The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 10

At the end of the row they abandoned the cart and took only the pitcher, climbing the metal stairs, walking back the way they came, doing switchbacks up and down the line. It became Josh's job to run back to the ground level and refill the pitcher every time it ran out. He hated being away from Fenton and on his own. He walked fast, trying not to make eye contact with anyone in a cell. Still, hands reached out. Mugs gestured for extra swill. Kisses got blown. Others hung back, indifferent to his existence, and he felt like a rodent scurrying by.

A new tier of cells around the other side of the block. It must have been a wing for s.e.xual predators, because Fenton's disposition changed. He allowed Josh to pa.s.s out only a few doughnuts. "Fruit," he said. "That guy will blow you for a six-pack. This one's a sleazy f.u.c.king diddler." To accentuate the point, he pressed his lips to the doughnut and sucked out all the jelly, then let Josh give it to the man in the cell.

When they finished the block, Fenton sent Josh out into the hub on his own.

"D is next. You go ahead and be my reconnaissance," he said. "Let me know if there's any fun and games waiting."

Confused, Josh left Fenton behind and pushed the cart forward by himself, all the confidence drained out of him. He headed back into the hub and crossed it, then got buzzed into the next hallway. He steeled up as he approached the nest. There was a jack inside, watching Josh from on high through the Plexiglas. Josh nodded and asked for entrance into D block.

"Where the f.u.c.k is Fenton?" the jack asked him through the microphone on his console.

Josh pulled up on the cart with both hands and gave the jack his straightest answer.

"It's just me," he said. "Fenton's on C. We're running behind, so we split up."

The jack looked furious. He spoke into his radio and told whoever was listening that Fenton was no longer doing his appropriate rounds. Josh got nervous fast. A hitch in the static, then a voice said Fenton had been spotted and everything was fine.

This didn't please the jack. He told Josh there was no way he'd let a fish into D and to get the f.u.c.k out of his sight until Fenton showed up. Josh turned the cart around and walked back down the hall the way he'd come.

He found Fenton in the hub, just exiting the hallway from C.

"What you got?" he asked.

Josh was excited without knowing why. "The jack didn't like that I was by myself. He asked where you were and wouldn't let me in."

Fenton nodded. "That's what I was expecting. You play chess?"

Josh said he knew how.

"Then you'll understand my thinking. When the guy you're playing tempts you to take some halfway decent piece, you got to figure it's a trap. But sometimes the best way to look like you're falling for it is to make a sacrifice."

Josh didn't know how that applied to the current situation, exactly, but he asked Fenton what the plan was going forward.

"Deliver us some doughnuts," Fenton answered.

Josh put his faith in Fenton, but his nerves were bad as they traveled the long hall and approached the jack nest again. This time the jack waited outside the nest, standing on the floor before the cage.

"Hey, boss," Fenton called out cheerfully, as if nothing was up.

The jack asked Fenton why the f.u.c.k he wasn't doing his rounds properly. Fenton made up a story about a weeping con, the need to provide solace to a brother in pain.

The jack told Fenton to leave the social work to the weak sisters and get his a.s.s in gear. Fenton rogered that and asked for permission to deliver doughnuts to D. The cage snapped open, and Fenton nudged Josh forward.

Josh pushed the cart into the block. Then something happened to his feet, and he fell forward, colliding with the cart and pulling it down on top of him. The large and small containers of hot chocolate tumbled off the cart and struck the ground, the contents rus.h.i.+ng along the floor in a brown flood. With his hands and knees covered in the stuff, Josh looked up from his embarra.s.sed brew-drunk sprawl, terrified of the consequences, then felt the world smack him back down as G.o.d's hammer, or the heel of Fenton's hand, hit him so hard on the top of his head that the pain spritzed out through his eyes. He huddled there, every muscle in his ribs and back tightening in expectation of Fenton's boots to commence s.h.i.+t kicking. Instead, he heard Fenton voicing his utter contempt for the stupid, clumsy fish who'd just spilled the whole f.u.c.king wagonload of hot chocolate.

