Prison Noir

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Whenever a prisoner leaves on parole, he always says, I’m never coming back, or, If I do, it’ll be in a body bag, or some other ridiculous remark to sound tough. The fact is, the recidivism rate is over 50 percent, so for every two people who leave, one of them is coming back. It is sound mathematics, not personal. Honestly, how many chances does a person need before we finally say, Enough is enough! I’m doing the public a great service.

  The system is what should be placed on trial, from the judges who hand down pathetic, soft sentences, to the parole board that buys into every social-reform excuse. I grew up poor, my father beat me, I was sexually abused as a child, whaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa!! Do you really think these same things haven’t plagued other people since the beginning of time? How is it that other people can get on with their lives and not commit crimes, but people like Shyler can’t? Why should the public be saddled with the taxes to let prisoners lie on their lazy asses and watch TV for twenty years? It’s an unfathomable system that I could not tolerate any longer. So I did what any good citizen would do: I threw Shyler’s fat ass from the fourth gallery on the Fourth of July and watched his head splatter like a watermelon. I swear, the spray went so high you can still spot the pinkish stains on the ceiling. To anyone who asked, though, I didn’t see a thing; the official story was that Shyler jumped from depression at finding himself back in prison again.

  It’s a devastating concept for most people to grasp, but the sound of that cold, iron cell door shutting behind you each and every night is gut-wrenching, like the finality of a coffin lid being closed. The clanking of hundreds of doors closing at the same time, echoing off the porous cement block walls, is eerie, to say the least. It is a sound I will promise myself to never hear again if I ever get out of here—but still I stay behind, as others get to leave time and time again. How would you feel to experience that every single day for twenty-three years?

  Of course, I chose to be here. I will not excuse my own actions, not like the rest of these conspiracy theorists, crying that they are here because “I’m black” or “someone snitched on me,” “my judge is a bitch,” “they lied on me,” etc. It’s never “I got caught because someone snitched on me, but I did the crime.” It is so rare for a person to come in and say, “I did it, and this is why.” Or if they do say that, they don’t change their lives while they’re here. It’s sad, to be honest, to watch these prisoners lie to themselves and the families who wait for them.

  I did what I did not only for the people of Michigan, but out of a sense of compassion for the families these prisoners use each and every day. What do you mean, how did I get away with it? Do you know how many prisoners try to kill themselves every year? Thousands, and half are successful on their own. I’m just tipping the scales a little heavier on my side. Ever since they initially expanded Jackson Prison’s quarantine to 1, 2, and 3 block, to go with 7 block, the number of suicides has risen, enough that no one asks any questions. And to be honest, who really cares if a prisoner offs himself? It’s usually the sick pedophiles who fear retribution from other prisoners, or the husband who can’t live with the guilt of having brutally murdered his wife. There is always some ghost haunting every one of these inmates. Jackson Prison is filled with ghosts. I’ve only added a very small percentage to that: the ones who refuse to stop coming back to prison after they are released.

  I’ve given the willing bedsheets already torn up, slid razor blades into cells, and thrown at least twenty-five men off the top gallery. It has never been an easy decision to make. Even without a family to return home to, I was still very aware that I would never leave these walls if they caught me. As my months turned to years, it became well worth it, and I like my chances of a jury finding me guilty for doing what they think of every day when someone they love is victimized by a repeat offender. Tell me it doesn’t bother you to see a young girl raped and murdered by some scumbag who has been released from prison with prior offenses? I couldn’t take the guilt anymore when I laid my head down to sleep at night. It’s not that I think I’m better than them or that I have a God complex, because neither of those things is true. I care very deeply about those outside these prison walls—and those inside them as well.

