The Animal Factory (20 page)

Buzzard had the cell key for the fifth tier. Earl found him working on a leather purse in his cell. “Unlock my cell, Buzz, and keep a watch on the door downstairs. I think the pigs might be coming for me.”

They went quickly, and as Buzzard inserted the key, he said he’d heard something about a stabbing in the East cellhouse. He didn’t punctuate the statement with a significant look; the words were enough. Earl didn’t reply, but took off the pillowslip and began filling it with property that he could have in “B” Section—
cigarettes
, toiletries, paperback books. He took three twenty-dollar bills from the hiding place in the gallon can, rolled them up one at a time, and inserted each in a tube of shaving cream through the top. The guards checked the bottom of tubes for tampering, but not the hole. It got messy to squirt everything out, and the convict who had nothing could complain loudly about it. He looked at his cell furniture, the oil painting shutters, the lampshade, the glass-topped desk. “Give it all to T.J.,” he said; then handed Buzzard the pillowslip. “If they slam me, give the sack to Lieutenant Seeman. He’ll see that I get it.”

“What about those cigarettes I’m holding for you in my cell?”

“Consider them a present.”

Earl glanced over the tier and saw Captain Midnight and two other guards come through the door, carrying nightsticks. Earl momentarily thought of hurrying to one of the two hundred and fifty cells and hiding. They wouldn’t find him until the last lockup, or later than that if he wanted to risk a charge of attempted escape. Instead, he went to the stairs and started down, feigning surprise when they ganged around him. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

Surprised, they hesitated, hefting the clubs nervously, and then Captain Midnight had him turn and lean against the wall for a weapons frisk. Then they jammed him close and the group went down the stairs where the cellhouse guard had the door open for them. One of the guards, an old-timer and a favorite of Lieutenant Seeman’s, wrinkled up his face to show he was doing something distasteful in arresting Earl. The convict nearly smiled, thinking that after enough years in prison, everybody‘s values were distorted. The old guard didn’t care about the stabbing; he was sorry to pick up a convict he liked.

The colonel’s face was hidden in the darkness behind the window when the quartet went by; the old Army man didn’t move his head. As they passed the chapel, nearing the custody office, Earl heard the voices of the choir. It had to be a tour, for the lights were also on under the fountain. Captain Midnight opened the door and Earl went in ahead of the two escorts. The large room with half-glass offices along its walls was deserted except for two convict clerks and the sergeant in the control booth; and Ron was on a bench outside the associate warden’s office, a young guard beside him.

Captain Midnight motioned Earl to keep going, wanting him as far across the room from Ron as possible. Earl stopped and the guards nearly bumped into him. “What’s happening?” Earl asked.

“They won’t tell me,” Ron said.

“Keep moving and be quiet,” Captain Midnight said, reaching for Earl’s sleeve. Earl jerked away.

“Keep your hands off me, chump.” He turned to Ron. “If it’s serious, demand to see a lawyer.”

“Knock it off!” the lieutenant said, raising a can of mace with his thumb on the button.

“Man, fuck you! What’re you gonna do? Kick my ass? Assholes have been doing that ever since I can remember. You can’t kill me … and if you do, you can’t eat me … it’s against the law.” He threw his head back, the personification of defiance, and everyone froze for half a dozen seconds. “You ain’t nothing,” Earl said.

They sat in silence except for the clicking of the clerks’
typewriters
. Earl smoked and tried not to think about the future. Finally the warden came in, a big man almost never seen inside the walls. Now he wore slacks, sweater, and a ten-gallon hat, an unlit cigar between his teeth. He glanced at the two convicts and went into the associate warden’s office, followed by the black lieutenant. Ten minutes later Captain Midnight leaned out and beckoned Earl. The guards stayed with him until he reached the door, and the
lieutenant
told them to wait outside.

The warden was behind the wide desk, his hat off and one
cowboy-booted
leg propped across the corner. He had a cup of coffee. His face was droopy at the jowls and his eyes were big behind his glasses.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving expansively toward a chair across the desk. Captain Midnight stayed behind Earl’s right shoulder, moving as the convict moved.

“No, I don’t think I’ll be here that long.”

“Want some coffee?” the warden asked.

Earl shook his head, smiled softly.

