Prologue.
It is July 1st, 1979. Cell block A has no airconditioning. Everybody knows, without being told, that things are not going to hang together too well between the powers in the block. There are four main crews in block A. The bikers and the Micks hang together. The Jamaicans have split from the Panthers and the other nigger crews, because they got a good pipeline going for candy and grass, and the other black crews got greedy for a cut. The skins are dangling on their own. A couple of very public losses of face have put them on the defensive, and their blood is in the water.
You got it together to hook up with the best crew you can be. You did real good in your trial. You danced around every question, and the team you were driving for never got a mention. The Gambino crew are paranoid mothers, and you were sweating for a while, but after the sentence got handed to you, and they saw that there was no way you could have made a deal, and still got five years handed to you, They quietly put word out in Green haven that a you were going in, and that you had the favour of the Gambino family. You are the magic man in block A for everyone smart enough to know who is who and what is what. Unfortunately, some of the gang kids think that their crew is the only game in town, and three years have gone by since Carmine Gambino let it be known that you were a friend of his. You have only got one other connected guy in the slam with you. He is in the next cell. His name is Scarnitti “Skinny” Da Silva. He is Portugese, and gets Spider Man and Avengers comics in a week after they hit the news stands. He is really popular. Nobody wants to cut off the comic supply. You trade for him, and get a pack a day as a salary, and a cut of the trades.
The trouble at the moment is some of the Jamaicans have been hinting that you guys should cut them in for a piece.
Like all prisons, Greenhaven is a microcosm of the street. The crews mirror the real crews, and often don’t bother changing names.
Greenhaven is not doing well. A group of sweeping reforms have eroded the warden’s power. A trust housing project has been set up, but it confuses people, and the screws have gone from being too hard, to being afraid to mess with people’s rights. Without the containment of a clear social order, things are uncertain. Uncertainty in a maximum pen can get you killed.
You share a cell with a kid from Cleveland who really shouldn’t be in this slam. He burned his draft papers and hit the pig who tried to take him in. He is doing a four year stint for assaulting an officer. You get on really well with him because he is a total gearhead and he knows more about mechanics than you do. His name is Benjamin Wood. His nickname here is Woody. He sticks to you like glue for protection, and you sometimes have to ask him to shut up, but he and Skinny are all you have in here. You have been paying tribute to an Irishman for protection, and he seems to like you guys, because he keeps the other crews off you like a full time job. He is the hardest man on the block. He is thin and wiry, freckled and redhaired, with a boxers nose and eyebrows. He is in for doing three hits on a weekend. He beat out a guys brains with a prison chair on his first day in Greenhaven. He did his bit in solitary, and became a lifer. He is called Terry the Terror. Behind his back, some call him Alfred Neumann. It costs dope and an occasional fix to keep him in your pocket.
You get the dope from a warden who got in debt to Carmine Gambino’s cousin in Atlantic City. He leaves it in your cell during cell inspections. He pretends to have it in for you personal, and got you to smack him in mess hall, as part of the act. As far as anyone else is concerned, your ability to get weed and smack on the inside is pure voodoo.
Your sister comes to visit today. The wardens have started to spray the block with hoses to cool it down. This month has seen two head wardens come and go. One lasted less than two days, before he handed in the job for “family reasons.” The corrections board has just brought in a guy from Chicago. The riots in other prisons have the feds real scared, so they just brought in the guy who held Capone as a visible gesture that they are still in control.
When you wake up, it is too early for you. It must be about four a.m. Skinny is on the can in the next cell, which must have woken you. The cool night air is welcome. A couple of new guys got brought in yesterday, and one of them is crying. Warden Peterson is doing the walk on your floor, smoking Chesterfield. His shoes clack softly on the floor. Woody is asleep on the bottom bunk.
What are you thinking about?
The rhythmic breathing below suggested that his cellmate was still asleep. Robbie moaned softly as a yawn rose up to take him, stretching his arms out before rubbing his eyes. He'd been dreaming again. Dreaming of walking along the docks in the rain. It was a frequent dream he'd been having lately, though he had no idea what it could mean if it meant anything at all. Maybe it was just a dream of freedom? It certainly wouldn't be out of sorts for someone in his position to desire such things.
The soft clack of the warden's shoes grew closer to Robbie's cell and he tilted his head up to look through the bars.
After a deep, sound sleep, you wake up at first bell. Getting the cell ready for inspection takes hardly any time. You can see one of the new guys getting an introductory smacking around by Warden Gertsen. He likes to find something out of place and give new guys a hard time, to let them know where they stand. A couple of Jamaican yardies usually give you the eye when you come to stand outside your cell, but today they are not looking your way at all.
You suddenly know in your gut that they are going to try to beat or kill you today. You were approached three times for a cut, and three times you refused. The cut they wanted of your end was bigger than your end. You couldn't tell them that, but they think you are getting fat. If they kill you, it is pointless for them, because they get nothing, so it will probably be a beating, unless they want to send a message to another crew, in which case you are just the lamb on the altar. You need to find out which other crews are in the sights.
Woody looks upbeat. His family are supposed to visit today.
He smiles, catches himself, looks tough, smiles again. "Hey look! those guys that don't like you are chilling out. I told you it would all blow over. Your sister coming today, and all, that's a good thing."
Skinny DaSilva tells him quietly "Don't let other people know you are clocking them. Look like you don't give a f~!!."
Warden Penny is coming to check your cell.
"Stand away from the door." He gives a convincing pat down of your bed, and looks carefully at the cell."
He moves on down the hall.
Skinny says "If you go and hang with Terry all day, they are going to think you are a pussy, and get eager. If you don't, you are going to have to face a pack of Rasta motherf!%%ers. They are f$$!ing animals, I tell you. The shit we gotta put up with nowadays, animals, I f#+@in tell you"
Robbie's eyes coolly surveyed the scene, never lingering long, but touching upon each and every one of the individuals who had it out for him. The list was not short, but it did indeed look suspiciously calm today. That did very little to set his mind at ease.
