SATURDAY, 1 JUNE 2019

“CLEAR ON LANE TWO! Open the door!”
A slender inmate, hands cuffed and lips tight, offered no resistance as the guard, a hulking monstrosity of a man, pressed a nightstick into the prisoner’s orange-clad back. The fabric showed a wide stripe of sweat brought on by the Texas heat.

“Pick up the pace, asshole. Lawyer’s waitin’, and that fucker can’t be cheap.”

The guard’s sneer was borderline audible. The guy was right; that fucker was not cheap. At last count, the legal bill would soon pass $800,000, with no hope on the horizon and nothing ahead but years as a convicted felon, doomed to spend the remainder of life avoiding gang- rape, shivs, and other inmates out to make a name for themselves. That was how it worked here: survive, no matter what.

As they passed a particular cell, the prisoner inside threatened very specific bodily harm and spat at them.

Would killing that bitch over there add ten more years to my sentence?

Thoughts of this nature had become all too common since that first night here.

“We’re clear. Close the door!”
The sliding door rumbled back into place, slamming shut with callous indifference to all within earshot. That was one thing about prison that few on the outside seemed to understand: the walls, bars, doors… they did not discriminate. Gangs and cliques of all flavors would fight anyone for looking at them sideways, but the edifice itself saw no color, only customers.

The duo entered the room and moved toward the center, where the hot air at least wafted, thanks to the vents in the ceiling. It wasn’t much in terms of relief, but any break from the Texas summer heat and humidity, especially while locked away on the inside, made a world of difference. The gray-painted concrete walls were losing their luster, with visible chips present throughout, and the light fixtures were shielded by beat-up metal cages. It appeared as though this room had seen quite a bit of action over the years, but surely nothing of the sort would happen today, not with the behemoth guard standing nearby. Closed-circuit cameras posted at the four corners covered every square inch of the room, rendering the notion of hiding completely useless. Two-way mirrors also flanked the metal table in the middle of the room, and the chairs left everything to be desired.

“Sit down,” the guard said sternly. He stowed his nightstick on his belt, looping it through the sleeve, his eyes locked on me.

Following orders was easy for a veteran, but knowing that I did not belong in a place like this made anything seem impossible, even something as simple as placing my posterior in a chair. Glancing sideways, the name tape on the guard’s uniform came into view: O’MALLEY. Multiple scars zigzagging down his forearms told the story of a man who had seen far too much in one lifetime, and if that was not enough, his randomly missing teeth certainly rounded out the image.

Is he always this much of a douchebag? Or was it the job that made him like this?

Anyone who had not faced down a prison riot—or seven—could never truly understand. O’Malley opened one of the cuffs and slid the chain under the bar attached to the table before securing it again. “I’ll be in the next room,” he said. He leaned in and quietly added, “Normally, I’d tell you not to try anything stupid, but considerin’ why you’re here, I’m hopin’ you’ll do just that.” His breath indicated either a few drinks with lunch or, perhaps, he had just brushed his teeth—both seemed plausible.

“I’ll play nice.”

The Mountain That Guards appeared appeased by that answer. He walked over to the other side of the room. “Inmate secure. Open the door!”

The buzz seemed louder than usual as O’Malley twisted the knob and jerked the door back. There stood a professional-looking fellow with a misplaced smile and leather briefcase, probably a Prada or maybe a Samsonite. His Armani suit and Cartier watch complimented his clean- shaven appearance nicely but could not distract from his boyish looks. Though probably at least thirty years old, he looked all of nineteen.

Shit. I’ll bet his suit and that briefcase cost more than I used to make in a month.

As Eldridge Forsythe, a rising star in his firm, shuffled into the room, the size disparity between him and O’Malley became more obvious— and hilarious. It was like William “The Refrigerator” Perry standing next to the average pee-wee league football player.

