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Sending Félix Abrego to any other prison would give him a better life, and he did not deserve a better life.
On the other hand, if Abrego were incarcerated at ADMAX, Willy the Lion would have to leave. He could not see the justice in that. Why should he have to give up being warden of Florence ADMAX? Not only had he earned that job, no one could handle it better than he could.
So he said nothing.
If he got caught, he would watch Abrego being sent in shackles somewhere else, or he would retire.
And until something happened, Abrego would be treated exactly like every other prisoner a judge had sentenced to life without the possibility of parole and sent to Florence ADMAX.
Assistant Warden (Administration) Kurt Grosch, a stocky, nearly bald fifty-five-year-old, stood in the open door of the warden’s office and waited to be noticed.
Willy the Lion finally looked up from a thick sheaf of paper on his desk, saw Grosch, and raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve got something I thought I better show you, Warden.”
Leon waved him in.
“What have you got, Dutch?” Leon asked.
What Grosch had was an Order to Transfer Prisoner, signed by Kenneth L. Brackin, deputy director, U.S. Bureau of Prisons, ordering the transfer of Félix Abrego, register number 97593-655, from Florence ADMAX to La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution in Anthony, Texas.
“This has got to be a mistake, Dutch,” Willy the Lion said. “La Tuna is a country club.”
“I know. So what do I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll call Brackin and get him to tear this up before Waters hears about it. Waters would shit a brick, and Brackin’s a pretty good guy.”
“What do I tell the Marshals?”
“What Marshals?”
“There’s four of them, and they more or less politely ask that we hand this guy over to them as soon as we can fit that into our busy schedule. Like right now.”
“Today’s Wednesday,” Leon said. “The next JPATS flight is next Monday, right?”
The Department of Justice operated several Boeing passenger jets to move prisoners between Bureau of Prisons institutions and—primarily—illegal aliens about to be deported to the border. It was commonly known by the acronym JPATS.
“The Marshals aren’t using JPATS. They have a DOJ jet, a little one”—he searched his memory—“a Gulfstream. At Butts.”
Butts Army Airfield served Fort Carson, Colorado, a short distance from Florence ADMAX.
“What the hell is going on here, Dutch?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Willy the Lion reached for his telephone and punched in a number from memory.
“Director Waters, please, Warden Leon calling.”
After a moment, Waters came on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Director . . .
“I’m fine, thank you. Yourself? Dorothy and the kids?
“I’m really sorry to bother you, but something has come up. Four Marshals have shown up here in a DOJ Gulfstream with a transfer order signed by Ken Brackin moving a life-without-parole prisoner named Félix Abrego to the La Tuna facility in Texas . . .
“Is there a problem? Yeah, there’s a problem. This guy Abrego murdered three DEA agents. Why is he being transferred to one of our more comfortable country clubs?