When Skinny spoke, it snapped him out of the pensive survey and he swallowed a bit to clear his throat before speaking. "Yeah. I ain't scared of 'em. If they roll me," Robbie shrugged. "I'll heal. If they kill me... shit, if they kill me then it don't much matter, do it?" He flashed a smirk at Skinny, then looked at Woody. "Play it cool, Woody. Yeah, my sis is comin' in. I'm hopin' to see her while I still got all my teeth in my head. I'll take my ass-kickin' afterwards."
Woody says: "I will hang with you. I have your back."
Skinny snickers slightly. "See. Woody has your back."
The line starts to shuffle, slow, like the screws like to see, as you go to the breakfast hall. The shuffle is a safe thing. The eyes are on everybody, and the screws have good angles on everyone. The new head warden is in the breakfast hall with a microphone set to a small speaker. There are no plug sockets on the walls, so this thing must have a battery. Three guards are loitering close to him. Each row of tables has a guard watching it. You guys are on the third, top, floor of block A, so you all sit last. As you are about to sit, with your back to the wall, a warden taps you with his baton, and points you to the next table across, where a space is open. The table is all black.
"Fill up with yer marry hwana buddies." He says with a smirk. None of the blacks at this table are Jamaican.
At least Skinny and Woody have your back if you sit here, as they will still be at the table behind you.
The warden starts a speech. It is not short. he is a small man, with a comb-over and small, mean eyes. Republican redneck in a brown suit. he does not look Irish. He looks sicilian, dark and dour.
"I am Chief Warden MacLusky. I am here to make sure that this prison runs smoothly. I am here to make sure that you do your time without incident. I don't give a damn what you do when you leave here. I am not here to cure you of your ills or hold your hand. I am here to keep the law in this prison. You have had it easy lately, and the wardens tell me there is trouble in the air. You did not know where you stand before, so I am going to tell you. You stand in Prison. You were sent here by a judge, and mostly, by a jury of your peers. You are property of the state now. When you leave here, you will be free men again, but while you are in here, you are subject to rules. I am the man who makes those rules. Your lawyers don't make the rules here, I make the rules. Your gang leaders don't make the rules here, I make the rules. I am going to tell you now, do not test my limits. They are very clear. Every prison rule is there for a reason. The wardens know the rules. They will remind you if you forget them. They will remind you hard. Now thank the lord for the food which the state of New York has given you. You will notice that there is a steak on your plate, when you get your food. Each week that there is no violent incident in this prison, you will get a steak on Saturday. I hope that you all take to heart what we tell you. We are not your doctors. We are not your parents and we certainly aren't your damn friends. We are here to contain and pacify you, and to keep the peace. Your rooms are being searched as I speak. I expect I will be a busy man today, handing out discipline for what we find there. The easy days are over. Now go and get your food.
Robbie gives a defeated smile to the warden. "Thanks, warden." He makes his way over to the blacks' table and takes the seat, nodding curtly to the men.
"Mornin' gents," Robbie smiles. "I ain't had a steak in a good long time. How 'bout you?"
As he was sitting, Robbie's eyes sweep over the men. Even if these guys were in with the Jamaicans, surely they wouldn't be bold enough to attack him right in the breakfast hall? Robbie glances over his shoulder, nodding to Woody and Skinny after he had taken his seat.
A guy called Lawrence sucks his teeth. He has a comb in his thin afro. In his best parody voice he says: "Steak's a'ight, but you crackers know wese don' function without no cornbread!"
The table laughs with you.
Later that day, you need to go to the exercise yard. It is 10 a.m. Terrey is nowhere to be seen. Skinny has hung with you all day, and he talked Woody into giving you some space. He would not be any use in a fight. Skinny looks around at the yard. Some of the black guys that you ate with, wave you over. They are seated with their patriarch, watching the basketball. Their patriarch is called Hugh Johnson, and you should refer to him as Mr Johnson, to respect his rep. He has never talked to you before.
Three weeks ago, one of the panthers in C block got cut badly. He didn't die, but he will never be right again. Yardies did it.
Skinny says "Looks like we got an audience. You want me to go in with you, or hang back and watch?" Skinny is thin, and has beautiful hair in a sort of proto James Dean thing. He has a large mole on the left side of his thin nose, and the saddest eyes, like a basset hound.
Four yardies are smoking in a tight knot close to the weights. Two of them are leaning on the chain link fence. They are looking at you without looking at you. One of the new boys is with them. He is a plump, cornrow wearing boy of about 19. You realise that he is being shown who you are, and that he will be earning his in with the yardies by killing you. This is not about your trades anymore.
Robbie takes note of the scene, giving a friendly wave back to the men he'd eaten with.
"I want you with me," Robbie says gravely. "You up for a game of hoops, Skinny?" Robbie looks over his shoulder as he says this, flashing a smile and nodding his head in the direction of Mr. Johnson and his crew.
As the pair makes their way to the court, Robbie notes the yardies and their positions. As he draws near to the men who waved him over, he smiles and extends his hand to shake. "Thanks for the invite, fellas. I gotta tell ya, I ain't much good at hoops but you gents seem like a good sort to hang out with." Robbie winks at this last statement. He knows they're aware of what's going on, and he knows that they're no friends of the yardies.
Mr Johnson is balding and gray. He has the worn-smooth look of a man who has spent more than half of his sixty years in prisons. Usually, a young turk would have taken an old man for his spot, but Mr Johnson has a way of making other people want to keep him safe. His crew runs more for mutual protection than for profit, and they have something like a code. Lawrence has a lollypop, and is popping it in and out of his mouth to alternately see it and taste it.
A few other young black guys are hanging around in a sort of loose cloud. They block line of sight by constant movement.
