Keeplock: A Novel of Crime

by Stephen Solomita

  Keeplock

  A Novel of Crime

  Stephen Solomita writing as David Cray

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  EVEN THOUGH I’VE GOT the required tattoo—the one that says DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR—and I’ve been in and out of the required institutions since I was nine years old, the simple truth is that I’ve lost my nerve and I can’t go back. The tattoo was applied with India ink and the sharpened tine of a dining hall fork. I was in the baby jail on Rikers Island at the time, trying so hard to impress the few white boys in my housing area, that I believed my own advertising.

  That’s the trick, of course. If you mean to survive in the Institution without giving up your soul, you have to believe that you’re ready to kill at any moment. The myth goes like this—if the other cons think I’m willing to kill (or die) for what’s mine, they’ll leave me alone. If they think I’m soft, they’ll suck out the last drop of my blood. All prisoners subscribe to this myth, even the ones who give up that last drop. Even the snitches.

  It makes perfect sense, when you think about it. With no money, no friends on the outside, no one coming to visit, now or ever, what else have we got except the belief that there’s some value in never taking a backward step?

  I was in my cell. Eight days before I was scheduled to go out on parole. The cell block was in a lockdown because a Rican he-she named Angel had shanked his husband, Pito, with a filed-down plastic toothbrush. It wasn’t much of a cut and rumor had it the two would make up as soon as the hacks let Angel out of the box. Meanwhile, it was every con in his cell while the Squad went through the usual bullshit shakedown. As if they didn’t know we’d dumped our weapons and our contraband as soon as Pito began to yell.

  The Squad came onto the block about ten minutes after the stabbing. They wore black padded vests and black helmets with plastic face shields—a platoon of Darth Vaders accountable only to the warden. In the minds of the corrections officers, fear of the Squad was all that stood between them and the convicts.

  But on this particular day the Squad seemed as bored as we were. Angel and Pito had been removed by the time they came pounding onto the block and the cons had gone back into their cells without being ordered. Still, the Squad went by the book. They called us out, one at a time, for questioning, while the corrections officer in charge of our block tossed the cells, scattering our possessions.

  “I didn’t see nothin’, boss. I was in my cell when it happened.” No expression of concern on my face, though I could end up in the infirmary for a cocky smile imagined by a paranoid CO.

  A deputy warden named Maason wrote down every word I said, nodding as he went along. Everybody knew that Pito loved to kick his sissy’s ass. The stabbing was Angel’s way of telling Pito where the line was—part of a prison ritual so boring it made time into God. Angel wasn’t trying to kill Pito. If Pito died, Angel would have to find someone just like him. That or become a prison whore, which in the age of AIDS means certain death.

  The dep grunted and sent me back to my home—a one-man cell on the only block in the Cortlandt Correctional Facility that wasn’t given over to housing areas twice the size of basketball courts. It took me five years to get that cell. I put myself on a waiting list when I came through the gates and paid ten cartons of Kools to the posse who controlled the block when my turn came up. Of course, I could have bought a cell at any time, but the going price for new fish was a thousand dollars cash. Which is why my neighbors were wise guys or big-time Colombian dealers like Pito or embezzlers with enough brains not to show fear.

  The Squad left after the dep finished his investigation, but the lockdown would continue through the night. Baloney sandwiches in the cell, no gym, no yard. In a Max A institution like Cortlandt, withdrawal of privileges was a routine punishment, even for those who hadn’t participated in the infraction.

  In the army, when you take a break, the sergeant says, “Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” meaning cigarettes. In the joint, when you’re stuck in your cell, the rule goes like this: if you got it, then smoke it, shoot it, eat it, or stick it up your ass in the form of a suppository.

  “Hey, Frangello?” It was Joe Terrentini, my neighbor. “Do yiz got anything?”

  “Speed,” I said. “I got two reds.”

  “Could I buy one from yiz?”

  Half an hour later, time became bearable. Cells like mine had many advantages over the crowded dormitory blocks, the most obvious being safety. I was stoned past the point of boredom, crazily rapping with Joe Terrentini about Angel’s declaration of independence. Terrentini hated homosexuals. He’d been in the garbage business until the Organized Crime Task Force nailed him for hauling bodies off to the dump.

  “The fuckin’ faggot got his fuckin’ just deserts. He got just what the fuck he deserved.” Terrentini had a strong tendency to repeat himself even when he was straight. Zipping along on speed, he would have talked to his toilet if I hadn’t been there.

  I asked him who he meant—Angel, who was in the hole, or Pito, who was being sewn up in the hospital.

  “Both them fags are fags, right?”

  I couldn’t see his face, just his short, hairy forearms and folded hands extending through the bars of his cell. Terrentini was a slow man. He believed in every aspect of the American Dream except the one that says you can’t bury people in garbage dumps.

  “Pito says that when he gets out of prison, he’ll never look at another man, but he’s gotta have sex and he doesn’t wanna hump his hand. He says what he does with Angel doesn’t make him a homosexual.”

  Every butch con makes the same declaration, including wolves who call themselves gay in order to be placed on E3, the homosexual housing area.

