by Beth Harden
“What’s your name, Counselor?” he asks.
“Abrams, sir.”
“Well, Counselor Abrams, we’re going to be spending some time together today. We’ve got a simulated Code Yellow about to happen and you’ve been randomly selected to be my hostage. Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you,” he jokes. As Lieutenant Ford sets up operations in the tiny airless space, I quickly drop what looks like garbage into the bucket of soap bars and shampoos. He gets on the phone to Main Control and then the code is announced.
“We’ll see how these schmucks react,” he says. “Here, give me your hands. Just pretend the rope is knotted real tight and all. What’s the first thing you would do?”
“Try to discreetly dislodge the receiver. Remove all identifying equipment or parts of uniform associated with authority and make myself appear as a civilian.”
“Good! What else?”
“Comply with the hostage-taker’s requests. Don’t resist. Keep a conversation running if possible. That will keep us on more of a personal level.”
“Excellent! Okay, I’m going to try and place an outside call to the television station. Make some demands.” He dials out on the ‘9’ extension and is able to reach the receptionist at WBBB. Ford hangs up, irritated. He then rings up a neighboring housing unit.
“Fuller, what the fuck? This line should be dead.” He hangs up and patches through to Main Control. “Watch this,” Ford says to me, grinning. “Listen, assholes. I’m serious in here. I want a helicopter on site in twenty minutes or this girl gets it. You read me? Twenty minutes!” He slams the phone down, sits down and offers me one of the apples from his bag. “Let’s see what these goons do.” Nothing happens. No sign of any response. Ten minutes clicks by. Lt. Ford picks up the phone again. “Jesus Christ, it’s still working. The first thing they should have done is cut the lines.” He dials back up front. “I’m getting pissed in here. You think I’m fucking around? You got ten more minutes to show me some good faith.” Phone slams down again.
“So how long have you been in this block?” Ford asks me.
“Eight months, roughly.”
“You look to be about my age. You almost winding up on your twenty?” he asks.
“Not quite. I started a little later.”
“Me? I’ve got five months to go. I can’t wait to get out of this fucking dump.” The phone rings.
“What? What?” he answers excitedly. The game is heating up. He looks over at me. “Yeah, she’s alright. I haven’t done anything yet. You got that helicopter?” He pauses, pretending to listen intently. “What? More time? Fuck that! What?” Pause. “Okay, I’ll show you the girl. Then you get me that plane and ten thousand dollars. That’s my best offer.”
He slings the rope around my neck, slowly raises the blinds on the glass door and we take a peek. I am stunned to see a battalion of uniforms with shields and mace canisters stationed in the main hallway outside the locked unit.
“Okay, just a few steps out. Far enough where they can see you. Give them a little wave, then right back in,” orders my captor.
They have the wrong girl for this job, but I do as he says. There is a commotion of activity as another wing of officers begins a strategic assault on the door that is a bolted fire exit to the outside yard. Lt Ford yanks me backwards, waving his butter knife and shouting obscenities. This war game has become a real competition in his mind. He hops up on the counselor’s chair, throws a rope over the plumbing pipes near the ceiling and cinches it in a slipknot. Then back on the phone.
“Time’s up,” he shouts to the appointed commander at the staging area. “If you don’t have what I want in three minutes, she’s dead. No more talking.” He indicates that I should stand in the middle of the room just beneath the noose. He tugs it down and sets in gently around my shoulders just for a visual effect. We both wait in silence half-expecting to hear the harried descent of a chopper on the roof. Nothing happens. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass. Ford tosses another apple core in the trash can. Suddenly the door to the office blows open with the force of a swat team behind it. Boots pounding, shields up. I am knocked off my feet into the bookcase. The blunt end of the extraction shield catches my elbow before pinning my captor’s face to the cold concrete wall.
There’s one C.O. on each limb now as they subdue their target. In the commotion, some over-eager cadet-in-training sets off the cap-stun spray and the room quickly fills with the acrid agent. An officer grabs my arm and escorts me through the fog to safety. Even so, my airway constricts and a spell of violent coughing comes on. Mucus streams from my mouth and nose as I bend over letting the fluids drip out.
