The Prisoner
Morgan Thompson's role as the warden of the new Essex County Correctional Facility was primarily a bureaucratic one. He had little to do with the actual running of the prison since the entire facility was computerized and staffed by psychologists and guards trained in the latest methods of dealing with prisoners. Morgan's only responsibilities were to kowtow to those officials in charge of prison funding and to present a positive image to the press and public. There was not even a reason for him to have an office at the facility, but Thompson had ambitions beyond that of being a mere prison warden. He had always had a keen interest in the penal system, and he yearned to write a scholarly book on the history of prisons. That was why at least four afternoons a week he sat behind his Lucite and stainless steel desk, at the keyboard of his computer.
One evening, as Thompson was at home reading through United States Bureau of Prisons documents on various federal penitentiaries, past and present, it occurred to him that his book might be more interesting if he could interview former inmates of some of the more notorious institutions. Official records were usually one-sided. He would need to talk to the convicts themselves to get a truer picture of prison conditions.
With this goal in mind, the following day the warden scanned the database of Essex's inmates to see at what other correctional facilities the prisoners had been incarcerated. One name stood out among all the others: Julius Isaacs. According to the file, Isaacs had been at Alcatraz before being transferred to McNeil Island when the Rock closed in 1963. If the man was still in his right mind, he might be an invaluable source of information.
Morgan reached into his desk drawer and took out a pocket microcassette recorder. He checked the batteries and then put a blank tape inside. Ten minutes later, a guard led Julius Isaacs into the warden's office.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions, Isaacs, if you don't mind," Thompson said after Julius took a seat across from him.
The elderly prisoner shrugged with calm indifference.
"I don't know that I can help you, Warden. I don't know much that goes on around here. I try to keep to myself."
Thompson chuckled.
"Relax, Isaacs. I'm not investigating any illegal dealings, so you don't have to worry about becoming a stool pigeon. Actually, I'm interested in your days at Alcatraz."
Julius's eyebrows rose with surprise.
"Really? Why?"
"I'm writing a book on prisons. I thought you might give me some inside information on what it was like there."
"Alcatraz!" Isaacs said as if fondly remembering an old high school friend. "The Rock. When it opened its doors in 1934, it was considered state of the art, just as Essex is today."
Thompson nodded his head impatiently, wanting to hear less factual information and more personal anecdotes.
"I was there for many years," Isaacs continued nostalgically. "That was where they sent Al Capone. Of course, you probably know that already, but I'll bet you didn't know that old Scarface wasn't such a big shot on the Rock. In fact, most everyone there hated him."
"Why was that?"
"Different men had different reasons. The Irish and Jewish prisoners didn't like him because he was an Italian, and the Sicilians didn't care for him because he wasn't one of them; he was a Neapolitan. So, Al spent most of his time in the prison hospital ward deliberately avoiding the rest of the population. One time he even ...."
"I'm sure this tale is fascinating," Thompson interrupted politely, "but I'm not interested in stories that have been passed down from previous inmates. I would like to hear more of your own personal reminiscences."
"Which is why I'm telling you about Al Capone. That was a big deal to the rest of us to have him in the same prison."
"But Capone was incarcerated in Alcatraz from '34 to '39. You couldn't possibly have been there at that time."
"Oh, yeah," Isaacs muttered. "That was more than sixty years ago, wasn't it? I must have heard that story from someone else."
Warden Thompson stared at the prisoner. He had gray hair and a face lined with either age or hard living. He was one of those men who could be as young as forty or as old as seventy, but surely he was not so old that he could have been in prison in the Thirties.
"How long were you imprisoned at Alcatraz?" the warden continued.
"I'm not sure."
"How old were you when you were sent there?"
"I don't remember."
"How old are you now?"
Isaacs shook his head and shrugged.
"I have no idea."
Thompson sighed with disappointment and clicked off the tape recorder. There was no use questioning this man any further.
* * *
A few weeks later Warden Thompson was questioning another prisoner about the 1971 riots at Attica.
The inmate concluded his interview by suggesting, "If you're writing a book about prison life, then Julius Isaacs is the man you want to talk to. That guy knows more about life behind bars than anyone I've ever met."
"I've already spoken to him," Thompson replied. "But I'm afraid his memory is not that reliable."
"I have to disagree with you there, Warden," the prisoner said. "Isaacs is as sharp as a tack. You can ask him anything and get a straight answer. He's like a walking encyclopedia or something. He knows more about Sing Sing than I do, and I was there for ten years. He can also tell you a thing or two about Devil's Island."