“Counselor, you know the drill. Don’t attempt to pass nothin’ unauthorized, and don’t approach that side for any reason. If you think somethin’s about to happen, just back away from the table, and we’ll be in here fuckin’ ricky-tick.” His jargon was familiar.

Marines… gotta love ‘em.

Eldridge nodded to the guard, and the door closed behind him. An awkward pause ensued. Then the attorney tried to make small talk. “How have you been?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to my plight as I sat there. The sustained silence seemed to say it all, and he finally got the point. Taking a seat and popping the locks on his war chest, he continued, “Look, I’m going to level with you and be as forthcoming as I can. My firm took your case because we all believed in your innocence. The senior partners thought an acquittal was all but guaranteed, but everything the prosecution presented at trial may have upended any chance of getting you out of here. The jury started deliberations yesterday, and they’re still going. That could be a good sign. But you need to prepare yourself for the prospect of staying here for the long term. Or worse.”

Nothing. I sat there, “Prisoner 386497,” shackled inside and out, made no overt acknowledgement, no reply to this revelation. No eye contact was made, despite Eldridge’s best efforts to secure my attention.

“Your family has mortgaged the house to cover the legal fees, and even that senator withdrew her support for you.” Still, I offered no response. “Has anything that I’ve said taken hold? Your parents are on the cusp of homelessness.” He lowered his voice. “Do… do you even care?”

Of course I care, you fucking idiot! I was a police officer! Do you have any idea how much of a target that makes me? Verbalizing these thoughts would have summoned the guards.

I finally spoke. “They’ll be fine. The rest of the family will band together and take care of them.” The words were tinged with confidence, but something about them lacked all sincerity, and the attorney pounced.

“Is that going to matter if they lose their child? Don’t forget that Texas very proudly supports the death penalty. I think it’s mentioned in the welcoming packet when you cross the state line.”

His attempt at humor went over about as well as could be expected.

“I’m sorry—bad joke. Your record of service in the military and after is fairly impressive, but we’re in a different world now. There’s an army of protesters outside that courthouse hoping you’ll end up with a needle in your arm before the end of the year.”

Huh. Seems I managed to draw a crowd after all.

“Cool. How many protesters are we talking about?”

Shocked at the cavalier reply, Eldridge responded, “Several dozen, maybe a hundred. They’re holding signs, chanting, shouting, facing off with counter-protestors. It reminds me of some of the antiwar demonstrations from the last twenty years.” With that remark, our eyes finally locked, and the attorney knew that it was in his best interest to retract that statement sooner rather than later. “Forget I said that. I’m just trying to get you to understand exactly what’s at stake. You’ve been here for nine months, your family is hemorrhaging money, and as we speak, twelve people are deciding whether or not you will die for what happened. Now, it’s not common for someone in your position to get the death penalty, but like I said, this is Texas, and elections are coming up next year. Judges who overturn convictions or don’t honor the will of the people typically don’t last long in the Lone Star State.”

What about vets? Do we get to last long anywhere? We leave one battlefield for another back home.

“Listen,” Eldridge uttered after a ragged breath, “it doesn’t seem like we’re getting anywhere, and I’m doing this as a personal favor to your mother because she asked me to; I’m actually off the clock.”

Wow. Your generosity knows no bounds. Did you drive here in the company BMW or your personal Mercedes? Prick.

Eldridge carefully slid a form over to me and followed it with a pen so expensive that he probably had it insured. “Just sign by the X about two-thirds of the way down. All it says is that I came here today to discuss legal matters, and that I apprised you of the situation with the trial and the deliberations. There’s no fine print.”

With a deep breath and a few strokes of the pen, it was accomplished. “Done.”

I slid the materials back, but not before taking another moment to admire the craftsmanship of the writing utensil.

Seriously, who carries an ink pen inlaid with diamonds and gold into a prison? I could score a shitload of cigarettes with this.

“Thank you,” Eldridge replied.

