Authors: Shaun Tennant
Blood Cell (4 page)
Every last prisoner in the pod got a little sick to their stomach when they saw Leo Jimenez with that grin on his face. Ever since arriving for what was supposed to be hard time, Jimenez was smiling, continually delighted by the fact that he was untouchable. With the scar on his face, his wide smile was made even more grotesque, his gums and right incisor constantly on display. He smiled at everyone, knowing how much they were boiling to get at him. The smile was still unnatural, a pose that his body wasn’t used to holding, but damn did it feel good.
This morning, Leo decided that his nonverbal taunts just weren’t entertaining enough. So at breakfast he plopped himself down at Santos’s table, in the seat next to Charlie Cortez, the member of Santos’ gang with the shortest fuse.
“Culo,” muttered Charlie, looking over to his friends for some advice on how to handle the nuisance.
“We speak English here, Chuck, you forget again?” Leo poked his tongue through his scar while he pushed his oatmeal around the bowl.
For a while, Charlie kept himself composed. Charlie knew, from experiences like the one that landed him in Pittman, that he had a tendency to go too far. Going too far on Leo would have some dire consequences for the whole group, so he stayed silent and ate his breakfast. But Leo, like a wasp, just kept buzzing in Charlie’s ear.
Leo had never liked Charlie. Even on the outside, as members of a gang that would supposedly die for each other, they had been enemies. Leo barely spoke Spanish, and pretty much faked all of the cultural shit. Charlie was the opposite; he was immigrant from Mexico, and for some reason, he thought their gang was about their culture, their racial group. Leo was a realist—they did it for the money and the power and the thrill. Leo couldn’t have cared less about a turf or a code or a credo. That was why as soon as Santos was locked up, he moved off of Eighteenth Street. It was shitty ghetto, beneath Leo, and they’d hung around long enough to build up their cred. Charlie was always a nag about stuff like that, as if murdering thieves really lived by rules. And he was constantly talking in Spanish, even though he knew that Leo didn’t speak it very well. Now, Leo could be just as much of an annoying dick to Charlie as Charlie had always been to him.
Leo leaned over, getting his mouth right up to Charlie’s ear, to whisper “Chupas mis huevos. Is that right? Was that Spanish enough, pendejo?” Charlie leaned back to his seat and enjoyed a spoonful of his oatmeal.
He was so content, so busy smiling that twisted smile of his, that he never noticed Delman across the table leaning forward, or Charlie, right next to him, leaning in as well. He never noticed both men reach under the table, so that Delman could pass Charlie a homemade knife made out of a toothbrush filed down to a point.
Charlie clutched the shank so tightly his hand shook, but Leo was too busy looking down at all of the Eighteenths at the table to even notice. He was untouchable, after all, so why would he worry? Leo locked eyes with Santos.
“Hey, no disrespect here, but if this is prison than which one of these guys is a bitch? Hey Santos? I mean, somebody’s gotta be taking the tubesteak, right? Because I was just thinking to myself that if Charlie here’s so desperate to suck on my nuts, I might be willing—“ He wasn’t able to finish because Charlie, pushed too far, had driven the shank hard into Leo’s thigh and twisted the blade.
Leo screamed and tried to pull away, but Charlie kept the pressure on, pushing the toothbrush farther into Leo’s leg. Leo’s screams alerted the guards, and within seconds a trio of uniforms were at the table. One of them knocked Charlie on the shoulder with his baton to get him to stop, and then dragged him hard to the floor. The other two grabbed Leo and pulled him from his bench and away from the table. They waved for a nearby door to be opened and dragged the screaming, bleeding former captain of the Eighteenths to the infirmary.
The cafeteria in C Pod is a single large room with twenty-five foot ceilings. All around the perimeter, fifteen feet above the floor, is a wide balcony where guards with shotguns and rifles constantly monitor the prisoners. At any given time, the guards are monumentally outnumbered, and if the prisoners decided to riot, there was very little that could stop them from taking down all of the guards on the floor. For this reason, the guards on the floor only kept batons and handcuffs on their belts, in addition to their radios. To put guns in that situation would be foolish. Even pepper spray was only worn by certain officers, or in certain situations. It was the men with guns who maintained order. Like the guard towers outside, the balcony provided a secure, elevated position from which the guards could use lethal force at any time, if they needed to.
