Hard Time (11 page)

My incarceration brought us so close, I proposed to Claudia. She said yes and mailed me pictures of wedding dresses she liked. I stuck pictures of Claudia under the bunk above me. Pictures I stared at throughout the day and drew strength from whenever the sadness of our separation overwhelmed me.

Phoenix is the hottest big city in America. It’s against federal law for a jail to use heat as a punishment or a health threat, so, to get around this, Towers used a swamp cooler that barely worked. It was supposed to blow water-cooled air through a vent system into our cells, but the little air we received was as warm as our breath. Then in June, it completely stopped blowing. Outdoor temperatures exceeded 110°F, making us dizzy, ill and delirious. So many heatstroke victims were taken to hospital on stretchers, lockdowns were constant. At night, my skin itched, keeping me awake, and in the day I’d pass out while reading.

‘Due to temperatures rising to over 110°, you’re now authorised to wear only your boxers in the day room!’ Officer Alston announced.

Cheering at this minuscule concession, we stripped on the spot. In our cells. On the balcony. In the day room. We paraded around in our pink boxers and orange shower sandals, comparing the rashes patterning our bodies like the mould on our daily bread. Some of the men mocked Troll for having faeces stains on the back of his boxers. Whether it was to promote his crazy act or not, he said he didn’t care.

There was always an element poised to take advantage of any new liberties, and this case was no exception. Four men stripped naked, filled the mop bucket and took turns throwing water on each other. I was feeling effeminate enough in my pink boxers, and what they were up to looked like gay porn – not that I’ve ever seen any.

Sheriff Joe Arpaio introduced pink boxers in 1995. He claimed prisoners were stealing the old white boxers with MCSO (Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office) stencilled on the rear and selling them for up to $10 in Phoenix. When laundry staff reported $48,000 worth of the white boxers missing, Arpaio had the boxers dyed pink. Arpaio said the pink boxers were too noticeable to smuggle out of the jail, causing theft to plummet. His opponents claimed the pink boxers were introduced as a moneymaking scheme and pointed out that Arpaio quickly offered them for sale worldwide, raising $400,000 within months. ‘I guess I should thank the inmates for stealing the shorts,’ Arpaio said. ‘Their crime was the birth of a great idea.’

Prisoners were constantly on the move in the jail system. We were all subject to being rehoused within the jail itself. Sentenced prisoners were sent to the prison system to serve the balance of their sentences. (In America, jails mostly hold prisoners on remand.) Federal marshals collected illegal aliens awaiting deportation. Some prisoners bonded out. Schwartz was among the latter, and I was sorry to lose such an agreeable cellmate. In accordance with the inmates’ rules, I got the middle bunk. The top one went to OG, an intimidating Mexican American in jail for trying to shank (stab with a homemade knife) someone in the prison system. OG had a Freddie Mercury moustache and no front teeth due to his penchant for fighting prisoners. He snapped at random and credited decades of heroin addiction for his paranoid delusions. His behaviour towards Troll and me ranged from threatening to shank us in our sleep because we were conspiring against him to singing and dancing with us on Saturday nights when we tuned our radios into a station that played live DJ sets from Club Freedom. Not that he didn’t threaten to kill anyone on Saturday nights – he did, gleefully. He threatened everyone who complained our revelry was keeping them awake. But as most of the inmates were out of their minds on drugs, only a minority spoke up.

Even after partying for years, I’d never seen such devotion to getting high as in my new neighbours. I had no idea society rounded up its drug-addict criminals and dumped them in a place awash with the hardest drugs. The Mexicans were keystering in many ounces of crystal meth at Visitation. Troll traded commissary for some eight balls, and the dealers gave OG some for protection. As he didn’t do meth, OG traded it for commissary to buy heroin with. Troll and OG transformed D10 into a drug den. No forewarning. No board meeting. We received constant visitors, about two-thirds of the pod, wanting to snort, smoke and inject crystal meth in our cell.

Choosing to do drugs had put me in jail, so taking drugs now was inconceivable. How would I survive or fight my case if drugs were scrambling my mind? While the traffic flowed in and out of our cell, I lay on my bunk doing exercises from a Spanish textbook. But the commotion made it hard to concentrate, and the visitors frowned on my sobriety. Cell visiting was prohibited, so I feared the guards would search our cell and send us to lockdown. Or even worse: charge me for any drugs found, which could harm my case and extend my stay.

