by Joyce Nance
“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” she pleaded.
“Do me,” he said with no smile. She looked at the gun and then over at the men on the couch. They were interested, but made no move to intervene.
“Wha-at?
“I say ... do me.”
“Right now?”
She stalled, her stomach sick. Why was he acting like this? She had been in this house dozens of times, and he had always been very respectful to her. He had even given her free crack dust when she was short on cash.
He must be showing off, she decided. He must be trying to impress his buddies on the couch. He was doing it because he could, and he knew that she knew that she could neither resist nor report him. Both of those options would be very bad for her health.
“Yeah,” he said. “Ri’ now.” And stepped closer.
***
Sierra County Jail, Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
“Hey, what are you in for?”
“Nothing.”
“What’d they say you did?”
“Aw, same ol’ shit. My old lady said I held her down. Hit her. I didn’t. She did it herself. Drank too much and fell down. Bitch’ll say anything to fuck me over. Now I gotta pay the damn court to get outta here. It’s all bullshit.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. My ex was like that, too, always calling the cops on me for no reason. Got her back, though. Fucked her best friend when she was at her mom’s. In our bed. Ha.”
“What’re you in for?”
“Armed robbery.”
“Robbery? That’s heavy.”
“Fucked it up, though. I was too fucking nice. Won’t ever do that again.”
“What’d you rob?”
“Los Arcos, downtown. Everything went cool 'til the end. Fucking manager got loose too quick. I’m screwed now. Lookin’ at a whole bunch a time.”
“How much?”
“A lot … probably like ten.”
“Years?”
“Yup.”
“That sucks.”
“Yup. Like I said, too fucking nice.”
“What do you mean, too nice?”
“I shoulda shot him.”
“What?”
“I shoulda shot the fucking restaurant manager.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I mean it. If I woulda just shot the motherfucker he wouldn’t of ratted me out.”
“I guess not.”
“Now I know.”
“Know what?”
“Don’t leave witnesses.”
***
That afternoon, Spice returned home from Chuckie’s house with a taste in her mouth that would take days to wash out. She made some resolutions.
She told herself she was going to go straight. No more drugs. No more drug dealers, and for God’s sake, no more men. One always led to the other, and it was always bad news. Right now, she hated everything about drugs. She hated the sores inside her mouth, she hated having to shoplift or trick to get more money to buy drugs, she hated the cavalcade of abusive men in her life — including her husband. And she hated the way she looked.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d become that boney, washed-out, homeless-looking person in the mirror, but she had.
Grants, New Mexico
Prison turned out to be a lot less cool than Slick thought it would be. The work was hard and the outlook bleak. He had assumed he would have an easy rise to the top. Nope. Nothing came easy in prison. Nothing except trouble, and trouble was everywhere.
Small infractions of rules he wasn’t even aware of were severely punished. One time he merely went the wrong way down an unfamiliar hallway and ended up in segregation – for a week. Another time, one of his podmates thought Slick stole his hair gel and Slick was forced to buy the guy a case of the stuff just to keep his face intact.
Then there was the money game. In prison, cash was considered contraband, but if you had it, things went your way. Slick made twenty-five cents an hour working full time in the prison laundry, which didn’t go far. Luckily, his parents sent him sixty bucks a month to buy things like cookies, paperbacks and razor blades. But if he needed more money than that, he had to hustle the other inmates. That’s where it got dicey.
Slick decided prison would be a lot more tolerable if only he had a TV in his room to watch the movies he loved so much. Sadly, he didn’t have the cash. Long story short, he borrowed the money but couldn’t pay it back, at least not according to the terms dictated in the loan agreement. With debt enforcers expected at any time, Slick realized he was in over his head.
He sent out a message to a guy he had met recently in the rec yard; a well-built African American guy with ties to the Black Panthers. His name was Johnny Two X — the “Two X” standing for the two men he was rumored to have killed.
For whatever reason, Johnny agreed to meet Slick at the gym that evening.
“Hey, Johnny,” Slick said when he arrived.
“What up?” Johnny said, yellow eyes watching the door.
“I got trouble. I owe Jenks two bills for getting me a TV and I don’t have it yet. If I could get a couple more weeks, I’d be okay. I told him he could have the TV back, but he’s not going for it.”
“What the fuck you telling me for?” Johnny said, as he picked up a heavily-weighted barbell and curled it a couple of times. His eyes remained locked on the door.
“I heard you can do stuff, man. That you was a big dog.” Slick also picked up a set of dumbbells and curled one arm at a time.
“I can’t do shit.” Johnny said. “You got problems, bother someone else.”
“I work in the laundry,” Slick pressed on. “I find stuff. Good stuff.”
Johnny frowned. “You ain’t got nothing I want.”
Slick leaned forward and opened his palm slightly, revealing a small pocket knife.
Johnny glanced down. “Not bad. What else you got?”
“I got more. I got nail files, a razor blade, even part of a brass knuckle – two fingers worth. You could have ’em all.”
Johnny didn’t say anything and Slick straightened back up, waiting.
