American Criminal (9 page)

    A small army of guards entered the cellblock and escorted the inmates to the dining hall at staggered intervals. Burnside waited for his turn and joined a single-file line, staring at the inmate’s back in front of him. When they arrived at the cafeteria, Burnside thought it resembled a shoddier version of his old high school cafeteria. Inmates picked up trays at one end of a line and rolled them along a long metal counter, picking up food as they went. Dining hall workers, who looked like nothing more than slightly disgruntled inmates, slopped food into the trays from the other side of the counter. Burnside couldn’t tell what half the courses were, but he didn’t care. He was hungry. He took everything he could, filling two plates with twin mountains of unrecognizable meats and vegetables.

    Inmates picked up food and dispersed to long tables organized into neat rows. Burnside sat alone at an empty table near the back wall. He figured this way he could see everyone in his immediate surroundings and no one could sneak up on him. He began shoveling the pile of food into his mouth as if it was gourmet cuisine. He figured he might need the energy if somebody started trouble.

    Burnside stared straight ahead and tried not focus on the other inmates. This was difficult because other inmates focused on him. He noticed some of them glaring or pointing without making any attempt to use tact. It looked a lot like predators identifying new quarry.

    Burnside glanced around and saw a line of guards stationed along the wall on the far side of the cafeteria, near the front entrance. He counted eight of them carrying batons. He made a rough headcount of the prisoners. He counted at least fifty.

   
Not good odds for the guards.

    He hoped there were more guards stationed nearby, waiting to backup the cafeteria guards if there was any trouble.

     Burnside’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard a loud, deep voice on his right.

    “You’re in my seat,” the unknown voice growled at him.

    Burnside immediately stood up, as if he were about to relinquish the seat, and then turned and faced the inmate. Not surprisingly, the inmate was a massive, towering brute. He had arms like tree trunks and the mangled face of a retired prizefighter. He had a bald head, which gleamed in the artificial lights, and a black goatee that looked like a curling black centipede.

    “Move,” the brute growled, shoving Burnside’s tray aside and putting his own tray in its place.

    If I don’t set an example now, I’ll be dealing with this at every meal.

    The towering inmate moved his massive arms toward the table to drop his tray and Burnside acted. Ray tried to appear outwardly relaxed as he tensed up his body like a tightening spring and slowly pulled back his right arm. He exploded outward with his right fist and a sick crunching sound ensued as he broke the inmate’s nose, for quite possibly the fifth or sixth time. The inmate’s meaty hands flew up to his face to stifle the flow of blood. Burnside followed up with a hard left jab to the jaw, knocking the inmate off balance and dropping him heavily to the floor. Burnside paused to glance around the cafeteria at the faces of the inmates glaring back at him. He saw a group of four stocky, black-haired men staring at him calmly from an adjacent table. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He shoved the large inmate’s tray aside, sat down and reached for his own tray. He put his slightly disheveled tray in front of him and resumed eating as if nothing had happened, while the brutish inmate lay groaning on the floor.

   
That ought to make them all think twice about trying something like that again.

    Ray noticed the stares of the other inmates turning away from him. He stared blankly ahead while he methodically shoveled food into his mouth without tasting it, ignoring the low murmuring of the other inmates. He glanced right when he heard a commotion on the far side of the cafeteria. A large group of light blue-uniformed guards moved purposefully down the cafeteria’s main aisle in the direction of his table. They turned into his aisle and approached, stepping around the fallen body of the giant to reach him. He counted at least ten. They all had their batons drawn. He stood up and placed his hands above his head.

    “Hands behind your back,” the foremost guard, presumably the sergeant, commanded him.

    Burnside complied. He knew when to pick his fights. The sergeant gestured for another guard to cuff him. The guard moved in and clicked the metal restraints on his wrists. The sergeant made a subtle hand gesture to the other guards. Burnside felt fingers gripping his shoulders and arms tightly as they pulled him to the ground and shoved him on his face. The wind was temporarily knocked out of him as he hit the floor.

    Sure, they have to make it look good in front of the other prisoners.

    “Excuse me, sergeant,” an unknown voice spoke from his right.

    “Get back,” the sergeant said, raising his baton.

