Perilous

Federal inmate 21215-018 sat at the table, fists clenched over his food tray. His dark hair, normally groomed, was growing out. The stubble on his cheeks had turned from a perfect length into a patchy beard. His designer clothes were replaced with an orange prison jumpsuit. Viktor’s men held down three tables in the dining hall of the Coleman prison. Immediately to Viktor’s left and right sat heavy muscle. Viktor had been inside for just a little over a month but had quickly found a few of his fellow incarcerated countrymen. With their help, he put together a formidable crew and was introduced to the guards who could be bought off. Viktor’s inner circle consisted of the prison’s eight Russian inmates. Viktor knew they would be loyal to him, but the rest of his men required a different approach—money and protection. Viktor quickly took in anyone who would join. The men were mostly outcasts from every race, religion, and walk of life.

Through his attorney, he arranged to fill each man’s telecom and commissary accounts. The inmates at Coleman were only allowed to spend sixty-five dollars a week, which totaled roughly five hundred dollars per man, per month. On top of their monthly payroll, Viktor promised work within his organization to each man upon his release. He was expanding rapidly, planning to dip his toes in every illegal opportunity the prison system provided as soon as his crew was large enough.

Viktor picked at his food and watched the room. Aside from Viktor’s tables, the dining hall was mostly separated by races. Black and brown sat to one side, white and yellow to the other. Viktor couldn’t help but notice the sideways looks he was receiving from the Aryan Brotherhood, one table away. Viktor hadn’t had much contact with them. However, he could tell something was off. The men had something brewing. The inmates watched him, speaking quietly to each other.

Viktor focused his attention on the guy sitting in the middle of the group—a large man in his midforties. His eyebrows were shaved off and replaced with tattooed sig runes. Thick black swastikas covered both sides of his neck and disappeared under his buttoned-up jumpsuit. His head was shaved clean. Old scars littered his face. He went by the name Waylon White. His real name was Lawrence something. Waylon caught Viktor’s stare and lifted his tattoo-covered hands in front of his mouth. Waylon stared back, his beady eyes unflinching.

Viktor turned to Timofei on his right. “Did you hear anything about these Nazis having a problem?”

Timofei shoveled a stale piece of cornbread into his mouth after saturating it with some mystery gravy on his tray. “With us? No.”

Viktor took a drink from his boxed milk. “Who’s their beef with?”

“The Latinos now. Something about them cutting into his meth business inside.”

Viktor stared over at Waylon, who was talking to one of his crew next to him. “What can you tell me about Mister White there?”

Timofei shrugged. “Waylon? He’s a lifer. Sent up for a couple murders. Who knows how many he’s ordered inside.”

“How big is his crew?”

“It’s got to be fifty or more.”

Viktor’s wheels turned. He’d picked up most of the available stragglers to join his crew. He would need to either start pilfering men from the gangs inside or completely absorb an existing group. He glanced at his men: eight blacks, four Hispanics, and two Asians. The rest were white. He had no problem ditching the fourteen men that weren’t white to potentially pick up fifty that were.

“How many were loyal to the cause before they were inside?” Viktor asked.

“Couldn’t say. Half, maybe?”

“Arrange something for me to talk to him,” Viktor said.

“Are you sure?” Timofei asked.

Viktor nodded. “I may have a proposition for the Brotherhood.”

Grigory sat to Viktor’s left. He was a short, husky man in his late forties—twenty of those years spent in the penitentiary. The next twenty would be the same. Years of lifting prison weights had added thick slabs of muscle over his wide frame. His beard was white, matching his short hair. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was usually something worth noting. “I’d look for opportunities elsewhere,” Grigory said. “I think there may be something to them having a beef with us.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing. But they are the go-to crew if you need someone taken care of outside. If he knows the job went to the Hispanics, we have a problem.”

Viktor took the advice under consideration. Prison was new to him, as were its politics. The deal he had in the works with the Hispanics could cause a problem with the Brotherhood. Viktor needed to try to buy Waylon and his crew before it turned into something more.

“Try to get something set up either way, Timofei.”

Timofei nodded in confirmation.

A small, thin Latino rose from his table two rows away. He left his food tray in place and walked toward Viktor’s crew, his stride slow. Tattooed spiderwebs ran from his wrists up to his elbows. Names written in Old English lettering ran left to right across his throat. Two of Viktor’s crew, Abram and Vasily, stood to intercept the man at the end of the table. Viktor’s attention turned to the prison guards walking the railing overhead. One guard motioned to the other and pointed down toward Viktor’s table.

“Break it up!” the guard shouted.

Viktor’s men sat. The Latino walked back to his table. The guards were wary when the different groups of inmates intermingled—it never led to anything good. Viktor’s men relayed the Latino’s message.