His words were genuine, but the circumstances did not lend themselves to appreciating sincerity, not when you have witnessed your cellmate’s murder in the yard for refusing to join an Aryan gang. It was hard to believe that a human body could hold that much blood, and it was even harder to believe that no one else saw it coming.

Eldridge rose from his seat, fastened the buttons on his suit, and gathered his effects.

“I don’t know if this will provide you any comfort,” he said, “but it really is impossible to know how long a jury will take to reach a verdict. I mean, O. J. Simpson was acquitted in less than four hours, so—”

“Well, shit, counselor. I suppose we won’t beat that record, now will we?”

In an instant, the professionalism and compassion in the attorney’s eyes vanished. Without even looking at me, he glanced at the mirror to his left and loudly exclaimed, “We’re done here.” The piercing buzz rang out like shots in a war zone, and without another word, Eldridge disappeared down a lengthy corridor, only to be replaced with the considerably less friendly O’Malley. The contempt on his face matched the intensity with which he slammed the door behind him, and when he approached the table where I sat, I saw the immense effort on his part not to flip it over.

“Hold still,” the guard uttered as he opened the one cuff. He then closed it once it was free of the table. “Jesus, do you have any fuckin’ clue who that guy is? There’s a hundred people in here who would kill to have him as their lawyer. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Hmm. Let’s think about that. I was wrongfully accused of murder. My defense team hired a second-string quarterback to get the job done. My family is two steps away from living on the streets. I’ve been in jail for nearly a year, and your fucked-up grill reeks of prison food and vodka. I think that sums it up.

“I suppose the stress of waiting on the verdict is taking its toll on me. If he comes back, I won’t act like that again.”

This time, O’Malley appeared less than content with the answer, and were it not for the cameras in the room, his nightstick likely would have made swift contact with my knuckles.

“Get up. Back to the block.” He gestured toward the door at the back of the room. His nightstick made an appearance yet again, as though he needed extra leverage against someone a third his size who was also wearing handcuffs, an orange jumpsuit, dingy white socks, and crappy shoes made in-house by the inmates themselves. The fashion statement was undeniable. It screamed “weakness.”

Rising from the seat, I caught a glimpse in the two-way mirror, and gasped internally at the reflection. The pallid visage looked less human every day.

Fuckin’ hell… I look like shit. Is that… gray hair?

The trek to the cellblock took longer than expected. O’Malley ordered his companion to wait near the guards’ break room as he stared at the television, hoping to catch a headline announcing that a verdict had been reached.

“Don’t take this personally, but we got a pool goin’ ’bout how this plays out,” he gleefully snickered, not once tearing his eyes from the screen. The chyron at the bottom mentioned the jury’s deliberations, the courthouse protests, and how the whole country was watching Texas to see how this adventure panned out.

“Yeah,” another guard said, “I got a hundred bucks on you getting death. Sanchez thinks the judge will go easy and just give you life without parole. One guard even thinks you’ll get off scot-free, so somebody’s gettin’ some cash outta this.”

How flattering. My life hangs in the balance, and these assholes are casting lots.

“Fuckin’-A,” O’Malley muttered, popping the top on his afternoon Coca-Cola. He polished off the whole can in one sitting.

The accompanying belch was reminiscent of both sixth-grade recess and the infantry grunts from downrange, but it did elicit a faint smile of remembrance from me.

I never thought I’d prefer being back in the desert. How’s that for irony?

“He’d fire my ass for saying this, but I think even the warden’s in on it,” Sanchez faintly said as she finished kitting up and headed toward the general population area. For her, “gen pop” was an assignment. For the inmates not in isolation, it was a place to gather and play cards, watch TV, talk, incite riots. The usual deal on the inside.

“Well, back to it. Let’s move,” O’Malley directed, and they returned to the long hallway that led toward B Block. He never saw an update on the verdict, though he was obviously pleased at the sight of so many protestors calling for the death of an unconvicted inmate. How was that for camaraderie? Two veterans, separated only by position, and one hoped that the other would die.

