Keeplock (3 page)

The good citizens of Danville walked on the outer edge of the sidewalk, as far from me as they could get. I was aware of their distaste, just as I was aware of everything happening on the street, but I couldn’t summon up any indignation. The myth of paying your debt and returning to the community was just that, a myth.

An experienced con, faced with a long bit, plans the time so it doesn’t stretch out into blank emptiness. I knew I was going away long before I heard my sentence and I decided to get myself an education. I’d graduated from grammar school and gotten my high school diploma in jail. Why not go all the way? The parole board didn’t figure to smile down on me, but a sincere effort at rehabilitation couldn’t hurt. I had to do at least a third of my fifteen-year sentence before I could be considered for parole, and I hoped to be cut loose after seven or eight years.

I spent the first three years working double shifts in the tailor shop, which was the main industry at Cortlandt. The tailor shop manufactured uniforms for state prisoners, American flags for municipal offices, and nightgowns for women in New York State hospitals. I already knew how to operate a sewing machine and I worked hard enough to please the C.O.’s, who rewarded me with extra work hours.

After I’d accumulated enough money in my prison account to keep me in cigarettes and coffee, I got myself transferred to the State University satellite school, which operated inside the walls, and graduated four years later. Not that I had any illusions about using my degree after I got out. I didn’t expect the business world to be any more impressed with my rehabilitation than the parole board. The largest part of any employment application (and I’ve filled out hundreds of them) is set aside for the applicant’s working history. What could I put down? Car theft? Burglary? Armed robbery? What would I write under “place of employment”? Spofford Youth House? Rikers Island? The Cortlandt Correctional Facility?

Work and school had gotten me through a ten-year bit. I never had a major beef (until Franklyn Peshawar) in Cortlandt, because I knew how to do time. I was an experienced con. It was the only experience I had to offer.

The bus rolled into Cortlandt, a shiny chrome Adirondack Trailways. It pulled up in front of the 7-11 and the driver, a short, fat man in a gray uniform and peaked cap, stepped out to welcome the only passenger.

“Luggage, sir?” he huffed.

Sir? Was he kidding? The man had to know what I was. I held out my empty hands and muttered, “No luggage,” warning myself not to overreact. This was the world, not prison. I handed him my ticket.

“One second.”

The asshole actually put his hand on my chest. I felt my own hand slowly drifting toward my belt buckle. I’d been carrying a weapon for ten years and, most of the time, kept it just below my belt. “This is the world,” I said.

“What?”

“Do we have a problem?”

“You can’t smoke on the bus.”

I looked at the burning Marlboro in my hand. “Why not?”

“It’s been the law for two years. Where you been?” He shook his head, then looked into my eyes for the first time. “Hey, the goddamn bus is empty. Sit in the back and smoke if you wanna. But if someone gets on and complains, I’ll have to ask you to put it out. Hell, I smoke, myself. I know how it is.”

“You ever been in the box?” I asked.

“What?”

“Can’t smoke in the box.” I ground out the cigarette and stepped onto the bus.

We took Route 7 west to the Interstate, then turned south. I stared out the window, feeling like an aborigine in a movie theater. Not that the view was all that strange. Whiteface Mountain, which is visible from high up on the courts, was still snowcapped. I’d spent the last ten years measuring the seasons by watching the snowcap grow and shrink.

I sat in the back of the bus and I didn’t smoke. It seems stupid, but I saw it as a test. The bus driver didn’t offer to let me smoke because he was nice guy. He offered because I scared the shit out of him. I know all about fear. Fear runs the Cortlandt Correctional Institution. Fear of the C.O.’s, fear of other prisoners, fear of the box, fear of the psych ward. Respect, itself, is gained by inspiring fear in other inmates.

The myth, among citizens, is that if you stand up for yourself in prison, the other convicts will leave you alone. But the price is much higher than that. I never saw a fistfight in Cortlandt. Men were stabbed every day. Or cornered and beaten with pipes. Or even burned in their cells. The simple fact is that dignity is preserved by a willingness to kill. Nothing less is acceptable, and the worst mistake a prisoner can make is to have another prisoner at his mercy and let him go. Mercy equals soft and soft equals prey.