“Boy, you shore got a mess of trouble,” the warden said
laconically
. “That ol’ boy Rowan says you stuck him … an’ he’s willin’ to go on the witness stand … from a wheelchair, I might add.”

“Who’s Rowan?”

The warden flushed momentarily; then regained his fellowship. “Oh, he’s a sorry ol’ thing … and you know him. He probably had it coming.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I really didn’t think you did. You’re an ol’ smartass … don’t even know how to help yourself … tell your side of the story.”

“I’d have to talk to my lawyer before I make any statement. Besides, you didn’t warn me about my constitutional rights.”

“Might as well put him away in the shitcan,” the warden said, still not displaying anger—certain of his power.

When Captain Midnight ushered him to the door and opened it, the lieutenant said to the guard, “Make sure he’s in a boxcar. Bring his clothes back to see if there’s any blood samples on them, especially his shoes.”

Earl looked at Ron seated outside the door. The young man was pale and drawn, but his eyes radiated strength. “You weren’t in there long,” Ron said.

“I didn’t have anything to say. They think I stabbed some guy.”

“They better watch what they’re smoking.”

A guard nudged Earl and the trio went out. He sucked deep on the clean air, looked up at the dome of night cluttered with stars, knowing he might never again be outdoors at night—even in prison. Certainly not for a long time.

When they crossed the yard they stopped while the keys to the South cellhouse rotunda were passed down from No. 2 Wall Post. At night the keys were taken from the cellhouses so it would do the convicts inside no good to overpower their keepers. Moments later they opened the door to “B” Section and the bedlam of the damned rolled forth. The yelling voices were an unbroken roar in the shadows of the honeycomb. Trash was ankle deep the entire length of the floor, and the stench of excrement and urine was overpowering. The cells broken up nearly a year before had still not been repaired. Earl looked up at the fence that sheeted the outside of the tiers. Two “B” Section guards were waiting for him, apparently having been called by Control.

“We want his clothes,” an escort said.

Earl stood against the wall and stripped, handing over his clothes and going through the poses of a skin search. When he finished, they returned his shorts and motioned him to walk to the rear of the cellhouse. He kept far out from the tier and walked softly,
carefully
avoiding the shards of glass from jars discarded over the tiers. He could see shadowed faces behind the bars.

“Hey, Bad Eye!” someone yelled. “Earl Copen just came in!” The voice had to rise above the uproar, but Bad Eye heard, for in seconds an arm came through bars on the third tier and Bad Eye yelled, “They finally got your slick ass!”

“They think so!” Earl yelled back, still pussyfooting along, slowly.

“What they say you done did?”

“Some fool got stabbed!”

“I know you’re innocent!”

They reached the “boxcars,” five cells at the rear. They’d begun as regular cells but then concrete blocks had been extended between each out to the walkway above. A solid door was added, and when it was closed, a man screaming inside the cell was just a squeak outside of it. A tiny light, dimmed by the wire over it, was in a niche in the ceiling between the cell gate and the door.

Earl stepped into the cell, noting that the cast aluminum toilet and washbowl were still in place. Apparently, the occupant during the strike hadn’t been able to break them. A grimy mattress and two blankets were on the floor. Wadding a blanket into a pillow, Earl flopped down. The smell was bad, like mildew. Water was leaking somewhere, perhaps in the service alley, maybe from the seal on the toilet. The floor under his bare feet was both gritty and sticky. “Just like home,” he muttered. “I love it.” He was still keyed up, his mind jumping and unable to focus. He knew from other situations that eventually the despair would eat through into consciousness. Hope would become an uncertain flicker, the candle wax melted, the wick bare. He’d know that suicide was really the one answer to the miserable futility of his existence, but he’d lack the courage of his knowledge. He worried about Ron, hoped the younger man would not feel obliged to confess to take Earl off the hook—and he wished he knew precisely what Buck Rowan had said. It would be very bad if he testified, especially from a wheelchair. Vito had been right: the fool should have had his throat cut. It certainly would have been no loss to the world.

The musings were broken by a rhythmic thumping through the concrete ceiling. He was wanted on the “telephone.” He signaled back by standing on the toilet and pounding with the heel of his hand.

