by Jon Mills
Immediately after he was led into an office area where he was fingerprinted, and they made him hold up a decaying piece of wood that had white paint peeling off it and paper numbers stuck to the front. A quick snapshot and he was hustled back out, heading for hell itself.
Twelve - Lion’s Den
Beyond the bars of the holding cell, tattooed faces of hardened criminals in for rape, murder and all manner of atrocities stared on, showing little emotion. Some wolf whistled, others pressed against the bars and gyrated and licked their lips. The guards would not venture beyond that point, at least for now. Jack was informed that the general coordinator, named Chepe, would take over from there. Jack nodded, and continued to soak in the nightmare before him.
Guards retreated and locked themselves out leaving Jack alone to wait for the coordinators. It seemed like purgatory. The coordinators were convicts put in charge of the other prisoners. They didn’t look any different to them. They were easy to spot, as they were the only ones carrying short wooden batons. The smell that wafted through the bars was like a back alley in Soho. It reeked of grime.
None of this would have been allowed in the USA, it would have been a human rights violation, but here, where the government didn’t give two shits, it was normal.
Through the bars, men sat in a line watching others parade past them like cattle. No one seemed to be involved in any activities from what he could see. They looked back at him, a collection of lost souls fearful, unsure, angry and bitter. His eyes drifted around, hoping to see the face of his brother.
Noah was nowhere to be seen.
When Chepe emerged, he wasn’t an imposing man. Short in stature, stocky with an expression on his face that made it clear he was in charge, he ambled up to the gate with all the confidence of a lion. Either side were two coordinators with batons. From the moment the iron bars creaked open and Jack was told to enter, the jeering got louder. It was the norm. Prison was a breeding ground for boredom. He was fresh meat. Some would want to challenge him, others fuck him. He had to have eyes in the back of his head from here on out.
With no translator, he had to rely on the little Spanish he knew as none of them seemed to respond to English. If they knew the language, they weren’t interested in answering. They led him through the maze of bartolinas, small aqua-colored shanties that acted as cells. They weren’t the typical housing for inmates he’d seen. More like cramped housing units with prison bars for doors. In fact, the inside of the prison grounds looked like a small village. As Jack passed by several inmates, he noticed one was holding a knife; a block down from him, someone covered up the front of his abdomen to hide a gun. How the hell did they get that in here? The knife he could understand. That occurred often in Rikers but a gun?
“Go in here for a strip search.”
“I’ve already been searched.”
“It’s for security.”
Those inside the compound didn’t rely on the guards doing their job. They treated each inmate just as if he had stepped in there for the first time and never been checked. Once again, Jack went through the humiliation of unclothing in front of two Hondurans.
After the search was completed and they were satisfied that he wasn’t sneaking a gun or knife up his ass, Jack was led back to a room where Chepe was waiting. He sat on the edge of his bed drinking yellow fluid from a plastic bottle. Jack didn’t even want to ask what it was. His eyes looked wired and in the cramped cell, Jack saw why so many lost their minds.
He took his time finishing his drink before he picked up a pad of paper and pencil and walked around Jack, studying him the way a wild animal might observe its prey before supper.
“What crime did you commit?”
“I didn’t.”
He smirked and nudged one of his coordinators who snickered. Every inmate believed they were innocent, so he asked again.
“Murder,” Jack replied.
His eyebrows rose. Jack had to wonder if they were assessing the threat level.
He tapped Jack on the shoulder and told him to kneel before him.
“Kneel?”
He got this look in his eye that made it clear that questioning what he ordered was a sure way ticket to an early grave. Reluctantly Jack dropped to one knee. Chepe perched on the edge of his bed and spewed off the rules.
“There is a system in this place. You follow it, things will go well. You don’t…” He didn’t have to finish what he was saying. Jack nodded. “The men behind you and myself coordinate with the guards outside. If they tell you to do anything, you are to do it. No questions. You understand?”
He nodded.
“Now you’re probably wondering where you will sleep. It’s simple. If you have money, you can buy a bed if one is available. If you have none, then you will sleep on the ground.”
Hell, the place was worse than regular prison. At least in the U.S. an inmate was assigned a bed, blankets and mattress. Not here. It would cost him one hundred and forty dollars to get a bed without a mattress. It was made crystal-clear that there were many who didn’t have a bed. It was a luxury. Overcrowding meant they could be selective. There was a social system to the place. The poor got the shit end of the stick while those who could muster up the green would thrive. Jack didn’t have a penny to his name, at least while he was in here.
It was explained that while the coordinators and the guards would try to prevent attacks, if a fight broke out, there was no guarantee they could intervene in time.
After being given a full rundown of the house rules, which pretty much said he was their bitch, he was taken across the courtyard to the cell that would be his abode. Unlike Rikers there were no different levels. The prison was nothing more than a series of shacks with tin roofs, concrete walls and iron bars. Narrowed eyes glared at him as he walked past a line of men. Someone tossed something at him. He didn’t see what it was but he felt it strike the back of his head. Laughter erupted. One coordinator pointed a stick but the crowd didn’t seem intimidated. Several bald men scoffed and returned to smoking their cigarettes.
