Except it was an election year, and the economy sucked, and nothing helps a candidate better in a bad economy than making sure some privileged white kid gets treated the same as every scumbag out there.
They tried to get me to plead guilty to drug trafficking and take the mandatory minimum five year sentence for Federal charges. Fuck that! I wanted the charges dropped to a misdemeanor and to pay a fine. My dad wouldn’t even consider their offer. They threatened to tack on the New Jersey State mandatory minimum of 25 years for trafficking cocaine if we went to trial. My attorney said to call their bluff. I wasn’t trafficking shit. Why would someone as rich as me be selling drugs? He was sure he could get me off.
We lost.
I got sentenced to 25 years at Palville Correctional Facility. Yes, there actually is a fucking prison called Palville in the ass-crack town of Palville which my dad informed me was convenient to precisely nowhere. I guess it was his way of saying not to expect many visits.
When you get a sentence this huge you don’t get to walk free after your trial and self-surrender when your sentence starts later. I was crammed into a crowded sweaty holding cell attached to the courthouse with nothing but concrete to sleep on and no fucking toilet paper for the metal thing in the corner called a toilet. Not that it mattered much. I ate hardly any of the crap they tried to pass off as food.
No, actually, the eight days I spent in this Hell cell was where I got over the shock of losing the trial and finally considered the prospect of doing time. My stay in the jail showed me I was not the jail type. First off, I was white and twelve out of the fifteen guys in here with me were black. Second, I was an eighteen-year-old kid. Everyone else here had at least ten years on me. Most of them looked strung out, including the two other white guys. The last thing, and by far the worst, was that I was skinny and short. Weekly cocaine use is great for weight loss and my family had an ‘aristocratic build.’
“Shit, boy, how you going to save your white ass in prison?” This guy, named Roderick or something, wasn’t mocking me. He was actually sympathetic when I told him my situation.
I felt like my stomach dropped out of the center of me. The chance of rape had been an itch of worry in the back of my skull. I hadn’t let it surface until this guy—who looked like he’d done time—started talking about it.
“Guys don’t really get raped in prison, do they? That’s just a myth people spread around or—”
“Boy,” this other guy was twice the size of Roderick and so black you couldn’t read his tattoos, “you better get yourself educated if you’re going to fucking max security. They damn sure do rape in prison. It’s a regular fucking occurrence.”
“It’s medium security,” I said, despite the stab of shock I felt.
“Medium’s worse! More opportunity in medium. More places to jump a bitch.”
“Shut the fuck up!” said some guy trying to sleep. I didn’t see who.
“Fuck you, motherfucker!”
I tensed up at the threat of imminent violence, but that was the end of it. After a few minutes my heart rate settled down and I got to go back to thinking about how I was going to have my rectum torn apart by gangs of diseased monsters who were even worse than the derelicts in this cell.
My fear turned into a sick delirium over the rest of my time there. I saw myself in the reflection of the empty paper towel dispenser and realized how shockingly white my skin had turned. Fear had paralyzed me—made me numb. I wanted to try to turn it into action, but what the fuck could I do? What could a skinny white kid do to protect himself in prison? I didn’t have any money here. My dad’s name didn’t mean shit.
I was helpless.
***
The guard acted like he was giving good news when he announced the marshals had finally come to take me to Palville. Yes, it was Hell in the holding cell, and if my 25 years (not accounting for good time) was there I would have found a way to kill myself. However, at least I knew what to expect in that shithole. The only thing I knew about Palville was that I was at risk of being sodomized. It seemed like I should try to stay in the Hell Cell as long as I could.
I was carted to a local prison where I got my first strip search. They made me hold my ass cheeks open, squat, and cough. This actually didn’t even upset me. Prior to prison you think strip searches are the most dehumanizing things in the world. Who gives a fuck? Spreading your ass cheeks for a disinterested guard was nothing compared to what the real dangers were. I did it all in robot mode. It’s easy to capitulate to whatever shit you have to go through when you know that refusal means getting beat down by five guards and getting more years added to your sentence for resisting an officer. I assumed I’d end up at an even worse prison, too, for being a troublemaker.