  I’d be lying to you, though, if I didn’t say that I have a morbid fascination and I get an intense satisfaction from seeing the face of a prisoner after he has hanged himself. It’s almost like watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where Veruca Salt turns blue and blows up like a balloon. It’s the same effect: their faces get all puffy, eyes bulging out of their sockets, blood leaking from where tears once flowed, and they turn a wonderful blue color, at least in the beginning, while the body temperature is still warm. It’s better than someone who simply slits his wrists. That’s boring, and it takes so long for them to die. (It’s fulfilling in its own right, though. I get to hear them babbling their apologies and then beg God for forgiveness as the Devil’s own hand reaches up to snag them into Hell.)

  In my early days, after Shyler, I was scared that I was going to get caught. But after a while the fear left me, and it was replaced by the calm assurance of one who is doing the right thing.

  What other ways did I kill them? Besides the hangings, wrist-slittings, and throwing them off the tiers? It’s not easy to murder a prisoner, especially in the twenty-first century—too many outside bleeding heart agencies looking in. I had to get more creative. I remember one time there was a prisoner always going to medical to get injected with insulin to keep his diabetes under control. Each time he went, he would just grab a needle and insulin bottle, and inject himself. This was completely against the rules, and they let him get away with it. He kept doing it, so one day I grabbed a bottle of insulin when no one was looking and replaced it with battery acid from the maintenance shop. It was incredible to watch the guy strut in and grab the bottle, and inject himself. At first I thought he was going to be fine, but as the acid entered his bloodstream he looked like he had indigestion. Then an expression of terror came over his face as the acid ate his veins away and blood filled his organs. When he collapsed, I ran over to help the female nurse get him up, and in the process I pocketed the bottle and threw it away before they found it. Of course they figured out what killed him, but they couldn’t prove who did it. There was even a national recall from the company that produced the insulin. It’s still listed today as an accident and not a homicide.

  Last month I killed another one. This time it was Angel “Southpaw” Granger, a forty-five-year-old degenerate construction worker who kept defrauding and fleecing his customers. He would get a down payment for supplies and start the job. Then, when he got another partial payment, he would take the supplies, sell them back to the same Home Depot he bought them from, and never return to the site. He had been back in prison at least three times for the same thing. I wanted it to be particularly degrading with this guy, for taking advantage of senior citizens. I waited until he got a work detail as a porter cleaning the nasty-ass showers where sexual juices flowed daily. I broke a mop handle in half and buried it through the back of his neck. He was dead before his body hit the cum- and piss-stained tile floor. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time a prisoner had a hit put out on him. Could have been some political dispute from before he came back to prison, a dope deal gone bad, or he simply bumped someone the wrong way.

  Do I feel bad about it? Are you kidding me? For the first time in my life, I feel like I have done something for someone other than myself. I can look at myself in the mirror at night and not be appalled by the reflection that stares back at me. I believe God will understand what I did. After all, it’s in the Bible: An eye for an eye. I am giving these men two chances to get their lives right. The third time, I am taking things in my own hands. It’s not as if I’m forcing them to make their choices. They do everything of their own volition. It’s the consequences that I dole out.

  The prison system has changed. I remember when I first came to Jackson in 1989. I was scared and unsure of what prison w
as going to be like. At first I had high expectations of the state. There were good programs to help prisoners. Prisoners were paid a good wage. But then, as the inmate population grew, the economy collapsed and the first things to go were the good programs. With each program cut, the recidivism rate grew. I got tired of seeing it happen every day. If ten thousand prisoners come into Michigan every year, at least 50 percent are repeat offenders. Of course I can’t get every single one of them. There are quite a few I’ve had to let slide through when the heat got turned on too high and investigators came asking questions, but there’s always a next time.

  I remember when the state started to close these blocks one by one. What was once the greatest prison in Michigan, and possibly the whole United States, was slowly and bitterly made smaller. 11 and 12 blocks, 4, 5, and 6, and then even 7 block closed for good. Jackson Prison is but a shell of its former self. Now all that remains are the prison hospital and 1, 2, and 3 blocks. The rest sits there, looking out the windows, accusing every passing car of neglect and abandonment.

