Marco Graham had been at Alcatraz for six years already.

He was sent there from Leavenworth for killing another inmate.

Marco emerged from eighteen days in solitary confinement and said to the guard, “Ha youse think youse can break me, dontcha? Well I aint never been broke by nobody.”

“We’ll see bout that Marco,” the guard said as he shoved Marco back into his five by nine cell.

Marco sat on his cot, stared at the toilet and basin, the only other comforts of his cell, and waited until the guard went further down the hall. Marco began to cry like a child that Santa Claus forgot on Christmas morning.
Outside in the air for an hour to play baseball with the other inmates was all the recreation he got.

Even the majestic sight of the Golden Gate Bridge was not enough to lift Marco’s spirits.

The food was the best he’d ever eaten in any federal prison system. But still he longed to escape. Probably to be shot or drown in the San Francisco bay.

Anything would be better than his time on the rock.