American Criminal (8 page)

    “What did you say to me?” the kid shouted, walking up to Burnside and brandishing the baton threateningly.

    “What are you going to do, kid? Hit me? How long you been on the job? A week?” Burnside asked, grinning.

    The kid’s face reddened as he lifted the baton over his shoulder. Burnside impassively met the young guard’s enraged stare and noticed another figure coming in from the left in his peripheral vision.

    “What’s going on here?” a second guard, a middle aged black man, inquired of Burnside.

    Burnside saw yellow sergeant stripes stitched into his light blue shirtsleeve.

    “I don’t know. It looks like this rookie is itching to use his baton for the first time,” Ray said.

    “What’s the problem, Broderick?” the older guard asked.

    The young guard’s face turned an even deeper shade of red as he grudgingly lowered his baton. Burnside noticed the older guard didn’t reach for his baton. He stood next to the younger guard with his hands on his hips. Ray heard the sound of shuffling feet as more guards moved in behind him.

    “This guy keeps stepping out of line, and he won’t do what I say,” the young guard said.

    “Is this true?” the sergeant asked Burnside.

    “No,” Burnside said. “I stepped out of line once and I got back into it when this kid told me to.”

    “Do you have a problem doing what we tell you to do?” the older guard inquired, matter-of-factly.

    “Not at all.”

    The sergeant stared at Burnside for a few moments, as if he was sizing him up, and turned toward the younger guard.

    “We should be all set here. Return to your original position.”

     The young guard sighed heavily as he trudged back to his post with hunched shoulders.

    “Are we going to have a problem with you?” the sergeant asked Burnside in a low voice.

    “No, sir.”

    “Okay, then,” the guard said, turning away and returning to his original position.

   
Well, that killed a couple minutes, at least.

    Burnside peered over the inmate’s shoulder again to see if the line had made any progress. It hadn’t. 

    After an interminable amount of waiting, which seemed like many hours, but was probably only about twenty minutes, Burnside’s turn came. Four guards surrounded him and escorted him through the double glass doors. They brought him fifty feet down a wide, well-lit hallway until they reached a four-way intersection. The hallway continued straight ahead, while two narrow corridors branched to the left and the right. The guards led Burnside to the right. A short way down the side corridor, they took another right into a side office. A single black metal desk dominated the middle of the bare floor space. Behind it sat a diminutive, late-middle-aged, balding man with his face buried in a file. A single uncomfortable-looking metal chair was placed directly in front of the desk. The only other furniture in the room was a pair of black metal file cabinets tucked into the back corner. The walls were blank and gray. The room looked like a large cell that had been hastily converted into a makeshift office.

    “Please sit down, Mr. Burnside,” the small man spoke from behind the file he held in front of him.

    Burnside complied. The older, balding man placed the file on the desk and continued to scrutinize it with knitted eyebrows. Burnside saw he was extremely thin, almost emaciated, wearing a black suit that looked too big for him. His small wire-rimmed glasses rode low on a long, aquiline nose. Burnside thought he looked more like a librarian than a corrections official. The man’s studious attention to the file only enhanced this impression.

    A few minutes of awkward silence ensued where the little man continued to read the file, as if he was the only person in the room. Burnside knew that at least some of the guards had remained in the room from the sound of their shuffling feet on the floor behind him. Finally, after a seemingly interminable silence, the official looked up at Burnside.

    “I’m Lawrence Henderson, the Deputy Warden of this facility,” the thin man’s reedy voice paused for a moment for dramatic effect, and then continued. “Mr. Burnside, from reading your file, it looks to me like you are not a typical prisoner.”

    Burnside remained impassive while the librarian hesitated, as if awaiting a response from him. When he didn’t receive one, he continued speaking in his reedy voice with a faint trace of annoyance registering in his long, thin face in his knitted eyebrows and pursed lips.

    “You would have been sent to a medium security, or even a minimum security prison, if it was not for your recent behavior in the courtroom. And then there was the problem in the hospital. Your police record appears impeccable. How do you explain your deviance in these situations?”

    Burnside let the question hang for a few awkward moments and then answered calmly and firmly.

    “I explain it like this; I know it sounds cliché, but I didn’t do the crime. When I realized I was going to get sent away for fifteen years for a crime I didn’t commit, I became angry,” Burnside paused while he considered what to say next. “Obviously, my behavior was a mistake. I never intended to act out like that in the courtroom or in the hospital. I always thought during the trial that the truth was eventually going to emerge through the lies, and I would eventually be acquitted. I didn’t prepare myself for what I would feel if the jury came back with a guilty verdict. That was my mistake. I should have been ready for it,” Ray explained his case professionally, as if he was making a report to a police department superior.

    The librarian appeared pleased by his answer. His thin lips curled into a faint smile before he spoke.

