. The six-man crews picked up litter along the public road and at the prison entrance. The opportunities were boundless for a caged man. Sun, fresh air, grass underfoot, and the off chance of a beautiful woman driving by. Not to mention the road kill cigarette butts tossed from windows of passing cars. They’d take these back to the cells, combine and re-roll them. They could be smoked, traded or sold.
    Ray looked up from the book he’d pulled from his pocket. “Better watch your back, Shazad. That early morning surprise might be around.” 
    Shazad’s permanent bliss faded momentarily, replaced with confusion. “I cannot watch my own back, but I can watch the rest of my body.” 
    “You do that.” Ray checked the clock. “Shit. Catch you later, man.” Ray touched knuckles with Shazad and started to leave, then leaned over the table. “Keep your eyes out for the booty. I got to know, man. On the one.”
    “Yes, Ray.” Shazad thumped his fist against his chest. “On the one.”
    The term had begun as a way for a con to swear they were telling the truth, like George Washington. In a society of thieves, money was all they knew. But Shazad and Ray swore on their life. The only one they had to give.
    Ray leaned out the cafeteria door, looked both ways, and then headed down the long corridor to the law clinic. 
    Originally designed to calm and nurture, the soft green walls were smudged and scraped. The once garden-like hue was now a non-crayola shade of pea soup. The multi-colored floor tiles were chipped and stained. On the watermarked ceiling, large round intercoms hissing static broke up the pattern of the rectangular tiles. Mounted high on the walls, pivoting black security cameras monitored every move.
    Ray stopped at a barred window. Sometimes, he’d stand here late in the day, watching and listening. He hardly remembered the city noises that had so thrilled him in his youth. Now, he strained to hear the moo of a cow or the chattering of birds. He lived to see a swooping hawk or a colorful butterfly. He wouldn’t leave the window until he saw or heard a free creature. Ray saw Preacher Man approach, made room for him at the window.
    “It’s a beautiful morning in God’s world, isn’t it, Ray?”
    “Morning, Preacher Man.”
    “God loves you, Ray.”
    “God loves you too, Preacher Man.”
    Preacher Man had been here even longer than Ray. He came in tattooed and angry and fighting the system, running gangs and drinking,