Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  "I don't know," hedged Warren, "I'd like to, but..."

  Adrian sensed he was dealing with a child's mentality wrapped in a man's body. "But what?" he asked, patiently.

  "You better not laugh at me. I wouldn't like that. I'd have to hurt you, then. And I don't want to, because you're okay. You talk to me and treat me like real people."

  "That's because you are real people. I won't laugh, I'm used to teaching beginners. I used to do it all the time."

  Warren was suddenly impressed.

  "You really used to teach The Art? You got one of them black belts?"

  "Yeah, second degree. I taught for years. So what do you say, you want to learn some exercises, or what?"

  Warren smiled broadly, and waved his club-like fist at Adrian. "Hell, yeah. But if you laugh..."

  “Trust me,” Adrian said, laughing, “I want to live out the rest of my sentence. I promise I won’t laugh.”

  At first, Warren couldn't do much of anything, but with constant support and encouragement, he soon learned how to properly apply his seemingly limitless strength. Within a couple of days he was working up healthy sweats twice a day. What was even more interesting, and profitable, was that as Warren increased his physical output, his input of Prozac dwindled to nearly nothing. At Adrian's suggestion, he hid his medication under his tongue until the medic left. Then, with protective custody inmates on the next tier, he would trade the Prozac for the more common means of exchange, cigarettes, which could buy almost anything that was for sale on prison cellblocks. And whereas neither Adrian nor Warren smoked they began trading for more desirable items like candy and magazines.

  The twenty-three convicts who had been on the bus with Adrian, shuffled off behind him, and formed a loose semi-circle. This was their final destination. They were surrounded by a half-dozen, heavily armed guards, brandishing automatic weapons, and who were back up to the two U.S. Marshals who had supervised their cross-country journey.

  As he stood waiting for the guards to organize them into columns, a routine he'd become accustomed to, Adrian took a few seconds to look at the infamous institution that was soon to become his home. Built early in the twentieth century, it stood like a medieval dungeon on the open prairie. Thirty-seven foot walls kept its prisoners from climbing out and unleashing themselves back on the society that most of them hated. Having been sunk twenty feet deep into the ground it also kept them from digging their way out beneath it. Gun towers were at every corner of the walls, with others spaced at strategic intervals. Even from a distance, he could see the men inside the towers keeping watch, several of who had weapons in hand. He had little doubt regarding their willingness to use them.

  He'd learned that this particular penitentiary housed just over sixteen hundred men, and one in four was doing life. Sixteen hundred hardened individuals, every one of them serious, most of them with histories of violence and previous incarcerations, and approximately a quarter of them with nothing to lose. Those were the ones doing life. 'Life' with the Feds, he had learned, constituted a sentence of thirty years or more. During the trip, Adrian had also learned that several of his traveling companions would have gladly swapped their own prison terms for a thirty year 'bid' as it was called. One man was doing three consecutive ninety-nine year sentences, another was doing natural life plus a day, another was doing eighteen hundred years, and another had been sentenced to over two thousand years. To Adrian's surprise, the two who had no hope of ever getting out were the man with natural life plus a day, and the one doing the three consecutive ninety-nine year sentences. According to Bureau of Prison guidelines, a prisoner had to serve a one-third minimum of his sentence to become eligible for parole. If he were paroled after his first thirty-three years, it would be to his second ninety-nine year sentence, which meant he made parole, then walked back to his cell. Thirty-three years later, he would then be paroled to his third ninety-nine year term. The man sentenced to 'natural life plus a day' got to go home the second day after he died, no matter how long he'd been locked up.

  One of the guards from inside the prison met briefly with one of the marshals. The guard's name was Ray Fergus.

  "Twenty-four warm bodies?" he asked the marshal, as he finished his carefully performed head count.

  "Twenty-four it is, Mister Fergus."

  "Good. Take 'em inside and I'll sign for 'em."

  Adrian, still chained, handcuffed, and under heavy guard, began the walk up the stairs into the mouth of an entity that ingested men and spit out nothing but convicts and corpses.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The men were ushered inside, and down a long, polished corridor to what Adrian had come to know as a holding pen. This was a large, empty room with benches and open toilets, used as a detention area to confine prisoners until the staff could sort them out. While there, they were left handcuffed and chained until the guards got around to freeing them. In Marion, it had been three and a half hours.

  Adrian tried to massage his wrists. To Warren, he uttered, "I'll feel free just getting rid of these handcuffs and chains."

  "Oh yeah? Wait'll you get inside. Then tell me how free you feel."

  Adrian took a seat on one of the benches and casually glanced at the men around him. They were a varied lot -- old and young, black, white, Hispanic, Muslim, Asian and Native American. Despite their conflicting appearances, they had a few things in common. While at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York he had been notified of his destination and had learned all that he could about the U.S. Penitentiary -- Midwestern region. No one was sent here unless they were doing at least ten years, were over twenty-six years old, and were considered hard-core criminals. Most men sent here had already done time, or were transferred here from other institutions, usually for being incorrigible; many of them also had a propensity for extreme violence. Adrian hadn't found that encouraging.

