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Prisoner №04T125, Alain Trichet. Convicted February 2, 2004 — Murder committed in a state of emotional distress. Sentence: 10 years, eligible for parole in 4.
Alvarez didn't remember the Frenchmen in Oz. He was aware that once upon a time (many, many years ago, as remembered by Miguel, but his perception distorted by the timeless nature of the Solitary) there was a frogman, skinny, colorless, and terrified. A couple of days later, he went on a shooting spree and killed himself. The end. Miguel was wandering between the Solitary and the infirmary back then, and he gathered this story through hearsay.
The new Frenchman was tall, slim, but muscular. Overall, he was a strong guy. Perhaps this would have helped him to hold his own somewhere in the middle of the food chain, if not for his face, pale, delicate — and the curls around it. And — McManus appointed a sponsor to him from the Bikers. What was McManus even thinking? Sure, anything's better than the Aryans, but Bikers aren't far off either. Alvarez could have bet that the frogman would get turned out the very first night.
No. Actually, Miguel wouldn't do it — he felt sickened by that betting pool. (When Miguel first arrived in Oz, he bet on every newcomer. Now he could barely connect himself with that guy — with Alvarez until Torquemada, until El Norte, until the Solitary. Until the baby).
Miguel shook himself, dispelling thoughts of the past.
The Em City whistled and hummed, welcoming new bodies. It was obvious that the Frenchman would be raped, and if lucky, the guy would survive (or not lucky, depending on how you look at it). Miguel felt sickened. Nobody deserved such shit (except rapists). Alvarez shifted his gaze to the old men at the neighboring table.
"Hey, Rebadow? What's the guy in for?" Miguel nodded towards the curly frogman.
Of course, the old man was aware (an uncanny ability).
"For murder."
Beecher raised his eyebrows in silent surprise.
Miguel thought that, ideally, the Frenchman should have been housed in the same pod as Beecher. But O'Reily lived there, and hacks (including McManus) were still afraid to bother the Irishman.
Damn McManus. He's been dealing with them for years (like he's tethered to these fishbowls), and he finally managed to reopen Emerald City after all that Siberian plague business. He gathered them all, scattered across the state, and brought them back here. What for? Will he ever be done with Em City?
Miguel's thoughts slipped away from the Frenchman. With the new meds, it was hard for him to concentrate, and he constantly felt like sleeping. Miguel sprawled across the table, stretched out his arms, and grasped the cold metal edges of the tabletop with his fingers, trying to focus on this sensation. He half-sleepily watched as the new guys unfolded the bed linen and scurried after the sponsors, how the damned Nazis beckoned the frogman to their table. Then someone grabbed the guy's ass — and suddenly everything became very fast for Miguel's sleepy brain, but very funny.
The Frenchman caught and twisted this arm, and — the Nazi-guy was lying face down on the table. Uniformed spots appeared, which meant the guards came running. The frogman raised his hands and allowed himself to be restrained. From the side of the Nazis came shouting and noise: "My finger! Fucking bitch, he broke my finger!"
Miguel laughed, momentarily breaking free from the sleepy haze, and someone laughed along with him.
The Frenchman was sent to the Hole.