My Name Is River Blue (55 page)

The night before
my transfer, I sat alone in my cell with my knees bouncing. I was almost as
afraid as I was when I was eleven years old and riding in the cop car that took
me to Stockwell. I hated to feel so vulnerable. If only I had not been hurt so
badly in the accident, I knew I could at least stand my ground in a one on one
fight. I could gain a little respect that way. As it was, I would be an easy
target, and I grew nauseous thinking about the life I might have.

I was dressed
only in my boxers, and they were soaked from nervous sweat until they were
barely clinging to my hips. I had already thrown up dinner, and the feeling was
hitting me again when I heard Dunc's friendly voice, one I would surely miss.

"Want some
company?" Dunc unlocked my cell and came in to sit next to me on my bunk.
"If you don't mind."

"Sure, I
don't mind but I probably stink." I tried to laugh.

"Nerves,
huh?"

"Yes,
sir."

"I don't
blame you. I told you I worked down there a few years, but it was too much
stress. I had to get the hell out of there."

"Is that
supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, but I
do have some advice. River, you have to decide how much life means to you. How
bad do you want to live to see the day when you walk out those prison gates as
a free man? You're still just a kid. Twenty-one, right? You'll only be twenty-five
when you get out, so you'll just have to decide if you want to live long enough
to see parole."

I thought about
that. Papa left me all the money I would need, and I had a family and a home
with Uncle Manny, Tyler, and the rest of the people at Deer Lake Farm. I had
family in Mexico. I even had a few friends. After losing as much as I had, I
still had reasons to live.

"And if I
do?" I said.

"Then just
tell yourself you will do whatever it takes to survive for four years. Don't
fight battles that you can't win and stay strong in your head no matter what
happens. Don't fall into a trap with a gang that might make you shank a guy to
test you. Some of those inmates are lifers with nothing to lose. Some of them
would like to see you draw another charge. Remember, misery loves company. Your
goal is surviving and making your release date."

"Oh, yeah.
Sounds simple." If he caught my sarcasm, he ignored it.

Dunc pulled out
a ragged piece of paper, which he handed to me. "River, there are two
names on that paper. Leroy Timmons is an inmate and Lloyd Lawson is a senior
correctional officer. They're both friends of mine and they both owe me. Leroy
has about six years left, but if I hadn't helped him, he would be there a lot
longer. I saved Lloyd from an attack by a gang of inmates with shanks. If I
hadn't caught wind of the hit, they would have killed him. I have given both of
them your name, and asked them to look out for you, but there is a price."

"Thank you,
I think." I was hopeful, but I wanted to know about the price.

"If all
goes well, you will be Leroy's new cellmate. He's close to forty and a huge
black guy obsessed with his workouts. He's about six feet five. Two eighty-five.
No one with any sense messes with him. He's earned mad respect, and when word
gets out that you're his boy, there are very few guys that will challenge
you."

"I don't
like the sound of 'his boy.'"

"Don't
worry. It doesn't mean anything except that you're under his wing. Your uncle will
deposit money in his prison account each month for canteen goodies. It's not
that much money, but Leroy doesn't have any family at all, so it will mean the
world to him."

"Okay,
that's no problem at all." I was relieved.

"Your uncle
will keep Leroy's account full, and Leroy will teach you how things work and do
his best to take care of you. You just have to listen to him."

"How about
the officer? What's that deal?"

"It's a bad
thing for you to be blatantly close to a guard. If the other inmates know,
you're going to get hurt. Lloyd will keep a check on you, but he will handle
things in a quiet way. He may even jump your ass about something for show. If
you need his help, tell Leroy and let him pass it. I'm giving your uncle an
account number, and he' going to make a $5000 deposit in that account by next
week and another each year until you're free."

"Okay,
that's no problem as long as you're sure this Lloyd guy is for real."

"You need
to trust me, River."

"Speaking
of you, I don't mean to insult you, but why are you doing this stuff for
me?"

