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Where the Sidewalk Ends
Prologue
The Seattle Times
March 14th, 1941
Forks, Washington: 2:17 A.M on March 8th, three local boys were taken into custody on the Quileute
reservation and charged for the murder and intentional desecration of Emily Young, 16. They were identified as
members of the upcoming graduating class of Forks High School. It is currently unclear why the boys were on
the reservation or why the attack took place.
Among those brought to the county jail were Edward Masen, 18, Eric Yorkie, 17, and Jacob Black, 18. Each was
charged with one count of first degree murder, the intentional manslaughter of an individual, and one count of
kidnapping. The Forks Police Department responded to a call made by a member of the reservation at 2:08 in
the morning, who claimed they could hear a young girl screaming deep within the forest surrounding First
Beach. There were obvious signs of struggle. Three testimonials confirmed the boys were seen disappearing
into the woods several hours prior.
Young had been reported missing by her parents, John and Laura Young, early morning March 4th. She was
walking back from the reservation's high school after attending a choir rehearsal, but according to her mother,
never made it home. Once it grew dark, they called the police.
"She'd never done anything like that before," claimed John Young. "Few behavioral problems, always returned
home on time. Immediately we knew something was wrong."
Following an hour long investigation, Young's destroyed body was found beneath a pile of debris collected from
a fallen tree several feet away. Her clothing was ripped in various places, her face mauled with a series of deep
scratches, and it appeared that she was stabbed repeatedly. Those living near the scene of the crime say they
heard no gunshots, although a gun was found next to the body.
Initially, Forks officials believed it to be an animal attack.
"I've never seen anything like it," said Dennis McKinley, long-time chief of the Forks Police Department. "It
looked like a bear scratched her clear across the face. It turned out to be a bunch of kids. Something doesn't
add up."
This crime will hopefully be the last for Chief McKinley, who plans to retire at the end of this month. His
replacement will be a man from New Hampshire, who will step in at the beginning of May
The boys' motives are still not disclosed. All three pleaded innocent under the premise that they were not
acquainted with Emily Young. Only Black lived on the reservation and admitted to knowing the young girl.
Subsequent to the trial, all three were found guilty. Due to the severity of the charges and their aggressive
behavior when sent to the county jail, including threatening several police officials, Black will be placed in Fort
Leavenworth penitentiary, and Masen in Alcatraz Penitentiary, another high-security prison off the coast of San
Francisco, California.
Yorkie, a minor, will be placed in a nearby correctional center for juvenile delinquents.
"They won't be missed," states Derek Stanley, local storeowner in Forks. "They've always been trouble. Forks is
a safe community. None of those families have a right to be here."
Masen, the son of a local nurse and contractor, was due to be shipped to Germany after being drafted for the
war. Instead, Black and Masen will be shipped from the local jail to their respective penitentiaries next week.
Both have been sentenced to life in prison without parole.
Good riddance, boys. You're in for a long ride. But as the saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good
intentions.
- - Renesmee Smith
I
"Wait 'till you get to your bunk tonight. The fog settles over the bay and the siren in the lighthouse begins to
moan. It's just the same in [Alcatraz] as being in your grave - only you miss the fun of being dead."
-Tony Burke
Edward Masen March 27th, 1941
The fog was thick and unforgiving as it rolled onto the bay. It showed no mercy, blanketing the outlying city in
a dense haze until the bridges and gateways leading into San Francisco were blocked. In a matter of minutes, it
would all be encased within the inescapable clouds. The only thing within our line of vision was the mysteriously
foreign island protruding out of the choppy gulf. Its elegance was a figment of smoke and mirrors; at a glance,
it promised salvation from the rough sea. Upon closer investigation, it was a murderer, intent on killing all those
who neared too close.
We should've known better than to be fooled by something as sinister as the prison.
I already felt claustrophobic. Ever since I was young, I hadn't been able to handle enclosed spaces. This was an
idiosyncrasy originating from a traumatic encounter with a well when I was seven. It had fascinated me - but as
a child of seven, could I be blamed? I remembered standing too close to the edge as I tossed in my coin,
wanting to watch it float through the murky water and down to the depths of wherever all the magic coins
went. But as I, too, tumbled down the pitch black space and into the chilly pool, stuck for an hour with nothing
on which to stabilize myself and my body near hyperventilation, I quickly decided I would not ever put myself in
tight spaces like this again.
