Hard Time (12 page)

Do they know Sniper has lost his mind and is in no condition to be working out?
I decided to say nothing and take the credit. ‘No problem.’

‘Look, dawg, we know what you were doing on the streets. You’ve got a lotta connects. We’ve got no white boys bringing dope in. The Mexicans have got us by the balls. If a wood was hooking us up from the streets, we wouldn’t have to deal with the other races.’

I didn’t like the direction this was heading in. But what could I say? I just nodded and listened.

‘Why don’t you use your connects so we can step on the Mexicans? We’ll pay you.’

I found the notion of dealing drugs while in jail on drug charges absurd. But safety was my priority. I couldn’t just outright refuse and risk insulting the two most powerful whites in our pod. Flustered by the pressure they were applying, I struggled to find an appropriate response. I tried to say no in a way I hoped wouldn’t invite violence: ‘I have no way to do it.’ Realising I’d opened a door from their perspective, I immediately regretted my answer. I braced for what they’d say next.

‘Yes, you do,’ Carter said from behind, causing me to swivel. ‘Your chick’s visiting you all the time. She can bring it in.’

What a nerve!
Asking me to commit crimes was one thing – I probably deserved that – but enlisting Claudia! How long had they been planning this behind my back? Curbing my anger, I thought to bluff them. ‘I’ll have to ask her.’ I figured I could pretend to ask her and tell them she said no, so it would look like I’d tried.

‘We’d appreciate that, wood.’

I was a wood now, not merely a dawg. All they cared about was dope, and they’d put Claudia at risk to get it. ‘I can’t talk to her about it on the recorded lines, so I’ll ask her at Visitation.’ I’d just bought a few days.

‘All right, good lookin’ out, wood.’ There was a con artist’s tone in Outlaw’s voice. But I preferred him trying to bend me to his will by manipulation rather than violence. I stood a chance with the former, not the latter.

One of the dealers became so paranoid he gave his last ounce to OG in case it were found and used as evidence against him. The users topped up in our cell. But their euphoria was short-lived. They’d been wired for so long they turned suspicious of each other. They started trading conspiracy theories and organising witch hunts. Some were even going from group to group and cell to cell insisting the groups and cells they’d just come from were plotting against them. The day room was far more dangerous than usual. Leaving my cell to use the phone, I feared getting lynched for saying no to drugs.

Troll believed the guards knew he was high and it was only a matter of time before they demanded a urine sample. He decided his best strategy was to avoid them. He hid on his bunk and sent packing anyone who popped in to see if he wanted to play cards. ‘The guards know I’m always out playing spades,’ Troll said, his voice shaky. ‘They know why I’m hiding out.’ He’d been surveying the guards in the control tower for hours. Knocking on the bottom of my bunk, he said, ‘I see the dogs! I see the dogs! I see the dogs!’

His knocking was reverberating right through me. Annoyingly. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘The sniffer dogs are in the fishbowl!’

Concerned the goon squad had arrived, I leaned off the middle bunk. ‘There’s no dogs, dawg,’ I said, looking down at him.

‘They’re bringing the dogs! Oh fuck, dawg! I’m a bust!’ he said, slapping his temples.

‘There’s no dogs, Troll. You’re sketching.’

‘I see them,’ he said, poking his cheeks with his fingertips.

‘Troll, there’s no dogs!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘And if they do come, it’s ’cause of the way you’re behaving right now.’

‘Look at my pupils. Am I a bust? Am I a bust?’ he said, pointing at his eyes.

His pupils had dilated into little black ponds. The whites of his eyes were strewn with red squiggles as if his capillaries were about to burst. But I didn’t want to panic him. ‘Take it easy, Troll.’

He gazed at the control tower again. ‘Are you sure there’s no dogs, dawg?’

‘I thought you don’t sketch, Troll. How come you’re sketching?’

‘I don’t sketch! I was just kidding about the dogs,’ he said in a fake-relaxed voice. He rolled over on his bunk, out of sight, where he could no longer see the control tower.

I returned to my Spanish book.

Five minutes later: ‘Dawg! Dawg! Do you see the dogs?’ This went on all day.

OG had two friends in D11: Arturo and Silver Fox. Normally mild-mannered individuals, crystal meth had rendered them too afraid to leave their cell, even for chow. They stayed on their bunks, rigid and alert, like hens incubating eggs, their eyes fixating on potential threats coming through the door. After lights out, there was banging on the wall we shared with D11.

‘Arturo, Silver Fox, what is it?’ OG asked, climbing down from the top bunk.

‘We found a note in our cell telling us we’d better roll our shit up,’ Silver Fox said.

‘What note?’ OG asked.

‘Just a note. There’s gonna be trouble if we don’t roll our shit up.’

‘What note? What’re you talking about, Silver Fox? Nobody has written a note.’ OG cleared his throat, spat in the toilet, and yelled into the day room, ‘Listen up! Has anyone in here written a note to Arturo or Silver Fox?’

Silence.

‘See, Silver Fox. There’s no note. Try and get some sleep, dawg. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘All right.’

Ten minutes later, Silver Fox knocked again. ‘I really should go, OG. You ain’t seen the note.’

‘There’s no note, Silver Fox. Please listen to me, bro. You just need to get some sleep, homey. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ve got your back, dawg!’

‘All right.’

Silver Fox’s knocks kept waking me up. The reassurances were the same, but OG snored through Silver Fox’s final plea for help.

By doors open, D11 was empty. Arturo and Silver Fox had grown so frightened of the imaginary note during the night they’d demanded the guards move them to lockdown.

Before breakfast, guards converged on Sniper’s cell. They handcuffed and escorted him to lockdown.

