by Pace, Pepper
Scotty went back to his cell and then walked to his metal desk. There was a corner that was sharp if hit in the wrong way. Scotty made a fist and then slammed his cast against the metal corner. He did it again until a crack formed in the cast. Scotty pulled and worked at the cast, smashing it along the corner of the desk until he finally got it removed.
His knuckles were ugly and gnarled, but didn’t hurt. It was healed enough. It was time for him to return to his cellblock and face the music. He needed to finish this part of his life, because there was another that he would need to make right.
Chapter Seventeen
Two days later Scotty was returned to his original cellblock. But not before being threatened with a write-up for tampering with jail property—namely his cast. The officer’s put the pieces together like a puzzle as if Scotty had tried to hide a piece of it in order to fashion into a weapon.
It hadn’t even crossed his mind.
This time he was placed in his own cell with no roommate. For a moment he missed the idea of his idiot cellie, who was annoying but predictable. The man was the first to pay him a visit. Scotty had no intentions of hiding out in his cell but he hadn’t even had time to set up his bedroll before the black man entered his cell.
“You owe me a TV!” The man yelled.
Scotty looked at him from over his shoulder while in the middle of making his bed.
“I don’t owe you shit.” He glared at the man. “Be careful here, JaRon. I have some business to take care of and you’re not part of it—at least not yet.”
JaRon rubbed his chin and then entered further into the room. “Tres wants to talk to you. Down on the floor.”
Scotty turned back to making his bed. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” He intentionally gave the man a command knowing that when he carried it out their roles would be established.
Scotty turned a five-minute chore into a fifteen-minute one before finally strolling from his cell and down to the lower tier where the men of the cellblock interacted.
There were sixty or more men in his cellblock and nearly all of them kept an eye on Scotty while watching the common television, playing cards and board games or doing hair and creating chaos and noise. Scotty saw Tres and a few of his old neighbors from Winton Terrace sitting at a lone table away from the guard window.
Jay Dog was not among them. Not a good sign. Jay Dog was an ally even if he was just a short timer.
Tres stood, wearing a broad smile when Scotty approached. “Hey, Little Brother. Welcome home.”
Scotty slapped hands with each of the men and when they sat he sat. Tres’ smile fell away and he leaned forward towards Scotty.
“Thanks for looking out, man.”
Scotty’s brow rose. “You’re thanking me?”
Another guy responded. He wore the trademark braids that the other men from Tres’ group wore. He now knew that it was their secret gang sign—secret from the correctional officer’s but not secret among the inmates.
“You took the heat and didn’t roll on us.” Scotty frowned. That had never been an option.
“I hear the Neo-Nazi’s might cause me some problems.” Scotty said quietly.
Tres shook his head. “Nah. Not over that big white boy. He disrespected us and got his ass handed to him. Period.”
Scotty looked at each man. “And you guys don’t have a problem with me?”
“You’re one of us, Little Brother.”
And now Scotty saw that the look was more than just friendly. It was expectant and possessive, almost like a hungry expression.
Scotty shook his head. “You want something so lets just be straight.”
Another man leaned back in his seat with a laugh. “I knew you were smart. You know the score because you’re Tino’s brother. I’ve never met a harder man in my life. That mutha fucker would kill you if he had any doubts about you.”
The man offered Scotty a cigarette and Scotty declined. Fool him once …
“Take the cigarette.” The man insisted. “It’s free.”
Scotty shook his head again. “I kicked the habit. Six weeks in lock-up will do that for you.”
“That’s fucked up how they kept you in there like that,” a man said honestly.
Scotty just looked at them all.
Tres smiled. “We got a hustle. We get LSD and that part is covered. We don’t sale to the inmates so we don’t step on no feet. Our customers are the heads of the gangs. We got the Hispanics, the blacks but we ain’t got the whites.”
“You’re suppliers?” Scotty smiled mirthlessly. “And you need my whiteness to deliver to the white boys.”
The others began to laugh at the irony.
Tres slapped Scotty’s shoulder lightly. “They don’t sell LSD and if we can get them in then no one’s going to bother us-“
“Until they figure out that you got a good thing going and they begin to sale it themselves.” Scotty interrupted.
“Yeah, well if that happens we still got the brothers and the Latinos.”
Scotty met Tres’ eyes and only his. “What makes you think they want to work with me? They call me a nigger. It doesn’t matter if I’m white.”
“That’s the pinhead talking. He ain’t the boss. It’s all about the money, baby. And the shot caller says he wants in. But we need you to make it go down.”
Scotty was speechless. The Neo-Nazis thought they were too good to work with Tres and his boys because they were black. And Tres didn’t care. Meanwhile, Scotty—the white guy is the one defending their honor.
What kind of fucked up shit was this?
