American Criminal (14 page)

    “How do I know you’re not really with them?” James asked.

    “You’re going to have to trust me, Cellie. Why else would I give you advanced warning? It would look more convincing if I ambushed one of your guys without prior warning. Look, you know what my situation is here. I just put two of the
Skins’
top guys in the infirmary. Unless I join them, they’ll be out for blood. I won’t last a week if I don’t do this. You’ve been here long enough to know that.”

    “I’ll be honest with you, Cellie. I don’t like it. I’m not sure if I can help you.”

    “That’s your choice. But, I have to let you know, I’m going forward with this with or without your consent. I don’t blame you for not wanting to get involved, but I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, this has to be done if I’m going to survive another day in this hellhole.”

    James ruminated silently for a long moment.

    “All right, Cellie. I’ll help you this one time. I repeat, one time,” he said, emphasizing the last two words. “After that, you’re on your own. If you’re still alive after tonight, I’ll bring your proposal to the leader of my gang. I can’t guarantee how he’s going to receive it.”

    “That’s all I’m asking.”

    “I’ll do you this one favor and then I’m done. You’re going to owe me big time, and I expect to be paid back.”

    “Trust me when I say that when this is over, your gang will be the ones on top,” Burnside said.

    “You better be right, Cellie. Or you really won’t last the week. The
Skinheads
will be the least of your worries.”          

Chapter 17

Skinhead

    “I don’t doubt you,” Burnside said. “That’s why I’m giving you a heads-up. I don’t want your gang to think I’m a real
Skinhead
and decide to take me out.”

    A loud bell sounded from the hallway.

    “Great, the dinner bell. Put a tent on this circus,” James muttered.

    Burnside closed his eyes and lay back on the bunk. He had said everything he could to convince his cellmate of his intentions, but it didn’t really matter. If he didn’t try this, he would be dead anyway.

    The cell doors slid open automatically and Ray got up. He stepped in with a line of inmates outside. Sean kept his distance from him. The guards led them down several dimly lit concrete corridors to the cafeteria. As they walked, Burnside tried to psych himself up for what he had to do.

    I need to put my imagination into overdrive. I have to convince myself that the guys who raped me were with the Bloods, not the Skins. That way, I can go after the Bloods without reservation.

   
Ray forced himself to think about the violent rape. He used all his powers of imagination to picture two black inmates holding him down and raping him instead of two white psychopaths. His anger built as he recalled details from the hideous scenario. He flashed back to the pain, the humiliation, the helplessness, the rage. It was all the fault of James’s gang, the
Bloods
. It was their fault. They had done it.

    Burnside was seeing red as they entered the cafeteria. Images from the rape dominated his mind, but the faces he imagined now were black, not white. He followed the line and picked up a tray at the end of the counter. He hardly noticed as inmate workers slopped food onto it. He exited the line with his tray and his muscles tensed for action. Images from the violent rape filled his mind as he zeroed in on the
Blood’s
center table like a guided missile.

   A large group of black inmates were at the table, talking and laughing.

  
They’re laughing at me. They’re laughing at what happened to me.  

    Burnside clenched his tray in a vicious grip as he approached the table. He ignored the curious stares of inmates watching him from other tables. He heard one of them shout, “Hey, Jaws, how’s it going?” Another voice said, “There goes Jaws! Bite anyone today?” 

    Jaws? I can think of better nicknames, but I guess it fits.

    He ignored them. One of the
Blood
enforcers seated at the end stood up as he neared the head of the table.

    “It looks like you’re lost,” he said to Burnside, reaching out his hand to halt him.

    Burnside allowed his rage to take over and went on instinct. He hurled his tray across the
Blood’s
table, and it smashed into more trays, scattering food everywhere.

    “You fucking niggers!” Burnside shouted at the top of his lungs, knocking the enforcer’s arm away with his right forearm and launching a left jab at his face.

    He caught the enforcer square on the jaw and he went down. Other gang members stood and came after him. He hit another with a hard right, knocking him back into a line of inmates, toppling them like dominoes. He was dimly aware of shouting emanating from all areas of the cafeteria as he threw a left jab at another black face coming toward him and followed up with a hard right. An unknown assailant tackled him from the side and he went down. He felt punches smashing into his ribs and stomach, so he curled into a ball to protect his vital areas. A flurry of punches and kicks followed, pummeling him until he felt himself blacking out. Then, the punches gradually diminished and finally stopped. He looked up and saw uniformed guards dragging away enraged
Bloods
. He was aware of shouting and fighting all around him, but he stayed curled up in a ball.

    Burnside felt rough hands grabbing his shoulders and arms, lifting him. The guards pulled him up and cuffed his hands behind his back. Pandemonium was all around them. He heard loud shouting and swearing coming from everywhere. He saw a guard wrestling on the ground with a
Blood
. He saw another guard striking an inmate in the skull with his baton, dropping him. The visions became a blur as the guards dragged him out. They entered the concrete hallway and the guards allowed Burnside to walk under his own volition. He stared straight ahead, so he didn’t know how many guards surrounded him. It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t going to put up a fight.