Early one morning, the addicts piled into D10 as soon as the doors popped open. They’d been up all night on crystal meth, and their voices woke me up. OG was snoring on the top bunk, but Troll hadn’t slept, and he began the morning ritual of dispensing them more meth.

‘I’m trying to sleep!’ I yelled. ‘Can’t you guys keep it down?’

‘Who the fuck are you, telling us to shut up?’ Outlaw replied.

Regretting offending the head of the whites, I tried to make amends. ‘Just trying to sleep, fellas,’ I said in a diplomatic tone that didn’t prevent them from issuing enough threats to unnerve me from dozing off.

Joining the queue for breakfast, I had the feeling of being watched. I took my Ladmo bag to my cell and ate quietly with Troll, swilling water in my mouth to get the stale bread down. No moves were made against me that day, but my sixth sense told me not to let my guard down.

I’d been working out with Sniper for a week. He was the son of a shot-caller in the New Mexican Mafia, a member of the La Victoria gang out of Tempe, and the head of the Chicanos. Short, muscular and clean-cut, he exercised fanatically. A friendship was blossoming between us, so on the day after I’d yelled at the men in my cell, I was concerned when I saw him pacing the balcony, spying on the table of his fellow Mexican-Americans.

Keeping his eyes on the day room, he sidestepped into D10. ‘Something’s up with my people, dawg.’

‘What do you mean, Sniper?’ Troll asked from his bunk.

‘I heard one of them call me a snitch, and now they’re planning on rolling me up.’

‘No way, Sniper! Who said you was a snitch, dawg?’ Troll asked.

Sniper went back to the balcony, nodded at the Chicano table and looked at Troll.

‘Your own people!’ Troll said. ‘Are you sure it’s not just the meth making you trip out, dawg?’

‘Yup.’

‘Then you’d better go handle your business and put your people in check.’

Sniper dashed out, frowning as if someone had hit him in the forehead with an axe. He descended the stairs and paced around the day room like an animal circling prey. Hoping working out with him would distract him from his paranoia, I went down and we started sets of push-ups.

Glistening with sweat and circling the day room was Outlaw. He’d complete a lap, drop down, do a set of push-ups off his knuckles and do another lap. Every time he passed us, he gave me a funny look. I had no idea what the look meant and put it down to animosity from the morning I’d yelled at the men.

When Sniper went to fill his water bottle, Outlaw came up to me, quickly joined by Carter.

‘Wattup, dawg!’ I said, expecting them to offer me their fists to bump, but they didn’t.

‘I know you’re new here and shit, but do you see any of the other whites working out with the other races?’ Outlaw asked.

Carter folded his meaty freckled arms and shook his head.

Looking around, I realised the men were all working out in small groups of their own races. I felt a wave of anxiety. This was my second strike with Outlaw after he’d told me off the other morning. I was afraid to speak in case I made matters worse.

Sniper re-emerged and saw them talking to me.

‘What should I do?’ I said low enough for Sniper not to hear.

‘Finish your workout, dawg,’ Outlaw said, and they both walked away.

‘Everything all right, dawg?’ Sniper asked.

‘It’s all good,’ I said.

‘Your people turning on you, too?’

‘No one’s turning on no one, dawg.’

Sniper fed off my agitation. His paranoia returned. He quit the workout to pace the balcony. Afraid of him doing something he might regret, I explained the situation to OG, his fellow Chicano. We spent until lockdown urging Sniper not to fight anyone, insisting he was just high and needed to sleep it off. But the next morning, he was our first visitor.

OG climbed down from the top bunk. ‘You’re cut off, Sniper.’

Taking the stool, Sniper grinned like a repentant child. ‘It was my first time ever doing it! What do you expect? I got a few hours’ sleep. I’m fine now.’

‘You slept!’ Troll said, perched on the bottom bunk. ‘I just listened to my radio all night.’

Picking sleep from his eyes, OG said, ‘Sniper, you were about ready to smash someone last night.’

‘Don’t do it, Sniper,’ Troll said.