He gets straight to the point.
(Imagine an old Robert Guilliame speaking)
"Sit yourself down here. I hear you said no to Denzel's crew for a taste of what you got going on. You been paying protection to Alf.. Terry the Terror, but he got himself a stay in sick bay. One of my boys, he used to be an orderly. Bright boy. He'd be a doctor if he wasn't African. He saw Terry, and he reckons it was poison. Something called benzalkonium chloride that we got in some of the detergent here. Now I am not a friend of Terry, but we done some business in the past. More important, I got friends on the outside that are friends with friends of his Irish ass. You are on his watch. If something happens to you, it will shake his rep, and that will cause him trouble down the line. I don't want that to happen, so we panthers are going to keep you safe. Nothing is free. We want you to deal with us at a preferred price. We don't want anything for nothing, we will pay, but we will cut into your margin. Those Jungle posse boys come from hard places, and they think short term. They that from Kingston seen more shit at thirteen than most of us going to see in our lifetimes, so they think today all they got. I look to tomorrow. You going to deal with us tomorrow? or you going to take your chances with those that just think about today? You are a good listener. I like that in a man. You have to give me a decision right now, so I can put things in motion. "
He looks at you intently. Lawrence, with no parody or pretentions, says "I go to get food for you tonight. If they cooked up some Benzalkonium, they are probably going to attempt a repeat performance."
Mr Johnson looks at you. "He hasn't said yet whether he wants our help."
Skinny just looks morosely at the fat cumulus clouds, as if he were not party to the conversation. his hands are clasped on his lap.
Robbie smiles and nods. "Yea... yea, we can deal. I got no beef with you. I'll tell ya though, I'll give you prime cuts, but you ain't my only customers. I can't be givin' this stuff out like it grows on trees... heh, I guess it kinda does though, huh? I can get you a blunt a day and maybe a gram of smack a week. My supply isn't always regular, but I've got enough to keep you covered. Whatcha think?"
Mr Johnson stares hard at you for a moment. You heard what you just said one way, but he must have heard it another, as a brush off or insult. After a moment, he nods to himself.
"The brothers got you wrong. You small potatoes. You don't deal any weight. What you just offered me is a lot to you, ain't it? Well in that case, I will give you a better offer. While Terry is out of action, you give me the cut you gave him. That way, we just get the same taste for the same service, and if he don't get better, then we jus become your protection. Now don't shake on it, just nod, and we take it from there."
Lawrence has finished his lollypop, and just flicks the paper stick from side to side in his mouth.
Your interview is over.
Lawrence says to you, in a very friendly, personable way, "Now get your people, and come to the showers early, same time as we do. The Jungle Posse shower at the same time as us. We will see who is not there. They will be the ones waiting till you usually come in later. They can see from you sitting here, that you are affiliated with our crew. Denzel keeps his men obedient. They will report to him that the circumstances have changed. We can sieze the initiative from them. By sending a clear signal, we will also gauge their reactions. Now at four p.m, you have a visitor, if I understand correctly. We will get warden Simms to take you. He has an arrangement with us. If you get left alone, and something happens, and you can't take care of it, then shout and make a noise, so that they will get hasty and rush. That way, you can take advantage of their anxiety, and get a chance to take them down, and at worst, we, or wardens will come to help. If we are smart about it, they won't have an opening, and their window of opportunity will close. Poisoning is still a concern, so we will get your food for you from one of our guys in the kitchen."
Mr Johnson puts his arm on your shoulders and cracks a quick smile at the six yardies by the fence.
The siren calls end of recreation. Shower time. True to their word, the Panthers escort you in and out of the showers. You find yourself back in your cell, to find that the place is torn up. It has been searched in the rudest possible way. Your mattress is missing. All the bedding is tossed on the floor, and all of the pictures you had on the wall have been peeled off, and are lying in tatters in a flat cardboard box outside the door. Five wardens are waiting for you, just outside the door. They get you to assume the position.
"You are going to have a little chat with warden MacLusky. Now."
The men look deeply unhappy about something. They are looking at you with the sort of distaste rapists usually get from them. They escort you to the chief warden's office, in cuffs.
Despite the obviously grave situation he was in, Robbie smiles and allows the wardens to take him without a fight. "Aw shit, gents. Did you find that nudie mag I had? I swear it weren't the one with yer sister in it, warden. Honest."
His snide remark earns him a jab in the ribs, but Robbie just coughs and remains silent the rest of the way. To himself, he wonders if the yardies had found out about his stash and pulled their own strings to get him on the ropes. He would find out very soon, provided he could talk his way out of this mess...
Warden Maclusky is with a few of his wardens in a small room next to the vistor centre. You head through bloock C and go past the kitchens. They reek of boiled cabbage. There are caterers now. The prison used to use prisoners in the kitchen, but that practice stopped about six months ago. You never get into this part of the building.
The administration building is in a different part of the complex. The chief warden probably has an office there, where people from the outside can meet with him. The room you are going to is used normally by inmates meeting their counsel. The tables are folded against the wall. There is a small queue of prisoners, with escorts, outside the small room.
"Stand there and don't you f%+&ing move." says the warden who stuck you in the ribs earlier.
There are three people in front of you. One of them is a Puerto Rican from block D. The other two are from your block. None of them are saying anything.
"Hey, mister, can we smoke here?" asks an Aryan Brotherhood heavy.
"No smoking near the chief. Now shut the f&*$ up, and stand still."
One by one, the wardens come out and hook you inside. You are third to go in, after spending nearly an hour and a half standing. Two more inmates were in the queue behind you. You don't know them. All the ones before you went back to the blocks, under guard.