    “Sure, no problem,” the unknown voice said. “I just wanted to let you know I saw everything. That guy didn’t start it. The other guy did.”

    “We’ll interview you after we take him to solitary. Go back to your table,” the sergeant said.

    “Yes, sir. No problem.”

    The guards pulled Burnside roughly to his feet and he glanced toward the origin of the unknown voice. He saw one of the stocky, black-haired guys at the next table walking back to his seat. The unknown inmate stared impassively at Burnside as he was dragged out. Burnside nodded at him to acknowledge the good word he put in. The inmate made a barely-perceptible nod back.

   
Maybe this place isn’t going to be as bad as I thought after all. There appear to be a few prisoners, at least, who still have a semblance of honor. 

    The guards escorted him to the outside corridor and dispersed. Four of them surrounded Burnside and directed him to go right. The other six returned to their positions against the back wall of the cafeteria. The procession continued straight down the long hallway for several hundred feet until they reached a four-way intersection. Burnside had a good sense of direction, so he knew the main cellblocks were located another fifty yards ahead. Instead of continuing toward the cellblocks, the guards nudged him to the right down a narrow, dimly-lit side corridor.

    They went straight until they reached a set of thick iron bars. A faded red sign above the bars read
Disciplinary Block
. Burnside glanced to the right of the bars and saw a clear glass window, where another guard sat watching them from behind a desk. He waved to one of Burnside’s guards and they heard a buzzing sound as the thick steel doors rumbled open. They passed through the doorway into a wide hallway dividing two rows of cellblocks. Burnside realized these cells were a lot different than the others. Instead of having bars like a cage, the “disciplinary” cells had thick steel doors with a small square hole about the size of a pack of matches near the top. Burnside noticed a low slot in the door where trays of food could be slid into the cell.

   
I’ve heard solitary is pretty bad. Now I’m going to find out first-hand.

    He watched one of the guards unlock the closest steel door.

    “Get inside,” the guard instructed, fingering his baton.

    Burnside didn’t see any point resisting because it would only get him more time in the isolation cell. He stepped into the small, dark space and shuddered when the door slammed shut behind him. The tramping of feet faded away as the guards left the cellblock. He heard the sound of the thick steel bars at the cellblock entrance rumbling back into place. A harsh metallic clanging followed and all was silent.

    The small square opening near the top of the steel door illuminated a small square of light on the back wall of the cell. The rest of the cell was in total darkness. He took two long steps and reached the damp back wall. He turned right, took another long step, and reached the right wall. He smelled a faint foul odor below him. Reaching down, he discovered a crude hole carved in the cement floor, which he assumed was his toilet. Another two steps brought him back to the door. 

   
This is going to be bad.

   
There was no furniture of any kind in the cell. He moved to the corner beside the door. A faint foul stench wafted up from the hole in the opposite corner. He figured he would get used to it eventually and not even notice it.

    Ray sat down on the cold cement floor and leaned against the damp wall. He closed his eyes. He tried to think of something pleasant. He thought of green fields and forests, blue lakes and skies, and gray cliffs and mountains. He felt a little better. He figured if he could spend all his time daydreaming, he might make it through the experience psychologically intact. 

    Burnside tried to go to sleep, but nightmare images kept haunting him. The courtroom fight. The hospital fight. The jail fight. And now, the prison fight. These images came unbidden into his brain like unwelcome guests. He tried to go to sleep to no avail. He wondered how long they would keep him in this miserable place without any sensory stimulation of any kind.

    He lost track of time. After awhile, he didn’t know if days or hours had gone by. Every once in a while, the guards would slide a tray of food under the door. He couldn’t see the disgusting slop in the tray, but he figured he had to eat it to keep up his strength. He shoved it into his mouth, swallowed, and tried not to think about the dog-food taste of the mystery meat. He washed it down with a cup of metallic-tasting water.

    The only break in his dark solitude was the occasional rumbling sound of the cellblock’s barred door, which opened intermittently to allow guards to bring him what passed as his meal and take away the empty tray. He finished the second batch of disgusting slop they brought him when he heard the cellblock gate opening again. Standing up, he placed his eye against the small square hole in the door. All he could see was a tiny portion of the cellblock hallway directly ahead. He sensed movement and then saw the quick flash of light blue-uniformed guards leading an orange-clad inmate past his door. He thought the inmate looked an awful lot like the lug in the cafeteria who had brought him to his current predicament. Whoever the inmate was, he had a large white bandage taped over his nose. More evidence.