“You will stay in C#31.”
Jack expected to find one small room with a bunk bed and another disgruntled prisoner, instead he entered a darkened corridor barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Either side of him were wooden bunk beds covered by patterned drapes for privacy. The inside was no bigger than a small kitchen. The one he was in was designed for eight but twenty-three men were housed in there.
The smell of bad body odor stung his nostrils, the ground was cold and hard and the walls covered in a thick turquoise paint that had deteriorated and peeled back. Jack was introduced to Ernesto, his cell coordinator. He was a young man, wiry with a bald head, and small spectacles. His clothes hung from his shoulders the way cloth might from a hanger. He greeted Jack with a weak but warm handshake, which was a first. So far all he’d encountered was hostile glares and jeers.
“What is your name?”
“Jack.”
“Do you have a bucket?”
“No.”
“Get one, as it will be used for showering outside.”
“What about a mattress?”
“Buy one.”
Jack shook his head. A few of the men smirked. He must have had the same deer in the headlights look that every newbie got, except he wasn’t new to being a caged animal. Though this would take some getting used to.
“I have no money,” Jack said.
“Then you will have to earn what you need through tasks I will assign to you. Come with me.”
He led Jack through another narrow passage to a stone bath, if it could even be called that. It was nothing more than a hole in the ground filled with water.
“You will collect water for those in the cell. Guillermo will show you where to get it.”
Jack nodded and he was handed a bucket.
He exited the claustrophobic dwelling with Guillermo who was grinning from ear to ear and headed over to a trough in the center of the grounds. As Jack sc
ooped water, Guillermo loosened up.
“You from America, yes?”
His English was quite good. Guillermo reminded Jack of a tweaker. He kept bouncing around and eyeing the others in a nervous, almost paranoid state. He was a small, pudgy-looking fella with a cleft lip. He had a full head of dark hair, and wore his shirt open to expose a medallion.
“I am.”
“You remind me of another.”
Jack stopped what he was doing and put the bucket down. He wished he had a photo to show him but everything had been stripped from him. They took what little personal belongings he had, that included the photo Liz had given him. Still, how many Americans could there have been in that prison? “Another American?”
He nodded.
“Can you take me to him?”
He looked down at the ground and then off towards the guards near the gate. He sucked in his lips and scratched the side of his neck. He looked nervous. Jack scanned the area. The eyes of many were on them. “Just collect the water. We’ll speak later.”
Thirteen - Trouble In Paradise
Lugging buckets of cold water back and forth from the trough continued for what felt like an hour before Ernesto changed things up and had Jack mop up the toilet floor. A few shakes of powdered bleach and a drop of water and he was a handed a mop and told to get to it. All the while Jack’s mind was occupied by the thought of Noah. Guillermo had disappeared leaving him wondering if he had even understood him. Perhaps he was thinking about another American.
The chores continued for another hour, some of which involved dumping a bucket of soiled tissues into a garbage can out in the courtyard because there was no running water being used in the toilets. The water gathered would be used for showers and flushing the shit away.
Jack winced as he got close to the stench-filled can overflowing with human waste. Flies buzzed around it, and some of the contents had spilled over and was running down the side. He gagged.
It was unreal. U.S. jails didn’t even come close to the substandard conditions they had to endure.
After spending the better part of the first few hours working like a slave, Jack ventured out into the courtyard to see if he could find Noah. Some men were playing soccer, others lifting weights but most were just milling around. He felt under the watchful eye of the guards in the towers but it wasn’t them he felt threatened by; it was the groups of dubious-looking characters staring his way. Inside the compound the atmosphere felt like a ticking time bomb. At any second it could explode and a fight would break out. They were treated worse than caged zoo animals.
It didn’t matter where he went inside the compound, he couldn’t find Noah. He assumed he was in one of the cells. He’d already been warned not to enter any without an invitation, otherwise it would be seen as a threat. He would have to wait. It would soon be time to eat and then he’d spot him.
Time seemed to stand still.
Without a bed to sleep on, he had to linger outside. All of it brought back memories of being a kid in school. Everyone eyed each other with a sense of distrust. Jack took in the sight of the sixteen-foot walls with barbed wire along the top. He was already thinking about how to break out. Whether Noah was inside or not, he was getting the hell out of here the first chance he got.
Over the course of the next few hours Guillermo was nowhere to be seen. Jack returned to the cell several times and he wasn’t around. He asked and the lack of response made it clear he wasn’t welcome.
Now whether he was annoying them with his constant questions or they wanted to wear him down, Ernesto decided to have Jack assist him with preparing the food. Food was a luxury in this place. According to Ernesto, when they weren’t eating a small amount of rice and a boiled egg, they caught rats and ate them. It was hard to believe but Jack had seen it. At first, he thought the guy was gutting a bird but when he got a little closer he realized it was a rat.