As you are led into the room, you are relieved to feel cool air from ceiling fans. You are sweaty, and thirsty, and a little light headed from the heat and from standing. The room is painted a sort of mustard yellow, which is very exotic after the sea of grey you live with. The chief warden is smoking a filterless camel, and looking out at the exercise yard, through a narrow barred safety window. The room has been cleaned. A clean ashtray is put down in front of him, next to a matchbook from a titty bar in Attica. He watches you through his hooded lizard eyes. His face flickering in the strobe effect of the fan.
"Stand straight, and keep your hands at your sides. Only address the warden if he asks you a direct question. No cussing or blaspheming. Now say 'Good afternoon, Warden MacLusky" Warden Holmann spits out the instructions as if talking to you is beneath him. He always got on fine with you before.
After you parrot the greeting, MacLusky turns around to face you. He blasts smoke out of his nostrils and says "How do you pay warden Penny for your drugs?"
He is looking directly at you. There is no hate there, but you are obviously nothing to him.
What do you say?
Robbie's shoulders relax a bit. It was clear that he was relieved at the fact that he wasn't going to have to fight tooth and nail. He was caught red-handed with nothing to hide behind. Nothing but the truth, and they couldn't well punish him for that.
"Truthfully, sir, I don't pay him nothin'. I got friends outside what wanna make sure my time here goes easy like and they's the ones what's doin' it. I don' even know which friends they is. You's gonna get more outta the warden then you get outta me, and I ain't bullsh-" he swallowed, glancing at the guard nearby, "I ain't lyin' to ya, boss."
MacLusky looks hard at you.
"Do you think I'm stupid? I don't believe for a second that you are important to anybody outside these walls. I read your file, well, skimmed it. There was nothing there but failure, writ large. You are a petty car thief. There is no chance that anyone outside these walls gives enough of a damn about you to make any difference in here. You are dealing drugs in my prison. Warden Penny tells me you are the biggest problem in block A. He tells me you deal enough heroin and cannabis to turn the whole block into fiends and addicts. You even corrupted my staff with your satanic earnings. We found one and a half thousand dollars on him. He tells me that is small pickings compared to what you pay him for his services. I want to know where you hide the money. I want you to write down the names of your suppliers, and I want you to write down all the poor souls you deal your poisonous filth to. I grew up with the good book. Have you read the book of Job? You are going to weep with envy of Job before I am through with you. Now sit down, and write down everything I need to know."
Three things become apparent to you.
1.Warden Penny told him nothing.
2.Somebody else told the warden that you are the main connection.
3.The other wardens are treating you like shit because they want to avert any suspicion that they are dirty. You are a pariah now. Without the protective framework given by the wardens, you are going to get left out in the open.
You need to get an army together, and make your own crew, or get in deep with one of the other crews by doing some work for them, or get out of the prison. Your equilibrium inside is broken, and all the variables have changed.
Possible rats:
Alfred Neumann/Terry the terror. He is not around. The Panthers say poisoning, but what if it isn't?
One of your friends.
Warden Penny really did rat you out, after being caught, but that makes the least sense, because he is in Carmine Gambino's pocket.
The Panthers. Maybe Johnson is a snake.
The Jungle Posse. The scope of the operation attributed to you is about the volume the Posse actually does deal in the four blocks. This is the most likely culprit, as they would have good reason to blame you for their trade, then whack you to close the investigation.
Crews active in your block, and people you know:
The Aryans. This crew is in deep shit already. They only have six soldiers in A block, and their strength is in C block. Misguided integration policies implemented in 1977 have split what was a tight crew into four factions. The Aryan brotherhood are also a bunch of redneck nazi a~~#!@~s. The leader is a frenchman called Remy. He is a philosopher with nihilistic tendencies, and very charismatic. he is the only one of the aryans that are not raped by the bikers as part of their protection deal.
The Panthers. You have already made inroads. This crew is unique, in that it tries to keep a positive image, as part of the civil rights movement outside. There are a few politicos inside, like Hugh, that keep a lid on the usual vice. You are not black, so you have limited prospects, but can be useful to them. They have sixty members, but only seven are real soldiers. They also have the best connections with contractors and prison infrastructure. Johnson has Lawrence, Herman, and Scores as liutenants. Scores is the most physically dangerous, but Herman and Lawrence are the brains. This is the best bet for alliances, but it may be hard to get in deep enough.
The Bikers. This crew does not recruit inside. Most are lifers, and very protective of their deadly reps. The aryans are only able to survive as an entity in block A by hanging with the bikers, and performing favours for them. They are very connected outside. Allying with them will get you gang raped as an initiation. Not recommended.
The bikers don't seem to have a leader. All fifteen of them are in charge. Perhaps it only seems that way. They are notoriously flaky and bad to deal with.
There are about twenty unaligned guys inside. All of them pay some sort of protection.
Two of the unaligned are badasses who nobody f#!+s with.
One of them buys some smack from you from time to time. He is not an addict. He uses it to trade. His name is Poppy Van Sant. He has a tattoo from each of twenty seven states, and talks about the other tats he has planned when he gets out next year.
The other is a chinese guy called "Wang"? He speaks very little English. Nobody even knows what he is in for, but people stay away from him just in case. He is about fifty, and in fantastic shape. Nobody lifts more than him in the gym. The only time you ever talked to him, he said "Smoking kill" and broke one of your cigarettes. He hates smoke. He is missing a pinky on his left hand. He gets fruit juice, but won't trade it. He turned down twenty dollars for a .5c juice once.
The Jungle Posse is a Jamaican murder squad with eleven members. Only inmates born in Jamaica and affiliated with them in the civil war there are accepted. Even they have to do an initiation killing. This crew survives as brigands and parasites on the other crews inside, shaking down and taking what they want. Three lifers run the crew. Denzel, Malcolm and Trinidad. They have a lot of allies with the guards. How, you don't know.
"Shit warden, I ain't got enough money to keep a steady supply of cigarettes much less tippin' off wardens. I deal in small time stuff. Hell, your average greaser prolly has more smack in his garage than I've had the whole time I's been here. I think you been lied to, warden, and it ain't by me."