The irony of it all? My wish was that I wouldn't fall in while making my wish. As a child, I'd had a very simple
mind.
The bitter wind blew, mirroring the somber expressions shared by the row of men surrounding me. We edged
against the rocking boat, our fingers gripping the splintered wood. I knew we were all praying that if we
remained still enough, our behavior in check, we would be freed. A wistful notion, I knew, and one that would
never be granted, but there was something about a low chance of survival that makes you start hoping, even
though you know it won't get you anywhere.
The water, battered and black, lapped up against the side of the ferry and rocked us into submission. I'd never
had a high tolerance for high seas. My stomach churned under the motion, the salty sea air only nauseating me
further. I shivered, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I thought about all the times I'd begged Father to take
me fishing, only to be told he was too busy. I now retracted that desire. I'd no longing to sit in conditions like
these, waiting for a fish to bite a worm. The more I thought about it, the stupider the idea became.
Thinking about my father added to the perpetually emotional lump lodged in my throat; the one I couldn't seem
to clear. I knew I wouldn't see him for a very long time. I'd accepted that. But as a kid, I'd been incredibly
foolish. I'd thrown away eighteen years that could've been used to get to know my father. Suddenly, there was
so much I wanted to do. Things we would never be able to accomplish.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Heavy steel shackles squeezed tightly around my wrists and ankles, the constricting metal only amplifying the
cold. My muscles ached, a dull, throbbing pain, and I fought to keep myself upright. I'd been doing this for the
past half hour, although it felt much longer. My spine stiffened even further as the inmate bound behind me dug
his knee into the small of my back, undoubtedly for his own amusement. A sharp pain shocked my body and I
bit my tongue. A chillingly hoarse laugh soon followed; he knew I would do nothing about it. There was nothing
I could do.
I squinted my eyes. The fog seemed to lift as we neared the shore. I couldn't decide if the looming building
seemingly before me was an apparition, a mirage luring us into a false sense of security, or a genuine image,
but as we moved even closer, I was able to clearly make out the gothic lines of the monstrous edifice.
As expected, it looked like a prison. The striking white stood prominently against the dismal backdrop, taunting.
Large concrete gates outlined the exterior. Electric wiring topped the walls that extended hauntingly toward the
sky, at least twelve feet in height. The officer nearby chuckled, humor lacking, as he caught sight of our
expressions. His gaze lifted upward toward the notorious cell house, awed and proud, before he uttered the
words that would forever be branded in my mind.
"Welcome home, boys," he said with a sneer, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Welcome to Alcatraz."
It was eerily quiet. Seagulls seemed content to sit huddled into their feathers on the metal rails, their beady
eyes watching as we came toward the isolated island. Jagged rocks protruded from the rocky cliffs leading up to
the prison itself, a cluster of white buildings surrounding the central cell house. I couldn't tell what they were
for. A lone lighthouse stood on the far shore, and as we eased toward the dock, I could see the single bulb
shining brilliantly, a warning.
Beware.
I trained my eyes on the horizon; I recalled hearing somewhere that it would ease seasickness. I didn't exactly
believe it, but I was willing to do anything to distract myself. A poor diversion, maybe, but it was all I could do.
The tide ebbed and flowed. I lurched forward. The closer we neared, the more I could distinguish the scent of
decay, death and fear. I also swore I could hear the moans of current inmates, their clawing and banging as
they crashed against the steel bars, crying for freedom.
I wondered if I could be committed for insanity.
In fact, I should've thought of that during the fucking trial. They wouldn't have listened, naturally, but I
might've had some shot. Now, I just had a one-way ticket to Hell with the devil laughing at my shoulder the
entire way down.
The only thing that made me feel better, to some extent, was that I looked no worse than the other prisoners.
Some had turned green with nausea, others an ailing white. The magical city slowly disappeared behind us,
sealing our fate. The ferry idled at the port, heavy ropes being thrown to the dock. Guards emerged through the
clouds like chimeras and I shut my eyes, swallowing. I didn't want to look at them. It would only prompt
irrational reactions that would land me in even more trouble. The types of reactions that got me kicked out and
sent here.
The county jail looked like a fucking paradise compared to Alcatraz.