  The majority of the men in the room were twenty-six to forty years old. Like him, most of them appeared to be in good physical condition, either from lives of street crime or from having been locked up a long time. Knowing what he did about the men who were sent here, he was glad he had spent so many years training and conditioning his body in the martial arts. Most of these men had carried weapons on the street. But in here there were no guns. He, on the other hand, had his weapons with him. Even the Bureau of Prisons couldn't take away his hands and feet. What initially appeared to be a small edge actually covered a lot of ground.

  He looked at Warren. The big man seemed tense, as though waiting for the guards was trying his patience.

  "Take it easy, Warren. Even I know you got to maintain."

  "I wish I had my Prozac, that's all. Sitting around like this is jamming me up."

  "Hey, you don't want to start any shit your first day here. When they come to take off our chains, tell them you're on meds. Once they find out it's Prozac, I doubt they'll waste much time getting it to you. For now, remember what we talked about in Terre Haute. Your mind controls your body, and you control your mind. You're the man, right?"

  Warren shook his head sullenly, and looked down at the floor, muttering, "I'm trying, man. I swear to God, I'm trying."

  A key was jammed into the heavy fireproof door, and it opened a moment later. Fergus, a U.S. Marshal, and two additional guards walked in with lists in one hand and key rings in the other. After closing the fire door behind them, they faced the new arrivals.

  "All right, listen up," said Fergus. "When I call your name step to the front of the room, and one of these men will remove your chains and handcuffs. When he's finished, walk to the rear of the room and sit down. Okay, Bonniker, Alfred M., No. 36549-158, you're first; Torres, Ignacio P., No. 03856-143, you're second."

  One by one, names were read and men filed to the front to be unfettered, then rambled off to find a seat. Adrian wondered if this whole procedure was used to establish which actors were cast into which roles.

  Obviously, the guard's keys represented their authority over the convic
ts; with them they could allow or deny them their freedom. It was symbolic that men with keys exercised their wills over men without them. If the subordinate acted properly, he was granted a measure of freedom and self-respect. If he didn't...

  As Fergus finished reading the names and turned to leave, Warren yelled to the marshal from the back of the room, "Hey, I'm supposed to be on medication.Think you can handle that?"

  The marshal looked at him as though he was a distant memory. "Have one of the guards get it for you. You belong to them, now." He then walked out and slammed the door behind him.

  Warren looked anxiously at one of the guards, who was finishing with the final prisoner.

  "Hey, I'm supposed to get medication, I haven't had any. It's the middle of the afternoon. How about it?"

  Looking at him as though he were an overgrown fungus, Fergus asked, "What's your name, mister?"

  "Gates, Warren Tyler Gates."

  The guard, a muscular man in his thirties with short-cropped hair, shuffled through some folders until he came to the G's. After briefly scanning Warren’s, he put it back.

  "Sorry, Gates, your medical records aren't here yet, and I can't give you anything without a written order. You'll have to wait to see a doctor. If he says it's okay, you'll get your meds."

  "Hey look, man. I need--"

  'No, you look, Mister! We do things our way around here, not yours. You can either wait for a doctor up here, or you wait for him down in The Hole. Either way, it don't make a damn bit of difference to me."

  Warren glared at the guard, but said nothing. Adrian thought back to the incident with the sink, hoping Warren wouldn't go off on him.

  The guard stared at him a moment, then walked out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  Warren slammed his fist into his open palm. “Man, I really need that Prozac."

  Adrian, easing him back, said, "You're going to have to bite the bullet, that's all. You can handle it."

  A man sitting across from them, who had been glaring at Warren, got up and approached them. "What’s a matter? Little mama's boy scared because it's his first time in the joint? Maybe you need a daddy? Huh? You need a daddy? I'll be your daddy if you're nice to me. Whadda ya say?"

  The man was joined by two of his friends. Adrian noted that the two henchmen, being moderately fit, appeared soft through their midsections, and therefore were suspect. But the man who had made the dig was nearly as big as Warren, and like Warren, was broad through the shoulders and looked hard as a rock. He appeared to be what Adrian had heard as being 'prison built'. Judging by his accent, Adrian figured he was from somewhere in the Southwest. He also pegged him as a bully who was used to getting his way by throwing his weight around.

  Warren looked at Adrian, who shrugged.

  "Oh, I see how it is," said the man. "You already have a daddy. But is he a good daddy? Will he look after you right 'n proper?" Then, grabbing his crotch, he added, "Will he give you one of these?"

  Suddenly, Adrian, who hadn't said a word, found himself being dragged into it. This was the last thing he wanted, especially being new. But he knew he couldn't afford to back down. He'd be a marked man before he even began his sentence. Every eye in the room was on him and Warren, each man quietly assessing them.

  "Is that how it is?" the man asked him, flanked by his two silent friends, who were about Adrian's size. "What about you, daddy? You want a piece of this?"

  Adrian slowly looked up at the obnoxious stranger, and knew at a glance what was coming. Casually, his left hand rose to his chin, and began rubbing it. To anyone who was watching it looked like a benign gesture, but to Adrian, it freed his right hand to deliver a solid punch in a split second.