    As he walked, Burnside assessed the damage. His upper right forehead area was hurting like hell and he was sure he had a massive bruise there. His lower lip felt swollen and blood was dribbling down his chin. The rest of his body was battered and bruised, but nothing he couldn’t handle. All in all, he thought it worked out fairly well.

    They arrived at the Isolation Block all too soon, the cuffs were removed, and Burnside was locked in a cell. It was an understatement to say he felt Déjà vu. This was his third time in the cell in less than two weeks’ time. He stood for a moment in the near-total darkness, taking an inventory of his injuries. Aside from the minor bruises he noticed earlier, he had a massive bruise on his right bicep, assorted bruises on his arms and legs, and more on his abdomen and back. He assumed the bruise on his bicep was caused by a kick, due to its severity. The rest he couldn’t tell. They could have been punches or kicks. Either way, he was a hurting unit.

    He carefully lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the wall. He looked up at the tiny beam of light emanating from the silver dollar-sized hole at the top of the steel door. The beam illuminated a tiny patch on the back wall. The rest was darkness. He closed his eyes and replayed the scene in the cafeteria in his head. He couldn’t think of anything he could have done differently. He despised the infamous n-word, but it had to be said to build his credibility with the
Skins.

    Ray’s adrenaline high was fading, so he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He drifted to sleep and had a nightmare where he was fighting a horde of inmates with shaved heads in the prison yard. He woke up with sweat beading on his forehead. He paced the cell several times to convince himself the dream never really happened and sat back in his spot near the door.

    I have to plan my next move. Who do I go after now?

    A loud banging on the steel door interrupted his contemplation.

    “Burnside, you in there?” a gruff voice demanded.

    “Who wants to know?” Burnside asked.

    “Stand up so I can talk to you face-to-face,” the guard commanded.

    “I’m not sure if I can do that,” Ray said. “I’m considering how I’m going to fit you into my busy schedule. Do you have an appointment?”

    “Just stand up, wise-ass, unless you want to stay in the hole for the rest of your life,” the voice said.

    “It’s tough to argue with your logic,” Burnside said, standing.

    He peeked through the small hole in the top of the door and saw an ugly, overweight prison guard with a shaved head. The guard stepped closer so he could only see his pudgy face and nothing else.

    “I have a message for you,” the guard whispered.

    “Okay,” Ray replied, quietly.

    “We like what you did in the cafeteria,” the guard spoke softly. “The boss of the
Skins
wants to meet you. What do you think about that?”

    “It’s about time you figured out I’m on your side,” Ray said.

    “Okay, then meet the boss in the weightlifting area tomorrow in the yard,” the guard said.

    “Sure, no problem,” Burnside said.

    “That’s it. Remember, this conversation never happened. Got it?” the guard asked.

    “Got it,” Ray said.

   
Who would I tell anyway?

    The guard’s ugly face disappeared from the tiny hole in the door. Burnside sat back down and gingerly ran a finger over his aching bicep.

   
I doubt this puppy’s going to heal by tomorrow. I might need it if there’s another fight.

   
Whether he was at full strength or not didn’t make a difference anyway. Once he was in the weightlifting area, the
Skins
could easily surround him and take him out with a well-placed shank. All the brute strength in the world couldn’t stop it. He would have to try his luck and hope for the best.

Despicable

   
Burnside closed his eyes and tried not to think about his future meeting with the leader of the so-called Aryan Nation.

   
It won’t do any good worrying about it. I might as well catch up on some sleep.

    He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and let his subconscious take over. He trusted it to take him to a better place.

    Ray woke up an indeterminate amount of time later and felt surprisingly refreshed. He dreamed he had climbed to the top of a magnificent mountain and was standing in the sun at the peak. Even the darkness of the cell couldn’t dampen the good feeling he had from the dream. He sat in the dark in the absolute solitude, imagining the feeling of wind in his hair. Gorgeous white clouds drifted around him. His leg muscles ached from the climb, but it still felt good – like after a great workout. After spending an immeasurable amount of time contemplating his virtual mountain climb, the images faded and he grew restless.

    He stood up and began pacing. Two steps to the opposite wall. Two steps back. This became old very quickly, so he dropped on the floor to do some push-ups and was forced to position himself diagonally to have enough room. He had to be careful not to slip one of his feet into the stinking hole that served as his makeshift latrine. With his feet perched at the edge of the precipice, he barely had enough room. He started doing push-ups one-handed and switched to two hands when he became tired. He ignored his injuries and lost count of how many he did. Somewhere in the hundreds. His arms were aching from exertion and his body was covered with sweat. He sat near the door, breathing heavily. Now, he felt like he really had climbed a mountain.

    Ray closed his eyes and concentrated on the muscle strain in his arms. The pain was good because it made him feel alive. In the utter darkness, he felt like he had accomplished something. He desperately wanted to sleep so he could escape into another vivid dream. Exhausted from the workout, his mind drifted off again.