Robbie sniffed, smirking a little bit and shifting his weight to the other foot. "An' I tol' you already, I ain't got the slightest idea who it is what's helpin' me out. Maybe the Good Lord hisself is lookin' out for me in here."
Robbie adopted his most winning smile. He knew that particular statement would not go over well with the Warden.
MacLusky keeps asking the same questions. You keep giving the same answers. He keeps a level head, and listens more intently each time. He finally, after an hour of intimidations, interrogation and interviewing, nods curtly to the wardens.
They step up beside you. You flinch slightly, expecting a beating, but it is just their cue to take you out of the room.
"I am not finished with you. I will get to the bottom of this. Three weeks in solitary confinement for the contraband items we found in your cell. After you get out of solitary, I will ask you these questions again. Where do you keep the money. Where do you get the drugs. Who aids you. Who buys from you. How did you turn warden Penny. I certainly hope you find it soothing to fold laundry. You are going to pay back some of your debt to society and the state of New York in the laundry room, after your punishment detail."
Before you are taken away, however, warden Gertsen, who is usually the biggest a$~!##% among the screws, says to warden MacLusky, "Chief warden. This inmate has two visitors waiting. We don't have time to give them due notice of cancellation, and confirmed that they could come inside."
MacLusky narrows his eyes at Gertsen. "You think I give a damn if this earthworm has visitors?"
Warden Gertsen asks "Permission to talk to you in private, sir?" He says it in his best submissive, respectful and deferent tone. Mollified, MacLusky accepts.
You are led out into the hall to wait. You cannot hear what the men are saying inside, or see them. After three minutes of waiting, and being stared at by the men in line outside, Gertsen sticks his head out the door, and says "Take inmate Everwood to the vistor centre. After he sees his visitors, take him, search him, and enter him in solitary. Room six is the only unoccupied one that does not get direct sunlight. Put him in there. Next! Inmate Wallace, you are up." He does not look at you. "Get these men some water, dammit! Do we have to tell you everything?"
You are taken to the vistor centre.
Marlene is sitting at one of the safety glass windows. There are small holes in the glass, with wire mesh in them, to keep contraband from being passed. Your hands are still cuffed. She does not smile, but her eyes are happy. She is wearing a white dress with yellow, orange and brown squares on it. Her hair is cut very short, and dyed orange. She is looking skinny. There is someone with her. A square-jawed, blue eyed, blonde, tanned and visibly wealthy man. You have not seen him before, but you know he is a cop or fed or lawyer. You can tell. The two are squeezed in to the same space, but are keeping a space between them. They don't look intimate. The man stands when you enter. A screw on the other side tells him curtly to sit down.
"Robbie. Sorry I couldn't come last week. This is a lawyer. He says he has a way to get you out of here."
The man at her side does not look like a D.A. "Mister Evengreen, My name is Carl Laughton. Please, take your time and talk to your sister. I will wait until you are both done. I would hate to intrude on a family moment, but Marlene thought it best to introduce me herself. If you accept me as counsel, I can meet you in an interview room after this visit is over. Just give me the nod." He has an Oregon or Californian accent, and Ivy league bearing.
Marlene puts her hand up on the window. Written on the hand, in red ink, are the words: VIC SENT LAWYER. ACCEPT.
Robbie analyzes the man for a moment, but can't help but smile when he sees the message on his sister's hand. He nods to the man. "O' course, mister. We can chat."
After seeing the man step away from the window, he leans a bit closer to the glass, trying to conceal his obvious mirth from the screws. "So sis, what's new with you? Job goin' good?"
Marlene shrugs. "Yeah, the job is going o.k. I deal with some real low-lifes, then there are the defendants, you know. If it were up to the D.A, there'd be a lotta new faces in here, you know. I been dancin. I dance disco nights. You gotta hear the music. The clubs are great. The people are great too. O.k, a lotta them're coked up, but whatta you gonna do, right? So how you holding up, Robbie? You doin o.k in there? You look kinda worried."
Robbie hesitates a moment before answering. "Yeah... things are okay. They've been better, for sure, but it ain't so bad. I'm headin' to solitary tonight. Wardens found my stash. Got a group o' thugs in here what wants to roll me. That ain't nothin' new though."
Robbie smirks, looking towards the floor. He was genuinely concerned for his safety now that his supply had been cut off. How was he going to pay the Panthers? The yardies were sure to gang up on him... and it would not go well.
He raises his head again, producing a defeated smile. "I'm glad things are good wit' you. I'm glad you're happy. Sounds like you got a great life, sis. Ain't all f%$!ed up like mine, eh?" He tries to laugh at himself, but can't.
Marlene looks scared for you. She knows you well enough to not press for details. She chats about people you know, and tells you how her ex is doing. She tells you one of the girls she knew from her streetwalking days turned up dead, and how glad she is that those days are behind her. The time passes quicker than you know, and the buzzer closes off your conversation. She cries a little as she leaves, like she does every time.
Warden Gertsen comes to get you. He looks preoccupied.
"You have a meeting scheduled with a lawyer tomorrow at sixteen hundred hours."
You have been in solitary once before, for hitting warden Penny.
You are searched. I assume you dumped your stash and shiv in the visitor centre. You managed to secure them under the table, by sticking the shiv into the wood, and wedging the bag between it and the table. Your time in the visitor centre was your least monitored moment, so that was the only opportunity you had.
There is a small shower close to solitary. You are given a chance to get clean before they lock you up. Three weeks is a long time to be alone. Better than getting knifed though.
Time to make your plans.
What are you going to try?
Time to make your plans.
What are you going to try?
