On the Razor's Edge, page 1
On the Razor’s Edge
A prison novel
Paul Telegdi
Published by Paul Telegdi on Smashwords
Copyright © 2012 by Paul Telegdi
This book is a work of fiction in its entirety. Any similarities to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away.
Dedicated to my wife, Melanie Telegdi.
For all her unwavering support and hard work at editing this book and others.
Other books by Paul Telegdi
To enjoy other books by Paul Telegdi please go to my website at http://www.seeWordFactory.com
Dreamcast I, II, III, IV and V (paranormal series)
The Call at 3:18 am (paranormal)
14-, 15-, 16-, 17- and 18 Stones (prehistoric series)
Seize the Day (Roman)
Strike the Red Hammer (Norman)
The Locksmith’s Dilemma (medieval)
Where Arrows Fly (medieval)
Dark Fires (medieval)
Learning Berserk (Viking)
Unlearning Berserk (Viking)
Chance Encounter (a life in progress)
On the Razor’s Edge (prison novel)
Remembering PT-927 (WWII)
The Lady Bug (WWII)
At the Point of the Quarrel (the 100 years war)
Peoples’ Spring 1848 ( revolution of 1848)
Insula: Trouble with the Sky (cataclysm)
Shamrock: Under the Big Sky (western)
Preface
The idea of being trapped in jail first surfaced in the Dreamcast Series. Unbeknownst to the young hero Travis, he has paranormal abilities to help him after being accused of murder. It was great fun to write about the difficulties paranormal abilities could create, especially when in collision with the real world.
In this book I took on the challenge to see if I could get my hero out of jail without the convenience of special abilities. I also explored the meaning of friendship, the bond that ties all of us to significant others in our lives. And what happens when that relationship fails or is betrayed.
Mitch is a young man just drifting through life. He has a thrill-seeking group he belongs to and not much else. When the group gets into trouble, Mitch is swept up in it. He finds himself in jail where he has to grow up fast or become just a number in the penal system. He uses his latent intelligence and every resource he can find, first to survive, second to win his freedom.
I tried my best to provide a gritty, true-to-life account of Mitch’s struggles in jail and out of it. Of course the book is fiction even if it sounds true. Most of my information comes from prison dramas on the big screen as I have never spent time in jail and I intend to keep it that way.
The book sometimes confronts the reader with graphic content as a spring board to the story beyond. After all a crime-novel has to have crime as a murder mystery has to have a body someplace. With that I welcome you into my book and hope you find it entertaining.
Chapter 1
The horn sounded its harsh monotone that reverberated between the tightness of the concrete walls. The steel door slid open and the crowd of waiting inmates flooded the quadrangle formed by the three cell blocks. The fourth side was completed by a 20 foot high steel mesh fence topped by a tight roll of razor wire.
Mitch walked to the south corner and settled himself by one of the three tables set up in the angle of Block C and the fence. He leaned against the cement wall, secure that no one could get behind him. Mechanically his eyes measured out the space in view, approximately 300 by 400 feet, now filled with about 200 inmates. In short order the groups separated out, the Aryans in their customary hierarchy, Blacks and Hispanics in their own constellations, at a safe distance from each other. A loose cloud of unaffiliated served as a buffer zone to keep the three primary power alliances apart. A few were shooting hoops, several were playing handball against Block D, and in a fenced-off area the Musclebound were already lifting weights and posing their gleaming bodies for anyone to view.
Mitch’s experienced eyes scanned through the satellite groups, found the go-betweens, who carried information back and forth and the go-to guys, who provided generalized services to the inmate population. Cigarettes, soft and hard drugs, sex, credit, information—all were available and for sale. There was not one guard on the griddle, as the quadrangle was called, because there was always something cooking, something going down under the seeming normalcy. Overseeing all were several sentry points, far enough not to be caught by surprise by any eruption.
Mitch took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and read through the neat handwritten pages, his brows furrowed in concentration. With a pen he made a few corrections, squeezing in the letters between the tight lines. He sensed someone approach, but didn’t break his focus, recognizing Doyle by the sound of his walk. They were not really friends, more like associates who had arrived on the same bus to Oyster Bay, now 3 years seven months and sixteen days ago.
“Howdy,” Doyle said in his affected drawl, easing himself down with a lightness that belied his size. His face was blank, the look of a veteran who knew to give nothing away; only the eyes flickered quickly to look for trouble.
“So what’s new?” Mitch asked the standard question, knowing full well nothing was, nothing that had any meaning for him or for the other. But Doyle surprised him.
“My lawyer’s coming down today to jumpstart my appeal.”
“Who you got?” Mitch looked up, a spark of interest pulling him away from his writing.
“The firm of Durham and Ross has agreed to take a look at my case. They sent down Melissa Conroy to interview me. Know her?”
“Melissa Conroy?” Mitch parroted the name, as if hearing it for the first time. But his heart was suddenly beating fast, and he turned away to hide his reaction. “I think she’s the one who got Smithy off the conspiracy to murder charge.”
“Shit, that’s not much. Everyone knew Smithy wasn’t guilty. The poor bastard was railroaded into a 30 year sentence by an overzealous DA. Tell me something recent.” Doyle was rolling a cigarette between nicotine stained fingers.
