By Tommy Guns
A few hours after my young Corporal left, I again heard footsteps coming down the passageway. The key went in the cell door, and it was opened by the Brig Commander. I jumped to my feet and stood at attention, but he told me to sit back down again and relax. He pulled out his pack of Camels again and offered me one. I couldn’t take one since my wrists were still shackled to my waist, so he unlocked my cuffs and lit my cigarette with his Zippo. He then told me that he had made some phone calls about my case, and that he thought I might be released back into the custody of the Special Rehab Unit.
It seems that the SP, whose nose I had apparently broken, had been counseled by some of my fellow rehabbers, and had wisely decided that it was all a big misunderstanding and he did not want to pursue any charges. That effectively knocked out both the assault and resisting arrest charges. All that was left was the catchall charge of conduct contrary to good order and discipline, the one they use when they just want to fuck with you and can’t figure out how else to do it. It could still spell the end of my career, but the likelihood of a long stint in Portsmouth Prison was effectively gone.
Around his wrists and hands were leather binders, secured by multiple straps and padlocks. The steel suspension rings on his palms were padlocked to the beam. Round his ankles were another set of straps, but they were not tied off and his feet were loose.