Solitary is a real drag. Some wit has scratched phalluses and grotesque parodies of women on the wall. Food is brought to you by a warden. The food is cheap vienna sausages, green beans, mashed potato and thin brown gravy. The mash has some onion chopped into it. A small dollop of ketchup sits on the corner of the tray. There is water, in a small cup. The water from the tap in the room is brown, and smells. The warden quietly hands you a plastic bottle of water. Not regulation, because it can be melted to make a shiv. He looks you in the eyes when he hands it over. The message in his eyes is, "Don't misuse the bottle." He probably expects to re-use it for you later.
A few small spiders are nested in the corner.
The day passes. So does the night. The next day, you have an appointment with your new lawyer.
Carl Laughton is waiting for you in an interview room, the next afternoon. He gets right to the point. He shakes your hand, reintroduces himself, and launches into a short outline of an offer. One of the cops who busted you has been caught falsifying evidence in another case. Carl has told Vic about this, and Vic suggested that as the only evidence against you was handled by the officer in question, officer Sebastian Ramirez, an appeal may dismiss the rap against you as insufficient or tarnished evidnce. He has already scheduled an appeal, and tells you your court date is four weeks from now. He hands you a few documents to sign. He insists you read them, and he gets close to you to show you sections. He slides you a small parcel. It is a deck of playing cards, and a pack of smokes, with a matchbook.
He speaks low to you: "Christopher Gertsen is in our pocket. Warden Gertsen, I should say. He will get you another package of primo shit. Vic says to hang in there. He says he will pick you up after the trial. No way are we going to lose this one. It is in the bag."
This lawyer may be west coast, but he is definitely into cocaine. He seems excited to be on the dark side.
"So that is that. Any questions?"
Robbie's features build with excitement as Carl outlines the specifics of the plan. Yeah, the dude was obviously coked, but he seemed to know his game pretty well. When the papers were laid out before him, Robbie did exactly as he was told and read over the papers in careful detail if for no other reason than to buy himself some more time out of the cell.
After concluding that the claim was legitimate, Robbie simply nods and smiles. "Sounds groovy, man. Got a pen?"
Robbie signs the documents with no hesitation.
Three weeks of solitary take a toll. You are able to keep it together, because you have hope that this will all be over soon. When there is only one week of solitary left, Carl Laughton comes to visit again. He makes small talk for a short while, offers you a cigarette, then says:
"I am just going to say it. Vic was killed two days ago. He was cut open in his own restaurant. I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you. There's more. He was with some people. They were having a bit of a party. Your...Marlene was seeing him, and. They left nobody alive. It looks like she died quickly. She didn't suffer. It was the Bonanno family that ordered the hit. Family business. There's more, but I will give you a chance to. A bit of time."
He looks scared of what you are going to do. He nervously lights a cigarette.
Robbie's jaw slackens and the cigarette falls from his lips. He cannot believe what he is hearing. His fists clench tightly and he hangs his head. Disbelief, at first, then rage.
"F$#@!" he slams his left fist against the cold stone wall. It hurts, and will likely bruise, but he feels nothing. "What the f#+$?! Why was she even there?! Who the f&~~ did this? Do you know? WHO THE F#+& WAS IT?! I want a goddamn name!"
Robbie was up from his seat, grabbing the lawyer by his collar and tie. His other hand was clenched in rage, but he did not appear about to strike. He had the presence of mind to appreciate that this was not Carl's fault. He was merely the messenger.
Tears came. Robbie's face twisted from anger to sadness, the blood rushing forth to redden his face. He sniffed as he released the vice grip on Carl's shirt. "F!+*... f~#+... she was all I had, man. What the f~$!? This is so f%&*ed up... I don't even understand..."
Robbie seats himself with a thud and buries his head in his hands, weeping.
Carl picks up his cigarette.
"I was defense lawyer for a guy. Marlene was helping the prosecutor. She was a damn fine legal secretary, and she was saving to study law. I tried to take her out for dinner, but she said she had a clear rule about dating people that were connected to her work. She started studying at night, working in the day, and going to clubs non-stop. She took some coke, but she didn't get hooked. Vic sold her the coke, then she started seeing more of him. She stopped having to pay for her shit. She started using more. She still studied, but she cut out work. He was supporting her. I asked her about it. She said Vic looked after her. He treated her well. I think they really respected each other. She introduced me to him. He saw that I was hooked, and he got me into rehab. He dealt, and he used, but I think he still treated everyone right. Problem is the family. Gambino crew got the council to agree that drugs are off the agenda for the black hand. They see it as damaging the old neighbourhoods, and they want to see it in black ghettoes only. A lot of wise guys are dealing. The money is just so damn good. Now they have to do it in secret. Vic was trying to get the Gambinos to change their tune, and he came out in the open about his dealing. There's this crew of black gangsters, are dealing real high class heroin out of Harlem. Vic wanted to get the seal of approval to go up against them. I am not connected in the same way you are. I just got in a little deep. I don't know who ordered the killings. I don't know why they left no witnesses. Usually the italians only kill their own. They don't shoot women. Maybe it was third party? Who knows.
If I get you out of here, will you make it your job to find out?"
"If I get you out of here, will you make it your job to find out?"
Robbie snorts through his tear-streaked face. "Shit, you'd have to kill me to stop me. Get me outta here, Carl. Do it and you have my word."
Carl hands you a folder. It is full of newspaper clippings and three onionskin typed pages. It is a full dossier on officer Sebastian Ramirez. Included is a narrative outline that details how you "knew" him, and what he did to ruin you.
It is a simple tale. Supposedly:
Officer Ramirez tried to sell you a hot car.
You called an officer Markham at precinct 13, to tell him of the stolen car.
Ramirez tried to pay off Markham, to get him to look the other way.
Markham took the pay-off, fearing for his life, but called internal affairs.
Markham warned you directly that officer Ramirez would attempt to hurt you as a witness.
Two days later, Ramirez claimed to have an anonymous tip, wiped some confiscated tools down to get rid of the old prints, led three other officers in a bust to take you down for conspiracy to perform an armed robbery.