    “It sounds like your behavior may have been an isolated incident; it may have been an extreme reaction to the verdict. As you probably already know, the bottom line for us, Mr. Burnside, is that there are no more incidents like these while you are in our custody.”

    “There won’t be, sir.” Burnside said.

    “Good. Because we won’t abide any behavior like the violence you displayed. Our response will be swift….and severe,” the librarian attempted to glare at Burnside menacingly, but Burnside thought he just looked like a librarian who was annoyed at someone for bringing back an overdue book. He had to utilize all his energy to suppress a smile and keep his face frozen into its previous solemnity.

    “As long as you know that, Mr. Burnside, you should get along here fine. This can be a rough place and there may be….temptations to revert to unacceptable behavior. I suggest you do not give in to these impulses. The punishment we will inflict will be far worse than any punishments the cons can do to you. Aside from solitary confinement, there is the loss of good behavior, which will only serve to lengthen your stay at our facility. Remember that. Just do your time, follow the rules, and you may even get transferred out of here to a medium security prison after a few years.” 

    “That’s what I intend to do, sir,” Burnside said.

    While being confronted by a prison official who had ultimate power over him, Burnside’s mind reverted to its former professional demeanor and he began to think there was a possibility that he could really reform his behavior.

    “Excellent, Mr. Burnside. Then I wish you good luck and I hope you continue to accrue good behavior, for your sake. Although you are a now considered a criminal, you were once something better and some of us haven’t forgotten that fact,” the librarian leaned closer across his desk and lowered his voice, confidentially, so the guards couldn’t overhear. “Of course, no one here knows about your former occupation, which is integral for your survival here. You already know the reason you were transferred to our Missouri facility was for your own safety. If the inmates here discover your identity, you will not survive a day. I suggest you invent another former occupation. Not even the guards know about your old job. Just the Warden and myself. As long as you conform to the rules, this information will remain confidential ”

    “I appreciate that, sir.”

    “Guards, you may escort the gentleman out. Goodbye, Mr. Burnside.”

    “Goodbye, sir,” Burnside replied, standing from the uncomfortable metal seat.

     A pair of guards materialized on either side of him before he could take a single step. One of the guards grabbed his right arm and led him out of the room. Burnside nodded at the Deputy Warden before turning his back and leaving with his escorts. The guards held firmly onto Burnside’s arms and steered him right down the hallway.

    Ray had an excellent sense of direction. He always did well with maps and rarely got lost. However, even he couldn’t remember the layout of the maze of corridors and tunnels they took him through to get to his cellblock. All he remembered were numerous, identical-looking, gray-walled corridors.

    Eventually, they reached a large opening blocked by a thick array of black metal bars. A bulletproof window was built into the right wall. Behind it, a pair of guards sat at desks, monitoring video surveillance cameras. One of them looked up, nodded at the guards escorting Burnside, and reached over to flick a switch on a control panel. A harsh mechanical grinding sound accompanied the sliding of the bars into a slot in the wall. When the bars had receded completely, the guards escorted him through the opening.

    The cellblock was colossal. They stepped into a spacious area lined with cells on the left and right. The walkway they were on traveled forward for as far as the eye could see. Burnside looked up and saw four tiers of catwalks. He saw cell bars beyond the catwalks. Safety railings lined each catwalk. Burnside guessed someone could probably survive a fall from the first catwalk. He figured someone might even survive with a set of broken legs if they fell from the second. No one could survive falling from the third or fourth. The safety railings didn’t look very high. He wondered how many inmates had plunged to their deaths.

     “Move,” one of the guards said, shoving Burnside lightly on the shoulder.

    “Sure thing,” Burnside replied, allowing himself to be led down the cellblock.

    He stared straight ahead, ignoring the stares of the inmates in the cells on the bottom floor. He ignored several shouts of profanity and various whistles and catcalls from the inmates. They turned right onto a narrow stairwell wedged between the cells. They climbed up two stories and stepped onto the second level. They led him past more cells and he had to endure similar shouts of profanity and idiotic noises. Eventually, they reached a cell containing a single inmate. Burnside looked ahead and saw another bulletproof window built into the back wall on each level. Behind each window, a guard sat at a set of controls. The guards escorting Burnside nodded at the guard on their level and he flicked a switch on his console. A faint click was heard and the cell bars receded into the wall as the larger set of bars had done when they first entered the block.

    The single inhabitant of the cell stared coolly at Burnside. Burnside made eye contact with him briefly and then stared at the wall. He hoped he wasn’t going to begin his stay in his new home with a fight. One of the guards unclasped the handcuffs, and he stretched out his arms, which were sore from confinement. The guards pushed him forward and he stumbled into the cell. He turned and glared back at them. One of the guards smirked. 

   
I’ll remember your face,
Ray thought.