Thompson imaged that Mr. Isaacs had told many a tall tale about Alcatraz. But Devil's Island? What could he know about a French prison?
Just for the hell of it, Warden Thompson decided to interview Julius Isaacs again. Only this time, he would let the man talk and not interrupt him.
Isaacs went on for more than an hour, giving detailed accounts of people and events at Alcatraz including Robert Stroud, the famed Birdman; "Creepy" Alvin Karpis; Machine Gun Kelly; Warden James A. Johnston; and the various escape attempts made at the Rock including the one by Frank Morris and the Anglin brothers, who were later reported missing and presumed dead.
Thompson had been so entertained by Julius's stories, whether accurate or not, that he made a habit of visiting with the prisoner on a regular basis. The warden soon learned that Isaacs was indeed an authority on many subjects, especially penal institutions. One afternoon the prisoner spoke for more than three hours about the notorious Eastern State Penitentiary, the large facility that opened in Philadelphia in 1829 and popularized the Pennsylvania System correctional theory of solitary confinement and labor.
"Eastern State tried to minimize all human contact. In the early 1800s, inmates even had to wear hoods over their heads on those rare occasions when they left their cells."
Isaacs fell silent a few moments and then quite unexpectedly burst out laughing.
"Did you ever hear about Pep, Warden?" the prisoner asked.
Thompson shook his head.
"Back in August 1924, when Gifford Pinchot was the governor of Pennsylvania, a black Labrador Retriever named Pep killed Mrs. Pinchot's favorite pet cat. The governor sentenced the dog to life in Eastern State without parole."
"You're joking, right?" the warden laughed.
"At least that's the story that went around the prison at the time. Whether or not the lab killed the governor's wife's cat, there really was a dog named Pep at the penitentiary. Prisoner number C-2559. He even had his own mug shot."
"Honestly," the warden said, as he turned off his recorder at the end of their meeting, "I don't know where you get all your information."
"I've been around," he replied. "I've met a lot of prisoners in my day."
"Oh, come on," Thompson laughed. "You know enough to write a book on what life was like in the Bastille, yet how many men could you have met that were alive in 1789?"
Isaacs blushed and remained silent.
"Don't be embarrassed. Knowledge is something to be proud of. So, tell me. What's your secret? Do you read a lot?"
"Yes."
"The next time we talk I'd like to get your recommendations on some books I should use for my research, but right now I've got to go. I'm having dinner with the governor tonight."
* * *
Warden Thompson had no intention of including any of Julius's information in his book, fascinating though it might be, until he made some attempt to verify its accuracy. After hearing the prisoner speak at great length about Camp Sumter—better known as Andersonville Prison—Thompson consulted a wide range of research materials on the infamous Confederate prison.
While he was casually examining several photographs of the emaciated, disease-ridden, captured Union soldiers, deciding which one he might want to include in his manuscript, Thompson saw a familiar face that was to rock the very foundation on which his well-ordered life rested. In a group of seven half-starved young men in rags stood a healthier-looking specimen who bore a striking resemblance to Julius Isaacs.
The following day Thompson brought the book with him to the prison and showed the photograph to Isaacs.
"Is this man a relative of yours?" the warden asked.
"I don't believe so," the prisoner replied in a low voice.
"Are you sure? He looks just like you."
"A coincidence."
Before Thompson could press the matter, Isaacs changed the subject and began telling the warden tales of London's infamous Newgate Prison.
The more time Thompson spent with Isaacs, the more his curiosity about the man grew. After the prisoner went back to his cell, the warden pulled Julius's file up on his computer.
Something's not right here, he thought when he saw the startling lack of information in the prisoner's record.
For one thing, there was no date of birth. This could have been an oversight, a clerical error, true, but there was also no criminal record included in the file. The man had been imprisoned at both Alcatraz and McNeil Island before being transferred to Essex. Isaacs must have a record the proverbial mile long. Yet Essex's computer database did not list one conviction or even a single criminal charge against him.
Warden Thompson decided to broaden his search to include all Bureau of Prisons and individual state prison records. The results were equally mysterious. Although there were records of a Julius Isaacs being imprisoned in Sing Sing, San Quentin, Leavenworth, Joliet, Marion and several other institutions, all of the records were incomplete. None gave information concerning the inmate's date of birth, age or criminal history.