The balcony also connected to the primary guards’ office for the pod. This was where the guards watched security camera feeds, although there were other stations for that as well, both in the pod and in the admin tower. It was also the room that held the gun case and the riot gear. If the prisoners got out of hand, the guards had immediate access to both lethal and nonlethal measures to subdue them. They had rifles, handguns, shotguns, rubber bullets, bean bag guns, tear gas, body armour, crowd control shields and more, all in a secure room on the other side of the office.
When Leo Jimenez started screaming, John Norris, who was doing inventory in the secure room at the time, unlocked the door and signalled for Metcalf, who was watching the security feeds, to come and watch the door. That way, Norris could run out to the balcony to watch the scene unfold. It was Cortez, as if there had been any doubt, who had taken the first shot at Jimenez. From the look of it, though, he was just sending a message, not trying to kill the man. That could be changed, however, depending on the severity of Jimenez’ injuries. If he hit an artery, maybe Norris could spin this into criminal charges for the whole damn gang. It would make that bonus easy enough. But then again, there was an extra five thousand to make damn sure that Jimenez was dead...
*****
Across the cafeteria from the stabbing, sitting as far away as possible, eating at their own table, were the Sinners’ Motorcycle Club, or as their old rivals in the Eighteenth called them, the Dirtbags. There were only four members of this particular gang in C Pod, but they were all men who had, one time or another, seen their friends beaten or killed by members of Santos’s and Leo’s gang.
The leader, if they really had one, was Ox Werden (murder one), and next to him was Sonny Ramsden (murder one, and murder two, twice over). Across from Ox was Frankie Frisby (assault, arson, theft over $25,000), and across from Ramsden sat Paul Albendroth (three for assault, break and enter, and tax evasion). All four men can be summed up by saying that they were skinheads, spent most of their days lifting weights, and were covered in tattoos. All four men watched with no small amount of glee when they saw Cortez stab Leo.
“See, you just don’t get that sort of thing in whites,” shrugged Ox. “It’s not like I’m stabbin’ Sonny!” He snorted when he laughed. None of them even gave a thought to the fact that most of their crimes were against other white people, or that each one of them was convicted and in prison for crimes committed against other Caucasians.
“Well I guess them Eye-talian mobsters do, like they kill each other all the time,” added Frankie.
“Yeah but they’re good about it, call you to a meeting, let you get dressed up. They all know when it’s comin’. Spicks just stab each other over fucking breakfast, man.” Ox felt that he’d made his point.
“Yeah, if we kill a guy we kill him, not stab him in the knee,” Sonny said in between bites of toast.
“They can’t kill him. Warden Quinn got Vega on tape or something, saying that he was going to kill Leo. If they kill him, they all go down for it, the whole gang.” Apparently Paul was the only one reading the prison grapevine newsletter that week.
“No shit? Leo dies and they all go down for it?” Ox had heard of the strike against his gang that Leo had organized. His best friend, and Sonny’s brother, had died in the attack. The Motorcycle Club had more reason than anybody to take Leo Jimenez down, but so far they had been sitting out. Still, they had a plan in place to generate enough weapons for every white man who would side with them. It was starting to look like Leo Jimenez would be a good reason to put that plan to work.
Ox crossed his arms and watched the Latinos huddle together, obviously worried. “I’d say that’s all I need to know.”
*****
In the prison hospital, cuffed to the bed, Leo Jimenez clenched his teeth. It was more out of rage than from pain. He was supposed to be untouchable. Who did Charlie think he was?
“Get me a fucking guard!” he screamed at the nurse. His yell prompted John Norris to come into the room.
“Good, you’re the one I want, right? You’re the warden’s boy? I want Charlie and the fuckin’ table of them charged for this. Look at my leg!”
“Yeah, it’s real bad gettin’ stabbed with a toothbrush.”
“I want to press charges and you’ll do what I fucking tell you.”
Norris studied Leo’s scarred face. “That’s an awful shiner you got.”
“What shiner?”
Norris pounded Leo’s left eye with his elbow. “That one. They got ya bad.”