"Jesus, boss, I am completely f.u.c.king sorry," Fenton said to the jack. "We will, and I mean will, clean this up right away. I am going to stick the mop up this fish's a.s.s or he will lick the floor clean, and that's a promise." Then to Josh. "All right, get your s.h.i.+t-a.s.s up and f.u.c.king move!"

Josh stood, the heat of the smack to his head still filling his face. He righted the cart, scooped up handfuls of soggy doughnuts, and chased after the empty containers. Fenton waited impatiently, as though his hand could strike again at any moment. Then they were walking down the hall back to the hub.

"You all right?" Fenton asked him.

Josh felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Had to make it look good."

And Josh realized he hadn't tripped on his own, but had been tripped up intentionally.

"That, my friend, was a head fake. A couple bada.s.ses on D want to take me down," Fenton explained. "Gave the jack a little New Year's bonus. We go inside, unsuspecting, then bam, suddenly a few extra cell doors would have opened."

"You mean he'd let them out?" Josh asked.

"Accidentally, of course," Fenton said. "You did good, though. That was a convincing fall."

"My head hurts like h.e.l.l," Josh said.

Fenton laughed. "Sorry about the slap."

When they entered the hub, Fenton stopped suddenly. "f.u.c.k if I want to go all the way back to the cafeteria. I got people I want to see."

"You want me to get the bucket and mop?" Josh asked.

"Let that fat pig do it himself."

One minute obsequious to the CO, next the spittle of disdain.

"So, according to Wobbles, you and Crowley got to know each other good, huh?"

This is it, Josh thought. This is how the hurt comes.

"We had drums beside each other."

"Crowley used to do a valuable service for me before he went a little free style. He wasn't all wrong, just a little confused, if you know what I mean."

Josh didn't know whether to nod or say nothing, the nervousness gnawing at him.

"All I want to know is how Crowley finished his annual report. Roy says you did it for him. Is that true?"

He had no choice but to admit it.

"Roy says you can draw just about anything, huh?"

"I suppose."

"You think you can remember what you drew for Crowley?"

Josh shrugged, afraid to death of offending, afraid of answering wrong.

Fenton didn't wait for any words to come out.

"You want a good home, Josh, a range where you feel safe, you come to B-three. I'm inviting you in as one of the boys. A fellow of your skills and intelligence should feel valued, not afraid. Look at this place"-one hand sweeping the air, taking in the open dome above them, as though transforming the prison into a kingdom with his gesture. "All of these monkeys locked in their cages. You on the outside walking around, looking in, pa.s.sing them treats, a prince among thieves. I'd say it's pathetic what you can drag a man down to, except most of these mutts think they have a good thing going. You realize that? They all got their plans. The things they wake up every day thinking are important. But none of them know what they're sitting on. What they got right in reach."

Fenton rattled the empty jugs. "Now go get us some f.u.c.king refills. I'll hang out here until you're back."

Josh started to push the cart. Fenton called out to him.

"Here. Try these." Something placed in the palm of his hand. "f.u.c.k the tunnel. Walk across the yard to get to the kitchen. You can look at those stars and feel like a free man."

18.

At the end of the last day of the year I got pushed into an hour of overtime when an inmate in his cell experienced an epileptic fit. The doctor on call, a hack with smudged gla.s.ses who acted superior to everyone around him, was incredulous. Were the medications given on time? Was the right medication given to the right prisoner? More incriminations, a questioning of my basic intelligence. I'd given out 97 treatments in my round of 168 inmates. It was possible I'd made a mistake in the order. But wouldn't that have led to other inmates experiencing bad symptoms, a chain reaction of mistakes? The doctor grumbled. Fifteen minutes later he discovered a blood track on the inmate's inner thigh. "Injection," he announced. There wasn't the slightest note of apology in his tone, just pure pride at his forensic genius.

"So you're reporting that the inmate had a negative reaction to contraband drugs," I said, not even bothering to thin the sarcasm, "and that my conduct had no connection with his condition whatsoever."

The doctor grunted. "Looks that way."

Oh, f.u.c.k you, I thought. "Write it down that way, Doctor. I'm out of here."

