Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
Leaving the chow hall, I try to listen in on a conversation two guys in front of me are having.
I miss a lot of it, but one of them says he heard three female guards filed a joint complaint.
The other one says he heard the whistleblower was keeping track of all kinds of shit.
They’ve got to be talking about Piccardy and Anselmo.
Manny’s awake when I get back, but for once he doesn’t have any intel about why those two are in trouble. “Could be a hundred different things,” he says. “Including whatever happened that night Anselmo gave you shit about stealing the salt shaker.”
He’s fishing, but I don’t take the bait.
All I’ll tell him is that Piccardy showed up unexpectedly that night.
“So they double-teamed me.” He stands there, waiting for me to say more, but I don’t.
I’m taking my humiliation with me when I walk out of here and never saying anything to anybody.
Whatever those two have gotten nabbed for, I hope they both get shitcanned, but it’s not going to have anything to do with me.
At quarter of seven, Manny puts me through another of his sentimental goodbyes, then leaves for his job at data processing.
Fifteen minutes later, my escort arrives, right on time.
It’s Pawlikowski, one of the older guards.
“Ready?” he asks. I grab my plastic bag of stuff but tell him to hold on a second.
Go to the back window and look out. It’s stupid; Mom’s not supposed to get here until eight thirty, but maybe she’s come early because of the snow.
Nope. No cars, no tracks. When Pawlikowski unlocks the door, I leave the cell without looking back.
But we’re only about ten steps down the corridor when an announcement comes over the PA.
Because the morning count hasn’t cleared, all movement throughout the compound is suspended until further notice.
“But that doesn’t mean me if I’m getting discharged, does it?
” I ask Pawlikowski. I’m starting to panic.
“Sure it does,” he says. “I’ve got to lock you back in, but take it easy. It should clear pretty soon.”
It doesn’t. Half an hour goes by. Then three-quarters of an hour. My nerves are electric and I can’t stop pacing. Can’t stop checking the empty lot. Why does it have to snow today of all days?
Then there she is. And my God, here comes Emily, too.
The doors of both cars swing open and they get out, hug, talk.
Maisie’s running circles around her mother and grandmother, catching snowflakes on her tongue.
It’s real now! I’m getting out of here and Emily and Maisie have come to meet me.
My eyes are stinging as I blink back tears.
I think I’ve done more crying in this place than I’ve done in my whole life before I got here.
The count clears a few minutes later, but the walk over to the main building where I’ll be discharged is so slow, it’s torture.
“Bad knees,” Pawlikowski says. “All that jogging I used to do back in the seventies. And this snow is slippery so I gotta move slow. Could have retired two years ago, but me and the wife are raising our grandson and my retirement won’t cover all the things he needs.
” He doesn’t say why the kid’s parents aren’t raising him and I know not to ask.
When we enter the building, Pawlikowski leads me to the holding cell and locks me in with two other guys who are getting out.
Then, with a weary sigh, he plops down on a metal folding chair by a door marked DISCHARGE .
Coincidentally, I recognize one of the guys I’m waiting with; he and I rode to Yates chained to each other on that hot August afternoon back in 2017 when we both were processed in.
He has no recollection of me. Good. That ride’s not something I feel like reminiscing about.
The other guy keeps letting them rip and it’s stinking up the cell.
Where the fuck’s the Febreze when you need it? …
Jesus, how long have we been waiting here?
Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Why’s nothing happening?
The other two don’t seem like they’re in any particular hurry to get out of here, but my mind is racing and I can’t sit still.
When I call over to Pawlikowski and ask him what’s taking so long, he shrugs and tells me to just relax.
Relax? I’ve been putting up with DOC’s hurry-up-and-wait shit for two and a half years and I’m champing at the bit to get free of it.
So fuck you, Pawlikowski, and fuck the fucking Department of Correction, too.
Finally, from the other side of the door, someone shouts, “Abraham!” Pawlikowski struggles himself off his chair and unlocks the holding cell door.
Luckily, Abraham’s the farter. Pawlikowski lets him out and unlocks the discharge door, and whoever’s processing us out asks Abraham for his full name and date of birth. Maybe I’ll be next.
Fifteen minutes later, I hear, “Holloway!” Shit! I’m number three out of three. Figures. I feel bad for Emily, Mom, and Maisie. They’ve already had a long wait and it’s not over yet.
I have no idea how much more time has passed when they finally call my name.
Pawlikowski delivers me to the two COs working the discharge counter.
One of them’s a young bodybuilder type like Piccardy, Officer Ostertag according to his name tag.
I’ve never seen him before. The other is Stickley, aka Butch, the guard from the visiting room.
When I hand over my bag, she dumps everything onto the counter and starts checking items against my list. Ostertag third-degrees me to make sure I’m the real me, not someone who’s trying to bust out of here.
