Blood Cell

by Shaun Tennant

  “Excuse me?”

  “I. Don’t. Think. So.”

  “The warden said-“

  “The warden put you in a pod with the very same people that want you dead. And you thought you were safe, dipshit? You’re already dead. If you had a prayer, you’d be in a different pod.”

  “Bullshit! Call me a lawyer. I have rights.” Leo couldn’t believe this smug little screw.

  “You’re a cop killer. You got nothing. You can beg this nurse and maybe she’ll get the paperwork for you to go into protective custody, which would mean admitting you’re a bitch but would keep you safe. But I’m the one who files that paperwork and I would be very unhappy if you made me go to the effort of shredding it. Understand?” Norris turned to the nurse. “I want him back in his cell within the hour.”

  “What? I’m in pain—“

  Norris was already leaving, and Leo was still strapped to his bed, completely helpless.

  His illusions shattered, Leo Jimenez had a moment of clarity. He realized that he had two options. He could make some friends to back him up, or he could kill the entire Eighteenth Street gang. Ideally, he could do both.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Josh was finally released from the hole after riding out his seven days, his real hard time began. He was returned to his cell, which was empty at the time. The top bunk was made up with someone’s sheets, and two of the four shelves held someone’s prison-issued blue clothing. The bottom bunk was bare, with a pillow, sheet, and blanket folded and stacked in the centre of the lumpy mattress. His neatly folded uniform clothing was also waiting for him on the bed. In the hole he had been provided with a change of clothes once a day. Now he would have a few spares on hand. He made the bed, mostly to fill the time but also to announce to his absent cellmate that the bed was now taken.

  The doors in the cellblock were open, with most of the inmates out of their cells. Some were upstairs working for the telemarketing company, some were in the C pod kitchen preparing lunchtime chow, and about half of the population was enjoying the free time, either in the yard or sitting around the cafeteria. There were a handful of guys laying around in their cells, but not many.

  Josh navigated his way through the block and toward the main foyer that connected the block to the cafeteria, the stairs, and the doors to the yard. He went for the cafeteria first. A white man with bulging muscles eyeballed Josh as he entered the room, but nobody said anything. All of the new fish had been hazed and taunted a week ago, and for the moment none of the guys sitting around the tables were interested in targeting Josh. Still, the tanned no-neck skinhead watched Josh carefully as he walked the room.

  Josh didn’t engage with anyone, and he didn’t stop moving. His goal wasn’t to make friends or enemies, it was simply to observe. He’d never been in max before and he wanted to get the lay of the land. If Josh Farewell had one skill, it was manipulating people. In the lower security levels he’d been faced with before, he had perfected a system for survival. He would identify the most powerful people in the prison, and always be forthright with them. He wouldn’t lie or play coy, he’d just shoot straight. That way he avoided stepping on any toes. With the guards, he’d always be respectful enough to lull them into comfort, until the day came that he had to either slip past one or offer him a bribe. For all other inmates, Josh would do what he could to keep his distance. This included the use of veiled threats, faked friendships, and most often simple avoidance. But before he could put his system into place he need to do two things: he needed to sort out who held the power in C pod, and he needed to stop feeling so terrified. This was maximum security, and Josh was quite certain he was only person here who had never been in a fight. Probably half of the inmates had killed before. Josh knew that he was locked up with a lot of impulsive, violent felons with the thought process of a twelve-year-old, and it scared the crap out of him. Still, Josh had spent years building up resistance to the fight-or-flight instinct, and he was reasonably sure he could bluff his way through max long enough for his next escape.

  The first thing he noticed about the cafeteria was the elevated catwalk where guards held shotguns at the ready. The second thing he noticed was the scattering of bullet holes on the ceiling, next to the black “shot boxes” that guards would fire into as a warning. The third thing he noticed was a distinct lack of pigment among the population. There didn’t seem to be many black guys. That probably meant a race war had recently erupted, and the whites and Latinos got to stay while the black guys got split into the other pods.

