American Criminal (4 page)

    Lying on the MRI panel, Burnside saw an officer storm into the room with his pistol drawn. The cop trained his pistol on him and then glanced down at the floor.

    "What the fuck," the cop said, observing the officer lying facedown next to the panel. "Who the fuck is that, Jonesy?" he asked, pointing to the prone officer's body.

    "That's Daniels," Officer Jones replied without taking his eyes or gun off the maniac lying peacefully on the MRI panel.

    "Daniels?" the newly-arrived officer repeated. "Daniels is a fucking monster. How was that guy able to take him out…. when his hands are still cuffed and his legs are still shackled?"

    "He's a fucking nut-case, Burkey" Jones said.

    "That explains it," Officer Burke said, keeping his 9MM trained on the prisoner.

    The officers stood immobile, staring at the dormant psychopath as if they were observing a strange mutant.

    "Do we wait for backup to arrive before we….before we get him?" Burke asked without turning away from the prisoner.

    "That would probably be best," Jones said, dryly.

    Burnside closed his eyes and relaxed as the officers stood frozen like statues, sweating away the minutes until backup arrived. It seemed like hours before he heard the sound of more footsteps in the hall. Jones and Burke holstered their weapons as a group of six officers converged on the MRI panel in the center of the room. They went by the book; one officer held Burnside’s head down while two more held his shoulders; the other two held his legs, while the remaining officer unclasped the prisoner's hand-ties. When the ties came off, the cops holding the shoulders switched to grab Burnside’s wrists.

    "All right. Turn him over," Jones said.

     Burnside complied with the officers as they turned him none-too-gently facedown on the panel. They twisted his arms behind his back and snapped metal cuffs on him. They yanked him to his feet without ceremony.

    "Move," Jones commanded the prisoner.

     Burnside opened his eyes slowly, as if awakening from a deep sleep, and began shuffling across the room. An officer stood on either side of him, holding his arms tightly. There were two more ahead and two in back. Burnside stared vacantly ahead as if he was focusing on a point thousands of yards away. The contingent of officers led him awkwardly through the doorway without encountering resistance. The strange procession moved slowly down the corridor and began its arduous journey back to the ER.

    When they finally made it to the ER, the transition went smoothly. The cops brought the prisoner back to the Psychiatric Evaluation Room, where he had been restrained before. This time, they placed him under a guard of four officers. The officers held Burnside facedown on the stretcher while a pair of hospital security guards stood by with nylon restraints. They switched the handcuffs to hospital restraints and strapped him down with his right arm stretched above his head and his left arm fastened below his waist. The awkward position made it impossible to struggle. 

    Burnside lay calmly on the stretcher with his head turned to the left. In fact, this was the only way his head would turn with his right arm stretched taut above him.

     Minutes later, a young male doctor with thinning blond hair approached the police officers standing outside the psych room.

    "His MRI came up negative,” the doctor said. “He has a clean bill of health. He's all yours, fellas.”

    "Gee, thanks, doc," one of the officers replied, sarcastically.

     Officer Jones spoke to the ER nurse assigned to the psych room and asked her to page hospital security to the ER.

    “There’s no way I’m going to mess with those crazy hospital restraints,” Jones said.

    “I don’t blame you,” Burke replied.

    A few minutes later, security arrived. The four police officers held the patient down while security removed the nylon straps. The cops quickly replaced the restraints with metal handcuffs and leg-cuffs. The prisoner's wrists were fastened securely behind his back and his ankles were cuffed together with enough space between them so he could shuffle across the floor.   

     The officers dragged Burnside roughly from the stretcher and pulled him across the room. Two officers held his arms, while the other two followed as they led him through the Emergency Room. A nurse and an EMT conversing outside a patient's room glanced over briefly at the prisoner and the guards. Burnside thought they must be used to viewing similar scenes because they quickly returned to their former conversation. The cops led him out the rear ambulance door and walked him to a cruiser, which was parked illegally fifty yards down the sidewalk in an out-of-the-way spot.

    They put him in the cage in the back. Burnside wanted to lean back in the seat and close his eyes, but his hands were cuffed behind him. He was forced to lean forward slightly until his face was mere inches away from the metal cage, so he wouldn't crush his wrists with his body weight. His situation was worsened by the fact there was barely enough leg room. His legs were bent almost as far they could go and his knees were pressed firmly against the top of the metal sheet just below the wire cage. It was an extremely uncomfortable ride back to the jail.