Within fifteen minutes, we are all rounded up and directed to the large visiting room where the Warden debriefs us. Apparently the entire operation failed on several fronts. The perimeter crew was far too slow in getting to the live weapon arsenal. Some staff did not respond to the proper staging area designated for such an emergency. The state police had come on cue, but were unable to get an accurate face-to-face count of all staff using the hostage cards that were kept on file in the Admin wing. A swat team had not gotten to the alternate access area in sufficient time. The control center failed to cut the connection to the outside which left the suspect with access to the media and accomplices at will. Finally, the Warden turns his attention to me.
“And just so you know, you would have been dead three times over.” Good to know.
We are dismissed back to our posts with a reprimand and the threat of a repeat in the near future. My office is in complete disarray. These guys took their orders seriously and left no stone unturned and little standing. My stack of files is curdled with a layer of yellow foam. Pages from the lesson manual are sifted all over the floor and the contents of my wastebasket dumped and scattered. Shit! The bagged evidence is among the mess. The eating utensil and drinking cup are still inside but the bag itself is curdled with the toxic film. Fuck! I zip it into my thermal lunch bag and lock up. I’m not one-hundred percent certain of its integrity, but I can’t go back on my promise to myself. Otherwise, I have no credibility at all.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 11: EMPATHY
“I always be good to the ladies. Treat ‘em real well. They come to me and I take care of them. I’m not from here. Miami is my home. I only came to jail because I turned myself in,” says Ortega. He’s just plain slimy like some reptilian creature that coils over and around on itself with darting eyes and a forked tongue. Ortega shifts his wiry frame, puts one foot on the desk and slouches to the side.
“Don’t do that!” I say. If he persists, it’s a write-up for flagrant disobedience. “So what are you going to do when you leave here?”
“I’m going to college and get a psychology degree. Prove to all these mother-fuckers in here that look down on me that I can outsmart them.”
“You’re full of shit!” Serge shouts suddenly. I focus my attention on our resident mobster. This is no Godfather stereotype. Serge is regal in height unlike his swarthy Sicilian relatives back in the old country. His towering presence commands immediate attention. He is a man of silent intimidation until someone presses his button, which has unfortunately happened innumerable times in his life; and once he’s turned on, watch out! Someone’s going to bloody well pay. Unless you are fortunate like I have been to catch him in private. Then, and only then, is the soft side of this criminal displayed. I know Serge’s secret. He is a man who has begun the process of change. For the first time in his thirty-year career of crime, he has something that he has never had before — hope. He is finally ready to retire from the street. I am surprised then to hear such virulent hostility in his voice. Ortega shoots him a greasy smile.
“No, I mean it. This guy is really pissing me off, Miss Abrams,” Serge says, raising his voice. He is speaking to me but has not taken his eyes off Ortega. Before I can intervene to determine what has triggered his irritation, Serge stands up and moves his towering frame around his desk. He’s staring down the
Cuban on the far side of the room. The other participants feel the tension but do nothing. Ortega is alone in this. He has alienated all the others with his not-so-subtle habit of telling the teacher exactly what she wants to hear. Everyone knows he is just here to collect his certificate.
“What’s bothering you here, Serge? Each person has their own story and the right to tell it,” I ask. The big Italian balls up his fists that are twitching with anticipation.
“Yeah, but his is total bullshit. Can’t you hear it? He says one thing here in class but I know him from back in the block. He’s all about manipulating everyone,” rants Serge. Ortega is squirming in his seat but does his best to maintain face in front of the opposition. He nudges Crespo with his elbow and nods in the direction of the irate mobster.
“Can you believe this shit?” he says nonchalantly. “The guy just don’t like Spanish people chillin' in the same space as he do.” His Latino neighbor immediately flies into stream of Spanish chatter. Both men nod and smirk. Ortega looks back at me. “I’m just sayin’ I didn’t have to come to jail. It was my choice. I had a good life in Miami. Money, cars, women. Gave it up to do the right thing.”