  As Josh rounded the third corner of the cafeteria and started back toward the door, the muscle-bound skinhead got up and came over to him, blocking the path to the doors.

  “I see you found your way to my corner of the room,” said the skinhead.

  “I didn’t know,” said Josh, “and no disrespect, but I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here.”

  “No problem, pal. Name’s Ox. How’s about I give you the tour?” Of course his name was Ox. He probably had a friend named Moose.

  “Actually, I think I’d rather sort things out on my own, you know, figure out where I’m going and such.” Josh was surprised at how nervous he felt, knowing that all the stories he’d heard about maximum security were getting to him. The way Josh had heard it, max divides up pretty automatically along racial lines, unless you piss off your own kind. Josh was in a pickle with this Ox character. Get too chummy, and let others see that, and forever after he’d only be able to deal with the whites. But if he pushed Ox away too fast, he could find himself a one-man island, which might force him into protective custody. And nobody escapes from protective custody.

  “Now listen kid, you look to me like a smart young white boy, which is why I’m being so nice to you here. You might want to consider who your friends are gonna be for the next couple years of your life.”

  So that was it. The next couple years, dictated by a random encounter with some skinhead. Josh shrugged: “You know, I don’t think I’ll be here for all that long...”

  Ox made a slanted grin. “Still expecting a transfer, huh? Ain’t gonna happen. This pod’s the worst of the worst. They put you here you can bet you’re not gettin’ transferred out until parole. Well, it’s almost lunch time, so how about we sit down and I can fill you in over chow?”

  Josh struggled to find the words to make the skinhead leave him alone, until someone else intervened.

  “Give the fish a break,” said a voice, “he ain’t interested in eating your bullshit.” The voice came from behind Ox, from a tall Latino with a short haircut. His entourage lingered about five feet behind him.

  “This is Santos Vega, leader of those spicks over there,” said Ox. “I’m Ox Werden, and I only associate with worthy men like yourself.”

  “Really?” said Santos, “He don’t look retarded.”

  “Listen I was just trying to get some bearings—I’m not looking for any...“ Josh walked between the two men, around a metal table, and headed for the door. Ox watched him go, snorting in amusement, and Santos returned to his crew. They slowly followed Josh out into the yard.

  The yard for C pod was triangle shaped, fitting the star-shaped design of the building. On one side it was closed in by C pod, on another by B pod, and the open side had a twenty foot fence, topped with razor wire. Beyond the first fence was a second, about twenty feet back. The space between the fences was filled with rolls of concertina wire. After that, there was a guard tower. Josh could easily see the spotlights on the corners, and the guards with automatic rifles who were seated inside the tower.

  Josh sized it up as he walked. The tower can be avoided, but the snipers on the roof will get you.

  “You should have taken a stand in there, fish.” It was Santos, walking behind Josh, but staying far enough away that the tower guards knew he wasn’t attacking Josh.

  “You could have joined him or joined me, but just bitching out like that was a mistake.”

  “I didn’t bitch out—“<
br />
  “The only thing the dirtbags like more than a tough white guy who can fight is a weak white boy who can’t fight back. You just became the latter.”

  Josh stopped walking and turned to face Santos.

  “This is C pod, kid,” said Santos, “you don’t punch someone on your first day and you will get punched on your second.”

  “Sometime in the next couple days you’re either gonna have to join me and the Eighteenth, or Ox and his boys are gonna turn you out.”

  “And who are the Eighteenth?”

  “Kid, look around. What you’ll see is a whole lot of people that look like me. Once upon a time, there were a lot people with different skin tones, but once they realized they couldn’t win, the black guys either joined up or moved out. Whites can either line up with me and live a good life, or join the Dirtbags and do some really hard time. That skinhead you talked to might sound like he’s got a crew, but they’re outnumbered ten-to-one.”

  “So why would you want me? Don’t have to be...”