    Burnside tried to focus on something pleasant in an attempt to change his mood, but angry thoughts continued to dominate his mind. His discomfort added to his frustration. He tried to ignore the pain of his knees pressing into the metal sheet separating him from the two cops.  The pain acted as a psychological catalyst, igniting the sparks of his former rage. His imagination began to run wild with images of what he would do if there were no cage separating him from the cops in the front seat.

    He was starting to think he was a fool to have given up so quickly when he had such an excellent opportunity to escape in the hospital MRI room. He was still glad he let go of the cop he was strangling. That was the right thing to do. But he should have escaped when he had the chance.

   
I should have forced the cop to unclasp the hand and leg ties. The cop was in no condition to refuse. Then, I should have hauled ass. I could have knocked him out and made a run for it. Instead, I sat down like a sheep and let him call for backup. What was I thinking?

    Burnside thought the discomfort of his present condition only foreshadowed what was to come. They were taking him back to the jail where he had already wasted four months of his life during the pre-trial and trial. During his stay, he saw a motley assortment of characters come and go like cattle through the large, twenty-person cell. The worst part was the cell only had ten bunks. That meant twenty or more inmates competed for the bunks and the competition was often fierce. For the first two weeks, he slept on the floor using his forearms as a pillow. After two weeks elapsed, about half the inmates inhabiting the cell had been transferred out; they were either released or sent to state prison. That gave him the seniority he needed to claim one of the bunks. Not surprisingly, there were still some competitors for the bunk despite the fact he was next in line.

    When he was a police officer, his strategy was simple: do what you can to avoid a fight. He would rather try to talk a guy down and reason with him than have to wrestle him to the ground. It was a simple cost-benefit analysis. It was a lot more effort to fight than talk. Of course, that wasn't always possible. Sometimes they were going to fight you no matter what you did. But in most cases, he could see the situation from the other person's point of view. He tried to empathize with the individual’s predicament, convey his empathy to him/her with conversation, and then get the person talking. Once the person was talking about the problem, it was usually easy to get him or her to surrender by promising that he or she would get fair treatment. Burnside felt badly when people gave up, but were still not treated fairly by other officers or officials. Still, he had avoided a physical conflict and that was half the battle.

    The competitor for the cell bunk was a short, muscular Latino man sporting a pencil-thin moustache and wearing a classic "wife beater" t-shirt. When the Latino man had challenged Burnside for the bunk, the ex-cop naturally put his old crisis de-escalation skills to use. Burnside tried to reason with the man, but the guy simply saw him as weak and shoved him out of the way. The man reminded Burnside of a devious imp from a hell pit as he smiled mischievously while climbing onto the top bunk. The man sat in the middle of the bunk, continuing to smile his dopey grin while he looked down at him. Then, the imp turned away and began to converse with his burly friend as if Burnside wasn't there.

    This was the first time rage overcame Burnside in jail. The Latino man reminded him of a bully from middle school who used to mug him for his lunch money. The bully had smiled that same gap-toothed grin at him all those years ago. Back then, he had simply let the bully get away with his money and deftly avoided him during the following weeks. But now he was a grown man; it was different.  

    Rage took hold of him like a tornado, sucking him into its core. All the indignities he suffered during his stay in jail flashed through his mind like a disjointed movie: the uncomfortable nights, the disgusting food, the poor company, the lack of stimulation, the drab environment, the lack of exercise, the boredom. At that moment, he decided the little imp sitting on his bunk was the cause of all his troubles. He charged toward the man seated on the top bunk and grabbed him by his skinny forearms. Pulling him off the bunk, he swung him into his buddy. The adrenaline made the feat seem easier than the rowing exercises he did at the gym. The two men collided like ten pins and hit the floor in a jumble of limbs and unintelligible curses.

    Burnside spent three days a week at the gym before being incarcerated. He wasn't the biggest or strongest guy in the department, but he was fairly formidable at six foot two, one hundred ninety pounds. Certainly, he was considered to be one of the strongest guys in the department, which wasn't bad considering it was a big city department with hundreds of officers.

    All conversations in the cell ceased. A circle of inmates gathered around the bunk to get a better view. The imp's friend was the first to get to his feet.  The imp himself had struck his skull on the floor, so he was still lying on his back, groaning.