They put me in the smallest orange jumpsuit they had, which was still baggy as Hell on me. My ankles were cuffed with a chain that shortened my stride to baby steps. My wrists were also cuffed, but to a chain that went around my hips so that my hands were in front of me. Then I was crammed into a green school bus with three other white guys and three or four dozen black guys.
I glanced around only once and spotted a black guy so big he took up an entire seat by himself. Picturing this guy mounting me added fuel to my self-pity. I focused my stare out the window and went numb again. The only feeling coming through was the sickness in my stomach. I would have puked if I’d actually eaten something.
About an hour into the ride I realized the guy next to me was shaking with quiet sobs. He was a young black guy with a clean hair cut. The men all around us were asleep or looking through the windows. It was a good chance to sneak out a cry.
I looked at him for a second, feeling confused. That’s when my face stung like I’d been slapped. No one had slapped me, except maybe reality. What the fuck are you confused about? You think you’re the only one suffering? I was in a fantasy world where it was me against the rape monsters. It hadn’t occurred to me that maybe some of the others were feeling as sick and fucked up as I was. The kid next to me was more human than I was because he still had tears.
It wasn’t all about me.
Epiphanies were for better times and better places. Yes, I knew I had a lot of growing up to do. Later. For now I was in survival mode. Forget the self-entitled Princeton puke I used to be. I’d become whoever I needed to be to survive. The problem was that I didn’t know who that was yet.
When we were dead center to the middle of nowhere the prison came into view. It was like a castle with long parapet walls connecting to dodecahedron watchtowers. The two fences we had to go through to get inside looked shiny new. Even the swaths of razor wire topping them sparkled. We got to the first building of the complex and the bus parked. Guards with rifles started barking orders at us. We got shuffled in for processing into what was apparently a clinic. One by one we were brought into an examination room where they stamped our skin with a tuberculosis test. After that the female worker took out a kit to draw blood. I fucking hated needles.
“What’s that for?”
“HIV test.”
“What?”
The panic in my face must have sparked some sympathy in her. She spoke while sticking a vein in the crook of my elbow.
“If you’re HIV positive you’ll get transferred to another prison. You won’t be allowed to stay in the general population here.”
I should have realized this was good news, since that meant I wouldn’t catch AIDS when I was raped. All I could think of was why the fuck was she testing me for STDs?
“You…so you…people with AIDS are…”
“Men with HIV are transferred to another prison.” She pulled out the needle and taped a cotton ball to my arm. “We don’t want people getting infected here, so we transfer infected inmates out.”
“Infected how?”
She glowered at me. “Through blood or semen. You’re done. Head on that way.” She pointed to a metal door opposite the one I’d entered.
Guards told us to sit in line against
a long corridor wall. The destination this time was one of two offices handling last names A-M or N-Z. I thought this was where we were going to get unchained and get our clothes and so forth. As the men left the offices they were still chained and not carrying anything. This line went the slowest and some of the guys around me started to complain of hunger. I perked my ears.
“You think the food’s better here than Downstate?”
“Fuck, what do I know about Downstate? But it can’t be worse than Attica.”
“Shit. I heard that.”
“Food here should be top of the line. It’s a brand new prison, ain’t it?”
Was it? Everyone knew more than me. Apparently the bus had been full of transfers.
“That don’t mean shit. Brand new prisons mean they already blew they fucking budget on teargas tables and fucking riot gear. Feeding us half-way decent shit ain’t even a priority.”
“What the fuck are teargas tables? Shit!”
Oh, good. I wasn’t the only one wondering that.
“Oh Hells yes teargas tables. These new prisons is all about beating a nigger down. They got teargas buried in fucking capsules all around the yard, too. You even give them a look you going to be fucking knocked to the ground.”
“Pssh. So that’s how it is, huh?”