“You’re tallkin’ crap out the side of your mouth, man. I see you in the unit. You’re a pussy, always whining like a little bitch. You don’t know how to do your time,” Serge hisses.
“I don’t know why you gotta be such a hot-ass right now,” Ortega spits back. “Maybe that’s how you see it cuz you’re older than shit. But it’s a new generation now. Our time. It’s not the old-school way of doing things in here anymore.”
“You little fuck. You want to sound like a big man? You’re no pimp, you’re a punk,” shouts Serge. Ortega’s dark eyes open wider, his deep lashes flutter with pretend piety as he looks imploringly at his tolerant teacher.
“Miss, I know my life was wrong and seen that I needed to change. I’m taking care of me first now, cuz at the end of the day, if we don’t love ourselves, we can’t love anyone else,” he says. Serge is bristling now. No one is egging him on, certainly Rev, not his closest ally, who is absent today. Serge is propelled by some inner voice that tells him to take a few steps farther out into the middle of the room. He points his finger at Ortega who is tilting back in his seat now, eyeing the crowd.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Serge says with cold-blooded calm. I grab the phone and dial up the officer on post.
“Can you give me a hand down here, please?” I whisper. No need to spell it out. A lift of the receiver is automatically interpreted as a summons for help unless clarified otherwise. If the guard is on point, he will be out of his chair and on his way down the hall now. Right on cue, Officer Madden darkens the doorway in less than a minute. His hand is on his utility belt like a cop fondling the handle of his revolver as he steps warily into an unsecured crime scene. Unfortunately, Madden’s only available tools are a set of handcuffs and a pair of purple latex gloves tucked in a pouch.
“Everyone playing nice in the sandbox today?” he asks almost sweetly, masking his air of superiority with slick sarcasm.
“Would you please escort Mr., Magrini and Mr. Ortega back to E-block West?” I ask.
“I’d love to,” says Office Madden, grinning. In his mind, he’s thinking this could be good for a little sideshow entertainment if either of the inmates get mouthy on the way down. Even though he’s outnumbered two to one, there’s no risk involved. A literal army of back-ups are easily summoned out of the officer’s mess and at least a handful of his buddies will be chatting it up by the hall keeper’s desk as he and the troublemakers cruise by.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” he says. Both men leave willingly under the watchful eye of their uniformed escort. Before they exit the room, Serge lets one more threat fly.
“I’ll see you at tier Rec this afternoon. We’ll settle this man to man,” he hisses. Both Ortega and Officer Madden act as if they didn’t hear the threat.
“Shit, dudes. I thought Ortega was going to get his ass beat down,” says Dent with disappointment after they are gone. He was looking forward to a show.
“Naw. Pop’s all talk. He’s not gonna mess up his own shit over some greasy Spic. I mean, Spanish dude,” says Noble. He speaks with the assurance and authority of one who knows his customers well, fully aware that no one will challenge his resume of experience. The remaining members begin to break out into separate conversations and choose sides.
“Guys! Hold up! I want to hear your take on what happened here today. We’ve been talking about conflict resolution and what it means to be assertive versus aggressive when addressing issues. Unfortunately, we just witnessed a hostile encounter between two individuals. Any comments on whether you thought it was handled properly or not? Maybe suggestions about what might have been improved in this interaction?” I ask.
“Serge over-stepped his boundaries. He should not have threatened that kid,” says Zimmer.
“But Counselor, that kid is a punk. He talks mad shit. All he’s doing is trying to win points with you so he can make parole,” adds Bowman.
“Trust me. I didn’t start this job yesterday. You guys assume whoever talks the most in class or reels off more paragraphs on his homework will get an automatic gold star on his report card. Not so! I look at many things such as attitude and initiative.” I note a few blank stares in the crowd. “You all know what initiative means, right? That extra effort and determination to improve. But the biggest piece of the pie is the degree of responsibility you all assume. By that, I don’t mean paying child support or getting a job. I mean taking responsibility for your actions as a real man should.”