The warden left his desk and went directly to the cell block. When the guard opened the security door, Julius looked up at Thompson. There was no surprise in the prisoner's face; it was as though he had been expecting the visit.
"Hello, Warden."
"I've been looking at your file, Isaacs," Thompson announced.
The prisoner nodded.
"It's odd how few people take notice of the missing details," the inmate said.
"So, you know it's incomplete?"
"Yes."
"You've already told me you don't remember when you were born, but surely you must know why you're in here. Don't you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To pay for my crime."
"Which was?"
Getting personal information from Isaacs was no easy task, as Thompson well knew from their previous discussions.
"I don't believe there's a name for my crime," Julius replied with an intensity of sadness, guilt and regret the warden had never observed in a prisoner before.
"Oh no? Pick one, then. Did you murder someone? Rob a bank? Kill the governor's wife's cat? What was it, damn it?"
"Betrayal."
"I don't follow you."
Isaacs shook his head and refused to comment further.
"Were you ever in Joliet? Leavenworth? What about Sing Sing?"
The prisoner sighed and stared at the warden with weary eyes.
"I have been in all those places and many, many more."
Seeing that the warden was not about to leave until his curiosity was satisfied, Isaacs reluctantly continued.
"Remember the other day when you saw the photograph of a group of prisoners from Andersonville and asked me if one of the men might be a relative of mine?"
"Yes. The man looked just like you."
"That's because it was me. I know it's hard for you to believe, Warden, but I was at Andersonville and I was also at Libby Prison in Richmond although I never served in either the Union or Confederate Army."
"You couldn't possibly have been alive during the Civil War. That was more than a hundred and forty years ago!"
"That may seem like a very long time to you, but to me ...."
The prisoner's voice trailed off.
"Tell me, Mr. Thompson, do you believe in capital punishment?"
"Don't go changing the subject again. I intend to get an answer out of you if I have to stay here all night."
"I'm not trying to change the subject this time. I want to know if you think it's more humane to sentence a man to life imprisonment than to execute him."
"Like most people, I think life is preferable to death."
"I suppose if you look around this modern facility where the inmates are well fed and have adequate medical and dental care—not to mention television, radio and phone privileges and, in some cases, conjugal visits—you might think it's better to be here than to be given a lethal injection."
"I'm a Christian man, Julius; I believe life is a precious gift from God."
"You might not feel the same if you had been forced to do hard labor in the jungles of French Guiana, however."
"Oh, now you expect me to believe you were on Devil's Island, too?"
"There's not a single place of confinement conceived by man where I've not served part of my sentence."
Warden Thompson stared at the prisoner.
He must be mad, he thought.
"To me, execution would have been a blessing. It would have been much more preferable than being tortured in the Tower of London, I assure you. But my crime was far too great for such a lenient sentence."
"Damn it, man! Stop talking nonsense! What did you do?"
"All right. The truth is that I've been given a life sentence without any hope of parole, and to add to my misery I've been given the added burden of immortality. I've been in one prison after another for the past two thousand years."
"Impossible!"
"My name is not really Julius Isaacs. It is just the alias I've been using for the past century or so."
"Who are you then?" the warden asked sarcastically, clearly not believing a word he was hearing.
"My real name is Judas Iscariot."
"Good God! Your story gets more and more far-fetched as you go on."
"You insisted upon hearing it. I can't help it if you find the truth so inconceivable."
"You believe you're Judas, the man who betrayed Christ to the Roman soldiers?"
"I never imagined he would die," the prisoner said, his throat constricted with anguish. "Had I known it, I would have gladly taken his place on the cross."
Thompson turned to leave. The prisoner clearly was no saner than the lunatic who thought he was Napoleon or that woman who believed she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.
"You may know a lot about prisons," the warden said as he waited for the guard to unlock the door, "but you don't know your Bible. Judas was so riddled with guilt after betraying Christ that he hanged himself. So, you see, you couldn't possibly be who you claim you are."
"I did hang myself; that is true. But when my soul left my body, it stood before God and was subjected to his justice."
The warden signaled for the guard to wait a moment and then turned his attention back to the prisoner.
"You saw God?" Thompson asked with a laugh. "You shouldn't be in prison; you ought to be writing for The National Tattler."
Isaacs stood up and reached for his shirt.
"What are you doing?" the warden asked, suddenly fearful for his safety.
The prisoner pulled his shirt over his head and turned around. His back was so badly scarred it was hard to see any untouched flesh.
"What happened to you?"
