Excerpt of The Simple Truth by David Baldacci
(Page 4 of 6)
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At this prison the doors are inches thick, steel; once factory smooth, they now carry
multiple dents. Imprints of human faces, knees, elbows, teeth, residue of blood are
harvested large on their gray surface. Prison hieroglyphics: pain, fear, death, all
permanently recorded here, at least until a new slab of metal arrives. The doors have a
square opening at eye level. The guards stare through it, use the small space to throw
bright lights at the human cattle on their watch. Without warning, batons smack against
the metal with the pop of gun reports. The oldies bear it well, looking down at the floor,
studying nothing--meaning their lives--in a subtle act of defiance, not that
anyone notices or cares. The rookies still tense when the pop or light comes; some dribble
pee down their cotton pants, watch it flow over their black low-quarter shoes. They soon
get over it, smack the damn door back, fight down the push of schoolboy tears and belly
bile. If they want to survive.
At night, the prison cells hold the darkness of a cave but for odd shapes here and
there. On this night a thunderstorm grips the area. When a lightning bolt dips from the
sky, it splashes illumination into the cells through the small Plexiglas windows. The
honeycomb pattern of the chicken wire stretched tight across the glass is reproduced on
the opposite wall with each burst.
During the passage of such light, the man's face emerges from the
dark, as though having suddenly parted the surface of water. Unlike those in the other
cells, he sits alone, thinks alone, sees no one in here. The other prisoners fear him; the
guards too, even armed as they are, for he is a man of intimidating proportions. When he
passes by the other cons, hardened, violent men in their own right, they quickly look
away.
His name is Rufus Harms and his reputation at Fort Jackson Military Prison is that of a
destroyer: He will crush you if you come at him. He never takes the first step, but he
will the last. Twenty-five years of incarceration have taken a considerable toll on the
man. Like the age rings of a tree, the ruts of scars on Harms's skin, the poorly healed
fractures of bone on his skeleton are a chronicle of his time here. However, far worse
damage lies within the soft tissue of his brain, within the centers of his humanity:
memory, thought, love, hate, fear, all tainted, all turned against him. But mostly memory,
a humbling tumor of iron against the tip of his spine.
There is substantial strength left in the massive frame, though; it is evident in the
long, knotty arms, the density of Harms's shoulders. Even the wide girth of his middle
carries the promise of exceptional power. But Harms is still a listing oak, topped out on
growth, some limbs dead or dying, beyond the cure of pruning, the roots ripped out on one
side. He is a living oxymoron: a gentle man, respectful of others, faithful to his God,
irreversibly cast in the image of a heartless killer. Because of this the guards and the
other prisoners leave him be. And he is content with that. Until this day. What his
brother has brought him. A package of gold, a surge of hope. A way out of this place.
Another burst of light shows his eyes brimming with deep red, as though bloodied, until
one sees the tears that stain his dark, heavy face. As the light recedes, he smoothes out
the piece of paper, taking care not to make any sound, an invitation to the guards to come
sniffing. Lights have been extinguished for several hours now, and he is unable to reverse
that. As it has been for a quarter century, his darkness will end only with the dawn. The
absence of light matters little, though. Harms has already read the letter, absorbed every
word. Each syllable cuts him like the quick bite of a shiv. The insignia of the United
States Army appears bold at the top of the paper. He knows the symbol well. The Army has
been his employer, his warden for almost thirty years.
Excerpted from The Simple Truth. Excerpted with
permission of the publisher. Published by Warner Books. Copyright (c) 1998 David Baldacci