“Ask Bailey in F. He had Durham and Ross working his case.”
“How did that go down?”
“How do you think? Bailey is as guilty as they come, but a good enough con to talk the firm into taking him on. I think they also dropped him like a hot potato when they got deeper into his case. Still, he might know something about your Madeline Conroy.”
“Melissa. Melissa Conroy.”
“Whatever.” Mitch pretended disinterest. He rattled the papers in his hand and tried to return to them. Doyle, however, did not budge; he sighed and Mitch knew more was coming.
“Maybe you should come with me to the meeting. Shit, you know more about my case than I do after all the letters you wrote for me.”
“I didn’t know you were sending them to Durham and Ross.”
“Hell, I sent copies to all the firms I could think of. To anyone who serves Oyster Bay.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
“Yeah, well, good luck with that.”
“Listen, I’m serious. Come with me. Be my mouthpiece. You can make it sound more convincing. You know that I’m innocent.” Doyle’s face fell into that certain expression he used when on the con, the lines smoothed out to blank, a poker face, hiding the hand he was holding.
“We’re all innocent in here, don’t you know,” Mitch chortled, for the first time amused. In his estimation Doyle was more guilty than most who made that claim. Except for the few who used their guilt as a badge of reputation to guarantee their space and status in the pecking order.
A figure was sidling up to them cautiously, unsure of his welcome.
“Ah, yes. Mitch meet Stubs, my new roomie. They finally transferred Soledad to the psycho ward. High time too. I was afraid he’d suffocate me with a pillow while I slept.” Mitch looked at the approaching Stubs, every step unsure, his eyes large and stunned.
“What’s he in for?”
“For killing his wife,” Doyle said contemptuously. He, himself, had been found guilty of wounding a cop in a shoot out after holding up a bank. He claimed self defense as the cop was dressed in civvies and shooting at him. He shot back. Going for him was the fact that they’d never found any of the money on him; his buddies had run off with that and had never been caught.
Stubs reached them, begging for acceptance.
“Get me some pop,” Doyle ordered, and obediently Stubs ambled off toward the vending machines. “The sad ass is looking for me to guide and protect him. What a douche bag. As if I’d risk myself on his account. He’s nothing but fodder for whomever... He won’t last a month.”
For a while they were quiet. The sun was higher in the Texas sky, and the air was quickly turning hot. Still, it was a relief to be outside, out of the claustrophobic confines of the drab walls and the odor of bodies sweating anxiety. Yet here, too, was no wind to disperse the smell of overused oil from the kitchen.
“Seriously, come to the meeting with me. I’ll give you 200 cigarettes or a hit of whatever you want.”
“I don’t smoke and I don’t use.”
“Shit, man. You can convert it to whatever you want. It’s good as gold in here.”
“When do you meet her?”
“At 2:00. You did this for Sammy, why not for me?”
“OK, OK. But I want 300 cigarettes, packaged, of the regular stuff, none of that kn
“You got it. See you at quarter to two, at Checkpoint Charlie.” Doyle rose and left Mitch alone. For a long minute Mitch watched the other weave his way in-between the groups, and questioned whether he had made the right choice. Doyle was a bank robber, but in here, he was just another prisoner trying to survive his sentence.
Mitch tried to return to his script but his concentration was gone. He mustered the restless back and forth of the exercise yard, looking for telltale signs that something was about to go down. One could never tell: the atmosphere was always tense, on the edge of some eruption. Scores had to be settled, power balances restored. There was always a sense of mutually assured destruction that held the flux in check.
On the parapet overlooking the quadrangle, a warden blew his whistle, terminating the exercise period. Mitch rose reluctantly; in the outside air there was at least an illusion of freedom. On the inside, under the glare of neon lights that bounced off the concrete blocks painted in drab olive, the tension had nowhere to go, and accumulated like a tropical storm brewing up. Mitch joined the lineup as the yard slowly emptied in strict order of protocol. Mitch passed inside with the unaffiliated few.
“8-7-7-6-4-4 South C,” Mitch rattled off his ID as he passed through the checkpoint and saw the guard tick his name off the list.
Chapter 2
Mitch threw himself on his bunk and tried to ease the tension of his shoulders and neck. He was thinking of Melissa Conroy and when he saw her last. The trial replayed in his head reminding him of all that he should have done better.
It was strange how quickly he had acquired the tunnel vision that came with living in prison. Outside of the acre and half of the yard and the acre of the tight inside, little else made any sense: not the world events in the news, not the problems faced by the regular population on the outside. Everything had shrunk to a myopic focus of just getting through the day; there were no decisions to make, no future to focus on and certainly no need to make any plans. The end of the sentence was so far away as to be invisible to the naked eye. And the past? Most often that consisted of rehashing the trial, cataloging errors and lost opportunities.