"I've been flogged, beaten and tortured. You should have seen the prisons during the time of the Inquisition. Those so-called men of God made inflicting pain an art."
Isaacs came forward, standing within inches of the warden, who nervously looked to the guard at the door.
"Look here," the prisoner said, turning his head to the side.
A thick scar extended half the circumference of Isaac's neck. It was consistent with one a man would receive who had been hanged by a rope.
"This is no proof of your claims," Thompson persisted. "Prisoners try to hang themselves in their cells all the time."
Isaacs pulled his shirt back on, walked over to the small dresser in his cell and opened the drawer. Hidden beneath his clean underwear was a small leather pouch. The prisoner opened it and spilled the contents into the warden's hand.
"Are these made of silver?" Thompson asked looking at the old coins in his hand.
"Thirty of them," Isaacs said bitterly. "I once threw them back into the face of the Roman soldier who gave them to me, but they have since become part of my torment. They are another one of God's reminders of my betrayal."
The warden tried to hand the ancient coins back to Isaacs. Given their age, they were probably quite valuable.
"No," the prisoner protested. "You keep them. Take them to a coin expert. He'll tell you how old they are."
"But they must be worth quite a bit of money."
"What would I do with money? Buy cigarettes? I don't smoke. Besides, you won't be able to hold on to them for too long. No matter where I go, they follow me."
The warden saw that the prisoner was exhausted and thought it best to let him rest.
* * *
When the warden returned to his office the following morning, he phoned the guard in the prisoner's cell block.
"Bring Isaacs to my office, please." he requested, as he had done dozens of times over the past several months.
"Who, sir?" the guard asked.
Perhaps the usual guard was off duty, and another was filling in for him.
"Isaacs, Julius. Prisoner number E-1692."
"But, Warden, we have no such prisoner on this block."
"We most certainly do. I'll be right there to straighten this out."
When the warden arrived at the cell block, he found the usual guard at his post, the one who had brought Isaacs to him on many occasions.
"What the hell is going on, Crocker? I asked you to bring Isaacs to my office."
"I don't know who you mean, sir. I've never known a man named Isaacs in this prison."
Rather than argue with the guard any further, the warden went to the nearest computer terminal and called up the prison roster. He typed in Julius's name and pressed the search button. According to the records, there was no such prisoner.
"I told you, sir. We've never had a prisoner here by that name."
"I've spoken with the man dozens of times. Why, just yesterday he ...."
The warden stopped as he remembered the silver coins Isaacs had given him, the ones he hid in his top desk drawer for safekeeping. Thompson ran back to his office and unlocked the drawer only to discover that the coins were gone.
* * *
Morgan Thompson never wrote his book. Instead, he took a job as an inspector with the Bureau of Prisons. In the course of traveling from one facility to another in the performance of his duties, the former warden took time to question administrators, guards and inmates about a certain prisoner: one with a badly scarred back and neck and an uncanny knowledge of history and prison life.
It wasn't until forty years after the prisoner's mysterious disappearance from the Essex County Correctional Facility that Thompson again saw Julius Isaacs, only now he went by the name of Julian Innscott.
"It's you," Thompson said to the prisoner.
"Hello, again, Warden Thompson."
"I'm not a warden anymore, but I am a good deal older—forty years older to be precise. Yet you haven't aged a day."
"Not in over two thousand years," the prisoner said.
"It was all true, wasn't it? What you told me at Essex. You are Judas Iscariot."
"That is my misfortune. I am cursed to spend a few years in a prison and then I disappear, only to find myself incarcerated in another. For the past forty years, I've been in Europe, the Orient and the Middle East. Now my sentence brings me back to America."
"Your disappearance. I have a few questions about it actually."
"You want to know why you remembered me when the guard didn't, right?"
"And why I found the name Julius Isaacs at other institutions, yet it vanished from Essex's records?"
"In all my long life, you were the only one to question my longevity. To everyone else, I was just a name or a number, one among many. I decided it would be best if there was no record of my time at Essex. But your mind wouldn't let go. Your tenacity is commendable."
"And the silver coins," Thompson said. "They disappeared from inside a locked desk drawer."
"They frequently do."
Judas went to his dresser and removed the familiar, well-worn leather pouch from the top drawer. He opened it over Thompson's hand, and out spilled the thirty pieces of silver that served as an eternal reminder of his crime against man and God.
Above picture is of Eastern State Penitentiary, located in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Don't give me any ideas, Salem.