Details to mention specifically in court:
The tools that had your prints were handed to you in interrogation. (true, but they actually were your tools, which is why you weren't afraid to touch them. They already had your prints. You didn't think not to)
You were nervous, so you fiddled with the tools.
Officer Ramirez came to see you at your workplace on Feb 23rd 1978. He told you he would kill you if you told anyone about the stolen car. (false. Never saw him before the bust.)
Officer Ramirez informed you of your Miranda Rights, but added the words "and you had better be f~$~ing silent, or I will have you killed."(false)
The car in question was a 1973 Mercedes. You were interested, but you saw the engine numbers had been altered. Trying to do good, you said you needed time to get the money together. you called the precinct and talked to an officer Markham. You placed the call at 11pm on Feb 23rd(false)
You remember the date, because it was your mother's birthday.(It is.)
You called him at the number he gave you, to pretend to cancel. There was no answer. You called four times, between 8pm and 11pm on Feb 24th.
During the bust, you resisted arrest, because you thought Ramirez had come to kill you. You were in fear for your life, and had no intention to break the law.(absolute bullshit)
When you were arrested, you feared for your life, and pretended not to know officer Ramirez. He intimidated you into giving false testimony.
Officer Ramirez took pains to keep the other officers out of earshot, and asked all the questions in the interrogation.(Partly true)
Carl pulls a tape recorder out of his briefcase. He hands you a sheet of paper, and says "Read this aloud. pause for a few seconds between each line. Take a few minutes to catch your breath." He hands you a few tissues, and a new cigarette.
He looks to see when you are ready, then hits record.
It reads:
Hello, officer, I wanna report a crime.
Robbie..uh..Do I have to give my name?
Robbie Evenwood. E V E N W double-O D.
Two Os. O. O.
I want to report a stolen car. I don't want any trouble, and a guy brought a hot car in, and tried to sell it to me. He brought in a Mercedes. The car was hot.
Yes.
Yes.
I don't think so. I think he may be a cop. He said his name was Ramirez. He had a chain on his neck that said Sebastian.
I don't know. I can just tell.
Thank you.
Thank you for your time.
It's 025 484 5295.
The first two weeks in solitary were fast. The last week seems as long as a month in general. A busy head interferes with your sleep. Bottled water and food are your only interaction with the outside world.
On the day that you are to be released into general population, Warden McLusky comes to see you. he looks a bit less cocksure, in fact, he looks worried.
Two guards tell you to stand, and get back from the door. McLusky doesn't come in. He stands outside, with the guards at either side of the door.
"You are not going to go back into block C. We are placing you in block A. This is to minimise the risk that you will deal again. I am adding a labour component to your sentence. You will work in the laundry room. I believe that nothing cures the criminal better than hard work. Now there is a personal matter I must inform you of. Inmate. I am afraid I have some bad news for you. Your sister, who I believe was your last living relative, passed away nine days ago. I decided it was best you were not informed immediately, because it would be hard to endure solitary with the knowledge. Her last will and testament has been opened and read. There is a small inheritance waiting for you. I hope that it is enough of a start to give you a chance to break the chains of sin, and find a righteous life in the Lord. There are papers that require your signature, but that can wait for another time. Would you like to go to chapel? I must inform you that it is your right to do so."
The news was old by now, but it still stung. Robbie feels the sadness welling up within him as the Warden informs him of what he already knew. He hangs his head and nods.
"Yeah... yeah, I'd like to have some time in the chapel. You can bring me the papers when I come out. I just wanna get this all done with."
His voice was solemn and dejected. This was a man who truly had nothing left to live for but vengeance. That time would come soon enough, he knew. Best to play it safe for now.
As you step into the chapel, you see that you are alone there. There should be a guard inside with you. The chapel is a small room, with a few venetian blinded and barred windows. There is a small table, set up as an altar, and a large protestant crucifix hanging behind it. Plastic chairs and prayer books, all donated, sit in uneven rows.
A guard comes in. You don't know him.
"I am going to take you to A block, after you finish here. You got ten minutes. Just in time for lunch." Prison, and solitary, are strangely timeless.
After you sit for a while, you hear the door behind you open. The guard turns to look at the door. You see a moment of surprise on his face. It is two Jamaicans, and they are being too cool and casual. They are not supposed to be here. The guard looks at them for a while, then they turn and leave. They did not expect to see a guard there. You can see it.
The two who just came in are from C block, your old block. One of them was the fat and formless new kid. He gave you a cold and fleeting glance. The boy is psyching himself up.
The guard calls it in on his radio.
"This is DKC three. We have two niggers wandering around outside the chapel. Don't any of you cocksuckers do your goddamn jobs now? Over."
The next hours blur together. You sign some documents, handcuffed. A psychologist asks you some questions, but you are only dimly aware why. At lunchtime, you are brought, late, and still cuffed, into the lunch hall of A block. You only recognise a few faces. None of your allies are there. Your eyes are a little bloodshot. Your shiv, and stash, are problably still under the table in the visitor centre.
Trouble. Two Aryan Brotherhood types give predatory grins and try to wave you over to their table. If you sit there, you flash a signal to the room. If you don't, you disrespect the gesture.
Denzel's crew is probably represented here, but you are not sure which of the unfamiliar black faces is with that crew.
There are at least ten Yardies from the Jungle Posse here.
One table is almost empty, except for one huge black guy in shackles. The rest are not restrained that way. He is eating slowly. That is, in itself, a sign of power here.
What do you do?
Robbie looks around the room in a daze. His mind is clouded and weary with the whirlwind of thoughts going through his head. He sees the Aryans, but dismisses them. He looks around, seeing all the others, and finally settles on the large black man in shackles. Being cuffed as well, Robbie smirks to himself and makes his way to the big man's table, setting his tray down across from him and flashing a smile.
