American Criminal (5 page)

    Those incidents were nothing like boxing. They were more like a combination of wrestling and street fighting.

    He wished he had a punching bag to pound on. That would make him feel better. Some weights would be nice too. He would like to get out some aggression by lifting heavy objects. He thought about how out of shape he was becoming since being in jail. They didn’t have any weights in jail, so he hadn’t hit the gym since he had been a free man almost five months ago. In the meantime, he was doing push-ups and sit-ups to at least keep a semblance of physical conditioning. It depressed him to think the animals in state prison were hitting the weights right now while he stood watching a bunch of dirt-bags playing cards.

   
There’s no use dwelling on it. I’ll get back in shape.

    Burnside grinned as he thought back to his past battles in the jail cell, court, and hospital. A couple of the guys in the department were into boxing and he had spent some time sparring with them, as well as using the heavy punching bag. Facing a real live opponent who actually threw punches back at you was indispensable if you really wanted to learn how to fight. Hitting a motionless bag could help you punch with more strength and accuracy over time, but if you couldn’t move out of the way when the other guy threw a punch, you were all done.

    
I’m bored. This is ridiculous. What I wouldn’t give for a book right now. Any book. Even a bad book. Even one of those ridiculous romance books my ex-girlfriend liked.
   

    This train of thought led him to think of his ex-girlfriend, Michelle; it was something he had been trying hard not to do for quite a while. She left him even before the verdict was handed down. She didn’t believe any of his arguments proclaiming his innocence. She knew he always had a wild side and she knew he liked to own top-of-the-line possessions. It seemed logical to her that he would take an illegal risk to get ahead financially.

    He was also caught lying to her a few times, which didn’t help his credibility. Nothing too big. Just little lies to avoid conflict. For example, instead of telling her he was going out to dinner with his ex, he told her he was going to play tennis with friends. His relationship with his ex was purely innocent, but that didn’t matter. He was caught in the lie and the resulting fight was far worse than it would have been if he told the truth right away.

    Throughout most of his life, he had often learned things the hard way. He learned that speeding in a car was not advisable because of the large fines and license suspensions that were imposed upon habitual offenders who got caught. It had taken him over five hundred dollars worth of fines and two license suspensions before he finally figured it out. That, he knew, was just one example among many.

   
How many more lessons am I going to have to learn the hard way? Probably quite a few, considering where I’m going.

    He was not looking forward to them.

    Burnside sauntered closer to the card game for a better look. He was never a big card player, but he was so bored he would settle for any entertainment. He walked to the circle and stood just outside of it, observing the play. He was not well received.

    “What the fuck are you looking at?” a burly guy sitting on the floor in front of him asked.

    Burnside thought it was amusing that the guy had to crane his neck like an ostrich to look over his shoulder to see him.

    “This is a private game. Get the fuck out of here,” a guy sitting on the edge of a bunk said.

    Burnside observed that the two inmates mouthing off to him were the largest in the group.

        “You gentlemen lack courtesy,” Burnside said. “I was merely bored and desired entertainment.”

    “Go find it somewhere else, asshole,” the burly guy snarled as he stood to his feet and faced him, nose to nose.

    Burnside noted the man outweighed him by fifty pounds and had at least three inches on him. He also noted that it probably wouldn’t matter.

    “Rather than getting all excited about it, you should sit back down and play your game,” Burnside said, calmly.

    The big man’s answer was a hard shove to the chest. Burnside temporarily lost his balance, but he was expecting such a maneuver, so he recovered easily. The ex-cop followed up the man’s assault with a left jab to the nose and a hard right to the jaw. The man dropped to the floor like a limp sack of grain. Burnside heard exclamations of surprise erupt from the other card players as they watched their buddy hit the floor. 

     “Anyone else have a problem with me watching the game?” Burnside asked, grinning down at the card players’ gape-mouthed expressions of surprise.

    Not surprisingly, no one answered. Silence filled the large jail cell like the calm before a storm. Even the other prisoners, who weren’t part of the card game, remained silent to see how this drama would play out. Burnside was enjoying his newfound sense of power. After all the powerlessness he felt during the past five months, if felt good to be in control again; even if it was such a petty form of control. Sure, he was stuck with these lowlifes, but he wasn’t going to let them push him around.

    He looked down at the prone body of the prisoner and decided his next move. He grabbed the man’s meaty arms and dragged him to the corner where the homeless man sat alone. He left the prone body next to the homeless man and returned to the card players.

    “Well, what are you waiting for? Deal me in,” he said as he sat down Indian-style in the spot formerly occupied by the burly inmate.

    “Okay, the man wants in,” a short, stocky guy with a buzz-cut said as he began collecting the players’ cards.

    “You may want to add these to the deck,” Burnside said as he picked up the unconscious inmate’s scattered cards and handed them to buzz-cut.     

Chapter 6

Sentencing

    A sudden commotion in the corridor outside the cell caused Burnside to turn his head along with the other players. He saw a large formation of light blue uniformed guards sliding open the barred cell door. They entered with batons drawn and made their way toward the back. The prisoners in the guards’ path got out of their way and sought the remote corners of the cell.

    Burnside didn’t realize the guards had come for him until they reached the back of the cell.
             

     “Stand up,” a guard commanded as the group surrounded Burnside with batons at the ready.

