On the Razor's Edge, page 7
One morning, Mitch was sitting around the yard with a couple of Mexicans who were taking English lessons from him. Ramos was fairly fluent in speaking but found writing very difficult. Jose could barely put two English words together and often Ramos had to translate for him.
Earlier, a busload of newbies had arrived, and now gathered into an uncertain bunch in the middle of the yard looking lost and clueless. By instinct they stayed away from the obvious groups and found themselves close to the Aryans, who regarded them with gleeful contempt as if a herd of sheep had blundered into a pack of wolves.
Jose fired off a string of rapid Mexican; Ramos translated. “He no think many will ‘scape the action...”
“Action?”
“The selling.” An auction, creating a commodity market out of the arrival of a promising lot of new prisoners. A modern version of a slave market, and a pretty-boy often unleashed a bidding war. Of course, fine instincts were required for the selection because anybody sent to Oyster Bay had been convicted of a major crime and came with a degree of risk; after all, everyone was a ticking time bomb. The successful bidder might have gotten into more than what he paid for. Only a month earlier, a serial killer was found dead, his throat ripped out by a youth barely out of high school who, it was later found out, heard voices and had to be moved to the psych ward.
More incomprehensible Mexican followed. “He take the tall one with the bush hair,” Ramos translated, pointing out a gangly youth in the crowd.
“Costs too much.” Mitch shrugged his shoulders.
“Has money, Jose has,” Ramos said confidently. “He sells weapons.”
“Weapons?”
“Sure. What you want? Knifes, guns, amo, knuckles. He get.”
“Guns?” Mitch had heard rumors of guns and of the gangs acquiring secret arsenals, but he always considered it just talk to feed the rumor mill. But it would also be dangerous to have something lethal, especially for an unaffiliated citizen, upsetting the balance of power. “Where does he get guns?” he asked, pointing to Jose, but then changed his mind. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.” There were whispers of certain guards being conduits of all kinds of contraband. Alcohol, drugs, weapons, even whores were available if one had money or influence.
The basic nodes of power structure were the gangs and their privileged strata of leadership. Then the various alliances and secret agreements that created power blocks who really ruled the prison. The authorities themselves found it useful to let the prisoners police themselves and only mixed in when things got out of hand. Five years ago, there had been a major war with many casualties. In fact, 4 out of 10 Blocks had to be disassembled and the population exchanged with other institutions. It took three wardens to achieve a semblance of order and the present balance.
While it was advantageous for any prisoner to seek protection with one of the power blocks, the drawback was that he then had to demonstrate unwavering loyalty and obedience. Mitch was among the few who maintained their neutrality by serving all factions with scrupulous evenhandedness. He made no value judgments, nor criticized anybody, but provided service to whoever asked. For this, he was left alone, out of the intense politicking and power struggles that otherwise consumed prison life. He had no real friends, but was welcomed, or the very least, tolerated by all the groups.
On a personal level writing kept him alive. It gave him a reference point to avoid despair and he often found friends and companions among the characters he created. Writing also made him think about life, his and others’ and to see clearly where he had gone wrong. How he had drifted along, not daring to look back at all the hurts in his life, and not ahead, toward some bleak future. It had been simpler and less troublesome just to live in the moment and let someone else, like Butch, make decisions for him. As he crafted a path for his characters, all the wrong turns he had made became obvious. Yet, when self blame or the pressures of prison wore him down, those same characters were a consolation and support to return him to an even keel. So writing became his safe conduct both internally and in everyday prison life.
Chapter 8
“We first ran across David and Lacy at a concert held in one of the small venues downtown featuring a number of local bands struggling for recognition. They knew one of the musicians. The place itself was dingy and crowded; only the stage, if it could be called that, was lit. People mostly stood around; there wasn’t even room enough to dance.
“I remember Butch noticing Lacy and smacking his lips. ‘I could get into that.’ And Gordi cautioned, ‘She came with a guy,’ because he paid more attention to guys. Butch looked at him funny and said, ‘And you can get at him.’ Then Butch walked over and started talking with David, putting on a congenial mask. By the end of the night he invited the couple to share some hash in the alley outside. Lacy declined but David went. Avery remarked, ‘They’re not really our kind. Too squeaky clean.’ Butch just gloated, ‘That’s how I like it. The younger and cleaner the better.’ From then on, David showed up occasionally at the party shack and Butch treated him to hits of a drug or two. The boy was naive, pretending to be street smart and badass. One time Lacy came with him and Butch started circling her after he got David out of the way, high on something. I didn’t see what happened next, got a little buzzed myself on vodka coolers, but Butch usually got his way, even if he was showing unusual restraint with her, maybe grooming her.”
*****
While Block C was having breakfast it was discovered that two inmates were found dead in their cells, overdosed, one with a needle still in his arm. Block C was kept in the cafeteria while a flying squad of guards went through all the cells looking for drugs. They made a mess of the place, poking into every conceivable hiding place. They amassed a pile of contraband. Street drugs, prescription drugs, alcohol, sniffing glue, cough medicine, matches, skeleton keys, razor blades, homemade knifes, shivs and pig stickers.