Mitch was among the privileged few who did not have a roommate to crowd the small cell. In 2 ½ years of volunteer service he had earned that right. He was on the staff of the prison library, taught English as a second language and tutored for high school equivalency. He was also available to write legal correspondence for anybody who asked. That was why Doyle came to him. Mitch frowned, thinking of Doyle. They weren’t friends; one did not have friends in jail, only allies and enemies. Most people sought shelter with one of the gangs. Mitch was valued for the services he provided, and mostly left alone on account of them.
At present Mitch had three letters waiting for his attention on the table, but he didn’t feel like working on them. Even the script of his next novel didn’t tempt him. His mind was stuck in the past on his own case. Prominent on the wall was a tablet with the numbers 21 4 14 written in laundry pen. The time of his sentence remaining to be served: 21 hard years, 4 slow months and 14 interminable days.
His cell was four steps deep and three wide. Sliding metal bars led to the outside. There was a metal toilet in the corner and near it a small washbasin. Against the far wall, a standard-issue narrow cot, barely wide enough for his body. Mitch often wondered how the bigger guys and the Musclebound managed with excess body parts hanging over.
There was a small table against the wall opposite the cot, two chairs and a small filing cabinet, another perk earned by his volunteering. And over it, a shelf held a few books, a dictionary and directory of legal services. Four hooks holding a laundry bag and his extra clothes made up the rest of his furnishings.
There were two lights recessed into the ceiling and covered with heavy steel mesh, that illuminated the cell. They were dimmed to half glow from 10:00 to 6:00, on full power the rest of the time.
Cell Block C, like most other Blocks, had two tiers of cells fronted by a wide hall with facing windows high up. The second tier was accessible by a metal catwalk that ran the length of the hall. On the one end there was the common room, with seating and TV, a cafeteria, and Control that gave access to the exercise yard and to the other buildings of the prison complex.
For all the inmates, life had condensed to this narrow world, the cells, the gallery and the yard. From this perspective the outside world was far away and grew stranger by the day. The TV talked of current events and happenings, but to people locked away it didn’t matter that the economy tanked, the world was changing and Arab Spring was blowing through the Middle East. One day was a prelude to the next.
During the days, the guards were hardly visible except at meal times, when the entire block population was squeezed into the tight confines of the cafeteria, the closeness increasing the chance of something breaking out between the factions. Four guards stood aside in a group, watching the inmates eat, and should trouble arise, ready to call in the Quick Response Unit armed with batons, mace cans and tasers to quell any unpleasantness.
At night, the guards made regular rounds of the cells, checking on the prisoners through the open grill doors. It was impossible not to make noise on the catwalk, and the slightest sound echoed through the hall. It wasn’t always easy to sleep; the semi darkness was filled with sounds. Snoring from one cell, a screaming nightmare from another. Then there were the ones who went temporarily berserk, angry at the world, yelling, cursing and throwing things whatever the hour.
And every day more arrived, creating the challenge of finding places for them. All institutions were overflowing, especially since the new state governor had been elected on a law and order ticket, and subsequently arrests and convictions spiked. In spite of the demand, the government refused to spend money to build new facilities to relieve the congestion. So a cell designed for two suddenly was crowded with three and even four.
In desperation, the Parole Board was asked to ease their guidelines to move people out as more came in. They were kicking people out the back door to make room for what was pressing through the front. With good behavior a con could be released after serving just 55-60 percent of his sentence. And that number could drop even more if the new governor followed through on all his campaign promises.
Squeezed up against a service shaft, Mitch’s cell was smaller than regular, which was another reason why he was left alone. On the downside, at night he could often hear the water gurgle in the pipes, and the air swish through the conduits of the service shaft that was subtracted from his cell.
Each Block held about 200 prisoners, with ten Blocks that added up to about 2,000 inmates, watched over by 320 guards in three shifts, and 140 additional support persons working in administration, maintenance and the central kitchen. The guards patrolled in pairs, watching each other’s backs, never knowing when and where trouble could fall on them. Typically there was a tense expectation, just waiting for something to happen. There were reasons enough. The crowding, the precarious shifts in power balances, up and down family events, somebody’s appeal rejected or someone simply blew. The prison was a pressure cooker, any little event could instantly turn up the heat and violence was the only relief valve.
There was a nest of cameras, strategically located throughout to cover all angles. In a central location three correctional officers monitored 43 screens 24 hours a day, switching between the 128 cameras covering every inch of prison life. It was a given that Big Brother was watching you, anywhere, anytime.
Reveille was at 6:05, announced by an ugly sounding horn and a metallic click as the door mechanism released and the grill slid open to stay that way until 10:00 at night. That is, when not in a lockdown, when all the inmates had to be shut up in their cells for the duration of whatever had earned them that privilege.
Breakfast at 7:30, each Block had its own cafeteria supplied by the central kitchen. Food was generally simple, but hot. Lunch was at 12:00 to 1:00, supper at 6:00 to 7:00. Meal times were the hinge points of all routines, as they never varied. The challenge was to fill the rest of the day with something meaningful. There were adjoining workshops where a little cigarette money could be earned, laundry and cleanup details. Most inmates just sat around watching each other, calculating worth and percentages, who needed to be listened to, who was a walkover, where was the chink in someone’s defenses. And of course spin a con, always a con: “Hey, man, I’ve got a deal for you, are you in?”