    Another nod from the guards and the bars were sliding back into place. Burnside winced when he heard the bars slam into the wall, sealing him off from the outer catwalk. He continued to glare at the guards until they turned and walked out of sight. Then, he turned and regarded his new cellmate.      

Chapter 9

    Burnside’s cellmate stared back at him, impassively, as he sized him up. He was a tall black man in his early thirties. He had short black hair and bulging muscles. Ray decided to break the ice.

    “Ray Burnside, nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

    His cellmate’s eyes widened, as if he had been caught off guard. Then, he cautiously extended his hand and shook Burnside’s.

    “Sean James,” he said.

    “Looks like we’re stuck with each other for a little while,” Burnside said, forcing a casual grin.

    “Yeah, looks that way,” his new roommate said, noncommittally.

    Burnside met his stare.

    His cellmate was huge. Burnside was strong, but he only weighed about 190. He guessed his roommate, James, must have weighed in at close to 250 pounds; all of it looked like muscle. He hoped they wouldn’t have a problem.

    “The top bunk’s mine,” James stated, definitively, as if he was quoting an indisputable Natural Law.

    “Sure, no problem.” Burnside agreed, not wanting to start trouble.

    The cell was unimpressive, to say the least. The bunk bed was set against the left wall. There was a toilet and sink in the right corner. An open crate-sized container was placed at each end of the bunk bed. Burnside assumed one of them was for his belongings. Not that he had any yet. A small television set was on a small table against the right wall. A single chair sat in the left corner. A small shelf on the back wall contained two paperback books, toiletry items, magazines, notebooks, and a portrait of an attractive black woman. That was it. Nothing else. Burnside estimated the cell was only slightly larger than the solitary cell they placed him in back at the jail. He could feel the walls closing in on him already.

    Burnside’s cellmate took two long strides to the left corner and sat down in the cell’s only chair. The chair had been placed directly against the wall so it was facing the rest of the cell.

    “So, where you from, cellie?” James asked.

    “New York City,” Burnside said.

    He didn’t see any sense in lying. He would only be found out sooner or later and gain a reputation as a liar. Better to start off honest. He figured there was no way this guy would ever figure out he used to be a cop.

    “I’m from Boston,” James said. “We’re practically neighbors.”

    “What are you doing way out here?” Burnside asked.

    “I got into some local trouble,” James said.

    “I hear that. So, you’re from Boston. I caught a few games at Fenway Park,” Ray said.

    “I’ve seen some games at Yankee Stadium,” James said, grinning for the first time.

    “Nice,” Burnside said, smiling back. “I moved to New York City from Boston when I was fifteen, so I never stopped being a Red Sox fan.”

    “You know what, cellie? It looks like you and I might get along after all.”

    “You gotta love the Sox,” Burnside said. “So what’s next on today’s schedule? Are they going to let us out of this cage any time soon?”

    “Dinner’s next,” James said. “Then, they bring us back here. Then, it’s lights out.”

    “That doesn’t sound too exciting.”

    “It’s not.”

    “What about tomorrow? Do they have an exercise yard or something?”

    “They do.” James said. “But, I’d watch my back out there if I were you. Some of the resident bad-asses like to test out new guys; you know, see what they’re made of. Know what I mean?”

    “I do. I’ve already been tested a few times in jail.”

    “That’s good. It won’t come as a complete shock. Try to stay near other people. Try not to get caught alone.”

    “I appreciate the advice.”

    “I’d say you could hang out with me, but that’s not going to work out. I’m apologizing in advance,” James said.

    “Your friends wouldn’t approve of my company?” Burnside asked, raising his left eyebrow as he sat, casually, on the bottom bunk.

    “No. This prison is pretty much segregated. Black inmates don’t mingle with whites or Hispanics. Each group keeps to themselves.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

    “Sounds real progressive.” Burnside said.

    “Yeah, right.” James said. “It’s strictly old-school. People try to hang out with their own to keep themselves safe.”

    “What about gangs?” Burnside asked, erasing his smile.

    “There are gangs,” James replied, coolly, staring into Burnside’s eyes as if he was trying to read his mind.

    “I take it I should stay away from them too,” Burnside said.

    “Not necessarily,” James said.

    He narrowed his eyes as he studied Burnside’s demeanor. His expression appeared to soften slightly, and he spoke again.

    “I’m usually a pretty good judge of character.” James said, pausing. “And I think you might actually be a stand-up guy. For one thing, you like the Red Sox and that’s a good start. That’s why I’m going to give you a heads-up.”

    “I appreciate that,” Ray said.

    “There are basically four major gangs in this prison,” James explained. “There’s the
Bloods
,
Low-Riders
,
Goodfellas
, and the worst-of-the-worst, the
Skinheads,
otherwise known as the Aryan Nation. I’m sure you can guess what their philosophy is.”