In the middle of answering his questions, I spot a folded newspaper at the end of the counter.
One of the headlines says, “Yates Correctional Officers Under Investigation.” When Ostertag catches me looking at it, he grabs the paper and shoves it under the counter.
Then he hands me the exit clothes and laceless sneakers they sent over from Property.
Pointing to the bathroom door, he tells me to take off my uniform and that when I’m down to my underwear, he’ll search me.
After that, I can change into the civvies they’ve provided.
“And you know the drill,” he says, handing me a pee cup.
“Leave it on the top of the tank when you’re done.
And don’t fill it to overflow like the last dingleberry.
” He nods toward a small puddle on the bathroom floor.
Then he stands at the open bathroom door as I do what he says.
Once all that’s accomplished, I figure there can’t be much more to this rigmarole.
I emerge from the bathroom wearing what feel like clown clothes.
The shirt’s too small, the elastic waistband on the khakis has had it, and the sneakers fit me like Bozo shoes.
Stickley says everything on my list checks out except for one thing. “Lucky stone,” she says. “What’s that?”
Oh, shit. All that time waiting around during the lockdown and I didn’t remember to put it in the bag.
“It’s just a stone I picked up at the river out back when I was working on the grounds crew.
It’s kind of like my good-luck charm, I guess you could say.
I forgot to pack it, but maybe if you let me—”
She cuts me off, shakes her head, and crosses the item off my list. “Lucky stone,” she mumbles. “You men are more superstitious than a bunch of old ladies.”
I smile at that. Ask her what time it is.
She checks her watch. Says it’s twenty past ten.
“Oh, wow. Is there much more you have to do before I get out?”
Ostertag’s the one who answers. “You’re not getting out, Ledbetter. Not today anyway. Your urine’s dirty.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It can’t be. I swear to God I’m clean!”
He shrugs. “Well, what can I tell you? You say one thing, your test says something different.”
“Then test me again. Because either you didn’t do it right or the one you used is flawed. And don’t tell me I’m not getting out today because that’s bullshit!” He tells me to lower my voice and watch my tone when speaking to an officer.
I turn my attention to Stickley. “Look, I’ve got family waiting out there in the snow, including my little girl.
Remember her from the visiting room? You told her where the kids’ books were?
They’ve been waiting here since eight o’clock.
Just, please, retest me. You’ll get a different result and I can go. ”
Her face goes DOC-neutral. “That’s not how it works, Ledbetter.
You’re right. These instant-result tests aren’t foolproof; you can get a false positive once in a while, so you will be retested.
But there are procedures we have to follow.
The second specimen has to be sent to the lab, where the results are going to be more accurate. ”
“The lab? How long would that take?”
“A couple of days, three at most.”
“No! That’s fucking unacceptable!”
“Watch your mouth,” Ostertag warns.
“You two in cahoots with Piccardy? You one of his weight-lifting pals?”
He and Stickley look at each other like I’m nuts. “We’re not in cahoots with anyone,” Stickley says. “We’re just following procedure.”
“Whether you find that ‘unacceptable’ or not,” Ostertag adds.
His sarcasm infuriates me. “You don’t even give a shit that I’m telling the truth, do you? My wife and kid can freeze to death out there for all you care!”
Stickley says she understands I’m upset but I need to calm down right now .
“Oh, I’m way more than upset! I’m fucking furious!” I’m shouting at them, at Anselmo and Piccardy for what they did to me, and at everyone else in this place who treats us like we’re subhuman. And I’m not taking it anymore! My adrenaline’s in charge now and I’m finally fighting back.
Ostertag comes out from behind the counter, stands next to me, and talks into his radio. “Ostertag in Discharge. We’ve got a Code Two here. Guy who’s being sent back to his block and—”
“No, I’m not!” I scream. “I’m clean! I’ll fucking fight my way out if I have to!”
Stickley comes out from behind the counter, too, and stands next to him. “Yeah, he’s pretty agitated,” Ostertag says. “All right, thanks.”
“Mother fucker !”
I take a swing at him, but it misses and clips Stickley instead.
I’m grabbed and slammed to the floor on my back, Ostertag’s breath blasting in my face.
Wrenching my left arm, he flips me onto my stomach and pins me to the floor, his knee pressing hard against my back.
Less than a minute later, three of his fellow goons arrive.
I’m yanked up onto my feet, shackled, and belly-chained.
Two of them grab me under the arms and drag me backward while the third one videotapes us.
As I’m pulled out of Discharge, the last thing I see is Officer Stickley holding her hand against her nose, blood dripping in the spaces between her fingers.
“I’m clean,” I keep insisting. I’m not shouting anymore; I’m mumbling.
The fight’s gone out of me. Is this really happening?
How can it be when today’s the day I’m getting out?