“Deliberations only last for about four or five hours a day, so it may take some time to hear anything concrete,” I informed the giant.

O’Malley shot a sideways glance over at me and barked, “How the hell d’you know that?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time in court over the years. I wasn’t always on trial for murder.”

“Heh. Right.” He seemed to accept that answer, and we kept moving further down the hall, passing gen pop, the cafeteria, and the most disgusting latrines this side of Andersonville’s Stockade Creek.

Not sure how much more I can take. I’m probably gonna die here while these fuckwits try to make a quick buck over my corpse.

“Hold here, feet behind the red line,” the guard said casually, pressing his mammoth thumb into the intercom switch. “O’Malley plus one inmate for transfer back to B Block from holdin’. Request manual open on cell 217.”

A few seconds passed before a woman’s voice on the other end replied, “Copy that: O’Malley plus one inmate to cell 217. Proceed.” The buzz kicked in once more as the door slowly slid to the left and disappeared.

“Almost home,” the Mountain said with a smile so arrogant that he should run for Congress.

This will never be my home. Somehow, I will leave this place. With a tab, or on a slab.

That damn nightstick was out again and pressed into my back with more force than before, likely just a show for the other prisoners so that they would remember who was boss. The long corridors gave way to a much smaller and cramped space, with a vastly different tone than anywhere else in the waking nightmare. O’Malley and I ascended the stairs to the second floor, made a left turn, and stopped just outside the cell, the nightstick finally getting a reprieve from duty.

“You know the drill,” he snapped as he casually fished the keys from his pocket and then opened cell number 217. I walked inside, turned around, and for the first time in a long time, Prisoner 386497 did not flinch or even blink as O’Malley slammed the door shut. He removed the cuffs through the slot in the door, clipped them to his belt, and covertly fired off one last parting shot: “I’m lookin’ forward to the day you get what’s comin’ to ya. From that judge, someone in the yard, down in gen pop, the shower—all the same to me. Have a good fuckin’ night.” The sound of his footsteps reverberated as he descended the stairs and disappeared down the hallway.

And here we are… back “home.”

A collection of books sat perched on the desk, along with legal pads, pencils, some family photos, a dust-laden copy of a burgundy Bible. Such was the life of an inmate awaiting determination of guilt or innocence. Whenever the time came to rest or lay down, the mattress sank in with any amount of body weight; it was barely three inches thick and supported by a solid steel frame. If ever there was a time for prisons to invest in Serta, this was it. And the pillow? It was basically an extension of the mattress, all of which married nicely with linens that were not even long enough to cover the length of the bed.

Even those Army blankets were better than this shit, and they probably saw action in Korea.

I slipped off my shoes and stretched out on what barely qualified as a bed, and my mind began to wander.

How the hell did I end up here? What kind of fucked up shit did I do in a past life that justified sending me to this shithole? Still a few hours between now and dinner, and that may kill me before the jury even makes the announcement. How’s that for a headline? “INMATE FORGOES LETHAL INJECTION, DIES FROM KILLER MEAL.” A light chuckle followed before reality returned.

My family is going broke. My lawyer walked out. I’m surrounded by actual felons—some of whom I personally arrested—and the world’s angriest guard has a hard-on for my death. Tried going back to the family faith, but where is God in this hell? With everything I’ve been through, how could anyone believe in anything after all that? The chaplain’s polite enough, but he seems unaware that this is a prison, not some parish with a potluck after the baptisms.

Rolling over on the bed, as if trying to escape the tired conundrum, rest was still elusive.

What am I going to do? Even if they find me innocent, I’ll never get a decent job. No hope for a retrial, can’t escape. A mountain of evidence against me. Surrounded by enemies, some of them wearing uniforms. I didn’t get stabbed last week, but who knows if they’ll try again? Killing an ex-cop guarantees lifelong cred. And yet, the question remains: why am I here? How could I have known what would happen?

“No one was supposed to die.”