“Commissary should be good at least.” This was my crying seatmate. I’d assumed he and I were kindred spirits of some sort. Nope. He was ahead of the game because he knew the word ‘commissary’. What the fuck was a commissary? How could they allow someone as clueless as me into this world? This was cruel and unusual punishment.
“Yeah, they gots to get paid, you know?”
“Long as they got my ramen.”
This caused a few titters of laughter.
“Do you know if we’ll be allowed to smoke here?” a white guy asked this. Apparently the laughter had built up his courage.
“Naw, man,” the guy with the teargas info said, “you ain’t been able to smoke in prison for ten years now.”
This civilized answer shocked me. White guys were allowed to talk too? They wouldn’t be cussed out or threatened?
“Burgess! Ryan!”
I struggled to get up at the sound of my name. A balding black man with a clipboard waited for me at the A-M office. He led the way in and gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Then he proceeded with my entrance interview. I got assigned a number, asked about my medical needs, listed what family might visit, and so on. The important part came when he asked if anyone in the prison posed a risk to my life or physical wellbeing.
“Yes.”
He pulled a form out of his desk. “What’s their name?”
My mouth went dry. “I don’t know their names. I’m talking about everyone in here. I’ve never been to prison before. I’m a scrawny eighteen-year-old kid. I mean—look at me.”
He did look, but without sympathy. “Yeah. I see you.” He put the paper away. “Alright, listen. There’s some bad characters in here. There’s some guys who will probably see you as an easy mark. If someone gives you trouble, you go to a guard and you tell him. That’s the only way we can help you.”
Perspiration broke out on my temples. I didn’t know much about prison, but I did know what he was saying was bullshit. If I got some thug in trouble with the guards then I went from worrying about rape to worrying about murder.
He tapped on his keyboard. “I’m going to say that you told me you’ve had HIV exposure. That will get you put into segregation.”
I felt like the heavens had opened up to shoot a ray of sunshine while a chorus of angels sang a single chord.
“That’s just until we get your test results back.”
“What? How long is that?”
He shrugged. “Today’s Friday. We should have your results on Monday or Tuesday.”
I shrank in the chair, crestfallen once again. Why couldn’t I just serve my whole sentence in segregation?
When he got up to see me out he called to a guard. “He’s had some exposure. Put this one in segregation.”
The guard nodded without enthusiasm and gestured the way I should go.
“Shit, no wonder he looks so sickly,” one of the other prisoners said behind me. “Little bitch has AIDS.”
***
Segregation was a heavenly four-by-eight-foot cell with a bunk and a toilet/sink combo. The sink emptied into the toilet tank to become the water you flushed with. I was given a roll of toilet paper, but my shoes and jumpsuit were taken away. All they left me with was my tee shirt and boxers. The latter I had to drop to open my butt cheeks, squat, and cough again. Then I got to be alone. Safe and alone, the best situation I could hope for.
Obviously this place was meant to be punishment. I could see why. There was nothing to look at, nothing to do, and no one to talk to. I got on the naked mattress and fell asleep for a good two hours. It was thin but clean, and a Hell of a lot more comfortable than the concrete in the holding cell.
I got woken up by the slot of my thick metal lattice door creaking open. A tray, not unlike the molded melamine trays in a high school cafeteria, was pushed halfway through to hover in the air. I sat up feeling like I still had a few more hours of sleep to catch up on.
“Hey, come get your food.”
The gentle tone told me this was an inmate, not a guard. I moved fast to receive the tray. Up close to the lattice I could look through and see the face of a white guy in his early twenties with slicked back ginger hair. He had dangling earlobes touching both shoulders with giant holes, the remains of the huge gauges he’d used to wear. He smiled to reveal a gold tooth.
“What’s your name, man?”
“Ryan Burgess.”
“I’m Donnie Sullivan. You just get here?”
“Yeah. Couple of hours ago.”
“You’ve got AIDS or TB. Know how I know? Cause you get a regular tray instead of scrap cake.”
