hed become familiar with all the usual night-time sounds : the clunk of the cell doors and the rattle of keys whenever anyone had to be let in or out unexpectedly after last shut-down ; the steady , ominous clump of boots along the steel walkways with the regular cell patrols every hour , punctuated by the impromptu sliding back of two or three inspection hatches along the line ; the mumble of the guards at the end and the occasional peal of laughter ; the jibes and taunts of new prisoners or regulars whod suddenly fallen from grace ; the gentle sobbing of some of those same new inmates that might take up to a week to finally abate ; and the klaxon blare of the amtrak from baton rouge to jackson seven miles away across the bayou plain , a siren call to the prisoners from the world outside , elusive freedom only one of eight attempted break-outs over the past thirty years had got even that far , and theyd all been rounded up within the week between new orleans and baton rouge .