   Burnside’s eyes flashed to the closed circuit television camera hovering behind a small metal cage in the right corner of the cell.

     They saw the whole thing.

    Burnside didn’t see the point in resisting, so he stood up and faced the guards. He counted eight of them carrying batons.

   
Damn, they brought the whole cavalry.

    He grinned at them.

    “Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” a tall, well-built, older man instructed him.

    “Sure, no problem,” Burnside said as he complied.

    Cold steel encircled his wrists.

    “Move,” a skinny young guard with a black moustache said to him as he grabbed his right arm. Another guard grabbed his left arm as they pulled him toward the cell door.

    Burnside allowed them to lead him out of the cell and down the corridor without resisting. He heard the irritating metal clang of the bars sliding back into place as they reached the end of the cellblock. They took a left into a narrow hallway leading to a cluster of smaller single cells. The cells looked about as large as a fairly good-sized closet with a bunk against the left wall and a toilet in the right corner.

    I guess this is where they put the troublemakers.

    They opened one of the cells and pushed him in. Once inside, they surrounded him and took off his handcuffs and leg cuffs. He offered no resistance because he knew it would be futile.

    The guards filed silently out of the cell and returned to the main corridor. The last one slid the doors back into place and smirked at him as he walked away.

   
That really backfired. Now I’m really going to be bored,
Burnside thought.

    Burnside looked up and saw a closed circuit television camera positioned in the ceiling just outside the cell.

   
Why would anyone want to watch this lame show?

    He smirked as he began pacing the cell. It took him two long strides to reach the back and two long strides to the front bars. If he took smaller steps, he could take four paces to the back and four to the bars.

   
This is going to be a long day.

    He tried to look on the positive side.

   
At least I have my own bunk.

    The only problem was the hard metal bunk wasn’t equipped with a mattress, never mind a pillow. 

   
Oh, that’s right. This is the bad boy cell. No need to keep the bad boys comfy.

    He lay back on the metal bunk and used his crossed arms as a makeshift pillow. The ex-cop looked up at the monitoring camera and gave it the finger before he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

    Burnside dreamed he was being chased through a dark forest by a horde of hungry wolves. He ran past thick tree trunks, ducked under sharp branches, and leaped over rocks and bushes as the wolves howled in pursuit. He felt the wolves’ hot breath on his heels. Suddenly, a loud metallic clanging noise, which sounded like a church bell, resounded throughout the forest. He looked around for the source of the sound and realized it was coming from straight ahead. The spacious forest faded away into a tiny gray cell as he opened his eyes and saw one of the guards banging on the cell’s metal bars with his baton.

    “Hey, wake the fuck up,” the guard said.

    “I’m up. What?” Burnside replied.

    “What does it take to wake you up anyway? I’ve been pounding away on these bars forever and you haven’t batted an eyelid.”

    “All it takes is an obnoxious fuck like you doing what you’re doing,” Burnside said as he sat up on the side of the smooth metal bunk and glared at the jailer.

    “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but apparently you actually had a friend who came by to visit you earlier,” the guard said.

    “So I guess I can assume by your use of the past tense that he’s no longer here,” Burnside said.

    “You can’t have visitors while you’re awaiting transfer. But I can give you this,” the guard said as he held a paperback novel inside the cell bars.

    Burnside’s eyes widened as he stood quickly from the bunk. He grabbed the book away from the guard as if it was a bar of gold and stared at it, greedily. He ignored the guard’s disgusted “you’re welcome, asshole,” as he read the title:
Nightmares and Dreamscapes
by Stephen King. His favorite author! He only knew one person who could have brought it. It was his best friend from high school, Bob. Bob was the only one who had visited him during his stay in this fleabag motel. He was also the only one who believed his story about being framed. Burnside vowed that he would not forget this kindness.

    He briefly examined the cover art, which consisted of a spooky-looking scarecrow set in the middle of a dark road, and began hastily flipping through the pages. He remembered reading the book in high school, but he considered it a classic and was happy to read it again.

    This ought to kill some time.

   When he finally looked up from his prize, the guard was gone.

    I’ll miss his wit.

    The ex-cop sat on the bunk, opened to the prologue, and began reading as voraciously as a man who hadn’t eaten a meal in a week.

    It was impossible to measure time in the bare, windowless cell. He guessed he was reading for hours before he finally fell asleep. Later, he was subjected to another rude awakening. A loud metallic banging sound, which reminded him of a pickaxe striking steel, rocked him from his slumber. It turned out it was just another guard banging on the bars with a baton. Three guards stood outside his cell with batons at the ready.

    "What the fuck do you want?" Burnside asked, as he tried to re-orient himself to his surroundings.

    "Wake the fuck up, asshole. Time to go to court."

    A surreal feeling overcame him.

    Court? What's he talking about? I’ve already been tried and convicted! Was it all just a dream? Am I still in the middle of the trial?

    He sat up and glanced around at his Spartan surroundings. Memories of the past several days came back to him in disjointed images.

   I still have to go through the charade of sentencing - despite the fact the court already knows my sentence, I know my sentence, this asshole guard here knows my sentence, and everybody in the general public knows my sentence. We still have to go through the pathetic ritual of officially pronouncing the sentence. Talk about rubbing it in.

    Burnside stood, frowned, and lifted his chin defiantly in the air, "Let's get this charade over with."