  “He fucks boys, Frangello,” Terrentini said flatly. “He’s a fuckin’ fag.”

  Terrentini only spoke to me when he was speeding—the rest of the time he felt he was above me. I was a common criminal, he once told me, and he was a businessman. Whereas I hadn’t seen my wife or kids in years, he had a family, went to Mass every Sunday, and was connected to the mob by blood.

  “Ya know what is ya problem, Frangello?” he asked. “Yiz don’t have values.” His finger flicked toward a porter moving down the catwalk. “Ya just like that fuckin’ yam with the bucket. Can youze see what I’m sayin’? That nigger’s been here thirty-five years. He’s gonna die here. Ya let that moulie out tomorra, he’d be poundin’ on the gate to get back in. That’s you in thirty years, cuz. Because yiz don’t have values.”

  The trusty was even with Terrentini’s cell before I realized that something was wrong. Then the alarms went off hard enough to wake the dead. The porter wasn’t cleaning. He was pushing a bucket on wheels along the catwalk’s outer railing and he
didn’t have a mop.

  “Can youze see this fuckin’ nigger is so stoned, he can’t hardly stand up?” Terrentini said calmly. He’d been paying the hardest crew in Cortlandt to watch his back from day one and he probably thought he was untouchable. “That’s you. All ya fuckin’ life waitin’ for the next fix. This wouldn’t be the case if yiz had proper values.”

  The porter bent down, picked up the bucket, then stumbled toward Terrentini’s cell. The biting odor of turpentine filled the air as he slammed the bucket against the bars.

  “Whatta yiz doon?”

  The porter flipped open the top of a Zippo lighter and spun the wheel against the flint.

  “Whatta yiz doon?”

  Terrentini’s cell exploded. The porter stumbled away, one trouser leg on fire. There weren’t any screams at first, but I could hear the fat beneath Terrentini’s skin as it bubbled and cracked. Then he began to run from wall to wall, crashing into the steel. I watched his reflection in the smoked glass window on the other side of the catwalk. I watched until the C.O.’s came, then I turned back to my own business.

  In their haste, the C.O.’s had forgotten to throw the switch that opened Terrentini’s cell door and one of them ran back to the control room while the other tried to spray Terrentini with an extinguisher that wouldn’t work. When the cell door opened and Terrentini, still in flames, ran out, the C.O. jumped backwards. He had no intention of getting himself burned in order to save a convict. Then the second C.O. appeared with a charged foam extinguisher and put out the fire. Terrentini screamed when the foam hit him. A long, high sound that didn’t waver. It went on and on and on, then shut off forever.

  The porter, a lifer named Bo Williams, was caught immediately. He’d fallen down trying to smother the flames on his trouser cuff and couldn’t get back up. Four hours later, when he came off the prison hooch and the pharmaceutical quaaludes, he turned snitch.

  A friendly C.O. named Bugavic brought me the news after the ten o’clock count. He told me that I’d been the target. Bo Williams had been sent to kill me by a con named Franklyn Peshawar. Peshawar had threatened the old man, even as he pushed the hooch and the pills down Williams’s throat. Old men are legitimate prey in the joint and Peshawar had made Williams fear him more than he feared the administration.

  It was a good plan. As an administrative porter, Williams had access to the block. He had what the lawyers like to call “opportunity.” But Williams had been drinking prison hooch for several decades and most of his circuits had popped long ago. Further numbed by Peshawar’s drugs, he’d made a simple mistake and burned the wrong man.

  About an hour later, I asked Bugavic for protective custody. He got permission within minutes. The administration was only too happy to discover that I wasn’t planning revenge. Feuds are a headache to administrators under pressure to keep incidents of violence down. The politicians don’t care what happens to prisoners, but the reporters do.

  The fear began to control me as soon as the C.O. locked me into a protective custody cell. I felt it stirring like a sudden return to a childhood when I was always frightened. In order to fight, I forced myself to consider Peshawar’s motives. Examining problems was one of the ways I overcame fear. After all, facing enemies instead of running away is what DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR is all about.

  About two months before Terrentini was burned, Franklyn Peshawar had come up to me in the dining hall and pointed at my pork chop. To my knowledge, it was the only time I’d ever been near him.

  “Yo, boy, I want that meat.”

  “The only meat I see around here is you, asshole.”

  A C.O. drifted toward us and Peshawar took off without the chop.

  For cons like me, who couldn’t afford protection, challenges were part of everyday prison life. I wasn’t particularly aggressive, but I had my tattoo and I didn’t think much of the incident. Most likely, Peshawar was trying to impress one of the all-black posses that dealt in contraband, maybe the one that ruled his Housing Area. Since I’d gotten in the last word, I didn’t have to worry about losing face. In fact, my response had drawn laughter from the cons sitting at my table. I watched my back for a couple of weeks and then forgot about it altogether. Peshawar had remembered.

  Protective custody is nothing more than voluntary keeplock. You stay in your cell for twenty-three hours on most days. A C.O. accompanies you whenever you leave the block, because now that you’ve informed the administration of your personal danger, the state can be sued if somebody fucks you up. Not that you’re ever completely safe. There is no safety in the Institution. Readiness for combat is the first test of the instinct for survival.