    His friend was also a Latino man but he outweighed the imp by about a hundred pounds and stood taller than Burnside at six-five. The big man's black goatee contorted above his lip like a writhing caterpillar as he snarled and lunged toward Burnside. The ex-cop stepped adroitly aside to avoid the lumbering charge and sent a fist into the side of the big man's head. The fist connected solidly, dropping him like dead weight. The imp was sitting up at that point, staring at the scene with open-mouthed amazement. Burnside thought he looked ridiculous as his obnoxious smile was replaced by an expression of idiotic incredulity.

    Burnside stalked over to him as he sat on the floor and grabbed him by his neck with his left hand, while he drew back his right fist.

    "You still have a problem with me taking this bunk?" he asked.

    "No, man!" the Latino shouted, glancing over at the prone body of his large friend. "No, man! Take it! It’s yours!"

    "That's what I fucking thought," Burnside snarled, as he let go of the man’s shirt and dropped him to the floor.

    Burnside ignored the Latino as the man scampered to his friend's side and tried to revive him. The ex-cop was breathing heavy and all his muscles were still tensed for action. His eyes darted around the circle of inmates surrounding the bunk as if he was challenging one of them to start something. The inmates turned and walked away, muttering to themselves. He knew he would sleep that night with one eye open for fear of retaliation by the two Latino men. They retreated to the far corner of the cell, whispering and giving him the evil eye. He spent the night mostly sleepless as he kept watch for an attack, but his luck improved the next day when the men were transferred to a medium security prison. No one in the cell bothered him again after that.

    Burnside wished he could temporarily shut down his mind, as if switching off a machine. That way he wouldn’t have to endure the dark thoughts swirling through his head. The ride to the jail was only forty minutes, but it seemed like hours. He imagined dispatching the two officers in the front in a variety of unpleasant ways. He pictured himself pushing through the metal screen separating them. He imagined the screen giving way and slamming into the back of the cops’ heads, smashing them into the windshield. He pictured the cruiser careening off the road onto the sidewalk and slamming into the side of a building. He imagined grabbing the heads of the dazed officers and twisting with all his strength until their necks snapped.

    The dark thought gave him satisfaction on an instinctual level. The cops were bringing him back into danger by taking him to jail, and eventually prison. He felt it was his basic right to exercise self-defense in the face of such at attack on his freedom and security. But another part of his mind had been conditioned by years of civilizing influences. His civilized side was driving him to find a solution that didn’t involve violence. Before his incarceration, he was able to think and talk his way out of many problems. In his present circumstances, the civilized option appeared to be futile. That left only one option: violence.

    During his previous life, Burnside regarded the violent solution as the last resort of the lowest, most debased members of society. Now, he felt he had been unfairly placed on that bottom rung of society. The conflict between his learned, civilized side and his instinctual, survivalist side was tearing his mind apart. For the first time in his life, he actually feared he might lose his sanity.

    The cruiser pulled up inevitably to the processing area of the Essex County Jail. Burnside waited impatiently in the confined space while the cops took their leisurely time to exit the car. One of them opened the door and gestured for him to exit. A sharp pain shot through his legs as he attempted to swivel them from a cramped, locked position against the metal sheet. He winced as he slowly straightened his half-numb legs out the door. He ducked his head and pushed upward unsteadily. He stood leaning on the open car door, waiting for the circulation to return.

    “Come on,” one of the cops said, grabbing his arm.

    Burnside almost toppled over as he tried to shuffle forward. The cop had to grab his shoulder to support him until he could regain his balance.

    “Not much leg room back there,” Burnside said.

    The cops didn’t reply. They stood on either side of him holding an arm, while Burnside staggered awkwardly in the uncomfortable leg cuffs. They led him down a walkway to a back door next to a loading dock platform. They entered a narrow, dimly lit hallway that brought them to a processing area. Burnside seized the opportunity to sit down next to a desk while they sorted through his paperwork. After asking him a few brief questions, they pulled him up and resumed their journey toward the cellblock. Another door in the processing room took them down a long, wide, concrete corridor flanked by cells.