With a deep crease between his eyes, Johnny shook his head. “That’s not enough for me to get involved in your shit.” He put down the barbell and turned to walk out.
“Wait,” Slick said. “If you help me out on this, I’ll give you all the shit I just said plus fifty bucks.”
Johnny’s face bunched up. “What the hell you need me for if you already got money?”
“I don’t have it now, but it’s coming. My parents are sending me some. I just gotta wait for the damn mail.”
Johnny thought some more. “Fifty?” he said.
“Yeah, fifty. Plus, I’ll give you all the hardware now.”
Johnny sucked in a breath, filling his cheeks. Then he blew it back out. “Okay dude,” he said at last. “I know Jenks. I’ll get him off your back.”
Johnny walked away.
“I owe you,” Slick said, relieved.
“True,” Johnny said, not looking back.
Hobbs, New Mexico
So much for resolutions. The idea of not using drugs was so gone. That was literally millions of resolutions ago.
Spice had resumed getting high, and she did it as early and as often as she could.
She had a new job as a bartender, too, which turned out to be divine. She made a few bucks in tips from the ranch hands and roughnecks, but even better than that, she could get her drugs for free. Well, virtually free.
Working at the bar put her in the ideal situation to be the go-between for her drug dealer and other drug addicts. All she had to do was obtain the money from the drug user, bring the money to the drug dealer, and then get the requested drugs back to the waiting junkie. It was cake. And the very best part was, her commission was paid in crystal meth.
In terms of not getting busted, Spice had a spotless record. Sort of. She had never been arrested for drugs. Sure she had a couple of mi
sdemeanors for shoplifting, prostitution, and so forth, but no felonies, and nothing for drugs. That’s because she had two simple rules. Deal only with people you know and trust your gut.
But one day she got sloppy. An acquaintance/friend told Spice about an individual named Ramon who would be coming in from Denver looking to party. The friend said Ramon had money and liked doing naughty things when he was away from his wife.
Sure enough, Ramon showed up at the bar later that night and threw back shot after shot. He tipped $2 for every $3 he spent. Somewhere in the middle of all that whiskey he slid a hundred dollar bill in Spice’s direction and whispered, “There’s another hundred in it for you if you can get me some crank tonight.”
Right away, Spice’s internal alarm went off. She told herself to pass, to not deal with this guy. Real junkies didn't make offers like that, not in Hobbs they didn't. She tried to think it through.
Was this guy a cop? She looked at him hard. He was young, Hispanic, wore a straw cowboy hat, and was kind of short and pudgy. Short and pudgy? That’s not a cop, she thought. Cops were tall and athletic, everyone knew that. But this was New Mexico, not Texas, so who knew what cops looked like here?
Discretion being the better part of valor, she shook her head “no” and told him she didn’t think she could help him. The man nodded and went back to throwing back shots of Jack.
But even as she said “no,” another part of her wanted the money. She wanted it bad. If she could just convince herself this wasn’t a set-up, that he wasn’t a cop, she just might do it. Maybe he was who he said he was. Maybe things could work out.
She steepled her fingers and pressed them against her mouth as she thought. She definitely needed the money, no doubt about that. She needed to get her car fixed. It was making funny noises and starting to smoke. The money could also help her catch up on her electric bills, and besides, if this guy really did turn out to be okay, maybe this extra hundred could turn into something regular. Wouldn’t that be great?
Having a loud argument in her head, she told herself she was 38 years old, and dammit, she knew which way was up. Why in the hell would she get busted now? Plus, her friend assured her this guy was okay. And besides that, she had a sixth sense when it came to cops. That’s where the “trust your gut” rule kicked in. I’m just being paranoid, she thought.
Letting out a long sigh, she said, “Okay buddy, gimme the hundred and I’ll go see what I can do.”
He pulled his wallet out of his tight jeans and put the money back on the bar.
She stared at it for a second, then grabbed the cash and looked him straight in the eye. “Mister, I hope you’re not screwing with me,” she said.
“Naw, lady, I’m not screwing with you. I just want to have some fun when my ol’ lady’s not looking.”
Spice grabbed her purse. “Okay then, I should be back in about an hour. Is that quick enough for you?”
He touched the brim of his hat and nodded.
In her mind, she was already spending the much-needed money.
Turned out her dealer was home. He had the stuff she needed and the deal went quick. Spice was smiling big when she walked out the door. That is, until she noticed all the cop cars parked on the front lawn, and up and down the street.
Chapter 2
“All bad precedents begin as justifiable measures.”
JULIUS CAESAR
Grants, New Mexico August 9, 1995
Shane “Slick” Harrison clutched a clear plastic bag containing civilian clothes and assorted grooming items and stood near the huge steel gate covered with razor wire. There was an unrelenting grin on his recently-shaved face. Even when the assistant warden handed him a stack of paperwork and a boring prepackaged speech containing the words, “Don’t come back”, he continued to smile. None of this BS protocol was going to wreck his day — he was getting out of the joint and he was psyched.