“Fine,” he sighed tiredly. “I want money on my books-“
“Man you don’t need money on your books. We’ll pay you in commissary. It’s safer-“
“No,” Scotty said evenly. “I’m going to Lebanon and I want the money on my books-“
“How the fuck do you think prisoners are going to put money on your books-?” Tres said heatedly. His friendly smile had disappeared.
“Do it and I’m in.” Scotty got up and returned to his cell.
Chapter Eighteen
Keep your nose clean. I can’t visit you because they don’t allow that between inmates. So I’m working my ass off to get you assigned to my housing unit. It’s not easy son. Violent criminals are housed in separate units. But as long as you keep your nose clean and you do what I say when the time comes it just might happen.
You got money on your books. Yes, you can thank me when you see me. –Dad
Scotty pulled out a sheet of paper from his notebook and jotted a response while he munched on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Dad we’re not going to be roommates. Get that idea out of your head. I’ll move to your unit because I know the food is better. But that’s all I can promise. -Scott
He smiled and dropped the letter into the inmate mail-to-mail slot. One thing about Lebanon is they provided an abundance of paper, stationary and writing utensils. Oh, and as many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that you could eat. The food was as horrible as his father had warned when he’d paid a visit to the facility courtesy of the Scared Straight program. So he ate peanut butter and jelly when he couldn’t stomach the look of the meals that were served to them.
Scotty had finally gotten his assignment to Lebanon Correctional and it had only taken five months.
Tres and the boys weren’t exactly happy to see him go and kept making jokes about not dropping the soap and advising him to sleep with his ass turned to the wall. Due to Scotty’s white skin he was able to be the go-between for the blacks with the Neo-Nazis and it was a successful endeavor. It was so lucrative that the shot-caller for the Neo-Nazi’s made the decision to continue working with Tres and his boys.
He just insisted that no one ever see them doing it.
On May second Scotty arrived at Lebanon with several hundred dollars on his books. He still hadn’t seen Phonso or any other person. But he at least received letters and he responded.
He hadn’t received another letter from Vanessa. He practiced on a nightly basis the apology that he would give her. He would beg her forgiveness and tell her that he was wrong; that physical support was not as important as emotional support. He would be there for her and he would be there for their baby. He just needed a chance and that would happen in June. In June their baby would be born and Phonso would get a phone call and then he would tell her to contact him.
He would have a son or daughter in just a few weeks. And though it hurt that he wasn’t on the outside, Scotty felt joy that couldn’t be dashed because of his imprisonment. He had not wanted to bring another life into this world. But the idea of Vanessa being the person to carry that life due to their acts of love sent him peace and joy.
He needed to be a positive force in her life and not cast negativity. They were going to be parents, for better or for worse.
Scotty rose from his stool and stored JC’s letter with his others and then went down to the vending machine. He had money to buy his own commissary and cigarettes if he ever wanted to start up the habit again. Whenever he felt stressed instead of picking up a cigarette he thought about a little baby that looked like him and Vanessa.
He found an empty table and ate his lunch. Scotty certainly had every opportunity to make friends—or perhaps a better word would be ‘associates’. Word had gotten out that his dad was an OG—‘original gangsta’. White supremacist had stopped trying to recruit him because they knew JC was Hispanic, which meant that although Scotty’s skin was white and his eyes were blue, he was one too.
The Mexican Mafia approached him next and when he’d asked JC about them his father had laughed and told him that they weren’t anybody’s mafia but some Tango wannabe outfit and to ignore them. He did and they stopped bothering him—later he found out that JC had made them leave him alone. Scotty was a loner and JC’s influence as a member of the Seventy-sevens helped him to stay that way.
He couldn’t deny that it was good to be a ‘made man’ in prison. But that didn’t mean that he trusted JC. Far from it, he just waited patiently for the other shoe to drop.
At the end of May a guard told him to pack up his things. He had no idea where he was being taken, whether it was to solitary over some mix-up, to a unit for violent criminals or to JC’s unit. All he knew for certain is that he had no say in what was about to happen.
Scotty was led to a new cellblock although it still had the same makeup as his previous one; two tiers, a common area, a common television set, two pay phones and a vending machine that sold soda, sandwiches, chips and candy.
He was led to an upper tier cell, which was a great deal larger than the one he had shared with his last cellie—a quiet man who had been involved in a fatal drinking and driving accident. There was no one in the cell and both bunks were empty. He placed his things on the bottom bunk and then began the process of cleaning. There wasn’t much else to do in jail if you weren’t working out or reading. He placed his books and letters on one of the shelves and was just wiping down the sink with a hand towel lathered by a bar of soap when someone spoke from behind him.
“Thank God I can stop sending letters to your non-responsive ass.”
Scotty turned at the sound of the voice coming from the opened cell door. Juan Carlos Tremont was standing there wearing jeans, brand new sneakers and a prison issued shirt rolled at the sleeves.
His salt and pepper dark hair was neatly trimmed and he looked sharp. Now that he was a prisoner, Scotty knew that some didn’t make the effort to stay clean. Prison stank like the worst funk imaginable and shit breath was the norm.