  “Latino? Nah, man. We figured out a while back that real strength means numbers. See my boy Delman?” Santos pointed to a black man, one of three African Americans Josh could see in the yard. “He’s been my cellie since before the other black guys got turfed. He realized the advantages of joining the winning team.”

  “So if I say I’m with you, then I have to take orders, do what I’m told?”

  “Nah, you gotta do favours. You scratch our back, we’ll scratch yours. We just have to figure out what you have to offer.”

  Josh nodded. “I’m not violent. I won’t jump anyone or hold anyone down for you—“

  “Never said you had to.”

  “I suppose it makes sense to have friends in high places.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. What’s your name?”

  “Josh Farewell.”

  “Farewell. Oh I know you. You’re the one the warden wanted to see. I was in the waiting room when he requested you. Came in on the bus last week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what makes you so special?”

  “I conned the Warden’s dad for a few grand.”

  “Don’t lie to me, fish.”

  Josh sighed. Josh had a certain poker face that he liked to maintain—he had a method of hiding his cards and method of laying them on the table. Now seemed like a time for the latter, since this guy Santos had a lot of pull.

  “I broke out of every place they ever put me. Work camp: gone. Minimum security: escaped my first week. Medium security: six months. They can’t find a place that can hold me. That’s why I’m in max.”

  “Yeah, real smart getting locked up with the likes of these maniacs. Bet you never even been in a fight.”

  “Had to slip away from some angry boyfriends in my time.”

  “See, now we’re getting to know each other. Tell you what, Josh. Let’s sit together over lunch and tell some stories. The boys would love to hear about how you busted out.”

  Santos held up a fist. Josh awkwardly bumped it with his own fist, and Santos walked away.

  Josh sized up the yard. There was a weightlifting area in one corner, and a paved area with basketball along the B pod wall. Inmates clustered in cliques, with very few ever floating from one group to another. Only Santos and his inner circle seemed to be welcome with everybody. Josh was starting to think that he had just found the man with the power in C pod.

  Returning to his cell, Josh discovered his cellmate was lying on the bottom bunk.

  “Sorry, that’s my bed,” he said.

  The cellmate sat up. He had an ugly, straight scar down his cheek and across his lips.

  “Oh, you my new meat? I’m Leo.” Leo held out his hand but Josh didn’t shake it. “I’ve gotten used to having the room to myself, so I’ll sleep in whatever goddamn bunk I want to, whenever I want to. And if and when I decide to switch, then you can have your shitty fucking bunk.”

  Josh slinked carefully into the cell, his back to the wall. Entering a cell with Leo felt oddly like being caged with a lion.

  “I don’t want problems, man.”

  “That’s good,” said Leo, “because you just won the lottery. I am the single best cellmate you could have landed.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Don’t you want to know what makes me so great?” asked Leo.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m the fucking kingpin of the Eighteenth. Half the motherfuckers in here belong to me. And the guards won’t touch me because they know what I fucking did to that cop who busted me.” Josh didn’t ask about the cop, but Leo explained anyway: “I killed him in front of his own partner, in his own precinct.”

  Josh didn’t say anything, but he felt his stomach drop. Outside the cell, across the block, a couple inmates watched Josh interact with Leo. He could feel their eyes, and Leo’s, sizing him up.

  “Well it sure is nice to meet you,” said Josh.

  When it was time for chow, he managed to slip away from Leo in the walk to the cafeteria. He filed along with the line, getting his tray loaded up with a grilled cheese sandwich, yogurt cup, and a plastic mug of purple juice. As he stepped away from the serving counter, he felt a strong hand grab his bicep and lead him to a table. It was Delman, stuffing Josh onto a bench seat next to Santos.

  “Josh, it was nice of you to remember our appointment,” said Santos.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I told the boys you escaped from the pen on multiple occasions. We’d love to hear about it.”

