Coyote Canyon Casino Caper

Greely Hudson was bored, bored with his life, bored with his job.  He was bored with his marriage, bored with his fellow employees.  Now finishing out eighteen years of employment with the prison system he looked back with a dour evaluation of his life.  Born in 1950 he was a two-tour veteran of Vietnam, having been drafted at age twenty.  Now nearing retirement, growing fat and lazy, he spent many of his long, boring tours in the watchtower of the prison thinking of what might have been.

Twice decorated he had, early on, expectations of making the Army his career.  But following his second Bronze Star and his third Purple Heart he had learned that others rated him less highly that he did himself.  Following the awards presentation ceremony at a rear base he had been resting in the shade of the Headquarters building when he overheard his Captain talking to the Brigade Commander.

“Yes, I know that Corporal Hudson is a good man Captain.  But you must realize that there are hard facts in the military.  Hudson has more than earned his recognition.  But my cardinal rule is ‘You decorate for performance but you promote on potential.’  Your Hudson is a good Infantryman, a good soldier but I feel, looking over his record and his education, that he will be of limited use in any rank higher than Sergeant.   And the Army is composed of good Sergeants who provide expertise and guidance to good officers until they have learned the ropes.  I will approve his promotion to Sergeant after he has served the remainder of his tour here..”

The Captain had replied with a brief, “Yes Sir.  I was thinking of my requirements for leaders what with my recent loss of one of my Platoon Sergeants.”

“You will have a replacement by the end of the week.  For now your unit is on stand down.   Give the men a rest, a little ‘I’ and ‘I’.  By the time you go back you’ll have your replacement.”

He remembered the words as if they had been etched in his tombstone - the tombstone of what he had thought of as a career in the military.  After his discharge he had gone through a myriad of go nowhere, unexciting and doleful experiences while seeking employment.  He had finally been employed as a guard in the penal system of the state and progressed slowly through the years until he had at last attained a rank equivalent to an Army Sergeant.  He was thoroughly bored as he viewed the prison yard full of prisoners as they sat or stood in groups; as they sat in small compact circles discussing whatever their convoluted and evil minds could dredge up. 

He stood and paced, he sweated, he thought of having yet another Gaviscon to counter the gnawing gut ache he was suffering as a result of chili for an early lunch.  His eyes were, however, always alert to what might be an omen of trouble.  His one experience with a riot in the place was sufficient to keep him aware of the possibility of an uprising at any time.  He rankled with the thought that these prisoners had nothing to do but sit, hatch plots of what they would do when released, and spend hours watching television.  There were also those who spent hours in the library, a luxury he had long ago convinced himself that he had not the time for.  Others spent hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month in improving their body strengths.  He had often joined in conversations with other guards relative to how potentially dangerous these types were, how they could easily overpower any of the guards charged with controlling them    He rankled at the thought but he, as did many of the other ‘custodians’, did nothing to increase his own physical prowess.

The midday sun was making the courtyard boiling hot as Gerard Wilson, seated in the far corner of the exercise yard, watched Hector Gonzalez work out with the heavy free weights located in the area.  The time of high noon had arrived and the dark shadows in which their bodies were located. were foreshortened giving the ground an eerie look as more than four hundred persons were milling about the enclosed area.    Sweat was running in rivulets down his back underneath the blue denim shirt which carried his number over the left shirt pocket.    In that pocket was a small spiral notebook.  This item was never far from his hand.  In it was contained notes and observations of a myriad of things ranging from inconsequential details of day-to-day living in the confines of the prison to detailed  analysis of what had gone wrong with the crimes which had deposited their purveyors into the penal system  - those items which had caused the failures.   Many, in fact a vast majority of these, could be broken down into one major problem.

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