‘I can handle my shit!’ Sniper said, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Don’t do it, Sniper,’ I said, fearing for Sniper. I hoped the cell would clear so I could get off my bunk and use the toilet without all of them standing around arguing.

Sniper tilted his head back. ‘Hell, I’ve done all kinds of other drugs.’

‘Come on, Sniper, don’t do it,’ OG said, hands on his hips.

‘I’m gonna prove to you guys I can handle my shit.’

We urged him not to do it.

Sniper unfolded his arms, and held out his palms. ‘Fuck it! Just gimme a fucking line!’

‘OK! If you think you can handle it,’ Troll said, shaking his head. ‘Sniper, let me sit there, and you keep point.’

On the toilet, Sniper watched for guards.

Troll tipped some white powder onto the table and snorted a line through rolled paper. ‘OK, your turn.’ Troll handed Sniper the tooter.

Less than an hour later, Sniper returned, paranoid. ‘Homey thinks I’m a fucking snitch! I’m gonna handle my business this time!’ He ran downstairs and circled the day room again.

Outlaw rushed in next, glazed in perspiration as usual. ‘You wanna line, dawg?’ he asked me.

‘No thanks,’ I said, hoping Carter didn’t follow him in.

He squinted as if I’d failed some kind of test, making me uneasy. ‘You wanna smoke some then?’

‘I’m good thanks, dawg.’

Outlaw squatted down, whipped out a lighter, sprinkled some white crystals onto tinfoil and heated it from underneath. He inhaled the acrid fumes with a cardboard funnel, bounced up and left without saying goodbye.

‘He’s pissed at you,’ Troll said.

‘At me! Why?’ I said, expecting Troll to say something about me working out with the other races.

‘It’s disrespectful to refuse drugs from the head of the whites. Sometimes people wanna see you do drugs so they know they can trust you. Like you’re not a cop.’

‘How was I supposed to know that?’ I asked, convinced this was my third strike. I imagined Outlaw and Carter hashing out how best to smash me.

‘You do now.’

‘Sure do, dawg.’ I toyed with the idea of telling Troll about my problems with Outlaw. I wanted his advice. But fearing he might yap to others and make matters worse, I resisted taking the chance.

Most of the men hadn’t slept for three days, and I remembered Billy’s advice:
Be careful ’cause when they’ve been up like this they start sketching out on each other and shit gets crazy.
The day room grew more boisterous. Men I’d never seen talking to each other before or who rarely came out of their cells were chatting about all sorts.

The first to lose it completely was a Mexican. He dashed around the day room ranting in Spanish about his arresting officer, who he swore was undercover in the pod and about to re-arrest him. A formation of Mexicans tried to prevent him from sparking a race riot by surrounding him, shadowing his movements. But every now and then he broke free from their formation, hurled himself at a random person and yelled himself to tears. He was on his knees sobbing when I noticed Sniper pacing the balcony again.

From the cell table, I called to Sniper, ‘What’s going on out there?’

Sniper came in, tight-lipped. ‘My cellies are gonna do something to me.’

‘What?’ I asked, convinced he’d gone mad.

‘I can’t tell you, but they’re gonna do it after lockdown,’ he said, his eyes sad and dilated.

‘Maybe you should—’

He slipped out of the cell, back to patrolling the balcony.

Carter came in next, and I figured my luck had finally gone. ‘Outlaw wants to see you in his cell.’

It’s come to this. I’m through.
‘All right, dawg.’ I got off my bunk, hoping he didn’t detect how nervous I was. ‘Everything all right?’

‘You can talk to him.’

I followed Carter downstairs, into Outlaw’s.

Outlaw was looking out of the tiny window at the rows of military tents housing female prisoners. Hearing us, he wheeled around. ‘Wattup, dawg!’

Carter brushed past me and guarded the door. I didn’t like having a man to my front and rear, but I appreciated Outlaw bumping my fist.
Maybe things aren’t so bad? Or are they just settling me so I drop my guard?
‘What’s going on?’

‘We see you’ve not been working out with the other races, and we appreciate that.’ Outlaw was standing about two feet in front of me, heaving his topless chest. His muscles and long blond hair brought to mind Thor.