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bodyguards remained close by.
    Intimidation is an unlikely motive. Fawcett has made his decision, and though his name is poison among the environmentalists, he has done his damage. His ruling was confirmed in 2009 by the Fourth Circuit, and the case is now headed for the U.S. Supreme Court. Pending the appeals, the uranium has not been touched.
    Revenge is a motive, though the FBI says nothing about it. The words “contract killing” are being used by some reporters, who apparently have nothing to base this on except for the professionalism of the killings.
    Given the crime scene and the empty safe that was so carefully hidden, robbery seems the likelier motive.
    I have a plan, one I have been plotting for years now. It is my only way out.

CHAPTER 5
    E very able-bodied federal inmate is required to have a job, and the Bureau of Prisons controls the pay scale. For the past two years, I have been the librarian, and for my labors I get thirty cents an hour. About half of this money, along with the checks from my father, is subject to the Inmate Financial Responsibility Program. The Bureau of Prisons takes the money and applies it to felony assessments, fines, and restitution. Along with my ten-year sentence, I was ordered to pay about $120,000 in various penalties. At thirty cents an hour, it will take the rest of this century and then some.
    Other jobs around here include cook, dishwasher, table wiper, floor scrubber, plumber, electrician, carpenter, clerk, orderly, laundry worker, painter, gardener, and teacher. I consider myself lucky. My job is one of the best and does not reduce me to cleaning up after people. I occasionally teach a course in history for inmates pursuing their high school equivalency diplomas. Teaching pays thirty-five cents an hour, but I am not tempted by the higher wages. I find it quite depressing because of the low levels of literacy among the prison populations. Blacks, whites, browns—it doesn’t matter. So many of these guys can barely read and write, it makes you wonder what’s happening in our educational system.
    But I’m not here to fix the educational system, nor the legal, judicial, or prison systems. I’m here to survive one day at a time,and in doing so maintain as much self-respect and dignity as possible. We are scum, nobodies, common criminals locked away from society, and reminders of this are never far away. A prison guard is called a correction officer, or simply a CO. Never refer to one as a guard. No sir. Being a CO is far superior; it’s more of a title. Most COs are former cops or deputies or military types who didn’t do too well in those jobs and now work in prison. There are a few good ones, but most are losers who are too stupid to realize they are losers. And who are we to tell them? They are vastly superior to us, regardless of their stupidity, and they enjoy reminding us of this.
    They rotate COs to avoid one getting too close to an inmate. I suppose this happens, but one of the cardinal rules of inmate survival is to avoid your CO as much as possible. Treat him with respect; do exactly what he says; cause him no trouble; but, above all, try to avoid him.
    My current CO is not one of the better ones. He is Darrel Marvin, a thick-chested, potbellied white boy of no more than thirty who tries to swagger but has too much tonnage on his hips. Darrel is an ignorant racist who does not like me because I am black and I have two college degrees, which is two more than he has. A fierce, internal battle rages every time I’m forced to suck up to this thug, but I have no choice. Right now, I need him.
    “Good morning, Officer Marvin,” I say with a fake smile as I stop him outside the chow hall.
    “What is it, Bannister?” he growls.
    I hand over a sheet of paper, an official request form. He takes it and makes a pretense of reading it. I’m tempted to help him with the longer words but bite my tongue. “I need to see the warden,” I say politely.
    “Why do you want