Everybody carries a weapon. Or has one stashed where he can get to it in a hurry. I carried a shank with a thin wooden handle just underneath my belt buckle. It fit neatly through a loop sewn into my pants an inch below the top button. When the C.O.’s pat you down, they go over your legs thoroughly, grab your balls and your ass, but for some reason they don’t reach around in front. I was searched hundreds of times. If the C.O.’s had found the weapon, it would have meant the box and a beating. Weapons scare the shit out of C.O.’s, but the blacks have a saying. “Better the man should catch me
with
it, than the boys should catch me
without
it.”

“Say, mister.” It was the driver calling me from the front of the bus. We’d been traveling for about two hours. “C’mon up here. We got a problem.”

I walked up and sat across from him, trying to keep my voice friendly. Trying to be a citizen of the world. “How we doin’?”

“See this here?” He pointed to a glowing red light on the dashboard. “We’re overheatin’. I’m gonna pull into Bolton’s Landing and order up another bus. That’s the next stop, anyway.”

“Bolton’s Landing? Where is that? How long will it take?” I was expected in a parole office on West 40th Street in Manhattan. That afternoon. To miss the appointment for any reason would be a technical violation of the conditions of parole. I was also supposed to pick up a housing assignment when I reported and if the office was closed, I’d be spending the weekend on the street. The street is not the best place for me.

“Well, the company claims it can get a replacement bus anywhere within two hours, only it usually takes three or four. But don’t worry, mister, we’ll get you where you’re goin’. Bolton’s Landing is near Lake George. It’s mostly a tourist town and we’re still off-season.”

“There’s no way you can push it to Albany? I gotta make a connection in Albany.”

He looked over at me and shook his head. “Now, mister, if this was my bus, I’d give it a shot. But I can’t be burnin’ no engines up. The company’d fire me in a minute. See this here?” He pointed to a clipboard attached to the visor with a rubber band. “This here is a log. I already wrote down the exact time when the light went on. If I tried for Albany, I’d be in trouble, even if I made it.”

“All right, I get the picture.”

He was smiling, now that he was sure I wouldn’t become violent.

“Wanna get back to the big city, right? Hey, I understand. You’re probly goin’ home.”

I was going back where I came from, though I wouldn’t call it home.

T
HERE WAS A TIME
when a prisoner coming out after a long bit emerged to a totally unfamiliar world. That was before television came to the Institution. Not that there’s a TV in every cell. Or even in every block. That’s just media bullshit. But there were sets in the mess hall, the gym, and the yard. They were usually tuned either to the most violent movie or the most violent cartoon, except at six o’clock, when choices were limited to the news or the news.

Which is why I wasn’t terribly surprised by the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan. There’s no cable TV in Cortlandt, and the two snowy stations we got originated in Plattsburgh, New York. The local newscasters loved to spell out the differences between evil New York City and virtuous Plattsburgh. One of them went so far as to run a series on “New Calcutta,” spending the better part of a segment on conditions at the Port Authority.

The era of homelessness was just beginning when I went inside. Now I was stepping around the assembled multitudes. There’s some kind of a law against sleeping in the terminal, but it hadn’t had much effect on the assorted mutts, crazies, and confused elderly who wandered through the building. The good citizens danced little circles around men and women talking to the empty air. Or dodged determined panhandlers. A beggar approached me as I walked through the concourse. He shoved a jingling coffee container in my face, started his spiel, then looked into my eyes.

“Hey, bro, how you livin’?”

“Get the fuck outta my face.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He bowed deeply as he backed away.

Out on the street, the dealers, two or three to a block, whispered, “Crack? Blow? Smoke?” At the time, I thought it was just another case of being recognized for what I was. Now I realize there’s so much dope in Times Square that the dealers, mostly kids, offer it to anyone who doesn’t look like a cop. That’s why they’ll spend most of their lives in jail.

But I was in a hurry. It was almost seven and I had a hot date with a parole officer. Fortunately, New York State has a parole office on West 40th Street, half a block away from the terminal. (And smack in the middle of Dope Heaven.) I was thinking of what kind of bullshit I’d have to spout to keep my P.O. satisfied, and I was more than happy to find the office open and staffed. The receptionist, a career civil servant, examined my papers closely, then motioned me to a seat.

“Who am I gettin’?”

He looked up at me through watery eyes, considering the question.