“They don’t give us much to eat here. What little they have is meant to feed two hundred and forty not seven hundred men.”
“But you eat rats?”
“Some do. I haven’t had to but then I’ve been here a long time and earned the right to larger portions.”
By larger portions he meant two eggs instead of one a day, and one more scoop of rice. Even the coordinators weren’t given special treatment. Ernesto led him to a section in the east wing where they were unloading vegetables. Very rarely did they see chicken in the prison, and when it arrived it was a donation from some missionary organization. Jack had to wonder if it was the same one that Noah was associated with.
“Have you seen Guillermo?”
“He’s busy dealing with tomorrow’s fight.”
“Fight?”
He smirked but didn’t elaborate. When they arrived in the section assigned for cooking it was unlike anything he’d seen before. There was no kitchen, so to speak, though they had a stove and microwave. Both were fried to a crisp.
“What happened there?”
“Destroyed in the riot.”
“So how do you cook?”
He pointed to a large steel pot on top of a pile of bricks. Beneath it were chunks of blackened wood. Flames licked up the sides scorching it black. A lone man chopped up more wood.
“Who’s that?”
“Rico.”
“What’s he in for?”
“Murder.”
“And they gave him an axe?”
Ernesto laughed. “He’s a changed man.”
“I hope so,” Jack muttered as he lugged large burlap bags full of vegetables from a truck over to the preparation area. A table had been set up and several men were chopping up onions, carrots, potatoes, cabbages and the smallest amount of chicken. There was no way in hell that would feed all of them. Perhaps that’s why the guy he’d witnessed earlier butchered that rat.
“How many times do we eat?”
“Three times.”
Jack gazed around at the men chopping veggies. All of them had knives and from the looks of it, no guards were watching. To say he felt uneasy would have been an understatement. Jack scanned the area behind him, watching where the men walked.
As they continued to prepare the food, they talked among themselves. Jack asked them how they had wound up in prison. The inmates were more than willing to share their stories. All were very remorseful and wished they could have made a better choice. It was the same all over the world. In Jack’s time in Rikers he had heard every kind of sob story for horrific crimes. Society painted them all in a bad light and he agreed, some should never get out, but it was the youngsters, the ones who had been led astray by gangs, that he felt for — he knew that world all too well. People were responsible for the decisions they made in life but all of society was responsible for how they treated each other. He’d had that conversation with John Dalton many a time. Dalton had given himself to rescue the runaways, the throwaways and those deemed by the world as the filth of society. Why he did it was still foreign to Jack. Some would have said his faith played a large role, and yet Dalton wasn’t what Jack would have called a religious man. Perhaps that’s why he liked him. His head was in the heavens but his feet fixed on the ground. Maybe that’s why he could relate to people and help those on Skid Row.
The sound of a truck drawing near caught Jack’s attention. He glanced to his side. Through the fence he saw another handful of prisoners being brought in.
“How many arrive each day?”
“I lost count,” Ernesto said. “They come and go.”
“But there’s already too many.”
“They have a way to handle that.”
Jack frowned. There was something he wasn’t telling him, an underlying tension to a place full of secrecy. He sliced a cucumber watching intently as they unloaded the next batch of men and marched them inside. Jack noticed that among the six that went inside, one of them was an American-looking guy.
“Ernesto, Guillermo said there is another American in here, is that right?”
H
e nodded.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Don’t get involved. Keep your head down. Say nothing. You see nothing. You say nothing. The fewer questions you ask, the better for you.”
“I need to know.”
Ernesto’s eyes went from the knife in Jack’s hand to him. “He’s three blocks down from us but don’t go in there. I’m warning you.”
Jack went to ask another question but Ernesto refused to answer as guards made their way along the outside of the perimeter to make sure that everything was okay. There was a gate a few yards away. In the event someone got stabbed, it was possible they would venture in, though it was becoming clear that the inmates governed each other. The coordinators were meant to be the first line of defense against unruly inmates but with so few of them and only batons for weapons, how was that considered protection?
After the food was prepared, it was wheeled into an area where the inmates could collect a small amount before retreating to perching like birds on lower walls. Inmates seemed to favor the walls, which offered a small amount of protection from attacks from behind while giving them a bird’s-eye view of the compound.
Three scoops with a plastic spoon and Jack’s meal was over. It was not enough to feed a bird. No wonder most of them look malnourished. After supper Jack wandered into the courtyard to where people were working out. Weights were nothing more than concrete on the end of iron bars. Several muscle heads walked around flexing their guns and establishing their territory. That’s when Jack noticed one of them making a gesture towards the newcomers entering on the north side of the prison. Like wolves in a pack, they made their way across the yard. One of them stood out — a bald ape-like man, with a large spiderweb tattoo on the back of his head. He removed his shirt and one man beside him took it. On his back was a large tattoo of an upside-down cross. The guy was ripped. The curious pack of men waited until the guards had retreated before moving in on the newcomers who looked overwhelmed by the amount of interest they were getting.