Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“The kid’s really struggling. Probably never should have been placed here.”
“That’s a ‘definite,’ not a ‘probably,’?” I say. “If you ask me.”
“So what I thought was, I’d put him on the grounds crew, too.
Keep him busy, get him outside, have him use up some of that negative energy he’s got.
And I figured you could keep an eye on him for me when, you know, I’m not always in the immediate vicinity.
Not counting you and him, I got six other guys I’ve gotta keep an eye on, and when they’re spread out over a ten-acre property, I can’t be everywhere at once.
So I’m going to pair you and the kid up. ”
I tell him no disrespect but I think that’s a bad idea.
Explain that the only contact I had with Juvie was when we were waiting to go into the visiting room.
“He looked like he might have been cutting himself and when I asked him about it, he told me to mind my fucking business. Then, during his visit with his mom, he went off on her something fierce. Got so out of control that they had to drag him out of there kicking and screaming.”
“Yeah, everyone says the kid’s a loose cannon.”
“You know who might have more luck dealing with him? Praise.”
“Praise? Who’s that?”
“Cornell Wiggins. Lester’s son. Janitorial.”
The lieutenant looks away, rubs his chin, then looks back. “Yeah, I’m not asking you to do this, Corby. If you want the crew job, you partner up with the kid.”
“Guess I misunderstood then. I thought you were asking me my opinion.”
He shakes his head. “I’m an officer and you’re an offender, not my consultant.”
What the fuck? First he consults with me about whether he should put the kid in with Daugherty. Then I’m not his consultant?
“I don’t expect you to be his shrink or anything. I just need someone I can trust who’ll supervise his work and watch out for him. Make sure he doesn’t get bullied. So what do you say? You taking the crew job?”
Cavagnero and I have had a good relationship up to now. He’s just called me by my first name, something no other CO has done. He said I was someone who could be trusted. And despite the strings he’s attached, he’s offering me a job.
“All right, I’ll do it. But he’s not going to like it.”
“No? It might surprise you that, when I told him I was putting him on the crew, and that I might match you two up as work buddies, he asked me if you were the one who looked like Jase Robertson. And I said, ‘Son of a gun. You’re right. He does.’ So he said, yeah, all right, if he had to be on the crew, which he didn’t want to be, then okay, you could be his buddy. ”
“Come on, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’m sure he doesn’t know who I am.”
“Yes, he does. Says he read it on your ID one night when you guys were waiting at the visiting room door.”
I shrug. “So who’s Jase Robertson?”
“Guess you’re not a Duck Dynasty fan, huh? He’s one of the commander’s sons. Reddish-brown hair, bushy beard, needs a haircut. He’s a good-looking cuss under all that brush.”
“Well, I guess that’s better than looking like the Unabomber,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Piccardy’s pulled a double shift tonight. Whatever his beef is, just stay out of his way. I don’t know him that well, but he doesn’t strike me as the forgive-and-forget type. Someone you do not want to cross.”
That evening, about an hour before lights-out, I hear a key in the lock. Manny and I are both stretched out on our bunks, reading. The cell door opens and, fuck, it’s Piccardy and Anselmo. “Room inspection,” Anselmo announces.
“During third shift on a Monday? That never happens,” Manny says.
“Does now,” Anselmo tells him.
After Piccardy orders me to unlock my storage box, he and his wingman start rummaging through my property, supposedly hunting for contraband.
Piccardy grabs one of my grape Gatorades, twists the cap off, and helps himself to a couple of swigs.
They toss everything onto the floor, but there’s nothing they can nail me on.
So far, they’re leaving Manny’s stuff alone, which is good for him.
He’s got lots of shit they could write him up for, but I’m pretty sure this performance is for my benefit.
Anselmo grabs my books, fans the pages, and tosses them onto the pile on the floor.
Piccardy starts leafing through the drawings in my sketchbook, including the ones I’ve been working on for Maisie.
He watches for my reaction as he rips them out, throws them on the floor, and “accidentally” spills Gatorade on them.
But I hold it in, keep my face expressionless.
I’ll be goddamned if I’ll give him what he wants.
“Hey, those are for his kid,” Manny protests.
“Yeah? Which one? The dead one or the one he didn’t kill?” Piccardy says.
The remark makes me jump off my bunk, ready to fight. From the bunk above, Manny says, “Let it go, Corby.”
“Stay the fuck out of it, Twinkle Toes,” Anselmo warns him. “Unless you want us to rip into your shit.”
Piccardy crouches and looks under my bunk.
“Well, looky looky what we’ve got here, Officer Anselmo,” he says.
He pulls out the two thirteen-gallon garbage bags I’ve been using as part of my workout when we’re in lockdown.
As barbell replacements, they’re kind of wobbly and take getting used to, but they do the trick as far as giving you a decent pump.
Half the guys on the tier use water bags for exercise.
Technically, they’re contraband, but most of the COs let it go as long as they’re kept out of sight.
“Pick up that one,” Piccardy orders me, nudging the bag on the left with the toe of his boot.
When I do, he unfastens the set of keys from his belt and slashes the bag.
Water gushes out onto my feet and spreads across the floor.
“Now pick up the other one,” he says. I don’t.
“Something wrong with your hearing, Ledbetter?” Anselmo says. “Officer Piccardy just gave you a direct order.”
When I pick up the second bag, Piccardy rips a gash in that one, too. As soon as the bag is empty, he nods at Anselmo and the two of them slosh to the door. “Have a nice evening, ladies,” Piccardy says. “And Ledbetter, tell Emily I said hi.”
There’s over an inch of water covering our cell floor now and half the property they’ve pulled out of my box will probably have to be tossed.
It’s going to be a bitch to mop everything up.
My laundry just came back today, so it kills me to have to throw my two clean towels and my government-issued sweatshirt onto the mess to sop it up.
I don’t know whether this is the end of it or whether he’s going to write me up for having the contraband bags.
“You just witnessed that whole thing. If I file a complaint about them, will you back me up?” I ask Manny.
He shakes his head. “It’s two officers against two offenders. Even if their superiors believe us, they won’t admit it. It’ll just get dismissed and those idiots will ratchet up the retaliation. You can’t win against them, Corbs. That’s how it works in here. Let it go.”
When I look down at the mess Piccardy made of Maisie’s drawings, a cartoon heron looks back up at me.
Tell Emily I said hi.… Which one? The dead one or the one he didn’t kill?
… I have half of a pad left and three or four pencil stubs.
After the ruined drawings dry off, I’ll copy them.
Improve on them, too. I’m not going to let Piccardy defeat me.
Tossing and turning in my bunk after lights-out, I think about how much I’d like a benzo and a chaser right about now.
I recall that thing Cavagnero said about Solomon: the kid almost goes out of his way to get bullied.
… This grudge Piccardy has against me started when I defended Emily’s honor after she told me not to, so maybe I went out of my way to ask for trouble, too.
Why? Isn’t having to be stuck in here for three years punishment enough without kicking the hornet’s nest?
… But can I ever be punished enough for having killed our little boy?
Lieutenant Cavagnero is right. If it’s not too late, my best bet would be to steer clear of them both.
And Manny’s probably right, too. The way the system works in here, I couldn’t win against Piccardy, even if he wasn’t the deputy warden’s nephew.
In my dream that night, I’m not in prison. Piccardy is walking ahead of me on an unfamiliar street. I tap him on the shoulder, and when he turns around, I cold-cock him. He staggers, then falls flat on his back. His arms and legs flail as if he’s an overturned beetle. I wake up smiling.