The two men slapped hands and hugged briefly.
“I guess you do have clout.” Scotty stated. He gestured to his new home. “Welcome to my new place. Make yourself at home. I don’t have a cellie yet so sit wherever you want.” In prison you learned to respect other’s space. As small as it was you never stepped into someone’s space without an invitation or without first asking permission. And you never just sat on someone’s bed as if your ass had any right to do it. He’d seen plenty of fights over something as simple as that and had kept it in mind.
“Leave that stuff. Don’t worry about it. No one will steal it. Come on.” Juan Carlos stated.
Scotty followed him. Just like in jail the cell doors opened each morning allowing the men the freedom to go in and out. But just like jail, time really had no meaning. People slept in spurts so in the middle of the night it could be just as noisy as it was in the middle of the day.
It made Scotty think of that Twilight Zone episode where the last man on earth had all the books his heart desired but he broke his glasses and couldn’t read them. Prison was like that. You had all the time in the world, but it was too noisy to sleep.
He followed his father down the narrow aisle of the tier and he remembered the room that belonged to his Dad. He remembered his father making him fake spaghetti.
Juan Carlos gestured for him to sit on the lower bunk and he did as requested wondering if he was going to make him dinner like before. Dejavu was a bitch.
“Clyde Vance. Do you know that name?”
Scotty shook his head. “Why? Who is it?”
Juan Carlos sat down beside Scotty and sighed. “That’s the name of the man that killed the woman I loved.”
They didn’t speak for a long while. Finally Scotty looked at his father. “How did you find out?”
“I know a few people on the outside. Good friends willing to do me a favor. They asked around. People talk, you know. People always talk.”
The older man rubbed his hands together and Scotty remembered when he’d first told him about Leelah White’s murder.
He felt a streak of guilt. He’d wanted to shake his father up. But he didn’t realize that JC had loved her, that he had really loved her.
Juan Carlos turned and met his eyes.
“You were able to kill the man that hurt your woman with your own hands. I had to call in some favors. But the deed is done. He’s dead.”
Scotty let those words sink in.
“You and my daughter are together?”
Scotty’s eyes returned to those of JC’s. One moment he was sitting next to the man that called himself his father and the next he was sitting next to the man whose daughter he’d violated, knocked up and then left to put the broken pieces together. How much more dysfunctional could this conversation get, Scotty wondered.
“Vanessa and I were together—before all this.”
“Was it serious?”
Scotty chuckled mirthlessly. “That’s none of your business.”
Juan Carlos raised his hands as if to say that he understood.
“I know it’s not my business. I know that I haven’t been around you enough to earn a place in your life. I certainly haven’t been around my daughter. The last time I saw her she was barely walking. I know that I don’t deserve anything from you. But I’m asking. I want to know my daughter. I want to know if she’s okay. I want to know how her life turned out without her mother and thankfully without me in it.”
Scotty rubbed his hands through his short hair and sighed. “Is this why you wanted me here in your unit? So that I can tell you stories about Vanessa?”
“Not about Vanessa.” Juan Carlos watched him earnestly, “About you. I want something I’ve never really had. I want family. I want to know about Beatrice and Elijah and Erica and even that little one that your mother had …”
“Tyrone.”
“Yes, Tyrone. I want to know you all.”
Scotty rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Won’t knowing this make doing your time that much harder?” He looked at JC
again. “Every time I get a letter from home I feel like I’m reliving my conviction all over again. Is this part ever going to get better?”
JC nodded. “Yes. It will get better. But that isn’t necessarily a good thing.” He looked around his cell. “When your life is so simple that you get joy in just seeing a kid that isn’t even yours—who barely even likes you, but just seeing him brightens up your entire day, then you know that your life has been reduced to nothing but scraps.”
Scotty stared at Juan Carlos. “It’s not like that. I don’t dislike you. I don’t know you. And I don’t want you to act like everything between us is fine. You are the only father I know. I accept that. I accept that I’m your son. But you don’t get to be a part of my family … at least not yet.
Juan Carlos raised a brow and then nodded once.
“I can accept that.”
Chapter Nineteen
May 1982
The dark-skinned man wore slacks, leather loafers and a white shirt with a blue tie. He wore no jacket although that only meant he wasn’t wearing it now. He carried a worn leather briefcase that looked like it might have cost a month’s worth of salary for any of the guards on the floor.
The guard unlocked the door to the waiting room and led the big black man into the room.
“Tremont you have fifteen with your visitor.” The guard announced before leaving them alone in the room.
Scotty was handcuffed to the table and he looked at the man. He had been hauled to visitation even though he didn’t receive visitors—He didn’t even see Phonso—didn’t want his brother to inconvenience himself. Phone calls were all he got and he never made them. There was only one person he wanted to talk to and waiting for that moment was enough of an emotional drain.
But the big black man standing before him wasn’t family but Scotty knew him very well.