   
At least he has to suffer too.

    Burnside’s solitude went on for an indeterminate amount of time. He occasionally slept fitfully, leaning back against the cold cement wall. Most of the time he thought about what he was going to do when he got out of solitary. Move around. Enjoy the light. This was a bad start to his prison career. He wasn’t in prison a full day and he winds up here.

    In the absolute stillness, his mind gradually turned to thoughts of revenge. A cold, dark rage built steadily in his mind against the corrupt cops who set him up.

   
When I get out of here, I will track down every last one of them. I know who they are.

     Burnside wasn’t sure what he was going to do to them, but it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

    A quick death will be too easy for them. I’m going to make them
suffer
like I’m suffering.

    He imagined himself going to work on them with medieval instruments. Pulling teeth, ripping out fingernails. He never had a single thought of torturing a human being in his life until now. After being in solitary for hours, it seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

    Countless hours passed and his mind fumed with impotent rage mingled with depression. When he heard the cellblock doors rumble open again, he didn’t bother to stand up.

   
What’s the point?

    He heard footsteps in the corridor.

   
So what? More disgusting food? Who cares? I’m done eating that crap no matter how hungry I feel.

    Ray heard a scraping noise emanate from the door. There was a click and bright light flooded in. He shielded his eyes from the glare with his hands. Someone grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. The light was intense, so he shut his eyes. He was led down the corridor like a blind man. All the muscles in his body were sore from disuse. His joints creaked painfully as he moved.

   
This must be how people with arthritis feel.

    Burnside opened his eyes a few times and could only manage to squint painfully at the light. He tried to keep his eyes open as long as could, so they could adjust, and then shut them again.

    After walking what seemed like a significant distance, Ray was able to keep his eyes open in a constant squint. He recognized the four-tiered main cellblock. They led him about halfway down it and guided him up a set of stairs. They entered the second tier and stopped in front of a cell. One of the guards opened the cage and they shoved him in. He was grateful to be back in his old cell. At least there was a bed there. He groped his way to the bottom bunk and collapsed into it.       

Chapter 11

   
“You okay, Cellie?” a familiar voice spoke from the bunk above.

    “Not so good,” Ray replied in a low, raspy voice. His voice sounded strange to him.

    “I’ll bet. You were in there a while. I heard you didn’t even start the fight,” James said.

    “But that didn’t matter.”

    “What you’re going through is typical of what happens to new inmates. Some of the tough guys have to test you to see what you’re made of,” James said.

    “I’m sure.”

    “Word has gotten around that you don’t take any crap. That’s good. You dropped one of the biggest guys in the joint. The only problem is he’s a high-ranking
Skinhead.
A lieutenant, I believe. I’m sure some of the screws sympathetic to the
Skinheads
made sure you went to solitary for all that time,” James explained.

    “That’s why I got put in solitary?”

    “No, everyone who fights goes there. But the length of time can differ according to your connections. I did hear a couple of wise-guys
put in a good word for you with the guards.”

    “Is that who they were? News travels fast around here.”

    “It’s been four days, Cellie. Things get around.”

    “Four days! It was impossible to tell how long I was in there.”

    “You’ll have to watch your back with the
Skinheads
. They’ll be looking for payback for decking one of their lieutenants. I would go to the
Goodfellas
boss as soon as possible and offer your services.”

    “How do I go about doing that?”

    “We’re due to go to the exercise yard within the hour. I suggest you approach them and tell them you want to join as hired muscle. If they ask what you can do for them, explain how you decked that
Skinhead
lieutenant. Believe me, he’s no favorite with the
‘fellas
.”

    “Well, that’s one good thing to come out of this. Probably the only thing,” Burnside muttered.

    “There’s an uneasy truce between the
Skins
and the
‘fellas.
The
Skins
hang out in the weightlifting area. Stay away from them. Anyone who trespasses in their territory will be shanked in the gut by one of their enforcers. As I said before, the
Skins
have a lot of power because they have connections with many of the screws. But, the
‘fellas
have the most power on the outside. The
Skins
know if they cross the line with some of the
made men
in the joint, their friends or family will pay for it outside,” James said.