There were two hours left in the year when I kicked open the front door of the penitentiary and saw the parking lot. Pitch-black and twinkly in the sky, the ground lit by the lights of the sentry towers like a sports arena at night. As I approached my truck, I saw a figure in a parka standing deeper in the parking lot, waiting. At first I thought it must be Wallace, but then I saw that the man was taller and more broad-shouldered than Wallace. A hand lifted, beckoning. I adjusted my direction to head his way. I didn't like walking toward him, but I didn't want to show any sign of nervousness either. Then I felt a twist in my gut, not fear but trouble. It was Ruddik.

"What do you want?" I asked, letting all of my exhaustion show on my face.

"Cold, isn't it," he said, as though we were waiting at a bus stop together. Then, "My car won't start. I've got cables. Could you give me a boost?"

It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. "Of course," I said. One of the COs probably drained his battery for a laugh. "Wait here. I'll drive over."

"Can I drive with you? I'm half frozen from waiting in my car."

It seemed an unlikely request coming from such a dour and self-reliant loner.

We walked to my truck and got into the cab. I didn't want to spend any time with Ruddik. Then I wondered, what if my own engine didn't start? There were COs who didn't appreciate me much either. That's all I needed.

But my truck started. I let it idle with the vents opened and the heat cranked. Ruddik offered to sc.r.a.pe my windows, but I told him not to bother. I got out and did it myself. When I was back in the cab, we waited another few minutes, barely speaking, until I announced we might as well move. Ruddik directed me to his car. An old Duster. No wonder it didn't start. Had to be fifteen years of salt-eaten junk. "No one could accuse you of being on the take," I said. It was a stupid joke, but I was tired.

"If I was, I'd be smart enough not to spend it on a sixty-thousand-dollar truck, wouldn't I?"

I popped the hood and let him go out and attach the cables. Both hoods were raised. I was blind to what he was doing but could imagine the handles being clipped on. Then Ruddik appeared and motioned that he was going to start his own car. I heard the starter grind and then turn over. The Duster roared out noise, gunned three times-my own lights dimming with the drain-then catching and settling, the motor grumbling but steady.

The cables got released and folded up. The hoods got slammed shut. I wanted to wave and spin out of the lot, but I waited. Ruddik opened the pa.s.senger door and thanked me. "You mind if I sit a few minutes while my car warms up, and hold you here until I'm sure it runs?"

He climbed in, stomped his feet, pulled off his gloves, and warmed his hands. I thought about turning on the radio but didn't. Instead, we watched the prison wall like a drive-in movie screen, not speaking. I realized I should have some feeling for the place, some deeper or more poetic emotion, but I was numb. You shouldn't be numb about where you work. Not when it took so much out of you. Maybe I was in shock. Too much had happened lately. It wasn't all terrible. But it was thankless. And when the pressure came down, you wondered why you bothered. Just enough money to keep you locked in.

We both heard the sound of tires moving over snow and saw the headlights. A car arriving at the prison parking lot. Neither one of us spoke. I saw that the car was a taxicab. It stopped at the gate. Beeped twice. The door of the prison, closed so tightly, opened as if magic words had been spoken. A CO appeared. The taxicab's doors opened, and two men got out from the front seats. The man from the pa.s.senger side opened the back door and leaned in. When he stood up again, his arms were loaded with buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The driver leaned in and got his own armful. The CO at the gate ushered them in.

"That's a lot of chicken," Ruddik said quietly. "Those COs must be hungry."

I didn't say anything. My mouth closed.

"Some nights I sit in my car just to amuse myself and I watch that taxicab make two or three trips up here. It's not always KFC, mind you. Sometimes they've stopped at the liquor store. Sometimes I can't tell what's in the bags."

The prison gate opened again. The two men exited. They got back in their cab, which pulled away quickly, the headlights whipping by in the turn; then the cab made for the slope down to the county road.

"That's twice already tonight, but I bet they'll be back in an hour," he said. "What do you think that costs in taxi fares alone? Coming all that way. In the middle of the night. I bet you add up all those fares and the cost of the deliverables, and those COs are putting a lot of money in that cabdriver's hands. Boy, those profit margins must be awfully good."

