Hard Time (17 page)

Church on the Street started as usual at Towers jail. We were sat in rows of plastic chairs in a large bare room without any windows, singing along with the chaplain, Pastor Will, who insisted, in the face of numerous obstacles put up by the jail, on coming in to hold a weekly Christian outreach service. Pastor Will was an ex-Vietnam vet, Satanist and alcoholic whom God had restored to His flock in 1976. In drainpipe jeans and a lumberjack shirt, tiny Hillbilly Ed was strumming his vintage guitar and tapping pointy snakeskin cowboy boots against the concrete. There were no guards present, affording more privacy for the devout to commune with God and the less devout to misbehave.

Clutching the Bible, Pastor Will took a few steps forward. His keen eyes, bulging and bloodshot, appraised the audience. ‘Tonight this is God’s room. This is our church. This is the time and place to worship Him, and I expect you all to behave yourselves – especially the scoffers and mockers in the back row.’ Pastor Will’s eyes scanned the back row and halted on a known disrupter of religious ceremonies: Wild Man. Wild Man stopped whispering loudly to me and smiled dementedly at Pastor Will. The expression on Pastor Will’s sun-baked face soured, his gaze intensified. When Pastor Will got through shaking his head at Wild Man, his eyes settled on the Christians in the front row. Most of them had brought rosary beads and soft-bound Bibles. Some were adorned with tattoos of crucifixes, Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The communing of eyes between him and the devout restored a calmer look to Pastor Will’s face. ‘You see, scoffing and mocking was predicted in the Bible. The scoffers and mockers were expected during the End Times. How many of you are familiar with Revelations?’

All hands shot up in the front rows, not so many in the middle, at the back, none.

‘If you’ve read Revelations—’

Two men burst through the door right behind Pastor Will, startling him. One, a Keith Richards type in tight-fitting black clothes and a headband, unsheathed a guitar with a gay-pride rainbow sticker on it and didn’t speak or seem to alter his facial expression. The other was bald and beaming a smile not of this earth. Through Lennon specs, his eyes radiated happiness. His cheap white T-shirt proclaimed: I LOVE JESUS. He wore sandals worthy of an apostle and well-faded jeans.

Regaining his composure, Pastor Will said, ‘Some of you may already be familiar with Jumping Bill.’

The bald man raised his hand and intensified his smile. The inmates who recognised Jumping Bill clapped as if we were in for a treat.

Pastor Will gazed for a few seconds at the two new arrivals tuning their strings. ‘I’m just gonna step outta the way and let Jumping Bill take over.’

Jumping Bill centred himself in front of the congregation. His partner remained several metres behind him near the wall. ‘How many of you love Jesus?’ Jumping Bill whispered.

Only the front rows responded.

‘How many of you love Jesus?’ he said a little louder, nodding at us.

More rows responded.

‘How many of you love Jesus?’ he said even louder. He strummed his guitar and lunged forward.

Most of us responded.

He smiled over his shoulder at his partner. His expressionless partner responded with a barely perceptible nod. Rotating his head from side to side like a mannequin, Jumping Bill engaged us with eyes that said,
I am about to open the gates of Heaven for you
. Still in the lunge position, he began rocking back and forth as he sang in a soothing whisper:

Jumping Bill leapt into the air, surprising us. His guitar flew out to one side. He dashed down the aisle, casting the net of his smile over the rapt audience. Strumming faster, he homed in on the back row. He stopped in front of various men, nodding and smiling, not saying a word, melting the meanest looks from faces. When my turn came, he looked so happy, I thought,
My God, I took drugs to feel like that.
The force of his smile was so strong I couldn’t stop smiling back at him. His aura made the hair on my arms stand up. Then he ran to the front of the room. Back to rocking in the lunge position.

‘Repeat after me, everyone!’ he shouted, and then sang, ‘Worthy is the lamb.’

‘Worthy is the lamb,’ we chimed in.

‘You are Holy, Holy,’ he sang.

‘You are Holy, Holy,’ we repeated.