A prison transport van dropped him off at the Grants, New Mexico Greyhound Station with a one-way ticket to Albuquerque. It would have been nice if someone had come to pick him up, but hey, it didn’t really matter. His old man was going to meet him when he got into town and drive him over to his great new apartment.
By the early 1980s, New Mexico prisons had become jam-packed with inmates. To help thin the population to a manageable mob, State Senator Manny Aragon sponsored the Community Corrections Act of 1983. It was signed into law by Governor Toney Anaya.
The Community Corrections Program offered early releases to a select group of inmates, which, in theory, was a great idea. It was supposed to be a win-win situation. Inmates who were scheduled to get out within a year, would get released just a teensy bit earlier than scheduled. This would help ease the pervasive overcrowding in the prisons.
The program was like a halfway house without the “house.” The plan was to provide tight supervision and supportive treatment services for offenders in a closely scrutinized environment, all while attempting to allow them to lead as normal a life as possible.
Initially, inmates who had used firearms in the commission of their crimes were automatically disqualified. Then in 1989, state Senator Anthony Williams sponsored legislation that allowed felons who had used guns to participate in the program. The bill passed the senate and the house unopposed, and Governor Garrey Carruthers quickly signed the act into law.
Shane Harrison was one of those chosen inmates. Even though he had only served four of the ten years he received for two different armed robberies, he was somehow within a year of expected release. This was due to “good time” provisions — prison talk for bad math. “Good time” basically meant the prisoner served only half his sentence, unless convicted of additional crimes while in prison.
Hence, Shane Harrison, deemed a model inmate in the penitentiary, was further deemed a model potential reintegration program participant. Never mind that his prison psychological profile stated that he had a strong inclination for violence, was fixated on guns, and was afflicted with both bipolar disorder and a schizoid personality disorder with volatile mood swings. The prison psychologist had recommended that he serve the maximum allowable sentence, but all that was forgotten as New Mexico made its move to reduce its inmate populations.
The idea was that the prisoner would be slowly eased back into civilized society, and yet would remain on a very strict, very structured probation. The prisoner would be on a short leash.
Shane Harrison would not have been eligible for this project in the early days of the program, due to the use of a firearm restriction. However, as the prisons became ever more crowded, that technicality was dispensed with.
The rules of the program required that Shane be drug tested randomly and often, maintain his own apartment, and get a job. It was also mandated that he stay away from drugs, alcohol, guns and other convicted felons. He would be provided a small amount of cash upon release, then would be directed to apartments in Albuquerque that were willing to house ex-cons. He was to have frequent visits with his probation officer and attend various weekly classes that provided career training, anger management, job search assistance, things like that.
All this sounded totally groovy to Shane. He was going to get his life back and not have to live shoulder to shoulder with those other stinking, brainless pervert cons. He no longer had to suffer the unpredictably cruel prison guards or the God-forsaken soggy pile of crap they called food. Shane liked doing the crime well enough, but he didn’t much care for the “doing the time” part.
Unlike some of the other newly-released inmates, Shane’s parents were firmly in his court. They pledged to assist their son in whatever way necessary to ensure he did not return to a correctional facility. His dad even promised to let Shane drive his snazzy little sports car when he got out. The use of the car was supposed to be motivation for living a crime-free life.
His parents also helped him acquire his own living quarters. His dad had rented Shane a sunny studio apartment near the University of New Mexico campus before he had e
ven officially been released from prison. It was rented in his parents’ name, using his dad’s shiny credit, and paid for with his dad’s shiny money.
Shane and his parents (especially his parents) had sky-high expectations on the day of his release. All were certain he would do well in the “real world.” Shane assured his mom and dad that he would do whatever was necessary to go straight.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Shane said. “I promise I’m gonna get my life back on track.”
September 9, 1995
Exactly one month later, Spice (now known as Esther) was also released into the Community Corrections program. She had been serving five years at the Women’s Correctional Facility in Grants, New Mexico, for methamphetamine trafficking and was getting out early as well. At the time of her release, she was 40 years old.
Esther Beckley’s troubles began at age 13 in the form of boy trouble. Her infatuation with the opposite sex led her down the path of teen sex and controlled substances. It was ultimately a path of doom.
Originally from Hot Springs Arkansas, then Ohio, then Texas, Esther lived what some might call a hardscrabble life. Her parents fought constantly, moved frequently, and ended up divorcing when she was only three. She and her brother were court-ordered to live with her mother.
Due to her small size and feisty behavior, she became a victim of other family members’ unrestrained rage. She ran away from home several times, got caught shoplifting, and eventually engaged in prostitution. She turned tricks on and off again until age 25.
Through it all, her number one and number two problems remained the same: she was always involved with the wrong types of men, and she was hopelessly, helplessly addicted to drugs.
In 1995, Esther was discharged from prison and ordered to reside in the city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she knew no one. A Baptist family from a local church took her into their home for the first three days, and then the Community Corrections Program paid her first month’s rent for an apartment near Candelaria and 5h Street.
Like Shane, Esther was confident that this time, she would make it in the real world.
September 15, 1995