Keeplock: A Novel of Crime

by Stephen Solomita

  Camille had a special reason for hating me. Five years before, when he was an ordinary C.O. with a special reputation for provoking prisoners into responses that justified violence, I’d made him look bad. Not that it was my fault.

  Prisoners coming into the mess hall at Cortlandt divide into two serving lines. One line is entirely black and the other is white and Puerto Rican. It was like that when I got to Cortlandt and it hadn’t changed in ten years.

  For some reason the white serving line on this particular evening was much longer than the black line. The evening meal is voluntary and many cons choose to stay out in the yard. Apparently, more blacks had taken this option than whites and Puerto Ricans. It could easily have been the other way, with the black line running out the door while the white line was empty, and I wasn’t paying much attention until Camille, who had mess hall duty, said, “Get over in the other line. Even it up.”

  At first, I didn’t realize that he was talking to me. Then he called me by name and number, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Frangello, 83A4255, get your ass over to the other line.”

  I’d never had a beef with Camille, though I was aware of his rep. Why did he choose me? I didn’t know and never would. But I had to react. To accept his disrespect, to step into that black line, would have meant an extreme loss of face. Blacks, whites, and Ricans, with rare exceptions, don’t mix in prison. If there had been a third serving line in the dining area, either the whites or the Puerto Ricans would have been on it.

  “You mean me, boss?” I asked.

  He walked up close to me. His square red face was twisted with rage. “I told you to get in the other fucking line. What’s the matter, you too good to eat with the niggers?”

  There are no blacks living in the town of Danville. No Puerto Ricans, either. Eighty percent of the population is made up of French Canadians who wandered south a hundred years ago. The younger screws are afraid of the inmates, most of whom come from the big, bad city. They cover their fear with macho bullshit.

  “Can’t go over there, sir.” I said, trying to sound subservient and firm at the same time, which is a good trick. “That’s not my line, sir.”

  I accepted the fact that Camille would write a ticket and I’d be hit with a two-week keeplock, but I’d been confined to my cell before and the punishment didn’t particularly frighten me.

  Then he shoved me. “Get in the other line, you piece of shit.”

  Goodbye freedom, I thought, here comes the box. The box and the beating that goes with it.

  I shoved him back. There was nothing else I could do. Not with a hundred cons watching me. But instead of clubs and fists, Sergeant Paul Cartier, one of the oldest guards in the Institution and Jack Camille’s uncle, stepped between us.

  “You’re in trouble, Frangello,” he said to me as he led his nephew away.

  Then I noticed that the cons on both lines were stirring. There aren’t many freedoms for prisoners, but those we have, including racism, are jealously guarded. Cartier hadn’t stepped in to protect me. He was trying to prevent what the administration likes to call a “disturbance.” As the ranking C.O., he was responsible for the dining area, and he wasn’t about to let an asshole like Jack Camille start a riot.

  I got my two weeks’ keeplock. Two weeks in my cell doing a thousand push-ups a day, reading magazines, drinking prison hooch smuggled in by my crew. No big deal, like I said. After I came out, Camille and a few of his buddies tried to put the heat on me, cursing me and ordering me about. Only now I was allowed the privilege of not reacting. Once the heat was official, once I was a target, obedience was honorable. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but, then again, it’s not the world, either. After a few weeks, the C.O.’s grew bored and moved on to some other amusement.

  Camille shuffled through my folder, shaking his head. He had deep blue, redneck eyes and blond hair cut to within an inch of his scalp. In the summer he rolled his shirtsleeves up far enough to show the black swastika tattooed on his shoulder. “Hey, Frangello,” Camille finally said, “you buying a round-trip bus ticket? Says here you ain’t been out of jail more than three straight years since you were sixteen.”

  I didn’t answer. This was my day to return to the world.