An officer gripped the chain links connecting the handcuffs to my wrists and yanked. Fleetingly, I hoped that
when I opened my eyes, I would be back in Washington. Rain-tinged air, dewy mornings. Freshly caught fish
slowly grilled to perfection. It was detrimental to think like this. I should've dropped it. But I didn't.
My nostalgic thinking was shattered into a thousand irreplaceable pieces as the toe of my work boot caught on
the rough edge of the dock as they led me toward shore, sending me straight into the prisoner ahead of me at
a terrifyingly quick speed. A protective reflex, my palms went to shield my face, but I wasn't quick enough.
With the guard's head turned, I had no hope of an intervention. The man spun around, seething at the
disturbance. While the hit to his body wasn't remarkably hard, it clearly bothered him a great deal. He swayed,
his alcohol-induced stupor hindering his balance; I could easily smell the pungent odor of vodka coating his
breath as he glowered, evidence of one last night of relative freedom. It would all be confiscated when we
entered the penitentiary.
His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, appeared to focus in and out as he looked at me, as if it was difficult to keep
me within his line of vision. His skeletal forearms trembled with anger, and I stepped back as far as I could
without causing another brawl. The man appeared ready to attack, the right side of his face was already swollen
and tender from the last few beatings he'd taken. It didn't look like he could afford another, yet he was still
ready to come at me. My stomach flipped.
I'd never been a violent kid. I rarely ran into trouble. How did I get to a place that would require me to fight for
my life every single day?
"Fuckin' good for nothin' bastard," the man spat after several tense seconds. Eloquent and intelligent, I noted
with utter disdain. The man raised his fist, which would imminently collide with my jaw, and I closed my eyes,
waiting for the blow. I could do nothing to stop it.
It never came.
I hesitantly turned back in case the blow was waiting for me, only to find the guard holding the wobbling man in
a tight grip. His lips barely moved as he hissed his first and only warning.
"Not on my watch." The holster of his gun dug into the man's side, silently stating his superior authority. "That
bullshit may have been allowed wherever you came from, but this ain't no Podunk jail. This here's Alcatraz."
He was now addressing the entire line. It began to drizzle, the Heavens mourning the falling grace of every
prisoner standing in the line. Instead of shielding my face from the moisture, I allowed it to drip across the
contours of my skin, soaking me. Chilled to the bone, I tried not to shudder. I didn't know how long it would be
until I felt this again.
The guard straightened himself. "Alcatraz was built to keep all the rotten eggs in one basket. Us guards were
chosen to make sure that the stink from that basket does not escape." He smiled, though it displayed no
genuine pleasantries.
I was sure I was quivering in terror as the man's angry glare rested on each of us. The prisoner in front of me,
who'd threatened to pummel me not moments ago, rested his head on his shoulder as if he no longer
possessed the energy to maintain a straight neck. His weary eyes looked out onto the disappearing landscape,
bells from trolleys and dancing lights from buildings fading into nothing but white noise. The island was our only
hope, unless we preferred to drown.
Really, it didn't seem like such a bad idea.
Intense loathing trickled through my veins. The second guard snickered, his hand resting on the sleekness of
his gun - a Colt .45 that could shoot me dead in a matter of seconds. They would only be in possession of these
for one reason: to keep themselves safe. These criminals weren't like the ones I'd encountered at the state
prison. They were dangerous. They would fight until the death for a chance at liberty without a second glance at
whom they'd be killing in the battle. What's worse, I was now considered to be one of them.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to cry. I kept my head low, shielding all traces of emotion. I wouldn't
shed so much as a fucking tear.
"Daydreamin' for the city, eh? No use in it." The tide began to rise, the frigid spray nipping at my ankles. "Let
this be a warnin' to ya now: a few brave ones have tried to escape Alcatraz. A few stupid ones. All were
recaptured, and some were drowned by the bay."
"It's a mile in any direction to land," a new voice announced, aristocratic and heavy. A jagged scar ran down
the length of his face, but aside from that, he had no distinguishable oddities. He looked the same as the rest of
'em. "No one has escaped Alcatraz. No one ever will." He remained suspended on a ledge several feet above the
dock. He tipped his hat, the only semblance of respect we'd seen. "Warden Johnson. You're under my control."
The look of pride he wore was disgusting, but the unvoiced warning was clear. You followed his rules, no matter
how ludicrous.