We cheered when the song was over.

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ he said. He played more songs. He whispered to God. He sang loudly. He wept. He sang in Spanish. He danced and dashed around the room. ‘OK, everybody, at the end of this song I want you all to jump up and down with me as high in the air as you can.’

When he shouted ‘Jump, everybody!’, he jumped, and some men began to pogo. Others looked around the room as if wondering what to do. I decided to jump. It seemed the right thing to do. I jumped alone in my area, embarrassed at first but then joined by a few others whose jumping eased my self-consciousness. Smiling at Bill and the other men jumping, I was momentarily free from the stress of my case and the environment. I was free to push down hard on my feet and spring as high in the air as possible. Free to land in a way that jolted my body and sent my anxiety out in shockwaves through my feet. There was an irrational joy sparkling in the eyes of the other men jumping, and I knew my eyes looked exactly the same. I was finally at one with the insanity of the place.

‘You are going to be free-free-free-free ... ’ Jumping Bill yelled. ‘C’mon, everybody, jump with me!’

Around the men that were already jumping, many more joined in. The mass of jumping men expanded across the room. Late jumpers were enthusiastically matching the intensity of the early jumpers. Even Wild Man was jumping and yelling, ‘The devil is in me!’ The men jumping nearest to Wild Man gave him a wide berth lest he injure them. IDs shot from the top pockets of some of the jumpers. Men pushed and shoved each other and play fights broke out. When shower sandals and chairs were launched across the room, Pastor Will called order. Much to my disappointment, Jumping Bill and everyone stopped jumping. I was back in the jail.

When Pastor Will stepped back, Jumping Bill yelled, ‘One more time! You are going to be free-free-free-free . . . ’

The cheering men jumped again, converting the room into a punk-rock concert. To a boisterous ovation, Pastor Will announced the end of the service. Most of us had stopped jumping by the time the guards rushed in to investigate the commotion. They commanded us to return to our pods, but we were so many and they were so few we ignored them. Basking in our defiance of the guards and the afterglow of jumping, we lingered to hug Jumping Bill.

Returning from court, OG breezed into our cell singing ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, grinning in a self-satisfied way that didn’t look right on a man lacking both front teeth. His case had been dropped. To celebrate, he tied a towel around his arm, clenched his hand several times and shot up a massive hit of heroin. He sang until 2 a.m. that night, and tickled my feet every time I fell asleep.

Troll and I prayed we wouldn’t get another maniac like OG for a cellmate. Our prayers were answered in the form of Doug, a mellow 50 year old who’d spent half of his life locked up. He was short, thin, with gentle blue eyes and a large nose reshaped by ancient prison fights. Caught with a tiny amount of black-tar heroin, he was facing five years for violating the terms of his parole. As Doug had done more time than all of us, the other inmates respected him. Even Gravedigger stopped by to congratulate us for having ‘an all-white cell with a well-respected wood’.

Around the time Doug arrived, our pod received the biggest man at Towers jail: Houston, an ex-pro footballer. Six foot eight, he towered over everyone and was crowned the head of his race by virtue of size. His presence put an end to the day-room affronts on the blacks – even Gravedigger modified his behaviour. When there was a black-on-black dispute in a neighbouring pod, the guards took Houston over there to settle it. I was wary of chatting with him because of what the whites might do, but he insisted on telling me about travelling the world with his football team and the partying he’d done at Stringfellows nightclub in London. Along with his sports success had come a cocaine addiction. Drugs had destroyed his career. He’d been arrested selling cocaine to finance his addiction. I told him I’d thrown my stockbroking career away to party. After chatting with Houston, I returned to my filthy cell with the two addicts, dwelling on what I’d lost.

Houston wasn’t with us for long. Trouble brewed as soon as he was moved to another tower to promote ‘racial harmony’. Lev told me about Gravedigger’s plan to have SmackDown – who was now the head of the blacks again – smashed. After smashing Carter, SmackDown had behaved himself for a few weeks but was now bullying commissary from members of every race again. There were few men in the pod that SmackDown hadn’t tried it on with. Knowing that smashing the head of a race was a declaration of war on every member of that race, I expected mass violence.