“Fuck! I hope they don’t find my stash,” Samos said to no one in particular, but Mitch heard him.
“What you got?” Lex asked, always curious, ferret-like.
“Never you mind.” Samos probably hadn’t realized that he’d said it aloud. There were plenty of other tense faces worried about something.
As the end result, 19 were stuck in isolation; Mark The Toad got two months for possession of a zip-gun. Mitch wondered where the real weapons were hidden, the ones that Jose procured.
Returning to his cell, Mitch found it in shambles. Everything was on the floor, papers scattered, even his toothpaste tube cut and the paste squeezed into the washbasin. The cake of soap was dissected, and even the hard cover of books pried apart. The seams of his spare jumper were unstitched in places. His pillow was turned inside out and the foam in pieces.
All over the Block people were swearing at the guards and throwing things out of their cells onto the walkway.
“You assholes! You turned it into garbage, so you can keep it.” Another thing joined the pile on the floor.
Given the tense atmosphere, exercise yard time was canceled. Lunch and supper were morose, filled with a lot of grumbling. The guards doubled up, staying to the side, well out of reach. Twice fights broke out that the guards had to wade into and separate.
Next day, the weekly visitors for Block C were turned away. The Warden himself threatened to put C into a full lockdown: no one to be allowed in or out. A lifer went berserk; it took six guards to restrain him. They had to eject someone from isolation to make room for him. For three hours he pounded and kicked on the door, cursing every guard and all their families. Then he fell asleep, as if well-deserved.
It took a full week for things to return to halfway normal.
Mitch finished writing a letter for a Puerto Rican to his family back in San Juan. The wife couldn’t read or write herself, but there was always someone to read anything important to her. At first Esteban was inhibited talking to a stranger but as he got deeper into the letter, he grew more passionate and confessed great yearning to be with her.
“And be sure to write that I love her and miss her and the babies.” Mitch nodded and added the line. Esteban looked satisfied and Mitch folded the sheet and gave it to him.
“Thanks.” Esteban counted out 15 cigarettes then pushed it toward Mitch, who pushed them back. “No, you take. This is important. I’m stuck here four more years; my Naderra has to raise our children by herself. She has to feed her mother and my father too. I send her the little money I earn in the shop but it’s not nearly enough.” His face was clouded with sadness; lines of worry fringed his eyes. He shook his head miserably as he walked to the far end of the yard to join the other Puerto Ricans.
A pair approached next. Mitch knew Peter vaguely, a professional arsonist who did fires for insurance fraud. Got behind on your payments? Burn the house down and collect. Unfortunately for him, a person died in a blaze he set and he was serving 30 to life. He had his arms around the shoulder of another.
“This is my fair bitch, Dougie,” Peter introduced his companion. Homosexuality was not a novelty in prison, many made “marriages of convenience” for the duration of their sentences, but few took on the role so obviously as Doug, teasing his hair into an ash white peroxide hairdo, wearing lipstick and squeezing into the tightest fit he could manage. On the outside he had been, of all things, a pimp, who had beat one of his girls to death.
“And what can I do for you two?” Mitch asked in a careful tone, camouflaging his aversion to such over the top exhibitionism.
“We need to make a marriage contract,” Peter said, fondling Dougie’s bare arm.
“Same sex marriage is not legal in the state,” Mitch pointed out.
“We know that,” Dougie twittered in a pinched falsetto. “We want an informal contract to state that we belong to each other. Forever…” And he batted eyelashes that had the benefit of pasted on extensions. He seemed oblivious to the parody he was acting out. Mitch took a close second look to penetrate the disguise. Dougie knew exactly what he was doing; his act functioned as effectively as Kevlar to protect him from the overflow of male aggression around him. The eyes, however, were cold and calculating, and Mitch thought it would be unwise to underestimate the menace hidden under the makeup.
“Yes, my life is her life. What I own is hers… and hers is mine…” Peter patted Dougie’s hands with coy affection.
Mitch shrugged, took paper and point by point set into legalistic phrases all the requirements the two wanted.
“And we’re each other’s beneficiary,” Peter added the last point.
“Of what? Of each other’s outstanding sentence?” Mitch couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
“Never you mind. Just insert it like a good boy,” Dougie lisped, batting his eye lashes again, scattering flakes of mascara from the overburdened lid decorations.
Mitch shrugged again, and did as asked.
Later that night Mitch wondered about the bizarre incident. Was one of them setting himself up for an insurance scam? Or even both. There had to be a policy somewhere, otherwise nothing made any sense. In the end he dismissed it: let people lie in the bed they made.
Chapter 9
“Friday evening started well enough. It had been hot and humid for weeks, unbearable until sundown. After work I didn’t want to go back to the cheap hotel I was staying in, thinking I would suffocate in the stifling heat of my un-air conditioned room. Instead, I joined up with Butch and his crew. Six of us jammed into Butch’s car and we cruised down Dixon Boulevard, enjoying the wind of our speed blasting through the open windows. I was squeezed between Avery and Gordi in the back, passing a bottle of vodka back and forth. Butch was driving with Earl in the middle and Lyle, as usual, riding shotgun.