"Get them inside, Moore," the Warden instructed. "Block B, all of them."
"Inside," one of the guards commanded. Rain began to fall in heavy sheets. "You're in for a long ride."
The emblem hanging above the entrance was incredibly misleading, if you asked me. Proud eagles stood, wings
expanded and talons drawn, ready to fight. I initially thought it was the United States crest, but at a closer
look, realized it couldn't be. There was no olive branch held between the talons of the eagle. There was no
option for peace. War or death seemed to be our only choices.
I didn't belong here. I felt like a homesick child at summer camp: lonely and terrified.
'Ad Infinitum,' the officer read as the last inmate passed through the prison's doors, grinning wickedly. "'To
infinity, without end.' You know what that means, boys?"
No one dared to provide a vocal answer. Someone behind me coughed. I inhaled deeply.
"There is no end. You've done the crime, now you do the time. There's not a damned thing to be done about it
besides endure."
Those were the words I had desperately tried to avoid. It was closure; the final statement. I was here. It wasn't
an ill-timed nightmare, nor was it something I could brush off after a good night's sleep. It was my life. I just
wasn't sure I could ever accept it, a fact that landed me trapped between a rock and a hard place.
The inside of the prison was no better than the exterior. Steel coated every surface, metal bars covered every
exit. I tried to concentrate on the rules the officers were attempting to explain, but I could only focus on the
minute sounds surrounding me. The scratching of the man next to me as he picked roughly at his skin. The
tapping of a man's foot as he impatiently awaited the next instruction. The scuttling of a filthy sewer rat as it
slithered into the shadows. Pained groans emerging from the treatment unit as patients eceived their
medication. The fear.
As far as I could tell, everything was prohibited. Upon entry, we'd been strip-searched and beaten down until
the guards were sure all illegal items had been taken away, leaving us with nothing more than broken spirits
and a pair of ratty work clothes that once belonged to an inmate who hadn't had the strength to survive.
The cells were smaller than I pictured, although I shouldn't have been surprised. We were paired off one by one
in what seemed to be a random order, and the thought alone increased my uneasiness. I'd heard stories. I
knew about the likes of the criminals housed here. If the stay alone didn't kill me, my roommate surely would.
At that moment, it didn't seem like such a bad idea. Get clobbered to death by an angry cellmate or spend a
week in Alcatraz? Clobbering was looking more tempting by the minute.
The cell was five feet by ten, and tall enough for the average inmate to stand, but not much more. The guards
escorted each prisoner to their cell until only two were left; myself, and a man who couldn't have been much
older than me. He once may have had a good face, but the stoic expression coupled with worry lines etched
into his forehead prevented that gentle air from remaining. He slowly looked me over, but opposite of those
who had been locked up before him, he did not comment on his cellmate.
I shuffled my feet back and forth as best I could, trying to do anything but stare.
"James O'Hare," an officer barked. Clearly neither of us wanted to speak for ourselves, lest it get us punished. I
saw the trembling of James' fingers, easing my own fears slightly. He was just as terrified. "Meet your new
buddy, Edward Masen."
The steel doors opened, the bars parting as they granted us entry. I briefly wondered if anyone willingly walked
into a cell. Everyone I'd seen had to be pushed or nudged by one of the guards, and we were no exception.
Neither of us saw a legitimate reason to choose to walk into a prison cell. If we could've run and gotten away
with it, I was sure we probably would've tried.
I surveyed my surroundings. Each cell was equipped with two folding bunks, a chair, a toilet and a washbasin.
The beds were made of concrete, a worn blanket and stained pillow resting on both. There were no windows,
and the only illumination was provided by a single lightbulb hanging lowly from the ceiling. I could already see
myself losing my mind in the confined space. It was too small. My paranoia of small spaces was beginning to
creep toward me for the second time that day.
The guard took our shackles and forced us in, listing off what was and was not contraband. The list of illegal
items was much, much longer than the latter.
"You will receive several issued items and will mark them down on your items list," he instructed. "If it is not on
your list and is found during cell checks, it will be confiscated and punishment will be issued accordingly. You
will find a book containing the rules and codes of conduct in addition to a broom and two showering towels.
Anything else must be approved by the Warden."
James, finding the courage, spoke up for the first time. His voice was gruff and hoarse, as if he'd smoked

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