    “That sounds like an effective deterrent.” Ray observed.

    “It is. It’s happened before. A screw that beat up a Mob
Capo
ended up meeting with a tragic accident. He fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck one day while he was off duty.”

    “That’s a damn shame.” Burnside said, grinning for the first time since his release from solitary.

    “An inmate who attempted to rape a
Goodfellas
enforcer was found dead in his cell. Strangled. No one was ever implicated.”

    “That means they also have some pull on the inside.”

    “Most definitely.”

    “I’ll have to talk to them.”

    “I highly recommend it. I’ll see if I can put in a good word for you,” Sean said.

    “I appreciate that,” Ray replied

    “When we get to the exercise yard, wait ten minutes and then go directly to the
Mob Capo
. They hang out on the steps on the south side of the yard. His name is Paul Patriarcha. You can’t miss him. He’s short, bald, and weighs about three hundred pounds. Tough as hell, though. You’ll probably find him surrounded by a bunch of goons. Talk to one of the goons first. Tell him you want to talk to the boss. Tell him you’re looking for a job. They’ll be expecting you.”

    “Okay, I’ll give it a try. Thanks. I owe you one,” Burnside said.

    “No problem, Cellie.”

     Burnside rested in his bunk for twenty minutes until it was time to go to the exercise yard. Again, guards escorted inmates from their cells at staggered intervals. They led them down various side corridors until they reached an unobtrusive steel door set into a high concrete wall. The guards unlocked the door and directed the twenty or so inmates through the doorway into a wide courtyard, about the size of a football field, surrounded by high walls and guard towers. Burnside appreciated the blue of the sky above the gray walls. He breathed deeply of the fresh air.

   
Damn, it feels good to be outside.

    He could only imagine how pasty his complexion was after spending four days in solitary. There were about two hundred inmates scattered throughout the large courtyard. James separated from him immediately and took long strides toward the far right corner of the yard.

    Burnside took his time and looked for the bleacher seats his cellmate told him about. Directly to his right was a crude weightlifting area stocked with scattered, battered-looking free weights. It was occupied by about twenty men with shaved heads. Several of them stood on the perimeter of the area with their arms crossed, like guards. Many of them had elaborate tattoos on their bodies, including swastikas and burning crosses. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who they were. He didn’t see the big brute that had accosted him in the cafeteria.

    Hopefully, he’s still in solitary. 

    Burnside continued past the weightlifting area, passing a large group of about fifty Hispanic men congregated to his left. Some of them were kicking around a soccer ball. Most of them were standing with their arms crossed, glaring at the newcomers.

   
The Low-Riders?
 

    He walked until he reached the middle section of the yard where various unorganized groups were mingling, smoking cigarettes, talking, and occasionally even laughing. He figured there were maybe a hundred or so of these stragglers. He waded his way past this scattered group until he reached an open area on the far side of the yard. He glanced right and saw a group of about thirty black men gathered together in the far right-hand corner of the yard.

    James’s group? The Bloods?
Must be
.

    Some of the guys were firing basketballs into a pair of rusty, net-less hoops imbedded precariously into the cement wall. Others stood on the perimeter, feigning a casual demeanor while they kept their eyes on other areas of the yard. Others appeared to be gathered into various conferences.

    He kept going. Glancing left, he saw a large set of bleacher-type seats set against the left-hand corner of the yard wall. A group of about twenty men occupied the middle section of the bleachers. Burnside returned to the center of the yard where the stragglers were concentrated. He blended into the crowd and gazed up at the sky. The wide-open expanse was exhilarating. He wished he could soar into the vastness and disappear. He glanced back toward the bleacher section and saw a black man walking away from the bleachers toward the
Bloods
.

   
That must be James or one of his guys. I’ll wait a few more minutes and then head over there
.

    Burnside walked among the stragglers aimlessly, trying not to call any attention to himself. He waited several minutes before turning back toward the bleachers. He strode purposefully across the yard. It seemed like a long walk with the eyes of the rest of the yard on him, especially the guys in the bleachers. Two goons stood up from the front seats and approached him, blocking his path.