  Josh was uncomfortable with the situation, but now that he was out of imminent danger he relaxed a little. He was able to slip into his most persuasive persona as he told the story of his first escape, from the holding room in a courthouse.

  “...so after almost three hours stashed away like that I slipped back outside,” said Josh, knowing that the gang members were hanging on his every word. “And then I just hopped into the trunk of an expensive car parked in the courthouse parking lot. Two hours later, a judge drove me right past the cops. I rode in the trunk until he parked, waited fifteen minutes, and hopped out again. The judge had driven me right to his house. I was in the suburbs ten miles from the nearest cop.”

  “Wait,” said Carlos, “how’d you get into and out of the trunk?” It seemed to Josh like Carlos was an alright guy. Carlos slid his yogurt to Eli, who slid him three cigarettes.

  “Getting out’s easy: the car had an escape latch. Getting in, well... I’m pretty good with locks.”

  “But how did you know the lock on the holding cell would open?”

  “I jammed it. Give me a little piece of paper and something skinny like a pencil and I can keep pretty much any lock from catching.”

  Josh got to know the members of Santos’ inner circle. Santos was the leader. He had a buzzcut and a few days of stubble, and his skin was totally free of tattoos. Carlos had a moustache and bulged with mass generated by years spent with prison dumbbells. Eli was a smaller, wiry guy with slicked-back hair and sleeves of black tattoos. Delman had a cleanly shaved face and a rapidly receding hairline. They kept mentioning someone named Charlie who wasn’t at the table. Josh deduced that Charlie was in the hole. Santos, Carlos, Charlie, and maybe a few other guys in C pod had been a very close unit on the outside, and managed to get locked up together. In Pittman, they had recruited heavily, branching out to include anyone of any ethnicity, as long as they were loyal and could handle themselves in a fight. Josh couldn’t figure out how many people answered to Santos, but it sounded like a lot.

  After everyone had gotten comfortable and all the food was eaten, Santos cut off the conversation. “Josh, we need to talk.”

  “OK?”

  “Some new information has come to light, and we might need to ask you a favour sooner than we expected.”

  “Oh. Like what kind of favour?”

  “We’re gonna need some help killing your cellmate.”

  Josh was floored. Hadn’t they just gone over
the fact that Josh was a nonviolent offender, and would be useless in a fight?

  “I’m not really-“

  Santos laughed. “Settle down. I don’t want you to kill Leo. Truth is, he’d kill you for trying.” The rest of the gang laughed. “What I need,” Santos continued, “is for you to use that very special skill set you just bragged about to help us with a problem.”

  “My skill set?”

  “Good with locks? Able to get past the guards, go places other guys can’t? You just told us all about it and I’d hate to find out you were exaggerating.”

  “No, I have the skills, just—“

  “Well we’ve got a problem with Leo where none of us can kill him but we’re all jonesing to watch the fucker die.”

  “So where do I fit in?” Josh had completely lost his calm, persuasive persona again, and was back to being a scared inmate out of his depth in a new place.

  “That’s easy,” said Santos at his most calm. “We need you to get us a gun.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Late that night, a few hours after Josh lay down to sleep, Leo climbed down from the top bunk. Leo moved quietly, and so carefully his bed didn’t even squeak. Very calmly, he crossed his thumbs at the first knuckle, fanned out his fingers, and slipped both hands around Josh’s throat.

  Josh woke in terror as Leo’s surprisingly powerful hands closed his airway. He gagged for breath and thrashed against his cellmate. Leo threw his leg over Josh and pinned him down, then relaxed his grip.

  “Settle down,” said Leo, who was little more than a silhouette over Josh. “If I wanted to hurt you I’d have gouged your eyes out.”

  Josh said nothing.

  “I saw your choice in company today at chow time. Santos Vega? Fucking asshole? Not someone I approve of my new cellie hanging out with.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And if I should happen to see you hanging out with Santos in the future, you might just wake up without an eyeball or two, you get me?”

  “Yes.”