SmackDown cornered me in D10 when I was on the stool writing a letter to Claudia. ‘’Ey, England, I saw you get store. Gimme some Snickers till store day, dawg, and I’ll pay you back two-for-one.’ In shower sandals and bee-striped pants, he stepped towards me, reducing the distance between us as if to pressure me into saying yes. He inhaled volubly, expanding a broad and powerful chest that rose from his narrow waist like a triangle.

Troll had previously warned me that if the prisoners knew I’d give them store, there’d be a line at the door to take my commissary. ‘I’ve only got enough to last till store day, dawg,’ I said, hoping he’d leave it at that.

SmackDown stepped closer, breathing the full weight of his presence down upon me. ‘You don’t trust me ’cause I’m black. You don’t think I’ll pay you back,’ he said, anger rising in his voice.

Tensing up, I paused to think what to say. ‘That’s not it at all, dawg. I’ll starve in here if I give my store away,’ I said, which was true. It was also true that I didn’t trust him, and he knew it. He was trying to milk that truth. But the reason I didn’t trust him wasn’t racial, it was because I could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of people I could trust in the jail.

‘Y’all motherfuckin’ racists up in this cell.’

Fearing he’d try to exploit any emotional reaction, I strained to remain pleasant. ‘Look, dawg, I can’t eat the red death and green baloney. I’ll starve if I give my store away,’ I said, determined to hold my ground.

‘Fuck, man, all I’m asking for is one lousy Snickers.’

‘If I give my food away, I’ll run out before store day and end up hungry.’

Troll walked in. ‘Wattup, dawgs!’

‘I’m motherfuckin’ hungry,’ SmackDown said. ‘Got any honey buns?’

‘Best I can do is a few soups, bro,’ Troll said, reaching under his bunk for a commissary bag.

The soups sent SmackDown on his way, but I knew he’d be back. A part of me appreciated what Gravedigger was about to do. It was the same part that rejoiced when SmackDown smashed Carter and Gravedigger sent Carter packing. SmackDown had threatened my food – something I no longer took for granted. I felt hassled and understood why so many were against him.

Gravedigger used the numerous incidences of SmackDown bulldogging inmates to organise a meeting for the heads of all of the races except the blacks. He told them that if a torpedo gave SmackDown the standard ultimatum, ‘The fellas have decided you need to roll your shit up or else we’ll roll it up for you. What’s it gonna be, dawg?’ SmackDown would probably smash the torpedo and claim he’d earned the right to stay in our pod. To get the job done properly required three torpedoes to corner SmackDown and more to wait outside his cell just in case. Eager to get rid of SmackDown, each head volunteered a torpedo to smash him.

While on the phone in the day room, I noticed men gathering suspiciously on the balcony. Most of the blacks were engrossed in a card game downstairs as three torpedoes – a white, a Mexican and a Mexican American – entered SmackDown’s upstairs cell. More torpedoes guarded the stairs.

‘Each of the races have decided you’ve gotta go, SmackDown,’ yelled the white torpedo, a tough 40-year-old ranch hand from Nebraska. ‘Now roll your fucking shit up!’

‘For doing fucking what? Who wants me to fucking roll up?’ SmackDown yelled, shifting away from them.

‘Come on, SmackDown, let’s do this the easy way, dawg.’

‘I ain’t fucking rolling up!’