  He shook his head slowly. “I know I live in a fucked-up society when I have to release a piece of shit like you. Damn, I feel like a traitor to my country signing these papers.”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  I knew it was a mistake as soon as I said it. Camille laughed until snot ran out of his nose. Then he wiped his face on the back of his sleeve and lit a cigarette. “What I’d like to do is put out this butt in the middle of your face. Make a mark so the world can see you coming. Like a sign: SCUM WARNING. Whatta you think about that, 83A4255?”

  We were alone in Camille’s office. No witnesses. And I knew that a prisoner would have to commit a major, major offense to be remanded on the day of his release. My answer was cold and calculated. At that moment, I hated Camille more than the life I’d led for thirty-eight years.

  “Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Camille, and sign the fucking papers?”

  “What did you say?”

  “What I said is that you’re a chickenshit faggot and the only place you’ve got the balls to put that cigarette is in your cunt mouth.” His face reddened, matching the ordinary color of his neck. “You’ll be back, Frangello. You ain’t been straight for ten minutes in your whole miserable life. I already sent out a letter to your parole officer. You’re a piece of shit and you’re gonna get violated the first time you spit on the sidewalk.” He paused, managed a wet smirk. “Personally, I can’t wait to welcome you home.”

  THREE

  THERE’S NO WAY TO describe what it feels like to step out into the open air after a long incarceration. Unless, of course, you’ve done it seven or eight times.

  The Cortlandt Correctional Facility sits in the center of the town of Danville (pop. 1433), New York. Forty-foot walls, complete with gun towers, line one side of Main Street. A mix of shops and homes and a single cheap hotel lines the other. I stood with my back to the walls and swept the street with my eyes. It was just like stepping onto the flats in Cortlandt where hundreds of prisoners milled about, many of them strapped and ready. All of them willing to kill.

  I missed nothing, but even ten feet away, you wouldn’t have picked up the movement of my eyes. The trick, inside, is to see everything without revealing the intense fear that necessitates the search for enemies. It’s not a trick that’s easily unlearned.

  The few citizens on the street seemed mild enough. They undoubtedly made me for a released convict, but that’s the way it goes. As my eyes swept the rooftops, I walked across the street and strolled into the 7-11, where I bought a pack of cigarettes, a Snickers, and a can of Coke. Then I went back outside to wait for the bus. I had no illusions about freedom. With $97.85 and no job, my life would be anything but free. What I did have was a list of the phone numbers of convicts from my crew who’d been released before me. If I wanted quick money instead of poverty, an apartment instead of a homeless shelter, all I had to do was dial a number and tap the old cons’ network. That’s what jail’s all about. That’s what the cons talk about on the courts. The crimes they’ve committed and the ones they intend to commit.

  The good citizens of Danville walked on the outer edge of the sidewalk, as far from me as they could get. I was aware of their distaste, just as I was aware of everything happening on the street, but I couldn’t summon up any indignation. The myth of paying your debt and returning to the community was just that, a myth.

  An experienced con, faced with a long bit, plans the time so it doesn’t stretch out into blank emptiness. I knew I was going away long before I heard my sentence and I decided to get myself an education. I’d graduated from grammar school and gotten my high school diploma in jail. Why not go all the way? The parole board didn’t figure to smile down on me, but a sincere effort at rehabilitation couldn’t hurt. I had to
do at least a third of my fifteen-year sentence before I could be considered for parole, and I hoped to be cut loose after seven or eight years.

  I spent the first three years working double shifts in the tailor shop, which was the main industry at Cortlandt. The tailor shop manufactured uniforms for state prisoners, American flags for municipal offices, and nightgowns for women in New York State hospitals. I already knew how to operate a sewing machine and I worked hard enough to please the C.O.’s, who rewarded me with extra work hours.

  After I’d accumulated enough money in my prison account to keep me in cigarettes and coffee, I got myself transferred to the State University satellite school, which operated inside the walls, and graduated four years later. Not that I had any illusions about using my degree after I got out. I didn’t expect the business world to be any more impressed with my rehabilitation than the parole board. The largest part of any employment application (and I’ve filled out hundreds of them) is set aside for the applicant’s working history. What could I put down? Car theft? Burglary? Armed robbery? What would I write under “place of employment”? Spofford Youth House? Rikers Island? The Cortlandt Correctional Facility?