Dunc grinned. "Isn't
it enough that you're a good kid and I like you?"

"Probably
not, so what are you getting out of me?"

"First of
all, you really are a good kid, and the guys like you, but your uncle has also been
taking care of you the whole time you been here. It's true that we didn't want
you to get hurt and have the media on our asses, but two of us old guys did
plenty we didn't have to do. You really think we would have gone to the trouble
of making a bed for you to watch football with us if we weren't getting
something?"

"I guess
not. Was Kirby getting a share?"

"No,
Kirby's just a good guy. There are a few of those."

When Officer
Duncan left my cell that night, I was relieved enough about my transfer to
state prison that I slept a few hours. I felt better knowing that two men on
the inside would be properly motivated to help me, and that some things worked
the same no matter where I was.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

March
2012

Almost
four years later

When a prison
inmate's time grows short, he fears that something will happen that will add
additional time to his sentence or worse, that some inmate with a grudge will
kill him before he can taste freedom. He does his best to become invisible and
to avoid any situation that could lead to trouble. If he's smart, he doesn't
brag about his release date so that a spiteful inmate sets him up for a charge
that adds to his time. I have seen correctional officers do the same thing to
an inmate they didn't like.

I have served
almost four years in Rockville State Prison. As of today, I have eleven days
left before my Uncle Manny and Tyler Long will meet me at the front gate and
take me home to Deer Lake Farm. I don't believe that I could handle the
disappointment if my discharge was delayed even one day, and I sure as hell
don't want to die in here of all places. I only discuss it with Carlos, my
cellmate, and he gives me positive encouragement, but his words do little to
alleviate my fear and paranoia for more than a few hours at a time.

While I have
been in prison, Uncle Manny and Tyler have faithfully taken a day each week to
make the four-hour round trip to see me, and the same people who visited me in
the county jail have made the drive several times. Howie Spearman has also
visited me most weeks with the hope that his visits and our project have helped
me focus on something besides the hell of living in prison. Between visits, I
also call Manny and Tyler once a week. I am grateful that I have regularly
received letters from Jenny Mackey, Amy Martin, and Grammy. All of them write
me a couple of letters a month. No one understands how much the visits and
letters mean to an inmate except another inmate.

As we planned
when I was in the Bergeron County Jail, I have collaborated with Howie Spearman
to write this book as if anyone is interested in reading crap about my life. Howie
says there are plenty of people who will want to read the book, but I still don't
get it. I guess some folks in Bergeron County will be anxious to see what I may
have said about them, and a few will be worried that I may have depicted them
in an unflattering way. I changed some names to protect a few people, but they
were mostly inmates or staff members of Rockville State Prison or Bergeron
County Jail. Anyway, as Howie said it would, writing has been good therapy for
me, and it has certainly helped me pass time that would have crawled by much more
slowly.

I hand Howie a
few pages of jumbled garbage each week. He edits what I write, which must be a
huge pain in the ass. If I were he, I would probably rather write something in
my own words from the beginning instead of rewriting someone else's mess. The
book has been a hell of a project for us since we have never written or edited a
book, but I'm always amazed at what Howie does with what I give him. When I
apologize, he politely says that we are both learning.

***

My first day at
Rockville State Prison, the correctional officers led my group of new inmates
from the bus into the prison's unnerving atmosphere, so thick with aggression
that my senses were on high alert to everything around me. I was overwhelmed by
the size, the noise, the smells, and the constant activity of alien creatures
of every size, shape, and shade. Many of the resident inmates' bodies were
covered with insane ink designs, and just as many of them were obviously into
serious weight lifting. I guessed correctly that some of them had help from smuggled
steroids.

It wasn't just a
feeling. I
knew
that hundreds of eyes on either side of us were scanning
us from head to toe as my group walked single file behind the lead CO. I
discovered that the tension I felt that first day was the norm, and eventually,
my blood pressure and heart rate adapted along with the rest of me. The
awareness of my surroundings, which an old inmate called my "360," became
second nature to me as it did all prisoners who survived.