“I didn’t know it was a secret,” I said.

His skin was so white, I could see the veins on his cheeks and forehead. “Please take a seat and wait for your name to be called.”

I wasn’t feeling particularly hostile, but I
was
free. Wasn’t I?

“Working overtime get to you, does it?” I asked.

He glanced down at my paperwork, then back at me. “Mr. Frangello, if you don’t get your ass in a chair by the time I count to ten, I’m going to ring for security.”

I started to say something, but thought better of it. “And, considering your background, Mr. Frangello,” he continued, “I don’t think security would be overjoyed at having to deal with you on the first day of your
conditional
release.”

He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds, but he wasn’t taking any crap from the likes of me. I had a brief fantasy involving the speed with which my right fist could reach his left cheekbone and how many times he’d bounce before he hit the wall behind him. Then I sat down.

“Welcome back, Pete.”

I recognized the voice before I looked up. Simon Cooper. “How you livin’, Simon?”

“Same old shit, Pete.” He hadn’t changed much in ten years. He was still black, still bald, still fat, and still as powerful as a prize bull. His handshake nearly broke my fingers.

If I was a little more paranoid, I might have understood his assignment to my case as part of a conspiracy, but I knew that cases were given out randomly to any P.O. without a full caseload. Besides, Simon Cooper was one of a rare breed. Sending parolees back to jail didn’t interest him very much. Nor did rehabilitation, in the ordinary sense. He was into crime prevention, and he’d give you a lot of room if he thought you needed it. I ought to know, because he’d been my P.O. the last time I came out.

Cooper had given me plenty of room and I’d fucked him at every turn. They didn’t make you pee in the bottle in 1979, but any experienced P.O. can recognize a nodding junkie. Not that I’d been an addict, but I’d reported stoned on more than one occasion. And that’s when I reported at all. Cooper had babied me through, running me down when I failed to report, easing me into a treatment slot when my habit began to get out of hand. I’d rewarded him by getting myself busted for a felony two months after I came off parole.

I followed him back to a room covered with gray, metal desks and took the required seat by Simon’s desk. It was Friday night and the room was deserted, which meant that he’d waited for me. Most of the functionaries I’ve met in the course of an Institutional life have been scumbags. They begin with the belief that all orphans are criminals and work hard to fulfill their own prophecies. As a white orphan, I’d been adopted before I left the maternity ward, but my parents, Warren and Bonnie Walsh, had returned me to the state when I was nine. They’d claimed I was uncontrollable, which may or may not have been true. I can’t remember any more, but I know they never mentioned the fact that they’d managed to conceive three kids of their own in those nine years. And had no further use for me.

Not that I’m making excuses. Or even looking for an explanation. I gave that up long ago. It’s just that I’ve met a few good people along the way. Civil servants who were in it for more than the check and the pension. I inevitably reacted to them as if they were fathers, wanting desperately to please them. And failing miserably.

Simon Cooper was one of the good ones. He had a fat, benevolent face, a walrus mustache, and huge brown eyes that softened a hardened core. He wouldn’t take any lip from the toughest ex-con, but he would plead your case to the board, even if you’d been violated for committing another crime. Assuming, of course, that he felt you were worth the effort.

“You been away a long time, Pete.” His voice was neutral, but his eyes seemed to reproach me. “Ten years.”

“Shit happens, Simon.” I was sorry that I’d hurt him, but, of course, I wasn’t about to show it.

“You know what it says here, Pete?” He held up my file. “It says ‘career criminal.’ It says ‘sociopath.’ It says ‘high-risk offender.’”

“I don’t remember it ever saying anything else. That’s why the board turned me down three times.”

“It also says I should put my foot on your head and keep it there for the next five years. It says, ‘Intense Supervision.’”

“I wouldn’t blame you, Simon. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been thinking about you ever since I got the assignment and I’ve decided to follow the recommendations of the board. Things have changed in New York since you went inside. Caseloads are way up and I don’t have time to supervise anymore. None of us do. Now it’s all mechanical: check the urine, check the pay stubs, check the residence. Violate for any fuck-up. The media’s all over us. ‘Soft on criminals’ is what they call us. ‘Bleeding hearts.’ They don’t know a fucking thing about what we do, but every reporter’s an expert.”