    Burnside ignored the stares of the other inmates behind the bars as he shuffled ahead, dreading being shut up in the cages with the lowlifes. The thought of being incarcerated with the societal misfits made him want to go berserk. He figured it would be a waste of energy to try to do so with his legs and wrists cuffed together. He complied with the cops because there was no other alternative.

    A Sheriff’s Deputy approached one of the larger cells with a set of keys and opened it. The two cops glanced at each other when they realized it was time to take off the prisoner’s handcuffs and leg-cuffs.

    “Do you have any more guys around?” one of the cops asked the Deputy Sheriff.

    “Yeah, sure, why? What do you need?” the DS asked.

    The cop hesitated for a moment, Burnside guessed from the embarrassment of having to ask for help dealing with a prisoner.

    “This guy hasn’t been too cooperative. You know what I mean?” the cop asked, avoiding eye contact with Burnside.

    “Sure,” the Deputy replied as he pulled out a portable radio. “Whitmore to Rourke. We need you down at cellblock D. Copy?”

    “Yeah, sure.” a bored-sounding voice replied over the radio.

    Less than thirty seconds later another light blue uniformed Deputy emerged from the processing room and met them next to the cell.

    “What’s up?” the new DS asked, casually.

    “We’re taking off this guy’s cuffs,” the first deputy explained.

    “Yeah, so what?” The second deputy remarked.

    The cops gave him a dirty look.

    “He’s dangerous,” the first deputy explained.

    “Then, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” the second deputy retorted as he tightened up his relaxed expression. “Sure, I’m ready. Go ahead,” he added as he prepared to tackle the prisoner if necessary.

    The cops took off the cuffs without incident and Burnside stepped into the cell without being told to do so.

    It’s good to keep them guessing.

   The ex-cop prepared himself for the annoying clang of the bars when they slid back into place. He winced anyway as the bars slammed shut like a peal of metallic thunder. He glanced around to check out his new neighbors. The usual motley assortment of humanity was strewn randomly about the large cell like debris; leaning against the walls, sitting on the bunks, standing. They had been watching him from the moment he arrived in front of the cell. Burnside ignored their stares and stalked ahead until he found an open spot near the wall and sat down. He stared at the opposite wall without addressing anyone. With nothing interesting to hold their attention, the prisoners turned away and went back to their own business.

    Burnside leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

   
Okay, pal. Get a grip. You’re fucking losing it. There must be a way to adapt to this situation. Must be. God wouldn’t put me in this situation without a reason. It must be to make me stronger.

    Burnside brainstormed for a way to escape or adapt to the miserable situation. He opened his eyes and counted the number of inmates in the cell. 

   
Fourteen inmates. Looking on the positive side, it’s six less inmates than usual in a cell this size. No, that’s not quite right. Five less. I forgot to count myself. Okay, I’m facing the same old dilemma; ten bunks, fifteen people. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on my arms again tonight. Could be worse. Now, what do I do to keep my mind occupied? No book, no newspaper. No pen, paper. What am I going to do until I get transferred out of here? My options don’t look good.

    Burnside tried to prepare himself psychologically for the inevitable boredom that was going to set in. He tried to think of an experience in his previous non-criminal life that compared to waiting around in a cell: bored almost to the point of insanity. Waiting in a long line at a store didn’t come close. A store line usually didn’t last any longer than ten minutes, and after you paid, you were free and clear. He remembered waiting in long lines when he went to Disney World when he was a kid, but that was no big deal because it only built suspense for the rides.

    The situation he found most similar to sitting around in jail was going on an extremely long drive. When he was nineteen he drove from New York City to Atlanta to visit a friend from high school. He wanted to make good time, so he would have more time to spend with his friend. That meant he had to keep going with a minimum of stops. He remembered sitting in the driver’s seat hour after hour, bored with the audio book he bought and looking forward to the next rest stop so he could stretch his legs. After six hours of driving, his mind numbed out. The only emotion he felt was annoyance at being trapped in such a confined space. That was the closest experience he could think of to the jail experience. But of course, it was inadequate. Even if you had to drive for six hours straight, there was always the eventual catharsis when you got out of the car, grabbed a snack from one of the rest stop machines, and walked around in the fresh air.

    Burnside stared at the cell’s blank wall, thinking about the drive he took to Atlanta four years ago. The idea of stretching his legs was in his head, so he got up and walked around. First, he walked to the row of bars and grabbed two of them, movie-criminal-style, and tried to peer around the corner to see down the corridor. There was nothing to see. Just an empty corridor. He could hear the prisoners in the other large cells talking and muttering - with an occasional barking laugh thrown in. All the cells were built on the same side of the block, so there was no interaction between inmates in different cells.