Timofei shoveled a plastic spoonful of what was supposed to be apple cobbler into his mouth. He leaned toward the man next to him and nodded his head. He looked at Viktor. “It’s a go,” he said between chews.

“How many men?” Viktor asked.

“He just said that they are sending a group. The guy leading it up has our attorney’s name. He’ll meet with him to get all the details.”

Viktor nodded and went about finishing his food before his allotted thirty minutes of lunchtime was over. He felt Waylon staring at him as he ate. Every time Viktor looked over, he caught eyes peering back.

When the second hand clicked to exactly 11:30 a.m., the guard at the door called an end to lunch.

Viktor rose, as did the rest of his table. He turned to Grigory. “Watch these Nazis. I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

Grigory nodded. “I got you.”

The Brotherhood filed in behind them en route to the bin where they dropped their trays. Grigory and Timofei bookended Viktor, and two of his other Russian men walked close behind. The sound of a scuffle broke out at Viktor’s back. A hand grabbed at his shoulder and spun him around. Timofei pushed Viktor out of harm’s way just as a shiv came toward his midsection. Before Viktor could see which man was wielding it, Grigory pounced on the would-be attacker.

The Brotherhood and Viktor’s men collided in mayhem. Fists, elbows, and feet flew. Viktor was shuffled away from danger to the side of the room. Two of Viktor’s men joined Timofei at his side. Between the men guarding him, he watched the brawl ensue. The sounds of fists making impact and shouts from the men filled his ears.

“Down!” a guard shouted as he ran down the metal staircase from the floor above. Two more guards from the upper level followed behind him. Three guards from the watch room next to the dining hall burst into the room with riot shields. The inmates who weren’t fighting took the familiar position, facedown on the floor, their fingers interlocked behind their heads. Viktor watched the guards douse the mob of people still brawling with pepper spray. One after the other, the men went to the ground. Those that didn’t were forced down.

One of the guards put a knee in Grigory’s back and cuffed his wrists. “Get someone from the infirmary!” he called. “We need medical in here right away!”

With the assistance of another guard, Grigory was yanked to his feet. Blood soaked the front of his orange prison-issue jumpsuit. It wasn’t his. He pulled against their grip as they removed him from the dining hall. Medical staff rushed into the room to attend to the inmate that Grigory had attacked. From Viktor’s vantage point, he couldn’t see the guy they were working on.

“Up! Against the wall! Five feet apart!” a guard shouted.

The inmates obeyed. On his feet, Viktor caught the identity of the man the medical staff was feverishly trying to help. Waylon White lay face up, his eyes fixed on the ceiling fan two floors overhead. He wasn’t blinking. Blood pumped from the sides of his neck and pooled beneath his head. The medical staff tried to control the bleeding, but it was no use. Grigory had opened Waylon’s throat ear to ear, and he was dead.

That was a problem. One of his crew had just taken the life of the Aryan Brotherhood’s leader. At least ten of his men had been involved in the fight and would be sent to solitary. The chances of enlisting the Brotherhood disappeared—pay or not. They would certainly look for retaliation. They would come for him—a leader for a leader. Viktor’s plans of taking over went to the back burner—he had no intentions of dying in prison.

Viktor walked from the single-file line at the wall. He made a straight shot to the first guard with his back turned.

“Hey! Back in line!” another guard shouted.

Viktor kept walking.

“Jeff!” the guard yelled and pointed at Viktor.

The officer herding the inmates from the dining hall turned just in time to see Viktor’s elbow coming into his face. The guard dropped. Viktor punched at the man at his feet. Three guards swarmed and tackled Viktor to the ground. His face was pressed into the cold, white floor. His arms were yanked behind his back. Handcuffs wrapped his wrists and clicked tight. The men pulled him to his feet.

“Looks like it’s the SHU for you, asshole,” one of the guards said.

The guard Viktor had attacked was kneeling, blood covering his face. Two others, each with a hand under one of Viktor’s arms, pulled him from the dining hall.

Viktor smirked as they dragged him out.

The 9-1-1 call came at 11:16 a.m. We pulled up to the scene and parked behind Rick’s car from our forensics unit a little after noon. The word was that Brian Edwards, the 9-1-1 caller, got a call from his neighbor asking him to go and check on the man’s wife. The husband, out of state on business, hadn’t heard from her in over a day and was worried. Mr. Edwards found forced entry and dialed 9-1-1. Officers arrived to the scene to find a woman dead in the master bedroom. The first responding officers confirmed it to be the wife, Susanne Riaola. The husband’s convenient absence stank of his involvement. Time would tell. I clicked the cruiser into park, and Hank and I piled out.