    “Unfortunately, I met some of those scum-bags back in New York City,” Burnside said, frowning. “I mostly beat the shit out of them,” he added.

    “That’s good. Then, you and I see eye-to-eye. I’m with the
Bloods
. As long as you stay away from my brothers and me when we’re outside this cell, we’ll leave you alone. As you can probably guess, our problem is mostly with the
Skins
.”

    “I can see that.” Burnside said.

    “The
Low
-
Riders
are the local Hispanic gang. Some of them are from LA. The rest pretend they are.”

    “Okay,” Burnside said. 

    James hesitated for a moment, studying him with narrowed eyes before continuing.

    “The
Goodfellas
are probably your best bet. Try to get in good with those wise-guys and they might offer you some protection.”

    “I take it they’re mostly Italians?” Burnside asked.

    “You take it right,” James said.

    “It’s a shame I’m Irish.”

    “They’ll take you in, if they think they can use you.”

    “I’ll try to make myself indispensable then.”

    “That’s a good idea. The
Goodfellas
don’t get along with the
Low Riders
or the
Skins
. They have an uneasy alliance with my gang, the
Bloods
.” James leaned back in his chair. “We mostly stay out of each other’s way. We do have some shared business interests, which I’m sure you’ll learn about later once you get acclimated. This makes us competitors with other gangs that also have a hand in prison business.”

    “All right,” Burnside said, not wanting to interrupt.

    He wanted to soak up as much information as possible about the prison. He figured his survival might depend on it.

    “The
Low Riders
are a force unto themselves. They’re the largest gang. They don’t get along with other gangs, but they mostly leave the
Goodfellas
and the
Bloods
alone. Their main problem is with the
Skins
.”

    “I’m surprised there are any
Skinheads
still alive with such a mixed population,” Burnside commented.

    “You’d think we’d just team up and take them out. The problem is, they have people on the inside,” James said.

    “Working inside the prison?” Ray asked.

    “A lot of the screws in this joint are sympathetic to them,” Sean said. “Even worse, one of them is rumored to hold a high position. The screws help the
Skins
ply their trade.”

    “I can only imagine what that is.”

    “The same trade as all the other gangs. Bringing in contraband.”

    “That’s what I figured.”

    “When the
Goodfellas
first started becoming a power, the
Low Riders
made a bid to wipe them out,” James said, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s when the
Bloods
stepped in and helped the Italians. Don’t get me wrong. It was strictly business. The
Goodfellas
have major connections with the New York families. The families look out for their own. After we helped them out, we did some business together. That way, everyone makes a profit. They have the outside connections and we have the muscle.”

    “Sounds like a good alliance.”

    “It’s all right. The only problem is some of the gang members don’t like each other too much. But our leaders keep them under control.”

    “That’s good.”

    “Needless to say, the
Skins
don’t like the Italians
too much, because they associate with us
Bloods
. The
Goodfellas
are also competing with the
Skins
in plying the prison’s various illegal trades. You should be safe from my gang as long as you don’t join up with the
Skins
. If you do, all bets are off.”

    “I wouldn’t join with those scum-bags if they promised me my freedom,” Burnside said, scowling. “I hate those pieces of shit. Some of my best friends back home wouldn’t be too popular with the
Skinheads
.”

    “Then, you might just make it out of this shit-hole alive, Cellie. But, take my advice. Hook up with the
‘fellas
as fast as you can. Then, you’ll have a link with my group and also have some protection from other
gangs.” 

    “It sounds like the gangs are the most powerful forces in the prison,” Burnside said.

    “They are. Even most of the guards have been forced to choose sides. Unfortunately, most of them have sided with the
Skinheads
. The Italians
also
have a few of their own working on the inside. They even have a sergeant on their payroll. Their screws help keep everything balanced. The screws loyal to the
Skins
don’t want to get too out of line with the
Goodfellas,
or they’ll end up getting whacked on the outside. As you can probably guess, the Italians have the most powerful outside organization. The
Bloods
also exist on the outside, but not to the same extent as the
‘fellas
. They can have anyone they want killed on the outside. All they have to do is make a phone call to New York.”

    “I believe it,” Burnside said.

    “So, hopefully, you’ll take my advice and you might actually survive this place,” James said.

    “I appreciate the advice.”

    “No problem. I don’t usually talk so much with my new Cellies, but you seem all right. Like I said before, I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. And besides, I’ve had a lot worse roommates than you. One time, they even teamed me up with a
Skin
. That didn’t last long. I almost killed the bastard.”

    “That’s a good thing,” Burnside said, grinning.

     A loud bell resounded in the outside cellblock, interrupting their conversation.

    “What’s that?” Burnside asked.

    “Dinner time,” James said, standing.

Chapter 10