The group is totally silent. Each man is busy trying to figure out where he falls on my human integrity scale, hoping like hell that my assessment has not tossed him in the poor category. “Ortega didn’t do anything wrong. He’s irritating as fuck but he didn’t do anything to provoke that reaction,” Bowman says.
“Agree or disagree?” I ask the rest of the participants. Most of the men nod in the affirmative.
“Just so you know, based on his poor attitude and absences, I could have kicked our friend Ortega out of this group a long time ago. In fact, I did remove him from my morning session where he was a major disruption to the younger guys who were actually making real progress. It’s my job as a group facilitator to preserve the greater good. You’ve probably heard this expression before. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch, right?”
“Yeah, Michael Jackson said that,” says Euclid.
“No, douche. He said ‘one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl,” replies Dent.
“Apples don’t come in bunches. They are in bushels or pecks,” Zimmer adds.
“Fuck off, old man,” mumbles Dent. All this negative energy makes me wish the Rev was here today. Even though it’s fake and syrupy as shit, his words do have a way of lulling these guys into complacency. Or maybe it’s boredom.
“Okay, stop! Now! It doesn’t matter about the apples. You’ve gotten way off the track here. What I’m saying is that one person should not be allowed to spoil the experience for the entire group. So I switched Mr. Ortega to this class because there are more mature students in here who can model better behavior for him. I decided not to kick him out for one other very important reason. Because he needs it. Maybe more than anyone in here. He’s still far from admitting his part in the mess he’s made of his life. Now, anything else?”
“I think Serge took it personally and he shouldn’t have. He was pissed because that kid reminded him of his own cockiness when he was young,” Zimmer responds.
“Excellent point. That’s something we have discussed. Sometimes anger is triggered by internal factors such as our own personal interpretation of the facts. Maybe it struck a bad chord with him because he wasn’t able to see it from an objective point of view. So what could have been done differently here?”
“He could have ignored him,” Dent says. I nod in agreement.
“He could have fal
len back and waited until he cooled down. Then maybe axed him ‘bout it,” suggests Noble. I’m nodding furiously now. We’re getting closer.
“He could have tried to understand where Ortega is coming from. Heard him out,” Willis replies.
“Good. Good. And what’s that called?” I lean in and urge them on with an enthusiastic expression of anticipation. We are on the brink of something big here.
“Empathy,” announces Bowman. I turn to look at the somber kid who speaks without looking up. Bingo! I extend my arms in his direction encircling him in a hypothetical hug. “Brilliant! Extra points to you!” I say enthusiastically. “Coming to the table to resolve an issue is not about winning. It is about arriving at a conclusion as swiftly as possible. Solving a problem or making a decision. Not dragging it out, but putting the matter to rest.”
“Compromise,” someone shouts. I look out at this motley collection of broken souls and I see the little boys they were or might have been, bouncing on their bottoms with an eager hand raised, hoping to be the one the teacher called on for the right answer and announcing it slowly, clearly, with a pound of pride; then basking in the beaming smile they are rewarded with from the proud lady up front. She will be remembered in their daydreams as someone who cared enough, cared too much perhaps; but the one who told them to tuck in their shirts, stand up straight and put their best foot forward.
#
“Miss Abrams. Can I be excused to go to the bathroom?” Gemini asks. He’s been fidgeting in his seat and tugging at the fine wisps of long hair that frame his face with an interesting color rendered from a homemade paste of coffee grounds and orange juice.
“Yes, you may, Gemini. You know the deal,” I say. They all do. The rule is one at a time and no longer than five minutes before the whistle is blown and someone goes looking. Gemini drops his folder on the desk and hustles out the door. We move on in the material without him. Many minutes go by before I notice an inmate from an adjacent class is standing outside our room waving to get my attention. I go to the door and crack it open enough to hear him.