Leo spat at him. “Listen up you little C.O. bitch—“
Norris grabbed Leo by the throat. “You need to learn who to respect around here. Understand me, boy?”
Leo fought his restraints at first, then forced himself to stop fighting. Norris let him breathe.
“I want my lawyer and police. I want to file charges.”
Norris hummed a little, like he was thinking hard, then shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“I. Don’t. Think. So.”
“The warden said-“
“The warden put you in a pod with the very same people that want you dead. And you thought you were safe, dipshit? You’re already dead. If you had a prayer, you’d be in a different pod.”
“Bullshit! Call me a lawyer. I have rights.” Leo couldn’t believe this smug little screw.
“You’re a cop killer. You got nothing. You can beg this nurse and maybe she’ll get the paperwork for you to go into protective custody, which would mean admitting you’re a bitch but would keep you safe. But I’m the one who files that paperwork and I would be very unhappy if you made me go to the effort of shredding it. Understand?” Norris turned to the nurse. “I want him back in his cell within the hour.”
“What? I’m in pain—“
Norris was already leaving, and Leo was still strapped to his bed, completely helpless.
His illusions shattered, Leo Jimenez had a moment of clarity. He realized that he had two options. He could make some friends to back him up, or he could kill the entire Eighteenth Street gang. Ideally, he could do both.
When Josh was finally released from the hole after riding out his seven days, his real hard time began. He was returned to his cell, which was empty at the time. The top bunk was made up with someone’s sheets, and two of the four shelves held someone’s prison-issued blue clothing. The bottom bunk was bare, with a pillow, sheet, and blanket folded and stacked in the centre of the lumpy mattress. His neatly folded uniform clothing was also waiting for him on the bed. In the hole he had been provided with a change of clothes once a day. Now he would have a few spares on hand. He made the bed, mostly to fill the time but also to announce to his absent cellmate that the bed was now taken.
The doors in the cellblock were open, with most of the inmates out of their cells. Some were upstairs working for the telemarketing company, some were in the C pod kitchen preparing lunchtime chow, and about half of the population was enjoying the free time, either in the yard or sitting around the cafeteria. There were a handful of guys laying around in their cells, but not many.
Josh navigated his way through the block and toward the main foyer that connected the block to the cafeteria, the stairs, and the doors to the yard. He went for the cafeteria first. A white man with bulging muscles eyeballed Josh as he entered the room, but nobody said anything. All of the new fish had been hazed and taunted a week ago, and for the moment none of the guys sitting around the tables were interested in targeting Josh. Still, the tanned no-neck skinhead watched Josh carefully as he walked the room.
Josh didn’t engage with anyone, and he didn’t stop moving. His goal wasn’t to make friends or enemies, it was simply to observe. He’d never been in max before and he wanted to get the lay of the land. If Josh Farewell had one skill, it was manipulating people. In the lower security levels he’d been faced with before, he had perfected a system for survival. He would identify the most powerful people in the prison, and always be forthright with them. He wouldn’t lie or play coy, he’d just shoot straight. That way he avoided stepping on any toes. With the guards, he’d always be respectful enough to lull them into comfort, until the day came that he had to either slip past one or offer him a bribe. For all other inmates, Josh would do what he could to keep his distance. This included the use of veiled threats, faked friendships, and most often simple avoidance. But before he could put his system into place he need to do two things: he needed to sort out who held the power in C pod, and he needed to stop feeling so terrified. This was maximum security, and Josh was quite certain he was only person here who had never been in a fight. Probably half of the inmates had killed before. Josh knew that he was locked up with a lot of impulsive, violent felons with the thought process of a twelve-year-old, and it scared the crap out of him. Still, Josh had spent years building up resistance to the fight-or-flight instinct, and he was reasonably sure he could bluff his way through max long enough for his next escape.
The first thing he noticed about the cafeteria was the elevated catwalk where guards held shotguns at the ready. The second thing he noticed was the scattering of bullet holes on the ceiling, next to the black “shot boxes” that guards would fire into as a warning. The third thing he noticed was a distinct lack of pigment among the population. There didn’t seem to be many black guys. That probably meant a race war had recently erupted, and the whites and Latinos got to stay while the black guys got split into the other pods.
As Josh rounded the third corner of the cafeteria and started back toward the door, the muscle-bound skinhead got up and came over to him, blocking the path to the doors.
