gonna have a woodworking shop in it.”
“What about private showers?”
“That, too. The housing units are gonna be more like dorms than bunkers.”
“Where’d this guy Young come from?”
“Some big city with problems like ours. The mayor found him. He had years of experience implementing what they call the ‘Missouri model’ for juvenile rehabilitation. Basically, it stresses nurturing over hard punishment. Preparing these boys to succeed, playing to their strengths and interests rather than keeping them low. Bunch of states have picked up on it. It’s not cheap, but it pays off later on, when you’ve got fewer boys graduating to adult prisons.”
“Young must have enemies.”
“They talk about the negative impact on the community when you let jailed boys out and put them under supervision. But when you lock up kids without looking at other alternatives, you destroy communities. There’s gonna be some failures, naturally. But there’s gonna be some success stories, too.”
Ali parked in the lot among cars belonging to guards and administration. They walked along the link-and- razor-wire fence to the gatehouse. As if on cue, clouds had moved in, and inside the fence the palette was gray. This is how I remember it, thought Chris. This is how it always seemed to me.
They passed through the security office of the gatehouse. Ali had called ahead and had Chris’s name added to the visitors list. Then they were inside the fence and moving toward the administrative offices, weeds and dirt beneath their feet. A group of boys were walking from one building to another, accompanied by a couple of guards. One of the boys chopped another in the back of the neck while the guards weren’t looking.
“Knuckleheads,” said Chris.
“That ain’t never gonna change,” said Ali.
“They don’t make them walk with one hand grabbing their wrist behind their back anymore.”
“Young stopped that, too. I mean, shoot, they’re caged up in here. Where they supposed to go?”
They met Reginald Roberts, Pine Ridge’s latest superintendent, in his office. Roberts had modest height, a bodybuilder’s physique, and wore his hair in braids. He was a reform warden, handpicked by Ken Young. Young was tall, thin, middle-aged, and shaggy haired, unable to stay seated, with the kind of nervous energy that kept him standing next to the wall. Roberts took a seat behind his desk, and Chris and Ali settled into chairs before him.
“Chris here is a Pine Ridge alumnus,” said Ali. “I’ve spoken of him before.”
“Good to finally meet you, Chris,” said Young. “Ali also told me that your father has employed some of our graduates.”
“He’s tried,” said Chris.
“We appreciate it,” said Roberts.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” said Young. “Ali mentioned this morning that the two of you were tight. I read about his death in the paper.”
“The whole paragraph?” said Chris.
“Ali says that all three of y’all were together out here,” said Roberts.
“Unit Five,” said Ali.
“I closed that one,” said Young.
“Anyway,” said Roberts. He pushed a manila folder across the desk toward Ali, who picked it up. “Let’s talk about these boys right here.”
For the next half hour they discussed inmates who were about to come out, either released to their families or to residential treatment centers. Ali reported on the progress of several young men and talked about others who were struggling and might be headed back into the facility.
“You might want to make a bed up for William Richards,” said Ali.
“When he was in he talked about culinary school,” said Roberts.
“Half the boys say that,” said Young. “When you ask them what they’re gonna do, it’s the most popular response. ‘I’m about to go to culinary school.’ ”
“We’re gonna graduate a lot of chefs,” said Roberts.
“There’s always McDonald’s,” said Ali. “That’s one way to start.”
“Coupla years ago the big thing was barber college,” said Young. “I had this one kid, Morris Weeks, said in his last level meeting that he wanted to go to ‘haircut academy.’ He had just got off punishment for cold-cocking a guard. I said to him, ‘Morris, who’s gonna put a scissors in your hand when you’re always acting so violent?’ ”
“Boy learned, though,” said Roberts.
“He did,” said Young. “Morris got a chair in a shop on Georgia and Piney Branch Road.”
When they were done, Ali and Chris shook hands with Reginald Roberts.
“Walk with me, guys,” said Ken Young.
They left the building and headed toward another. Chris could see the basketball court, its pole and backboard standing out in the field.
“That rusted old hoop,” said Chris.
“We’re gonna have a nice court in the new place,” said Young.
They entered the school building and walked through its halls. Guards were standing outside the doors of the classrooms, all with handsets. Many nodded perfunctorily at Young and a few gave him more genuine greetings as they passed. Down the hall, an inmate, his arm pinned up behind him, was being pushed out the exit door by two guards.
“Who’s that?” said Young to a burly guard wearing a Cowboys ball cap. “Is it Jerome?”
“Yeah, that boy swung on Bobby.”
“Take him out and let him cool down.”
“That’s what we’re doin, Mr. Young.” Chris saw the guard roll his eyes slightly at the guard beside him.
They walked on. The colors of the walls were brighter than Chris remembered. Paintings done by inmates were pinned up on bulletin boards.
“We’ve got a new foundation running the school,” said Young, seeing surprise on Chris’s face. “New teachers. The classes are smaller because I have fewer numbers in lockup. Almost sixty percent of the boys here are Tier One, the high-security youth. Only about ten percent are low security. The majority of the kids committed to the DYRS are in their homes or in residential treatment. They don’t belong in cells.”
“I see you got them doin art,” said Ali.
“Yeah, and there’s a literary magazine. We even put on a Shakespeare play for officials at city hall. And I had some boys hook up with AmeriCorps, went down to Mississippi to rebuild some homes after Katrina. I’m trying everything.”
“Some of those guards didn’t look too happy to see you.”
“We call them youth development specialists now,” said Young. “They don’t like that, either. Matter of fact, a lot of them wouldn’t piss on me if I was running down the street on fire. The union reps gave me and Reginald a vote of no confidence, tried to have us fired. And they’ve fought to retain abusive or incompetent guards that I’ve let go.”
“I read all that stuff on the op-ed page,” said Ali. “Their solution is to, what, keep kids locked up?”
“Seems to be.”
“What’d you do, forget to kiss that columnist’s ring? You damn sure aren’t gonna win a popularity contest with the press.”
“I’m not looking to,” said Young.
Outside the school, Young led them to Unit Five. He got a key from a chain hung on his belt loop and unlocked the building’s door.
“I don’t know,” said Chris.
“Come on,” said Young. “They’re going to tear it down soon. You should see it one more time.”
“I see it every day,” said Chris, as he stepped inside.
The smell got him. He had forgotten that. It was unidentifiable, but it suggested stillness and decay. They went into the common room. The Ping-Pong table was gone, as was the fake-leather chair with the arms studded in nail heads. The old couch was all that was left. Its back was now nearly completely shredded, and a spring showed from beneath its worn seat. Beyond the common room sat the media room, now in complete darkness.
Young led them down the hall. Chris looked up at the tiled ceilings where he’d stashed marijuana many years