    The sound of jingling keys woke him up. He covered his eyes as the steel door creaked open, flooding the cell with light.

    “Get up. You’re being transferred,” an unknown voice said.

    “Sure,” Burnside said, keeping his eyes covered as he stood.       

    A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the cell. He squinted at the light as his hands were cuffed behind his back. 

   
“Maybe you should tighten those cuffs. I can still feel circulation,” Burnside commented as he felt the metal biting into the skin of his wrists.

    Most of the guards were cool about putting the cuffs on, but some of them had something to prove and left marks. The guard didn’t respond and it was just as well. Spending however many days in solitary hadn’t put Ray in a good mood. Ray realized there were two more guards waiting for him at the entrance to the Isolation Block. They fell into step beside the first guard, pushing Burnside ahead of them. They led him out of the block and down a maze of corridors.

    “How’s it going, guys? Busy shift?” Burnside asked.

    When he didn’t receive a response, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you Buddhist monks had taken a vow of silence.”

    If he expected a retort to his wisecrack, he didn’t get any, which was probably for the best. They brought him back to the main cellblock and led him up the stairs to a new cell on the fourth level. They placed him in a cage that was almost a carbon copy of the previous one except for the occupant and a few items. Instead of a muscular black man, his new cellmate was a scrawny white guy who looked like he couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.

   
Damn, this guy is lucky I’m not a rapist,
Burnside thought.

    “How’s it going? I’m Ray Burnside,” Ray said, extending his hand.

    “Frank Mauro,” the skinny guy mumbled, standing briefly from the chair in the corner and giving Burnside a limp handshake. He immediately sat back down on the cell’s only chair and immersed himself in a magazine,
Road and Track
.

     The guy had a shaved head, a scraggly goatee, and a tattoo of a Swastika on his skinny left bicep.

   
So that’s how the fucker has survived so long in here.

    “Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” Burnside said, trying to initiate conversation.

    After not speaking for so long, Ray thought he might even appreciate a conversation with this loser. For a response, his cellmate gave him an incoherent grunt without looking up from his magazine.

    “You with the
Skins
?” Burnside asked, focusing on the Swastika tattoo on his cellmate’s left bicep.

    “Yeah, why?” the inmate replied.

    “Because I’m looking to join,” Ray said.

    “I know who you are,” the guy said, as if this statement explained everything.

    “That leaves me at a disadvantage.”

    “Yeah, it does,” the inmate said.

    Burnside waited patiently for the inmate to say something more. When he didn’t, Ray felt rage building in his brain like a black rampart.

    “Then you also know about my reputation for biting off people’s body parts,” Burnside said, grinning as he approached the little man in the corner.

    The man’s eyes bulged as he looked up from his magazine for the first time. His already pallid face turned even whiter.

    “Look, buddy, I don’t have no problem with you. I just want to do my time,” the skinny guy said.

    “I have no problem with that,” Burnside said, stepping closer and flexing his muscles. He assumed a fighting stance and drew back his right shoulder and arm. “All I expect is a little courtesy. I know that prison tends to make us all a little anti-social, but we can still exercise basic civility. Do you think you can answer my question with more than a one-word answer?”

    “Sure, pal. What do you want to know?” the guy said, wiping sweat from his pale forehead.

    “What’s it like being with the
Skins
?” Burnside asked, relaxing his muscles slightly, but not stepping back.

    “I don’t know. I guess it’s all right,” Frank said, looking hesitantly up at the muscular inmate glowering down at him.

    “How long have you been stuck in this shit-hole?” Ray asked.

    “Five years.”

    “What did you do to get here?”

    “I stole some cars,” Frank said.

    “And they put you in a max facility for that?” Ray asked.

    “They put me in a max because I shanked a guy in medium security. A nigger.”

    “That will do it. Did you kill the nigger?” Burnside asked, trying out his new despicable persona for the first time.

    “Unfortunately, no,” Frank said.

    “That’s too bad,” Ray said, working hard to stifle the disgust he felt for his scumbag cellmate. “He would have had it coming to him.”

    “Your goddamned right he did!” Frank said, showing the first real emotion Ray had seen since entering the cell. His eyes widened and he stood dramatically from the chair, waving his magazine. “Nigger thought he could fuck with me. He ain’t laughing so hard now. Stuck a shank in his gut. Fucker barely survived.”

    Comparing this guy to my previous roommate is like comparing a worm to a Boa Constrictor.    

   
“It’s too bad you got caught and winded up here,” Burnside said.

    “Your goddamned right it is. There are too many niggers here too. But we got a plan for that,” Frank said, grinning for the first time.

    It was not a pretty sight. Ray saw a lot of gaps where teeth should have been.

    “Oh yeah?” Ray asked.

    “Very soon, the bosses of the
Bloods
will be wiped out and we’ll be the only ones running the show.”