    “What do you want?” a six-foot-five monster with a skull tattoo on his right bicep asked.

    “I want to talk to the Boss. My name’s Burnside.”

    “Stay here,” the goon instructed, reaching out a meaty paw - palm outward.

    The other goon, a short, squat guy built like a refrigerator, moved quickly on his short legs toward the first bleacher step and ascended. When he reached the middle, he spoke to a huge bald man seated in the center of the group. The large man nodded his head and the goon descended the bleachers as fast as his short legs would carry him until he reached Burnside and the other goon.

    “He’s all set,” the short goon said.

    “You can go,” the big goon said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

    Burnside didn’t reply and veered to the right, so he still had the goons in his left-hand peripheral vision as he ascended the steps. When he reached the center area, he stood outside the rough circle of men surrounding the
Capo
. Four of them stood and faced him.

    “It’s all right, Guido. Let him through.” the
Capo
growled in a deep, scratchy voice.  

    The men stepped aside and Burnside walked through the gap.

    “Have a seat.” the obese
man said, gesturing to a free spot on the bleacher seat beside him. The other men in the group dispersed to different areas of the bleachers until they were alone. Burnside sat in the free space indicated by the prison mafia boss.

    “How can I help you?” the
Capo
asked, lighting a cigarette.

    “I’m looking for a job.”

    “What if I were to tell you we’re not hiring?”

    “I would say you would be missing out on some valuable muscle. I’m sure you heard what I did to that goon in the cafeteria. I found out later he was a
Skinhead
lieutenant.”

    “It wasn’t a smart move to get on the bad side of the Nazis so soon,” the
Capo
said, gruffly, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. He glanced sidelong at Burnside with his elbows resting on his knees, waiting for a response. Burnside wasn’t sure what to say, so he told the truth.

    “I thought it would be best if I made an impression as quickly as possible. Let them know I’m not fooling around.”

    “Bad idea,” the
Capo
growled. “When the guy asked you to move, you should have moved. Those guys are not to be messed with. They’re a relatively small group, but they control most of the prison. They got half the screws in their pocket. They can get away with just about anything.”

    “That’s what I heard.”

    “You heard right. You have to be careful from now on.”

    Burnside was taken slightly off guard by the turn of the conversation. He never expected to be lectured on proper prison behavior from the notorious mafia boss.

    “You better watch your back,” the overweight
Capo
continued in his deep voice. “The Nazis are going to be looking for some payback.”

    “That’s one of the reasons I’m coming to you,” Burnside said, slightly flustered. “If I get a job with you, I figure they’ll leave me alone.”

    “Not likely, pal. You don’t understand the Nazis. They’re not going to lay off just because you’re hanging out with us. In fact, they’re going make us pay for protecting you. We have a lucrative business that could easily be disrupted if the screws decide to crack down on us.”

    Burnside didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t want to say what he was thinking because he knew it would sound disrespectful. What he wanted to say was,
Hey, I thought you guys were a pretty tough organization. Why are you letting the Skinheads
push you
around?
He thought better of it and remained silent for a moment, considering his response.

    “What do you recommend I do?” Burnside asked, opting for humility in front of the prison mafia boss.

    “Nothing,” the
Capo
said, brusquely, blowing out a long, thin cloud of smoke. “Wait and see what happens. Be ready. Be ready for the Nazis to set you up. It’s going to happen sooner or later. Probably sooner,” the
Capo
turned toward him, smirking caustically. “If you’re still alive and still interested in joining our organization after you deal with the Nazis, come back and see me. I may have a job for you. That’s it. You can go now,” he finished with an ominous finality.

    “Okay, thank you for your time,” Burnside replied, standing.

    “No problem,” the
Capo
growled, looking away from him.

   
That could have gone better.

    He descended the bleacher steps.

   
The mafia Capo wants nothing to do with me until after the Skinheads get their payback. Assuming I survive the payback.

    He reached the ground and moved across the yard. Ten minutes later, they began rounding up inmates by calling out cellblock numbers. Burnside was reunited with his motley group and followed them back to the block. James was conspicuously absent from the cell. Burnside lay down in the bottom bunk and stared at the bottom of his Cellie’s mattress.