“I see you found your way to my corner of the room,” said the skinhead.
“I didn’t know,” said Josh, “and no disrespect, but I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here.”
“No problem, pal. Name’s Ox. How’s about I give you the tour?” Of course his name was Ox. He probably had a friend named Moose.
“Actually, I think I’d rather sort things out on my own, you know, figure out where I’m going and such.” Josh was surprised at how nervous he felt, knowing that all the stories he’d heard about maximum security were getting to him. The way Josh had heard it, max divides up pretty automatically along racial lines, unless you piss off your own kind. Josh was in a pickle with this Ox character. Get too chummy, and let others see that, and forever after he’d only be able to deal with the whites. But if he pushed Ox away too fast, he could find himself a one-man island, which might force him into protective custody. And nobody escapes from protective custody.
“Now listen kid, you look to me like a smart young white boy, which is why I’m being so nice to you here. You might want to consider who your friends are gonna be for the next couple years of your life.”
So that was it. The next couple years, dictated by a random encounter with some skinhead. Josh shrugged: “You know, I don’t think I’ll be here for all that long...”
Ox made a slanted grin. “Still expecting a transfer, huh? Ain’t gonna happen. This pod’s the worst of the worst. They put you here you can bet you’re not gettin’ transferred out until parole. Well, it’s almost lunch time, so how about we sit down and I can fill you in over chow?”
Josh struggled to find the words to make the skinhead leave him alone, until someone else intervened.
“Give the fish a break,” said a voice, “he ain’t interested in eating your bullshit.” The voice came from behind Ox, from a tall Latino with a short haircut. His entourage lingered about five feet behind him.
“This is Santos Vega, leader of those spicks over there,” said Ox. “I’m Ox Werden, and I only associate with worthy men like yourself.”
“Really?” said Santos, “He don’t look retarded.”
“Listen I was just trying to get some bearings—I’m not looking for any...“ Josh walked between the two men, around a metal table, and headed for the door. Ox watched him go, snorting in amusement, and Santos returned to his crew. They slowly followed Josh out into the yard.
The yard for C pod was triangle shaped, fitting the star-shaped design of the building. On one side it was closed in by C pod, on another by B pod, and the open side had a twenty foot fence, topped with razor wire. Beyond the first fence was a second, about twenty feet back. The space between the fences was filled with rolls of concertina wire. After that, there was a guard tower. Josh could easily see the spotlights on the corners, and the guards with automatic rifles who were seated inside the tower.
Josh sized it up as he walked. The tower can be avoided, but the snipers on the roof will get you.
“You should have taken a stand in there, fish.” It was Santos, walking behind Josh, but staying far enough away that the tower guards knew he wasn’t attacking Josh.
“You could have joined him or joined me, but just bitching out like that was a mistake.”
“I didn’t bitch out—“
“The only thing the dirtbags like more than a tough white guy who can fight is a weak white boy who can’t fight back. You just became the latter.”
Josh stopped walking and turned to face Santos.
“This is C pod, kid,” said Santos, “you don’t punch someone on your first day and you will get punched on your second.”
“Sometime in the next couple days you’re either gonna have to join me and the Eighteenth, or Ox and his boys are gonna turn you out.”
“And who are the Eighteenth?”
“Kid, look around. What you’ll see is a whole lot of people that look like me. Once upon a time, there were a lot people with different skin tones, but once they realized they couldn’t win, the black guys either joined up or moved out. Whites can either line up with me and live a good life, or join the Dirtbags and do some really hard time. That skinhead you talked to might sound like he’s got a crew, but they’re outnumbered ten-to-one.”
“So why would you want me? Don’t have to be...”
“Latino? Nah, man. We figured out a while back that real strength means numbers. See my boy Delman?” Santos pointed to a black man, one of three African Americans Josh could see in the yard. “He’s been my cellie since before the other black guys got turfed. He realized the advantages of joining the winning team.”
“So if I say I’m with you, then I have to take orders, do what I’m told?”
“Nah, you gotta do favours. You scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours. We just have to figure out what you have to offer.”
Josh nodded. “I’m not violent. I won’t jump anyone or hold anyone down for you—“
“Never said you had to.”