“I was already buzzed, trying to get drunk and forget the sweat and heat of the day at the dealership. I passed the bottle to Avery who took two long sips. Gordi reached over and took the bottle from between his thighs. Avery protested, ‘Let go of my dick, you homo.’ ‘Screw you, give me a drink, you hetero.’ All of us were high on something. They were passing a joint in the front seat.
“We drove around nearly an hour, though it didn’t feel like it. Time gets bent around when one is under the influence. At the Plaza Lyle noticed David and Lacy walking by the burger joint. He waved to them and they waved back. Butch pulled a fast U-turn, stopped in front of the couple and started to talk with them. Next he was offering a joint and soon everyone was giggling. Avery went off to look for a washroom, leaving the bottle with me. I took a swig, though I knew I shouldn’t, but I was already past reason. I heard Butch proposing a drive to the golf course and the small water hazard on the sixth hole to wade in and cool off. The next thing I knew was that Butch was yelling at me to get out. But I was wasted and wouldn’t move. So Earl had to go and Gordi had to climb into the front seat. Then Lacy and David got in and I smelled her perfume. The car took off and the acceleration pushed her up against me. I offered her the bottle but she declined, so I drank for her. A little later I heard from David, ‘This is great,’ but I didn’t know what he meant. Butch was laughing and I didn’t like the sound of it, but things were very fuzzy by then.
“Most of what followed was like a dream. We must have reached the golf course, I think I remember Lyle guiding Butch to park at hole 6 near the lake. The rest got out and I tried but I couldn’t find the door handle. ‘Fuck it,’ I said, and collapsed back onto the seat. The others left me there and I took one more swig and fell asleep.”
*****
Mitch was sitting in his outside “office,” the picnic bench in the corner of the exercise yard, composing an application for early release for Chuck Tallboy who had served 37 of a 50 year sentence. Cop-killers rarely got paroled. Finished, he had Chuck sign and gave the form to the man, who walked away with that peculiar cautious gait one gets after 37 years: don’t trust the left for someone was sure to come at you from the right.
Looking around, Mitch saw three guys advancing on his position. He didn’t like the looks of this: he didn’t know the men. They sat down opposite him. The one in the middle smiled lopsidedly and held out a pack of cigarettes in front of him. “I need a letter to get some court records of my case sent to me.” Mitch nodded and pulled the proper form from his folder. He asked questions and filled it with his neat script. When he finished, he folded it and passed it over.
“Thanks.” The other tucked it away, standing up. “You know you’re quite hot,” he said, winking broadly. Mitch felt like slugging him but smiled instead. It was not the first time he’d been hit upon and knew it wouldn’t be the last, but the man was sleazy and his eyes betrayed his lewd thoughts.
Later Mitch asked Doyle what he knew of the man, Brad Oliver.
“Came about a month ago from an upstate pen where he got into some trouble. He fits in between the Aryans and the Southern Cross guys. Spouts the same white supremacist jargon, so they tolerate him but he’s not affiliated. Runs around with three of his bitches. He’s gay as they come.”
Over the next days Mitch noticed that Oliver seemed to take a special interest in him, winking when he passed, gesturing in a proprietary way that was irritating and demeaning. In an all male population some of this was to be expected, but not in such a blatant manner. Increasingly Mitch felt uneasy at the way Oliver seemed to go out of his way to target him. Not since the early days had he been bothered sexually. Part of it was because he was careful not to send out any messages or show any interest himself. He was also careful not to be cornered, especially in the shower, where his turn came on every odd day. It wasn’t all that unusual to see someone get a blowjob in a corner or at a rare time a rim job somewhere in public. The thing was, there was always a doer and a doee, that is the predator and his prey, and one soon acquired a reputation of being one or the other.
Mitch was generally held to be good looking and young, barely 25, and should have been considered prime property, but by his unstinting service to all comers and groups, teaching or scribing, he earned immunity from being molested. Too many people and groups owed him favors that he’d never yet called in. Oliver was thus a nuisance but not a real menace. A couple of things occurred to change that.
The Warden was prone, from time to time, to transfer people between blocks, or even to other institutions. It was a calculated strategy to keep prisoners off balance and not to let any group get too entrenched. So it wasn’t a surprise when 18 people were suddenly replaced with imports, 9 of which were from the remnants of a biker gang that had gotten into a gang war elsewhere. They had to be dismantled and moved in chunks, so that they could survive in a new situation. There was a lot of back and forth messaging, using codes, between institutions about alliances as well as conflicts that extended beyond prison walls into the prison “nation.” Often top level leadership of gangs or criminal organizations found themselves in jail, yet carried on business as usual, using clandestine pathways of communication. Because Mitch sometime had access to the computer at the library, he was asked to relay messages over the Internet on behalf of one of these groups. He did as asked, careful not to get too deep into it.
It turned out that Oliver had some prior connection with the bikers and suddenly, became part of a rising power group. Mitch felt the turning immediately, as it emboldened Oliver to come on more relentlessly and more frequently. Mitch couldn’t turn around without finding the man leering at him.