  But protective custody is also the hardest way to do time outside of being someone’s punk. If I hadn’t been due for parole, I would never have requested it. I would have sought out Peshawar with the intention of eliminating him before he eliminated me. It’s also very likely that if I wasn’t scheduled to go out, I wouldn’t have lost my nerve. The need to survive would have controlled my actions, as it always had.

  Unfortunately, once your courage goes, it’s hard to get it back and I lost my nerve forever during that week in P.C. I began to think about Terrentini, about what I was doing inside myself while he burned. I’d watched him calmly, but the expression on a convict’s face never reveals what he’s actually thinking. In truth, the only emotion I’m sure I felt was relief. Somehow, fate had skipped over me, stopping one cell down the line to snuff Joe Terrentini.

  Knowing I was the target should have heightened that feeling of escape. Instead, it scared the shit out of me. In a week, the incident would be forgotten. Peshawar and Williams would be transferred to an Albany jail where a judge would eventually add twenty-five years to their life sentences. Instead of looking for revenge, I’d be in some halfway house in New York City. True, Peshawar’s murder method had been spectacular. But in the Institution, where disputes are commonly settled by tossing homemade lye in your enemy’s face, Terrentini’s memory would be obliterated by the next stabbing. Or the next mini-riot. Or as soon as one of the dealers got hold of some decent shit.

  Little by little, no matter how tough you are, the Institution destroys you. The cons, trapped in their own bravado, try to live by the credo that “what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” The idea is total bullshit. Everything kills you—the violence of the other cons, the C.O.’s with their small humiliations, a parole board that decides your fate without knowing who you are, the endless division of time into small, contained segments.

  Eventually, I came to understand that my life had been dishonorable from the beginning. I’d been dishonored by the world because of my birth and I’d bought the label. I felt courage dissolving. Despite all the fights. Despite the idiot belief that living by the rule of fang and claw made me superior to the judges and the C.O.’s and the society that provided my definitions.

  I was dead and I was afraid to die. I surrendered all hope of protecting myself with psychological courage. Other prisoners gave me curious looks, sensing the change. I fought to maintain my regular expression, but I was convinced that I couldn’t survive in the Institution, that my life depended on getting out. I found conspiracy on the face of every convict passing my cell. I watched hands, expecting a knife. I refused to answer simple questions. I saw my death in every greeting.

  I was so scared, I could easily have killed someone by mistake. A prisoner carrying a toothbrush or a pencil. With my record, any attack on another con would result in my finishing my time inside. At the least. The rest of my sentence, five years of a fifteen year bit, would nail my coffin shut forever. DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR was the only truth I had and it vanished the minute I realized that I had no honor to defend.

  TWO

  EIGHT DAYS AFTER THE death of Joe Terrentini, I pulled on a pair of gray trousers, a blue shirt and a blue jacket, white socks and black shoes. All courtesy of the state. Most prisoners have clothes sent up to them by relatives, but I had burnt my bridges to the world long be
fore. Still, despite the poor fit and cheap quality, it was the first time I’d been out of a prison uniform in ten years. It should have felt good, but it didn’t. It frightened me.

  After seven bits, I feared getting out of prison as much as I feared going in. Another chance at failure. Another chance to confirm the psychologist who’d labeled me a sociopath when I was eleven years old, a label that stayed with me for twenty-four years. I knew how to deal with prison, but the world was another matter. The skills that enable a prisoner to survive in a Max A prison don’t apply to the world.

  I was the only prisoner to be released on that May 4th. That was because, technically, I wasn’t given parole. The board had turned me down three times. I think they would have liked to keep me inside for the entire fifteen years of my sentence, but in New York prisoners who behave themselves must be granted conditional release after serving two thirds of their time. (This, of course, does not apply to inmates serving life sentences. What, after all, is two thirds of a life?)

  A short, fat screw named Pierre Braque came to get me about ten o’clock in the morning. Having nothing to pack, I’d been dressed and ready since five-thirty, listening to the radio for any news of New York City, which was where I was going. The Cortlandt Correctional Facility is located in the town of Danville, twenty miles from the Canadian border. It was forty-one degrees in Danville and fifty-five in Manhattan.

  Braque and two other C.O.’s led me through the tunnels that connect H Block to Administration. Technically, I was entitled to protection until I left the Institution, and that’s what they were going to give me. We passed other prisoners in the tunnel and a few of them greeted me, offering good luck. I tried to smile back, but I kept my eyes on their hands.

  I didn’t relax until I was in the office of Deputy Warden Jack Camille. His greeting, “Hello, scumbag,” twisted my fear into anger—that barely suppressed rage felt, justifiably or not, by every prisoner. There are only two industries in the town of Danville: lumber and prison. Jobs in Cortlandt are handed down from father to son, and most of the C.O.’s are related. Their own code of honor requires them to humiliate the prisoners at every turn. The prisoners’ code of honor requires them to hate the C.O.’s. It all works wonderfully until the day you come out.