  Get back to the story? This is the story! And if you want to hear it, you’ll listen to me tell it my way and on my own time. Now where was I? Ah yes, the poor empty blocks. Sometimes when the wind is just right, I swear I can hear the hinges crying for companionship. Do not take lightly what I’m telling you about the ghosts of this place. They are very real. Too many people have died here under suspicious circumstances. What about the guards? you ask. You know as well as I do that the guards, screws, turnkeys, officers, or whatever else you want to call them are just as guilty as prisoners, bringing in their dope, cell phones, and tobacco (after they banned smoking in prisons). They are sometimes worse than prisoners. You think so highly of these correctional employees, as if they are so much better. Look at the cops on the streets who take bribes or misplace evidence; you think the guards are any better in here?

  Prison has become a joke, a business where money and head counts take precedence over making inmates better so they don’t victimize innocent people again. You are part of the problem! You close your eyes and turn your head even when you see something wrong, and for what? It’s all fun and games until it’s your family being victimized. Then you’re in Lansing campaigning for tougher prison sentences. But it’s not the sentences; it’s the lack of programming. You think these kids are going to get better by playing basketball or cards all damn day in prison? In here, they get to hang out with the same set or gang they did before they arrived. They are coming home worse than they were when they entered. March on the Capitol with that change!

  Have I killed guards too? No, I never even touched a guard—until Richard Tracer. Tracer was the worst of the worst when it came to prison guards. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to make a buck from inmates. I watched him smuggle in drugs, vodka in water bottles, tobacco, porn magazines, even weapons. He gave protection to prisoners for a price, and that’s where our paths crossed the wrong way. I had my eye on a pedophile from Oakland County. It was his fourth time in prison for various crimes: child porn, using a computer to commit sex crimes, criminal sexual conduct, and then the big time on this trip—he was caught in a human smuggling sex ring. They would buy, sell, and trade kidnapped kids like baseball cards.

  Harold Spivey was his name, and as soon as he arrived he began strutting around like he owned the joint. He immediately had his family send Tracer a Western Union moneygram. A thousand dollars for protection. Spivey knew he was going to have his prison number run on OTIS, and within a day or so someone would shank him or give him a beat down. I can’t say I blame Tracer for taking the grand, and if it had stopped at protection, then I would have let Spivey slide again. I didn’t need any beef with the guards.

  One day, however, I was walking around and I saw Tracer pass Spivey a magazine. The cover looked innocent enough, like a Maxim or Playboy, but I knew it had to be a front. Spivey didn’t like girls or boys that old. So I followed him to his cell and saw him staring at the magazine. He was so engrossed that he didn’t even notice me walk up and glimpse the contents: ripped-out pictures of children from a J.C. Penney’s catalog and other computer-generated pictures of young kids. I threw up in my mouth just imagining him playing with himself to those pictures. I wondered how much he had to pay Tracer to bring those in.

  The next day, I got my answer. I was working my way from the fourth tier down after the block had been let out for lunch, and I saw Tracer duck into Spivey’s cell. That in itself was nothing to be suspicious about since guards always do random cell shakedowns looking for contraband. But then I heard Spivey’s voice: “Hurry up and take it off!” I peered around the cell bars and saw Tracer pull his pants down, and then Spivey got on his knees and started sucking Tracer’s dick while the pages of the catalog fluttered open on the concrete floor. Now I knew how Tracer was getting paid for the pictures. I could not allow that to continue.

  Even as I’m telling you this, I can see Spivey’s oily black hair bobbing up and down, his acne-blotched face turning red with excitement while peering at his catalog. I can still smell his bad breath as it fogged up his chomo glasses (state eyeglasses). I blame myself for not getting rid of Spivey before it got to that point. I didn’t take lightly the killing of Tracer; he probably had a family who, like most, was living beyond their means in this debt-ridden country. Again, it’s the system that’s to blame.