"It's New Year's Eve, for G.o.d's sake," I said softly, though I knew it happened all the time. I thought of the cafeteria and their G.o.dd.a.m.n ribs. I hated the smell of food when it came into the COs' room. I turned a blind eye. I didn't want to know where it went. The others were in a good mood whenever a s.h.i.+pment arrived. They moved faster than normal, motivated, organized, like men around a barbeque. They made the delivery. I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn't want the taste in my mouth.

"Sure," Ruddik said. "And the COs eat it all, just like they say they do, and they don't deliver it to some murdering gang-banger's cell, and they don't get paid off for lots of other things either. I'm never there when it happens, of course. So who really knows? What happens on the other side of those walls stays on the other side of those walls. Funny, isn't it? A maximum security prison is the safest place in America to commit a crime. n.o.body ever gets caught. Doesn't matter if you're smuggling in fried chicken or heroin. Doesn't matter if you're arranging for an inmate to get a quickie or letting him into someone else's cell to give them a hot shot. You'll never ever ever get caught. It's like it never happened."

"You waited for me, didn't you," I said.

"I knew one of these nights we'd run into each other, have a little talk."

"Why?"

He ignored my question. "Off the top of my head, here's a list of things I know go in there. Heroin. Crack. Cocaine. Marijuana. Alcohol. p.o.r.nography. Perfume. Aftershave. Stockings. Sungla.s.ses. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Pizza. Doughnuts. Coffee. Coffee beans. Game Boys. Baby back ribs. Subway sandwiches. Tobacco. Cough syrup. Syringes. Needles. Panties. Lube. Condoms. Batteries. Valium. OxyContin. Crystal meth."

"Why are you telling me this?" My hands were on the steering wheel. It was warm in the cab, though the frost still lingered on the edges of the winds.h.i.+eld, but I'd never felt so cold. I hated Ruddik, despised his morbid puritan morality. "You think this is a good idea sitting here? Inmates watch the cars out in this parking lot. I once drove a friend's car to work because mine was in the shop. You know that I had three inmates ask me about my new car that very day? They watch every G.o.dd.a.m.n thing we do. Inside and outside. They watch us more closely than we watch them. I'm going to get labeled a rat just for being with you."

"Is that what you think of me?" he asked. He turned to me for the first time. I was used to him looking away quickly, like a man uncomfortable with other people, but he seemed confident enough now.

"I think you have a job and you do it. I imagine it's not very easy. You're a CO and you watch the COs. I'm not sure how you handle the contradictions."

"Why? Because you're afraid of pointing the finger at a bad guy? I thought that's what you wanted to do. Become a law enforcement officer someday. Right?"

It cut, his mocking me. "I do my job. It's not easy for me either, you know. I rely on my colleagues. They look out for me."

"Do they?" Ruddik asked. "I'm here to save your neck, Kali. They're going to get you. You're on the enemies list. You think the pressure's bad now that Hadley has filed a notice of abuse, but you wait and see what they start disclosing about you. Complaints from all quarters. The inmate you beat. The inmate you screwed. The CO you blackmailed. I've seen it happen. You think you made anyone happy finding Crowley? You think they like whistle-blowers? They'll turn you into a joke. They'll let the press have bits and pieces. You'll be a s.a.d.i.s.tic inmate rapist by the time they've finished with you. And in the end, you'll move so far away from here you might need a pa.s.sport."

"Thanks for the advice. Now could you get out of my truck so I can go home?"

He didn't move, of course. "Elgin getting hurt was the best thing to happen in a while. You wouldn't think a tough guy like that could get so scared. He's going to roll for us in exchange for a transfer. But I need help lining up some other informants. I know you've been poking around. I know you asked questions about Crowley and that you've got your suspicions. I think you have a knack for it. I want you to come on board."

"How do you know what I've been doing?" I asked.

"Most of the time I get my information from inmates," Ruddik answered.

"Figures," I said. "An inmate will say anything. An inmate lies like he breathes."

"Of course," Ruddik said. "I'm not stupid. But I'm also open to the possibility that a liar can have his motivations for telling the truth."

"An inmate's only motivation for snitching on a CO is revenge."