Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It doesn’t take me long to observe that Yates prison assigns white guys to cells with other white guys, that Blacks are paired with Blacks, and that Latinos become the bunkies of other Latinos—doesn’t matter whether one is a Spanish-speaking Mexican, the other a Brazilian whose language is Portuguese, or a Haitian who speaks French.
Here at Yates, cell assignments are all about the melanin.
It doesn’t matter to me what race my fellow inmates are or where they came from; I’m intimidated by almost everyone walking the grounds here.
Most of them scowl as they walk past me and half of them don’t so much walk as strut, their bodies chiseled and bulging with muscles.
I’m no featherweight, but I could get squashed like a bug in here.
Pug does his best to fuel my fear. He tells me about how one white inmate’s face was bludgeoned beyond recognition by a Black guy who got slashed in return.
“And some guys with a score to settle? They’ll whittle a toothbrush into a shiv and somebody ends up getting stabbed in the eye or the neck.
One guy over in D Block got stuck in the heart by one of the spooks on his tier and he bled out on the spot.
And when it gets around here what you’re in here for, you better hope no one hears ‘dead kid’ and mistakes you for an Uncle Chester. ”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Someone who gets his rocks off by diddling little kids. They get the worst of it. A lot of the guys here were the victims of those pervs when they were kids. The COs hate ‘em, too, so they look the other way when something’s going down out in the yard or someplace where there’s no cameras.
I’m not saying someone’s gonna mistake you for a Chester the Molester.
I’m just saying you better watch your back.
They hear you killed a kid, they might jump to conclusions, you know?
And watch out for the spooks. Where they come from, everyone’s shootin’ and killin’ each other, OD’ing on smack and dying, so they don’t value life like we do.
It’s the law of the jungle with the jungle bunnies. ”
I coexist uneasily and warily with my fellow Caucasian bunkie by saying very little, obeying his rules, and acknowledging that he is the alpha dog of Cell 3-E.
The one time I accidentally break one of Pug’s edicts, we’re headed for the shower room.
It slips my mind that I’m not supposed to walk behind him where he can’t see me.
Reeling around, he shoves me against the wall, his fist cocked until he pulls his punch at the last second, possibly sparing me a broken jaw.
There’s no such thing as relaxing in Pug’s presence, so the only relief I get is when he goes off the compound for his job.
He’s part of a work crew that picks up litter on the sides of the highway.
This keeps him out of our cell for six or seven hours at a time most weekdays.
Rainy days and weekends are a different story; he watches TV, naps, plays solitaire, and masturbates to the skin magazines he keeps hidden in his lockbox.
Privacy isn’t one of his priorities when he’s having sex with himself.
I guess it would be futile anyway, given the dimensions of our cell and the fact that he talks dirty to get himself there and shouts when he arrives.
Another of Pug’s weekend activities is rolling makeshift cigarettes.
On his trash-collecting detail during the week, he pockets the discarded butts he finds.
Then on Saturday, he removes whatever unburned tobacco is still in them, separates the pile into smaller piles, and rolls each of them in two layers of toilet paper.
After that, he’ll light up on the sneak whenever an opportunity presents itself.
I learn from the tier’s gossip, Manny something, that Pug’s real name is Albert Liggett.
A mechanic on the outside, he caught six years in here for operating a “chop shop” for car thieves out of New York City.
I begin to notice that Pug lets his racist comments rip when it’s just the two of us, but he watches his mouth outside our cell.
He’s particularly cautious around Black inmates, and one morning, when I’m sitting across from Manny at morning chow, I find out why.
During Pug’s first year here, he was out in the yard talking with one of his cronies when he referred to Blacks on welfare as “lazy porch monkeys.” The next day, he was on the walkway when someone jumped him from behind, choked him until he passed out, and left him in a heap.
According to Manny, Pug spent some time in the medical unit because of a cartilage fracture in his larynx.
His paranoia about someone creeping up behind him is no doubt triggered by the fact that his assailant was never identified.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I’d asked Manny.
He said he’s naturally curious and his radar is always up.
Almost two weeks in, I’m just barely holding on in here.
Stifled crying jags, insomnia. Except for chow time, I stay in our cell and pretty much detach from the day-to-day.
I make a visitors’ list like they told me to do—put down Emily’s and Maisie’s names, plus my mom, and my AA sponsor, Dale.
I hesitate before adding my father to the list, but at the last minute, I write down his name, too.
When I give the list to one of the counselors, she says it will take about four or five weeks before I can expect visitors.
“Why so long?” I ask.
That makes her smile. “Because everyone whose name’s on here has to be checked out and approved. Or denied if there’s a felony conviction on their record. Nothing in here moves fast. It helps if you realize that and develop some patience.”
“Hey, I was told to ask you about AA and NA meetings in here. Is there a list?”
“Good question,” she says. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
Walking out of her office, I remember that Dale did prison time for the drunk driving that led to his niece’s injuries and her eventual death.
I figure I won’t be seeing my sponsor for another three years or talking to him either.
I forgot to write down his number and I don’t have an address where I can write to him.
No visitors for five more weeks and no phone calls either until someone sets up and funds an account with that rip-off prison telephone service company out of Texas that everyone gripes about.
Once that’s done, I can make collect calls, but until then it’s snail mail.
I bum paper, envelopes, and a couple of stamps from Manny and write to my mom, asking her to fund my account so I can talk with her and Emily and Maisie—at least let my daughter hear my voice.
I worry that Emily might not even take my call.
I write to my father, too—reluctantly.
Dear Dad,
I hope you’re doing well, getting out to the golf course and the hiking trails during this nice weather. Prison takes some getting used to, but I’m okay—settling in here, more or less.
I’m writing to thank you for a couple of things.
First, I appreciate that you and Natalie arranged for Attorney Dixon to represent me.
And thank you for paying for her services.
I’m grateful to you for taking care of that.
I also appreciate that you came to court to support me the day they sentenced me.
I’m sorry you had to see me getting carted off in chains.
No father should have to witness that, but I appreciate that you were there.
If you want to write to me while I’m here, the return address and my prison # are on the envelope. I also put you on my visitors’ list. It will take about a month to get you approved to come here, but no sweat if you’d rather not. I’ll understand.
Yours truly,
Corby
My loneliness and my fear of the system and the people in it are making me crazy.
I spend the long daytime hours pacing the confines of our cell or tucked in on myself on the top bunk.
I’ve become hypersensitive to noise, so I skip a lot of meals to avoid the din in the chow hall.
When hunger forces me to go, I usually end up sitting with Manny, whose cell is three down from Pug’s and mine.
Manny seems decent enough, harmless, but he never shuts up.
I sit there, shoveling in whatever looks edible and not saying anything to anyone.
Meanwhile, Manny spends most of his eating time yapping away, so that when the guards shout for us to clear out, he watches where they’re looking as he hides bread or cake up his sweatshirt sleeve, drops a chicken leg or half of a meat pie down his pants.
Throughout the day, after every meal and until lights-out at night, the guards count us to make sure no one has gone missing.
Mis count us half the time, and when the numbers don’t come out right, everything stops until they do.
Once the count clears, we get on-the-hour “common time.” The CO at the control desk pops all the cell doors simultaneously, allowing us five minutes out in the corridor—just enough time to make a quick collect call on the phone, or fill a Styrofoam cup with lukewarm water from the communal hot pot so you can make tea, instant coffee, or ramen, or just shoot the shit with someone other than your bunkie.
None of this applies to me. My phone account hasn’t been funded yet, I have no packets of instant coffee or noodles, and I don’t want to talk to any of these guys anyway. I stay in my cell.