I glanced at the tray. There was stuff that actually resembled food in each of the compartments. The main course was a spaghetti goulash of some sort.
“I’m not actually—you know? I don’t have anything.”
“Oh, I see. They just ain’t taking chances because you look so sick, right?”
Did I really look that sick? I guess eight days of eating almost nothing and nightly panic attacks had taken its toll on me.
“That’s cool,” Donnie said. “Then you’ll be out of here in a day or two. Don’t sweat it.”
Yay.
“I been down sixteen months myself.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I did time down in Clinton, you know? This place is a Hell of a lot better.”
“Is it?”
“Fuck yeah. I know there’s no cum on that mattress yet. You’re like the second guy they put in here. Where you from?”
“Um…Virginia.”
“This your first time down?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah you look pretty young.”
My heart was racing. I felt desperate to connect with this guy. He wasn’t too different from me, right? Sure, he was filled out more, older, and tougher looking, but wasn’t he a mark, too? He didn’t look destroyed. He was managing. Maybe there was hope for me.
“How are you getting by here? Do you know what I’m saying? I have like no idea about anything here. I’m scared shitless.” I probably shouldn’t have added that last bit. It just came out. Tears were built up behind my eyes, but I at least managed to hold them back.
Donnie snorted with a laugh. “Yeah, you’re green as fuck.” He looked away from me. “Uh oh, shark’s swimming by. I’ll come check you later, all right? I’ll get you something to read.”
He moved out of view and I heard a metal cart clang away. Depression dragged down on my heart once again, but there was food and it looked edible. I hunkered over to my bed and ate my first solid meal since the trial.
***
“You know, it’s just the same as anywhere else. There’s good guys
and there’s bad guys. You’ll figure out who’s who pretty quick.”
Donnie, true to his word, had come back with a short stack of magazines for me. He sat on the floor outside my cell with his body parallel to the door. I sat with my back against the wall and my knees bent in front of me.
“Stick with your own race, I mean, that’s a given. It don’t matter if you’re not racist. It’s just how it goes. Don’t talk to a black guy unless you got a reason to, and if you got a reason to, keep it short and don’t try to be his friend. Asians and Puerto Ricans are different, I mean, the ones who speak English. They’re pretty much lumped in with the whites cause there’s so few of us. Except when it comes to the Aryans, of course. But they don’t care if they see a white guy friends with an Asian or Puerto Rican. Just don’t get friendly with the blacks. They see a white guy and a black guy playing checkers—well, you might get a warning because they figure you’re new and don’t know nothing, but if you ignore the warning you’re going to get yourself stuck.”
I absorbed his every syllable as though I’d just gotten religion. I wished I had some way to take notes. This was gold, solid fucking gold, and every word was cooling the heat of my terror by one degree.
“I mean if you work with a black guy it’s fine for you to be friendly with him at work, but don’t be hanging out with him on your off hours, you know?”
“That’s no problem. I’m more worried about, you know, getting raped or some shit.”
“Yeah, you’re going to look pretty good to a lot of guys who been down a long time. Shit, I could see Cheeto and Griz fucking falling in love with you the moment you hit the dining hall. Griz’d probably get on his knees and propose marriage!” He turned away to laugh at the thought. I didn’t find it funny. “Naw, for real, you got to watch your shit. You got to use a little common sense, you know? Rape is just as illegal in prison as it is outside of prison and everyone knows this. Even if a guy is already down for life he doesn’t want to do all his time in segregation. Everyone who wants you is going to be like, ‘How can I fuck this kid and get away with it?’ If they try a gangbang you might be screaming and then a shark will come, you know? For a gangbang type deal they’re going to need to get you alone, where there’s a bunch of them at once, where there ain’t no sharks swimming. Don’t put yourself in that situation. These usually ain’t crimes of opportunity. It’s premeditated and they need you fall for their bullshit. If it don’t seem right, then it ain’t right. Don’t be stupid.”
Parole Officer's Bitch Page 4