   
Okay, I’ve tested the bars. They’re sturdy. Now what?

    Burnside turned away from the bars and scanned his motley surroundings. There was one double bunk pushed against the left wall, two against the back wall, and two in the middle of the room. The wall on the right was bare. Two clean-cut inmates leaned against the right-hand wall talking in low whispers. Two scruffy inmates leaned against one of the bunks in the middle of the floor talking heatedly. A dirty, ragged man, who looked like he was homeless, was sitting in the corner, muttering to himself. While most of the other prisoners wore orange jumpsuits, the homeless man wore a faded gray winter coat, although it was the middle of July, and white trousers that were so stained, they appeared grayish-black. He was wearing black high top sneakers that may or may not have started out black. He must have smelled, too, because no one else was anywhere near him.

    Poor bastard.
 

    Burnside had always felt bad for the homeless. Whenever he spotted one of them begging on the street, he always reached into his pocket to gave him or her a dollar and whatever change he had in his pocket. When he was feeling really bad, he sometimes gave a homeless person a five. His friends always gave him a hard time for it. They said, “He’s just going to spend it on drugs and alcohol.” Burnside ignored them and didn’t give in to their peer pressure. The way he saw it: if he were ever so down-and-out that he was forced to beg on a street corner, any amount of money would be a relief.

    Glancing down, Burnside realized he was still wearing his dark blue dress pants, white dress shirt, and polished black shoes from court. His red tie had been ripped off some time during a struggle. Of course, the previously clean, white shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained. He figured the cops and guards were in such a rush to lock him up that they neglected to make him change into standard prison attire. Looking around, he saw two other inmates wearing civilian clothing other than himself and the homeless man. If a prisoner was only being held temporarily, he or she was not asked to change into an orange prison jumpsuit. If they were in for the long haul, they were stuck wearing the hideous prison attire. Burnside was in for the long haul, but somehow he got lucky.

    Burnside continued scanning the cell. Another inmate was lying down on the top half of one of the bunks set against the left wall. He looked fairly comfortable, considering where he was, and may even have been asleep. Another guy was lying on the lower half of the middle bunk next to the two heated talkers. He lied tensely with his hands behind his head, staring at the top bunk - apparently lost in thought.

    The action was taking place in the back of the large cell. The remaining seven inmates were crowded near the back bunks in a rough circle. Two of them were seated on the lower half of the bunks. Four guys were seated on the floor, Indian-style, in a rough semi-circle. The last guy was sitting on the floor leaning against one of the bunks. All of them held cards in their hands.

   Burnside guessed the game was pretty intense because they concentrated on their hands and only talked to each other when necessary. There was no laughing or joking like at most card games played by a group of guys. Burnside walked closer and saw a small pile in the middle of the circle. He squinted his eyes and realized it was a stack of cigarettes.

   
Just like in the movies; they are living stereotypes.

    The prisoners all wore orange jumpsuits, so no one was wearing a wife-beater t-shirt or a black leather jacket with zippers, which Burnside guessed was the clothing they would be most comfortable in. The leather jacket he wore on the outside was top of the line; Armani; no zippers. He felt like he had nothing in common with any of these inmates. From his perspective, he was on one side, and they were on another. Now, inexplicably, he was counted as one of them.

   
What an upside-down world. I can’t believe I’m going to be spending the next twenty years with people like this.

    Burnside knew the inmates in state prison would be even worse. This was only jail. Jail was only utilized for people who were awaiting trial, attending trial, convicted of misdemeanor crimes, or awaiting transfer to state prisons. Prison was a whole different story. It was reserved for felonies of all shapes and sizes ranging from armed robbery to murder.

   
The people I’ll be spending the next twenty years with will be worse than these low-lifes. I hope I can stay in good enough shape to defend myself. In the movies, they have weights in prison. Maybe I’ll be able to work out.

    On the outside, Burnside spent a lot of time hitting the bag at his gym. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t have any punching bags in prison. Not if they were smart. There was no doubt his boxing skills had already helped him kick ass in the jail, courtroom, and even the hospital MRI room.