  I tossed and turned for days trying to find another solution. I thought about just killing Spivey, but what if Tracer did the same thing with another prisoner? What if I killed Tracer and let Spivey slide? But of course I couldn’t do that—I couldn’t depend on another prisoner to kill Spivey. So the only option left was to take both of them out at the same time. I would watch them and get a schedule of their frolicking, and then, when I sorted out the timing, I would off them both.

  I wasn’t sure how to do it, though I knew it had to be instantaneous. The only thing that made sense was fire, and I would need an accelerant to speed up the process. I soon determined that their rendezvous took place at least three times a week, and always when the block was called to chow.

  So I got to work: I siphoned gasoline from the maintenance generator and added a little paint thinner. I placed the concoction in a latex glove and tied it in a knot. Now I simply had to wait for them to get together again.

  I remember it was one thirty p.m. when 3 block was called for lunch one afternoon, and I hung back long enough to see Tracer climb to the fourth gallery. It must have been a long weekend at home because he practically ran up the stairs, which is surprising because guards never run unless a PPD (personal protection device) goes off. I climbed up the stairs with very little trepidation. Before approaching the cell, I turned the lever off that controlled the fire sprinklers. When I approached Spivey’s cell, I cautiously looked around the corner, and there was Tracer, sitting on the bunk with his eyes closed in ecstasy as Spivey swallowed his member. I ripped a hole in the glove and threw the flammable liquid on both of them. The expressions on their faces were priceless. The shock at seeing me, and then the slow realization of what was happening, spurred them into action.

  Tracer jumped up with his cock dangling and slapping against Spivey’s cheek. He began to protest in vain. The feeble excuses came fumbling out as I lit a match and threw it between them. They went up in an amazing blaze, one that would make any arsonist proud. I wasn’t expecting the stench, and I have to be honest, my stomach churned as the flesh and hair fell from their bodies like rubber from a burning car. I wasn’t prepared for the sound either, as their screams echoed up and down the block. It wouldn’t be long before the guards from the other side of 3 block came to investigate. I took one last look before scurrying down the stairs. I managed to escape the block before I heard the guards’ walkie-talkies starting to chirp like crazy.

  In my defense, I have to state the obvious: if Spivey had died on the scene like Tracer, you still wouldn’t have found out about me. But Spivey hung around just long enough to whisper my na
me to an investigator. Even then you didn’t believe it. It wasn’t until state police checked out the security camera footage and saw me enter the maintenance shop, then saw me climbing the stairs before the sprinkler system was activated (but didn’t work). Then there were my fingerprints on the sprinkler valve itself. Even so, the evidence is circumstantial at best. It’s my job to check the sprinklers’ functionability, and I always walk up and down the blocks. The truth is, you have nothing on me, except what I freely admit here. I am past the point of caring if I’m caught. I’m ready to tell everyone about how much money I have saved them: almost $660,000 so far. I, Bo Carr, have been saving the citizens of Michigan from being victimized by these repeat offenders. Where’s my medal, my praise? You look at me with disgust, but let it be your family who is affected, and you’ll be ready to tear down these prison walls to get to the perpetrator.

  Would I do it again? Have you not been listening to me? At what point do we stop coddling these monsters and paying for their mistakes? When will you people learn? You can’t change these cretins! They fill you with their sob stories, their woes of a terrible life, and you want to fix them. I understand that. I, too, used to be that way, until I saw them in a different light. A saner light. I know not everyone is amenable to such a shocking change of protocol, but before we had these bleeding-heart liberals, we killed by electrocution, hanging, beheading, and even caning. These punishments had a profound effect on criminals. They dreaded those severe punishments, and they were deterred. Not completely, but enough. Today you want to put them to sleep like we’re living inside some fairy tale. What I did got the job done! You can’t cure crime, and your system is so corrupt from the bottom up, any other solution would fail miserably. You can let me back out there and we can work as a team, or you can continue to suffer the injustice of the “justice system” you rely on so much. You think you’re putting away a bad man today, but tomorrow or next month, when the prisoners keep coming back, you’ll think of me again and again.