“How was the drive?” asked Leland.
“Uneventful,” said the guard, as though, with someone like him, someone tough and experienced, that was purely to be expected.
Gabe knew that the previous year, when the ranch had hosted a single ex-con to test the waters, they’d gotten some delicious tax breaks. At the same time, the parolee, Ellis, had arrived battered and shaken from the abuse he’d suffered from the guard on the drive to the ranch.
Leland had been furious and there had been some shouting, it was said, from behind the closed door of his office. A door that was never closed, as everyone knew, which indicated how serious the situation and how mad Leland had been.
That hadn’t happened this time, obviously. Still, the ex-cons, not at all relaxed, stood in a row, shoulder to shoulder, hunched, waiting, as stiff as if they were each nailed to their spots.
“Gentlemen,” said Leland, turning to face the parolees. “I’m Leland Tate, foreman at Farthingdale Guest Ranch. You’ve all met me before, when you interviewed with me. At that time, we talked about the benefits of the program and what I’m trying to accomplish here. Let me now introduce you to your personal foreman—”
Leland paused, wrinkling his brow as though he was truly confused about the term. In reality, Gabe and Leland had agreed that the guy in charge would be called the team lead, which sounded much more inclusive and democratic than foreman. This little discussion about it, totally practiced beforehand, would hopefully help to create an environment where the parolees felt they could actually engage in the process of their own rehabilitation, rather than just following orders and clocking in hours.
“Team lead,” said Gabe. “I prefer to be called team lead.”
“Team lead,” said Leland with a firm nod. “Gabe Westwell is your team lead for the next two weeks while the program gets underway. In about two weeks, there will be more parolees arriving, and another team lead. At that point, you might get moved, or ask to be moved to a different team, but until then, I’d like you to look to Gabe for direction, instruction, advice, and a listening ear. He’ll teach you everything he knows, and it’ll behoove you to pay attention. Gabe,” said Leland with another tap to his hat in a kind of relaxed salute. “I present you your team. Good day, gentlemen.”
Gabe watched Leland for about five seconds before turning his attention to his new team. For the majority of them, the wordbehoovehad no meaning, but the guy on the end with dark hair and a split lip was smirking at Gabe as if to say,That went right over their heads.
Gabe dismissed the smirk, not giving it any more of his attention as he turned his gaze to the guards as Leland got in his truck and drove sedately away. He felt a rush of energy as he mentally stepped up to the plate, prepared to give the program his best.
“Do they have any gear?” asked Gabe, putting his attention fully on the guard.
“It’s in the back.” The driver waved Gabe closer, turning to unlock the back of the van.
Gabe gestured to the parolees to come closer, knowing that if he were in their shoes, he’d want to grab his own gear.
“Get your stuff and we’ll head into the mess tent for a quick meeting,” he said to the parolees.
He expected them to dawdle, but they hopped to, getting their stuff, a variety of duffle bags and backpacks and, sadly, one black garbage bag.
He hadn’t read each man’s file yet, as he wanted to make his own impression, a clean slate to start new relationships with. However, he had looked at each man’s photograph and associated that with their names so he knew who was who, and had a name for each face—Kurt, Tom, Wayne, and Orlando—but he had no idea how they’d take to the kind of work they’d been assigned to.
The parolees in front of him in a line that stretched from the open back door of the van, all had their shoulders hunched as if they expected to get hollered at for lining up in the wrong place.
Part of this, perhaps, was from being in prison and having every moment of every waking day directed. Or it could be a bit of anxiety at being in a new place, a feeling Gabe well knew from his first days in the army, even his first days at the guest ranch. Well, he’d do what his old C.O. had done, and what his experience at the guest ranch had taught him: set the tone and be consistent about it.
“Thank you, guys,” said Gabe to the driver and guard. “I’ll take it from here.”
For a brief moment, the guard and the driver looked like they wanted to stick around, like they expected to be backup for any inadequacies that Gabe had. Like they were sure he wasn’t going to be as tough as he needed to be.
Gabe gave them a nod, a goodbye jerk of his chin, and walked toward the mess tent with a quick wave at the ex-cons, like he completely expected they would follow him.
“You’re with me, guys,” he said, turning his back on them for a second, just to see what would happen.
In the presence of the prison employees, who watched silently for a minute before clambering into the van, the ex-cons trotted obediently behind him, fearful under the prison employees’ eyes or, perhaps, eager to leave prison life behind them, eager to start anew.
The green-canvas mess tent was built on a wooden platform like the housing tents, but lacked the outside wooden railing to hang things on to dry. It was roomy and long enough and wide enough to hold fifty people sitting at tables, with the buffet line at the far end, and the little library-slash-office area where the landline phone was up front and just to the left.
The mess tent was open at either end, allowing the crisp mid-May breeze to slide through, flapping the rain fly, twirling the ends of ties. With only the five of them, the mess tent felt quite roomy. The parolees stood like tent pegs in the midst of six ten-person folding tables, looking a bit adrift as Gabe glanced at his clipboard.
“Have a seat,” said Gabe, pointing to the nearest table. “We’re going to have a quick meeting, a bit of a tour, then I’ll take you to your tents, where you can unpack your stuff and get squared away. When you hear the bell clanging, come to the mess tent here, and you’ll get some dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?” asked Kurt, blurting the question.
“If you could raise your hand to ask questions when we’re in a meeting like this, I’d much appreciate it,” said Gabe. He didn’t answer the question, but merely waited while the men looked at each other as if in reading each other they could understand where they stood with him.
Kurt remained silent, but Tom raised his hand.