  Work and school had gotten me through a ten-year bit. I never had a major beef (until Franklyn Peshawar) in Cortlandt, because I knew how to do time. I was an experienced con. It was the only experience I had to offer.

  The bus rolled into Cortlandt, a shiny chrome Adirondack Trailways. It pulled up in front of the 7-11 and the driver, a short, fat man in a gray uniform and peaked cap, stepped out to welcome the only passenger.

  “Luggage, sir?” he huffed.

  Sir? Was he kidding? The man had to know what I was. I held out my empty hands and muttered, “No luggage,” warning myself not to overreact. This was the world, not prison. I handed him my ticket.

  “One second.”

  The asshole actually put his hand on my chest. I felt my own hand slowly drifting toward my belt buckle. I’d been carrying a weapon for ten years and, most of the time, kept it just below my belt. “This is the world,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Do we have a problem?”

  “You can’t smoke on the bus.”

  I looked at the burning Marlboro in my hand. “Why not?”

  “It’s been the law for two years. Where you been?” He shook his head, then looked into my eyes for the first time. “Hey, the goddamn bus is empty. Sit in the back and smoke if you wanna. But if someone gets on and complains, I’ll have to ask you to put it out. Hell, I smoke, myself. I know how it is.”

  “You ever been in the box?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Can’t smoke in the box.” I ground out the cigarette and stepped onto the bus.

  We took Route 7 west to the Interstate, then turned south. I stared out the window, feeling like an aborigine in a movie theater. Not that the view was all that strange. Whiteface Mountain, which is visible from high up on the courts, was still snowcapped. I’d spent the last ten years measuring the seasons by watching the snowcap grow and shrink.

  I sat in the back of the bus and I didn’t smoke. It seems stupid, but I saw it as a test. The bus driver didn’t offer to let me smoke because he was nice guy. He offered because I scared the shit out of him. I know all about fear. Fear runs the Cortlandt Correctional Institution. Fear of the C.O.’s, fear of other prisoners, fear of the box, fear of the psych ward. Respect, itself, is gained by inspiring fear in other inmates.

  The myth, among citizens, is that if you stand up for yourself in prison, the other convicts will leave you alone. But the price is much higher than that. I never saw a fistfight in Cortlandt. Men were stabbed every day. Or cornered and beaten with pipes. Or even burned in their cells. The simple fact is that dignity is preserved by a willingness to kill. Nothing less is acceptable, and the worst mistake a prisoner can make is to have another prisoner at his mercy and let him go. Mercy equals soft and soft equals prey.

  Everybody carries a weapon. Or has one stashed where he can get to it in a hurry. I carried a shank with a thin wooden handle just underneath my belt buckle. It fit neatly through a loop sewn into my pants an inch below the top button. When the C.O.’s pat you down, they go over your legs thoroughly, grab your balls and your ass, but for some reason they don’t reach around in front. I was searched hundreds of times. If the C.O.’s had found the weapon, it would have meant the box and a beating. Weapons scare the shit out of C.O.’s, but the blacks have a saying. “Better the man should catch me with it, than the boys should catch me without it.”

  “Say, mister.” It was the driver calling me from the front of the bus. We’d been traveling for about two hours. “C’mon up here. We got a problem.”

  I walked up and sat across from him, trying to keep my voice friendly. Trying to be a citizen of the world. “How we doin’?”

  “See this here?” He pointed to a glowing red light on the dashboard. “We’re overheatin’. I’m gonna pull into Bolton’s Landing and order up another bus. That’s the next stop, anyway.”