There were
fifteen of us fresh "fish," who endured the intake and processing procedures
that day. Although the experience was similar to Stockwell and the county jail,
it was worse in that there was a larger group of us taking part in a longer,
more detailed process in a bigger, more threatening environment. I believe that
many of the orders that correctional officers gave us were purposely designed
to be intimidating, dehumanizing, and humiliating.

It was clear to
me that by the time they assigned us a cell, the COs wanted us to understand
that neither our opinions nor our lives meant shit to them. They wanted us to
be so afraid of their absolute power that we would not even
think
of
breaking a rule or disobeying a command. They convinced us that they could do
anything they wanted to us, and that we had no recourse, because an inmate had
no more rights than any other piece of state property.

Through the
process, I focused on taking care of me, but I felt sorry for a few of the
young guys whose backgrounds left them unprepared for the experience. There
were inmates, who were always close to breaking as they found each experience
in their new reality worse than anything they imagined. A few of them appeared
to go into wide-eyed shock when the COs ordered us to strip naked out in the
open in front of prison staff, some of whom were female, and others who were resident
inmates just passing by us. We remained naked while the staff herded us like
ponies through all the stations of processing. Stockwell and the Bergeron
County Jail were not as bad as Rockville, but I was still more prepared than
some of the other guys were.

As we moved
through processing, the COs and the staff members photographed us, fingerprinted
us, and performed a physical search of our bodies. The staff buzzed our hair,
treated us for lice, and watched us take showers. When we showered, the COs
ordered us to scrub every inch of our bodies with some liquid crap that burned
like hell. The COs enjoyed laughing at our reactions, and I'm sure they looked
forward to watching the same scene every week with each new batch of fish.

After our
showers, we lined up as they examined us for current injuries and identifying
scars or marks. It took them quite a long time to make notes of all my scars. I
wasn't surprised when one of them was amused by my birthmark and had to show
other staff members how it resembled the state of Florida. A doctor, with the
help of a female nurse, did the most general of physicals, such as checking
vital signs and listening to our hearts. We all gave a few tubes of blood and a
urine sample.

Before we were
issued clothes, the COs ordered our butt naked group into this small room that
was bare except for two long benches. They told us to take a seat on the
benches and stay there until they returned. One of the new inmates pointed out
that there was not enough room for all of us to sit without touching each other
and asked if he could stand. Then several more fish idiots agreed with him and
soon they were talking aloud as if none of them had understood our first
instruction of the day, which was to do as the COs and staff told us immediately
without question or comment. They absolutely did not permit us to talk without
permission.

From where I sat
on the bench, I saw the two COs look at each other, and I knew it would be bad.
One of the COs answered the first young inmate by slamming his baton in the
inmate's gut, and then cracking him across his face, breaking his nose, which
splattered blood on several of us. When the inmate fell unconscious to the
floor at his feet, the CO looked at the rest of us to see if anyone still
wanted to complain. No one did. It was crowded, but everyone crammed together
on the benches as ordered. Eventually, two trustee inmates arrived to drag the
injured inmate out of the room and supposedly to the infirmary. I thought he
might have been dead because I never saw him again.

A skinny,
nervous kid of about eighteen sat down on the bench next to me. He immediately whispered
to me that he was sorry for crowding me. He desperately wanted me to understand
that it wasn't his choice as if I hadn't heard the COs instructions. He was the
type of kid who was always sorry for everything he did and lived in fear that
someone would take offense and hurt him. I had seen guys like him whose
self-esteem was so low that they would apologize for using too much oxygen. I
told him to forget about it and shut his mouth before a CO shut it for him. I
found out later that his name was Scott, and we had something in common besides
being new inmates. He was a mixed-race kid. His father was white and his mother
black.