The white torpedo dashed behind SmackDown while the other two approached from the front. He put SmackDown in an upright headlock while they punched SmackDown’s head and stomach. SmackDown lurched backwards, sandwiching the white torpedo between himself and the wall. He flicked his head forwards and then backwards, instantly breaking the white torpedo’s nose. Noisy crosses, jabs and uppercuts fermented into a bloody mess. The yelling and pounding of knuckles against flesh caught the attention of the blacks, who charged halfway up the stairs before the torpedoes began pushing them back down. One of the blacks weighed about 400 pounds, and he fell down the stairs, knocking men out of the way like a bowling ball striking pins, dragging more men into the fight. Two of the blacks fought their way past the torpedoes and onto the balcony. Inmates of all races emerged from the upper-tier cells and fought those two blacks. The battle for the stairs was raging below them, and the fight at the bottom of the stairs was spreading throughout the day room. Several blacks were still trying to gain ground on the stairs until a hefty Mexican American attacked them from behind with a mop stick. Everywhere I looked, a black man was bravely fending off multiple assailants. As if he were the personification of the Satanic puppet-master on his chest, Gravedigger was enjoying the spectacle from his cell downstairs. I later learned he’d opted not to fight so the disciplinary officer couldn’t find him guilty of inciting a riot and send him back to lockdown.

Mordhorst turned the phone lines off. ‘Lockdown! Lockdown, now!’ he yelled over the speaker system. ‘This is a direct order: lockdown right now!’ Everyone ignored him, so he put on a gas mask.

Knowing Mordhorst was on his way to the day room to spray us all, I tried to get up the stairs behind Troll and Doug, who were struggling to elbow through the fighting men. Struck by flailing arms, I raised my forearms to shield my face. Progress was impossible: we’d advance a few steps and get pushed back down. The torpedoes at the top of the stairs were pushing the blacks down onto the rest of us. I’d never been in the thick of a room full of people fighting. Caught up in the atmosphere, I was soon elbowing and pushing men of all races away with increased force. I felt the rush of the battle as I did what was necessary to try to get up the stairs. Also motivating me was fear of Mordhorst, who was descending the control-tower stairs wielding a giant canister, seconds away from entering the day-room door directly behind me.

Sane guards waited for backup before entering a riot situation, but not Mordhorst. Watching over him in the control tower, Officer Alston activated the sliding door to our pod. As Officer Alston yelled ‘Lockdown!’ over and over, Mordhorst turned sideways to get through the half-open door and charged into the day room. The Mexican pulling ninja moves with the mop stick was the first to be sprayed. An awful smell assaulted us, as if a thousand bird’s-eye chillies were being deseeded all at once. The spray scattered the men from the stairs. Falling over each other, eyes smarting, my cellmates and I rushed into D10 and slammed the door. From the safety of the cell, I watched Mordhorst, resembling an invader from the Second World War, dashing around fumigating the combatants as if exterminating vermin. Coughing and wheezing prisoners rushed into cells. Many locked down in the nearest cells they could find just to escape from Mordhorst. The Mexican and Mexican American torpedoes slipped out of SmackDown’s cell just before Mordhorst got there. Mordhorst locked the door and sprayed the cell for a good few minutes.

‘I’m fucking blind!’ SmackDown kept yelling.

By the time backup charged into Tower 6, Mordhorst had put out half of the riot. The backup guards dragged out anyone still fighting.

‘My eyes are killing me,’ I said, panting by the cell door.

‘Wet your towel and wrap it around your head,’ Doug said. ‘It’ll stop the spray. Blink as much as you can, so your tears wash the crap out.’

I put a wet towel around my head but left a gap to monitor the day room. Guards were ascending the stairs, hurrying towards the fighting noises still coming from SmackDown’s cell. The guards opened SmackDown’s door and rushed in, yelling orders to stop fighting. They emerged with SmackDown.

‘You’ll all be fucking sorry for pulling that three-on-one bullshit when I get back outta the hole!’ he yelled. Hardly able to open his eyes, he otherwise looked unscathed as they escorted him to lockdown.

Then they brought out the white torpedo whose bleeding nose was pointing in a new direction.

‘Your nose is crooked,’ mocked a guard.

‘Can I fix it before you handcuff me?’ the white torpedo asked with a polite cowboy twang.

The guard looked perplexed. The white torpedo placed the palm of one hand against the side of his nose, and struck his nose with his other hand. It made a crunching noise. Holding his hands out in readiness for the cuffs, he smiled with satisfaction.