Troll revealed what had happened to Sniper. ‘A guard caught Sniper on his bunk with his fingers in his ass.’

‘What?’ I asked, shocked.

‘They asked him what he was doing, and he said, “I got raped by my cellies, and I’m checking the damage.”’

‘What’ll happen to him?’ I asked.

‘They’ll send him for a psych evaluation,’ Troll said. ‘There’s no way the guards’ll believe his two skinny-ass cellies raped that buff dude.’ Troll still hadn’t slept. He was convinced the guards were about to do something nasty to him. He was right.

Officer Mordhorst appeared at our door, pointing at Troll. ‘You’re my chow server this morning,’ he said, and marched away.

‘Ain’t that-about-a-bitch,’ Troll said, rocking on his bunk. ‘He’s never asked me to serve chow before. Oh fuck! He’s onto me. I’m a bust. How big are my eyes, dawg?’

They were still helter-skelter, and I had to be honest in case Mordhorst noticed them. ‘Still big.’

‘Fuck!’

Mordhorst summoned Troll ten minutes later.

‘I’m fucked! Mordhorst’s gonna see my eyes and bust me,’ Troll said, ‘and I can’t refuse ’cause then he’ll know something’s up, and bust me anyway, so I’ve gotta do it and risk getting busted.’

‘Look, you don’t know for sure he’s onto you; just go down there and try and act normal.’ I feared Mordhorst was onto him. I expected Troll to end the day in the hole. That I’d lose a good cellmate and receive a bad one.

‘I haven’t slept in five days! How can I act fucking normal?’ Troll said, clenching and unclenching his hands.

‘Just try.’

Joining the queue for breakfast, I studied Troll stood next to Officer Mordhorst. He had a hair net on. His face was trembling as he doled out Ladmo bags and milks to the inmates hounding him for extra food he dare not give. His lips were pursed, his eyes darting as if seeking a way out of the situation.

When he was done serving chow, Troll returned to D10. Stunned and shaking. ‘Why me? Why’d he pick me? I’ve never served chow. He saw my pupils. I know he did. I’m a bust. They’re gonna call me for a piss test any second. I’m a bust. The dogs were at Tower 5 yesterday. They’ll be here soon. Oh fuck! Shaun! Shaun! Check out the fishbowl for me. Do you see the dogs?’

‘Still no dogs,’ I said.

‘They’ll be here soon with the goon squad.’

I feared the goon squad was coming to extract a price for all of the people going berserk on drugs.

After chow, the Mexican who suspected his arresting officer was undercover in the pod ran around the day room yelling in Spanish. He gave the Mexicans who were shadowing his movements the slip and charged at people of all races. He was stirring up a race riot, so the Mexicans subdued him and tried dragging him into a cell. This inflamed him more. He ran from them screaming, dashed into his cell, banged around and re-emerged with his mattress rolled up. He rushed to the sliding door and pounded on the Plexiglas to get the attention of the control guard. He kept looking over his shoulders as if expecting the undercover cop – the star of his delusions – to re-arrest him. When the sliding door opened, he ran down the corridor. Guards chased him out of sight.

The pod was extremely dangerous now. Someone was acting up on drugs everywhere. I stayed on my bunk, flinching every time I heard a head banged against steel or a body slammed onto the concrete. A bleeding and disorientated inmate evacuating the pod always followed these noises.

During my party years, I believed drugs were glamorous. But the constant exposure in the jail to round-the-clock drug users crushed that viewpoint out of me. I swore never to do drugs again and still haven’t to this day.

Our water was off the following morning. Anticipating a raid, the majority keystered their contraband. We were all tense. I’d heard so many descriptions of the goon squad I now dwelt on my own terrible image of them. I was dreading a bunch of armed commando types storming our living quarters, stripping us naked and tearing through our belongings. The tension continued to rise. Would they come or not? Was the water simply turned off for maintenance? Why won’t the guards tell us anything? Surely that means they’re coming. There was a collection of us on the balcony discussing these things like village elders.

‘Check this out, dawg!’ Troll yelled from inside the cell.

I went back in. ‘What?’

Troll pointed at his bunk. I laughed at the giant smiley face he’d made by placing brownies next to each other.

‘Any food the state gives us, the goon squad are gonna trash.’ Troll picked up a legal folder. ‘I hid two brownies in here,’ he said.

‘Here they come!’ everyone started yelling.

We rushed to the front of the cell. A group of big men in black shank-proof armour and protective goggles charged down the corridor. It was the Strategic Response Team (goon squad). They were even bigger than the men who’d raided my apartment. Fiercer-looking too. As they approached the middle of the tower, the prisoners downstairs started to flee to their cells. First to charge into the day room was a white man with massive tattooed biceps. He raised a shotgun and fired a thundershot distraction round that delivered a flash of light and a deafening bang.

‘Put your hands on your heads! No one fucking move!’

OG shot into the cell. ‘What a bunch of fucking assholes!’

Yelling at the few prisoners who hadn’t made it back to their cells, the goon squad spread out in the day room. They shared the same cold expression, as if they’d come to kill us all without a scintilla of remorse. Half of them had tattoos on their bodybuilder arms and looked like they belonged in the jail themselves.

‘You do not move unless we tell you to move! You do not talk to us unless we tell you to talk to us!’ Some were storming up the stairs now.

‘Aw, fuck. They’re about to hit our cell,’ Troll said.

‘Fuck ’em!’ OG said.

OG and Troll pressed their palms up high on the cement-block wall. I did likewise, my adrenalin surging as I relived the morning of my arrest. It was happening all over again. The bad start to a day that only got much worse.

A Hispanic goon-squad guard slammed our door open. ‘Strip now!’