The COs might
have been waiting for the medical people to clear us on some test results
before they could issue our clothes, assign us cells, and allow us to mix with
the general population. It was also likely that there was no reason for us to
sit there uncomfortably pressing against the inmates on each side of us except
for the enjoyment of the COs who obviously knew that we hated it. I couldn't
see a clock, but I thought we sat there for more than an hour before we moved
on to the new inmate supply area.

The staff issued
us clothing, bedding, and basic toiletry items. The clothes were lightweight,
burnt orange scrub shirts and matching pants, such as hospital employees might
wear. My pants had a tendency to slip down and show the plain white boxers they
gave me, but it was futile to ask for something that fit better. For shoes, they
gave out dull, black slip-ons similar to house slippers and a pair of cheap
flip-flops that they recommended we wear in the nasty showers.

The cells were very
similar to other cells I had seen, and they were tight for two grown men. There
were a set of bunk beds, two shelves for personal items, two plastic storage
boxes kept under the bottom bunk, a desktop built into the wall, and the
standard sink and toilet combo made of stainless steel. There was a very narrow
path in the center of the cell, and Leroy and I had to turn sideways to brush
by each other. I was hoping for a cell with a solid wall and a door at the
front, but ours had open bars so that anyone passing by could see anywhere in
the cell. We had a small vertical window high on the back wall that allowed a
sliver of daylight, but we didn't need it. There was always artificial light
shining from the hallway through the bars day and night.

Leroy was a
decent guy, who was usually in a good mood, and as big as he was, I tried to
keep him that way. He gave me some valuable information about prison life such
as how to do my time quietly, how to stay out of trouble, and how to get along
with the other inmates and the prison staff. He taught me how to get contraband
items from certain inmates and where to hide them in case the guards inspected
the cell, which he called a shakedown. A few days after I arrived, Leroy gave
me a present that he had an inmate make for me. It was a homemade shank
suitable for stabbing or slicing another inmate, and Leroy advised me on the
proper way to use it to kill a man.

It had been a
good idea to pay an inmate and a guard to look out for me, but it only worked
if they stayed in the prison. Two weeks after I arrived, Leroy had a heart
attack and died on the way to the infirmary. The word was that he was so
obsessed with weight lifting that he took an excessive amount of smuggled steroids
and suffered a fatal heart attack. As for CO Lawson, I wasn't the only way he
had of supplementing his income, and while I don't know the details, I know he
was fired not long after Leroy's death because he was caught taking a bribe.

When I told
Uncle Manny what happened, he spoke with Dunc to find out if he knew of any
alternatives, but the county jail guard didn't know any other inmates well
enough, and he was leery of propositioning another corrections officer after
Lawson was busted.

I was a new, young
inmate who was on my own with no protection. The fact that everyone knew of my
disabilities from the accident just made my situation worse. After Leroy's
death, I often looked around at other inmates and caught some of them staring
at me as if they were wolves stalking their next meal.

There were
inmates who were always jealous of anyone else's accomplishments, and they
enjoyed bringing a celebrity inmate down to the lowest level they could. I knew
that I was a big target for assault, and there was no such thing as relaxing. I
was more alert and paranoid than ever. I was suspicious of everyone and every
situation, and I tried to avoid any possibility of the wrong inmates catching
me in an unguarded area. While I tried to hide it, I was scared. I thought that
it was only a matter of time before I was attacked.

As I had
expected, I found the incidents of rape in prison were exaggerated and
sensationalized by the entertainment industry, the news media, and the public.
Most of the men in Rockville were never sexually assaulted, but it happened
often enough that it was a legitimate fear for young and vulnerable inmates.
The fear was especially justified if they weren't tough enough or physically
able to earn the respect that putting up a good fight could bring them. With
over 2700 inmates in Rockville, sexual assault was a weekly occurrence. Out of
each new group of arrivals the size of mine, it was a sure bet that two or
three of the young fish would be beaten and raped within his first month. Some
inmates were assaulted on a regular basis.