  “Bolton’s Landing? Where is that? How long will it take?” I was expected in a parole office on West 40th Street in Manhattan. That afternoon. To miss the appointment for any reason would be a technical violation of the conditions of parole. I was also supposed to pick up a housing assignment when I reported and if the office was closed, I’d be spending the weekend on the street. The street is not the best place for me.

  “Well, the company claims it can get a replacement bus anywhere within two hours, only it usually takes three or four. But don’t worry, mister, we’ll get you where you’re goin’. Bolton’s Landing is near Lake George. It’s mostly a tourist town and we’re still off-season.”

  “There’s no way you can push it to Albany? I gotta make a connection in Albany.”

  He looked over at me and shook his head. “Now, mister, if this was my bus, I’d give it a shot. But I can’t be burnin’ no engines up. The company’d fire me in a minute. See this here?” He pointed to a clipboard attached to the visor with a rubber band. “This here is a log. I already wrote down the exact time when the light went on. If I tried for Albany, I’d be in trouble, even if I made it.”

  “All right, I get the picture.”

  He was smiling, now that he was sure I wouldn’t become violent.

  “Wanna get back to the big city, right? Hey, I understand. You’re probly goin’ home.”

  I was going back where I came from, though I wouldn’t call it home.

  FOUR

  THERE WAS A TIME when a prisoner coming out after a long bit emerged to a totally unfamiliar world. That was before television came to the Institution. Not that there’s a TV in every cell. Or even in every block. That’s just media bullshit. But there were sets in the mess hall, the gym, and the yard. They were usually tuned either to the most violent movie or the most violent cartoon, except at six o’clock, when choices were limited to the news or the news.

  Which is why I wasn’t terribly surprised by the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan. There’s no cable TV in Cortlandt, and the two snowy stations we got originated in Plattsburgh, New York. The local newscasters loved to spell out the differences between evil New York City and virtuous Plattsburgh. One of them went so far as to run a series on “New Calcutta,” spending the better part of a segment on conditions at the Port Authority.

  The era of homelessness was just beginning when I went inside. Now I was stepping around the assembled multitudes. There’s some kind of a law against sleeping in the terminal, but it hadn’t had much effect on the assorted mutts, crazies, and confused elderly who wandered through the building. The good citizens danced little circles around men and women talking to the empty air. Or dodged determined panhandlers. A beggar approached me as I walked through the concourse. He shoved a jingling coffee container in my face, started his spiel, then looked into my eyes.

  “Hey, bro, how you livin’?”

  “Get the fuck outta my face.”

/>   “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He bowed deeply as he backed away.

  Out on the street, the dealers, two or three to a block, whispered, “Crack? Blow? Smoke?” At the time, I thought it was just another case of being recognized for what I was. Now I realize there’s so much dope in Times Square that the dealers, mostly kids, offer it to anyone who doesn’t look like a cop. That’s why they’ll spend most of their lives in jail.

  But I was in a hurry. It was almost seven and I had a hot date with a parole officer. Fortunately, New York State has a parole office on West 40th Street, half a block away from the terminal. (And smack in the middle of Dope Heaven.) I was thinking of what kind of bullshit I’d have to spout to keep my P.O. satisfied, and I was more than happy to find the office open and staffed. The receptionist, a career civil servant, examined my papers closely, then motioned me to a seat.

  “Who am I gettin’?”

  He looked up at me through watery eyes, considering the question.

  “I didn’t know it was a secret,” I said.

  His skin was so white, I could see the veins on his cheeks and forehead. “Please take a seat and wait for your name to be called.”

  I wasn’t feeling particularly hostile, but I was free. Wasn’t I?

  “Working overtime get to you, does it?” I asked.

  He glanced down at my paperwork, then back at me. “Mr. Frangello, if you don’t get your ass in a chair by the time I count to ten, I’m going to ring for security.”

  I started to say something, but thought better of it. “And, considering your background, Mr. Frangello,” he continued, “I don’t think security would be overjoyed at having to deal with you on the first day of your conditional release.”