Quickly he folded both blankets into squares, put them over the mouth of the seatless toilet, sat down and began jumping—forcing the water out. He scooped the last of it into the sink and kneeled at the toilet, his face in the bowl. “Hello!” he yelled. “Who’s on the phone?”

“It’s Rube Samuel … your man! The old ass sure looked smooth when you went by.”

“Only ’cause it was dark. It’s all wrinkled and hairy.” Earl liked Rube, the half-Mexican who’d served twelve of fifteen years in the hole at both San Quentin and Folsom. Rube had come to prison for mistakenly entering the wrong apartment, while drunk, but when accosted by the irate resident, Rube had beat him up. The charge was first-degree burglary. Rube had then picked up new convictions for a stabbing and an escape and seemed to be getting wilder and more frenzied as the years went by. Earl liked Rube, even though they seldom saw each other. “Where’s Bad Eye?” Earl asked.

“Too far away. You could probably hear each other if you blew your voices, but I’ll relay messages.”

“Are you above me?”

“I’m on the third tier, a couple cells from Bad Eye. That’s Wayne, T.J.’s home boy, above you. He just came from Soledad.”

“I heard about him.”

“What’s with you? I thought you were too slick to get busted.”

“They say something about a sticking in the East block.” Earl was aware that others could have their toilets empty and be listening. “Did they bring my partner in?”

“Who’s that?”

“That youngster I fuck with.”

“I heard about him. They say he’s pretty.”

“Nothin’ happenin’ there, sucker.”

“You sure you ain’t eatin’ him up? You know how you old convicts are.”

“You’ve been here a long time yourself. I ain’t got caught if I am, so you’ll never know if you should be jealous.”

“How bad is the dude hurt?”

“He’s paralyzed … everything but his mouth.”

“Snitchin’, huh?”

“Does a dog have fleas?”

“Who is he?”

“Some hillbilly fish. Been here a couple months and wanted to be a bully.”

“Hold it! I’m signin’ off. Bad Eye’s calling me, these fools are screaming … I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Send some smokes and something to read.”

“Got you covered.”

“If you can send word out, tell our friends about how that fool is snitchin’.”

“We’ll send word first thing in the morning. I’ll see you if they let you out to exercise.”

“Right on!”

When Earl flopped back on the mattress, he expected to spend the night turning things over and over in his mind. He called it “squirrel-caging,” the compulsive repetition of thoughts without conclusions. He felt the gritted dirt imbedded in the mattress and was chilled because he wore no T-shirt. He pulled the second blanket over him. In three minutes he fell asleep, both because he was utterly drained and because his unconscious said sleep was a means to escape reality.

Ron Decker was in a more modern cell—in the adjustment center. It, too, was at the very rear, but on a solid floor rather than a tier, and instead of a toilet there was a hole in the floor beside the mattress. It was the floor where militant revolutionaries were usually kept, nearly all of them black, and when Ron had walked by with the guard they had stared out with silent, hostile faces. He could hear the sounds of voices beyond the double doors but could not
decipher
the words. Here he was doubly an alien, and he wished they’d put him in “B” Section where he might communicate with Earl. Buck Rowan apparently believed that Earl had stabbed him in the melee, and Ron was being torn apart by the situation. He was astounded that he felt so indifferent to Buck Rowan’s condition; it was the death of something in himself, or perhaps the beginning of something new. But he was also crucified by guilt that Earl was in trouble because of him when he was basically innocent. Ron had gone into the building alone to avoid just such a situation. The warden had promised that he, Ron, would get favorable action from the judge if he turned on Earl. It was an insulting offer and he’d sneered, refusing to make any statement whatsoever without an attorney—but it also raised hope. Maybe they needed
corroboration
. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t let Earl be convicted of the assault—fuck what Earl said. Yet his own freedom, which had been firmly in hand, was in danger of oozing between his fingers. Either Earl or himself convicted of the crime would face a life sentence or the death penalty, depending on what the jury decided. Even without that, if the judge in Los Angeles found out, he would deny sentence modification, which would mean five long, bitter years before he was
eligible
for parole, and the chances of getting it would be small even then. He’d already seen too many men psychologically maimed by the indefinite sentences of California. If one year made him capable of plunging a knife into a man’s back, what would a decade do?