“I suppose it makes sense to have friends in high places.”
“That’s what I’m saying. What’s your name?”
“Josh Farewell.”
“Farewell. Oh I know you. You’re the one the warden wanted to see. I was in the waiting room when he requested you. Came in on the bus last week?”
“Yeah.”
“So what makes you so special?”
“I conned the Warden’s dad for a few grand.”
“Don’t lie to me, fish.”
Josh sighed. Josh had a certain poker face that he liked to maintain—he had a method of hiding his cards and method of laying them on the table. Now seemed like a time for the latter, since this guy Santos had a lot of pull.
“I broke out of every place they ever put me. Work camp: gone. Minimum security: escaped my first week. Medium security: six months. They can’t find a place that can hold me. That’s why I’m in max.”
“Yeah, real smart getting locked up with the likes of these maniacs. Bet you never even been in a fight.”
“Had to slip away from some angry boyfriends in my time.”
“See, now we’re getting to know each other. Tell you what, Josh. Let’s sit together over lunch and tell some stories. The boys would love to hear about how you busted out.”
Santos held up a fist. Josh awkwardly bumped it with his own fist, and Santos walked away.
Josh sized up the yard. There was a weightlifting area in one corner, and a paved area with basketball along the B pod wall. Inmates clustered in cliques, with very few ever floating from one group to another. Only Santos and his inner circle seemed to be welcome with everybody. Josh was starting to think that he had just found the man with the power in C pod.
Returning to his cell, Josh discovered his cellmate was lying on the bottom bunk.
“Sorry, that’s my bed,” he said.
The cellmate sat up. He had an ugly, straight scar down his cheek and across his lips.
“Oh, you my new meat? I’m Leo.” Leo held out his hand but Josh didn’t shake it. “I’ve gotten used to having the room to myself, so I’ll sleep in whatever goddamn bunk I want to, whenever I want to. And if and when I decide to switch, then you can have your shitty fucking bunk.”
Josh slinked carefully into the cell, his back to the wall. Entering a cell with Leo felt oddly like being caged with a lion.
“I don’t want problems, man.”
“That’s good,” said Leo, “because you just won the lottery. I am the single best cellmate you could have landed.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Don’t you want to know what makes me so great?” asked Leo.
“Sure.”
“I’m the fucking kingpin of the Eighteenth. Half the motherfuckers in here belong to me. And the guards won’t touch me because they know what I fucking did to that cop who busted me.” Josh didn’t ask about the cop, but Leo explained anyway: “I killed him in front of his own partner, in his own precinct.”
Josh didn’t say anything, but he felt his stomach drop. Outside the cell, across the block, a couple inmates watched Josh interact with Leo. He could feel their eyes, and Leo’s, sizing him up.
“Well it sure is nice to meet you,” said Josh.
When it was time for chow, he managed to slip away from Leo in the walk to the cafeteria. He filed along with the line, getting his tray loaded up with a grilled cheese sandwich, yogurt cup, and a plastic mug of purple juice. As he stepped away from the serving counter, he felt a strong hand grab his bicep and lead him to a table. It was Delman, stuffing Josh onto a bench seat next to Santos.
“Josh, it was nice of you to remember our appointment,” said Santos.
“Sure, no problem.”
“I told the boys you escaped from the pen on multiple occasions. We’d love to hear about it.”
Josh was uncomfortable with the situation, but now that he was out of imminent danger he relaxed a little. He was able to slip into his most persuasive persona as he told the story of his first escape, from the holding room in a courthouse.
“...so after almost three hours stashed away like that I slipped back outside,” said Josh, knowing that the gang members were hanging on his every word. “And then I just hopped into the trunk of an expensive car parked in the courthouse parking lot. Two hours later, a judge drove me right past the cops. I rode in the trunk until he parked, waited fifteen minutes, and hopped out again. The judge had driven me right to his house. I was in the suburbs ten miles from the nearest cop.”
“Wait,” said Carlos, “how’d you get into and out of the trunk?” It seemed to Josh like Carlos was an alright guy. Carlos slid his yogurt to Eli, who slid him three cigarettes.
“Getting out’s easy: the car had an escape latch. Getting in, well... I’m pretty good with locks.”