"Eatin' alone ain't no fun," he says, picking up his utencils with his cuffed hands. "I'm Robbie. Just transferred from C Block. You'self?"
He knows its a bold move, but it was a risk worth taking. If this man was truly feared, then becoming his friend would be of great benefit. If this guy was affiliated with the Yardies, then he was as good as dead. Without his sister, though, Robbie feels that he has little left to live for save vengeance, so it was a calculated risk. The worst that could happen is that he gets killed. The Yardies were like as not to try that anyway, so what harm was there?
The aryans do not seem to register a snub.
The large con lifts small and beady eyes toward you. He looks like he may be mentally deficient. His eyes are not well formed, and he has his tongue sticking out slightly from a slack mouth. A few tables behind you, you hear snickers. The man starts to make a strange series of sounds, that sound like he is scared. He is also shaking his head.
Someone has come up to you, with his hands outstretched and open. He is white and old. Easily sixty or seventy. There is a tattoo of a spiderweb on his neck, and he has one of those scary lithe fighter builds. His eyes look small and cold, and he has a drawn and caustic face. He has a big moustache, in a southern style, and long grey hair.
"Mister, I reckon you bitter git yerself up outa thit chear. He don' take kindly ter people close to im. Jus ease yerself on up slow, an' come git yer feed."
The man seems genuinely to want to help. He is not threatening, despite his vicious appearance.
Robbie hesitates for a moment, looking from the older man to the large one. He then nods, slowly picking up his tray.
"Nice t'meet ya," he says in parting to the large black man as he moved to follow the older man's guidance. He heaves a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment, but is pleased to have found someone else who seems genuinely helpful.
"Thanks fer that," Robbie says to the older man as they leave the black con's presence. "I'm new to this cell block, but I'm sure you already knew that. Name's Robbie." Robbie smiles as he states this, shifting the weight of the tray to one hand and extending the other to shake.
The wiry con grabs your hand. "Dougie VanWyk. You git tranferred? Why? Din't know as they did thet."
He sits down at the table he left. Most of the guys at the table are old cons. One looks near ninety. All of them are white. There are no noticable Aryan marks. He is the only one that looks hardcore. There are six of them in all. They all have crucifixes tattood on their thumbs in ballpoint ink.
"This here's Robbie. He git transferred from C block."
Two more men arrive at the table with trays. All of the trays at this table are more full than yours.
The newcomers look at you for a moment, then Dougie reaches out and grabs your hand, and all of the table suddenly grab hands in a circle.
They say a quick prayer over the food. You are sitting with a group of reborn inmates.
Robbie, having been raised in a Baptist family, goes through the routine with all due reverence, even if he's not especially pious. He is pleased with the fact that he seems to have found some men who won't seek to take advantage of him, but are also probably not the best allies in a fight. Still, it was a start, and he had to start somewhere.
After the prayer, Robbie takes a sip from his cup of water and nods in thanks to his tablemates. "Thanks for the invite, fellas. It's never fun to try to find yer footin' in a new cell block. I appreciate it."
You see a table of Jamaicans. One of them is pointing you out to the others, and none of them look pleased. One of them, broad in the shoulders with a pretty face, and with shaggy blonde dreadlocks, seems to be the leader. He has his face tilted back, to look down his nose at you. Straining your ears over the hubbub, you hear something about "principle o tha ting" "He be strut in heah like nutting" and one voice, belonging to an older yardie, saying "'Im be nuttin to us, 'Im not the deela we tout. I and I say we let 'im be, an not waste. Im not urt us at all."
They are hard to eavesdrop on, but somehow you made it.
Warden MacLusky is in the room. He walks toward one of the tables full of blacks, and calls one of them aside. He nods toward you, indicating you. He seems to be telling the inmate something about you. The black man shows no emotion. He looks nondescript, like a gas station worker or janitor. Not threatening. He only has one distinguishing feature, a gold tooth. He goes back to his table and you can see it. He is telling them something about you, they are telling other tables, and it is spreading. You see the informations spread to the yardie table. At first, no-one goes near them, until the blonde pretty-boy goes to another table to ask.
As the rumour get close to you, you hear the words "Italian" "Mafia" "Bad ass Mother-f%#&er" "Solitary" "They kill your whole f%~~ing family"
It tactfully skips your table. Dougie has heard, and seen, and he gives you a soulful look. He leans toward you and says. "Ah hope you kindly don't bring us trouble. We ah not a gang. We ah jus sinners lookin to clear up accounts with the lord."
Robbie's lip curled in a slight smirk and he raised his hand, shaking his head. "No worries, Dougie. Ain't nobody here on the inside I got beef with. I just wanna do my time an' get out. We all gots problems, man. I ain't lookin' to make more of 'em. You're cool, man. You're cool."
Twice, the Jamaicans try to maneuver to get to you in private, and each time, you suss them out, and avoid the setup. The third time, you are on the toilet after exercise. The door ahead of you is a riot of crude, scratched graffiti in dark grey paint. The cubicle is four foot wide, and eight deep. The door is not lockable, just closable. A sudden drop in noise spooks you, and you hear a voice at the door whisper: "Do it boy! Do it quick, an' we be gone" The door has closed. There is a gap at the bottom of the door, Your initiative is 11.
Please tell me what you are going to do, and roll your dice from now on. There is one knifeman, the young, fat Jamaican boy. He has a lookout by the door, A skinny little yardie who is ligtning at the hoops. None of the other Jungle Posse soldiers are there for this blooding.
The boy at the door is going on initiative 14. The knifeman is going on initiative 8, and is moving quietly to your cubicle as his action this round. The door is made to open inwards. You have no shiv available to you now, You hid it while you went to the yard, in case of search.
The layout is roughly this , with the photograph taken from the door. This toilet is usually busy, and the sudden silence is what tipped you off to trouble.