  “Huh, ‘daddy’? You want some of this?”

  Adrian frowned. "Fuck off, chump. I don't eat baby food." The room burst into laughter, infuriating the bully.

  "Say what?"

  Adrian kept rubbing his chin, waiting for the man to make his move. But he never got the chance.

  "He said fuck off!" snarled Warren, as his thick right arm shot out. He grabbed a handful of the man's crotch, then stood up, snatched his khaki prison shirt, lifted him from the floor and pitched him halfway across the room against a wall. As the man's two friends were about to close on Warren, Adrian's right hand streaked forward, slamming hard into one man's jaw, dropping him. The second man spun around and confronted him just in time to get caught in a bear hug by Warren. Ribs compressed, his breath issued forth, and Warren pitched him onto the floor. Realizing the disturbance would draw the guards he dragged both men over to their fallen companion, who was still crumpled on the floor by the wall. He then hurried back to Adrian and sat down with him just as a key turned in the fire door.

  "Shit, that was better ‘n Prozac. Whatta you think, how'd I do?"

  Adrian nodded toward the trio of disabled convicts. "How does it look like you did?"

  A black man seated next to Adrian leaned toward him. "You wouldn't be sayin' that if you knew him like I do. That's Benton Fulmer. He's one of them crazy white boys. He ain't gonna forget."

  "Hey, I'm just looking to do my time and go home," answered Adrian.

  "Too late, now. The shit already been started."

  Several guards swarmed into the room like storm troopers, brandishing three-foot flashlights. But they were too late. All he saw was the portrait of three dazed and prostrate figures, and twenty-one faces beaming with angelic innocence.

  The lead guard, a man over six feet tall and about two hundred and sixty pounds, looked at the injured men, then at the rest of the new cons.

  "I don't suppose any of you little darlin's would care to explain what happened?"

  No one said anything; they didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Instead, they seemed fascinated with some unseen masterpiece carved into the floor directly in front of them.

  After a moment's silence, the guard said, “That's what I thought. No one saw anything. The convict's code. All right assholes, have it your way. In time you'll learn that having the right correctional officer in your corner can have its advantages, especially in here. Any of you decide you want to become my friend, stop by my office later for a chat. Just ask for Jimmy Atkins. I'm Chief of Security. I'm sure we can work something out."

  Turning to the other guards, he said, "Get a couple of stretchers, and haul these men to the dispensary. See ya later, boys. Remember what I said about becoming friends."

  ************

  Twenty minutes later, a dozen guards entered the holding pen and led the men out to Admissions and Orientation. Called A & O, it was a section of the institution used to segregate new arrivals from the rest of the prison population until they could be clothed, given medical and dental checkups, and generally indoctrinated to prison life.

  After receiving their clothing issue -- three pairs of military khaki uniforms, a pair of military brogans and low quarter shoes, underwear, towels, and soap -- they were allowed to shower and dress. In the meantime, their street clothes were "donated" to the institution and would be used as handouts for prisoners being released. Adrian had winced. Someone, more likely a guard than an inmate, would inherit his Brooks Brothers suit.

  After being led to the A & O block to make their beds and set up their cells, all of them were escorted to a conference room located just outside the block. While they were waiting, Adrian leaned over and whispered in Warren's ear.

  "You've done time before. Ever get used to it?"

  "Can't afford to get used to it. You do that, you begin thinking you're safe. And in here there ain't no such thing as safe."

  "They said we'll be meeting the Warden. What's up with him?"

  "He runs the joint. Far as I’m concerned they pick the sickest guys in the system to be wardens. Same with the caseworkers. They’re the ones you're supposed to see if you get jammed up. All the ones I ever saw were dickheads who didn't care if you lived or died. The best way to get along with any of these jack-offs is to stay away from th
em. Don’t ever ask ‘em for nothing, that way they'll never have the chance to lie to you."

  Great, thought Adrian, more new friends. Just what he needed.

  A door at the front of the room opened, and a diminutive, pale complexioned man of about fifty entered. He had a crew cut, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and looked like a defendant from a Nazi war trial. Even his polyester suit looked like a uniform.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he began. "I'm Mr. Billings, Warden for this institution. I want to welcome you to the United States Penitentiary, for the Midwestern Region. Once you get to know me - as all of you will in time - you'll find that I'm not a man who minces words.

  "Some of you will be here for indeterminate periods of time. Some of you will be here forever, and will one day die here. I'm sure all of you were told by your sentencing judge that you would be sent here for rehabilitation. Allow me to clear that up for you. The judge may have sent you here for rehabilitation when you were in his court. But you're in my penitentiary now. As far as I'm concerned, you're not here to be rehabilitated. You're here to be punished, and you'll be treated accordingly. Don't expect a pleasant stay."

  And with that he wheeled and left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Adrian lay on his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Moonbeams shone through bars in the window and an unnatural silence hung overhead like an oppressive weight. His mind's eye was focused toward a distant void that only he could see. It was a time of reflection. He saw a succession of faces, faces he would sorely miss.

  He saw his son Andy, that miniature dynamo brimming with enthusiasm, childlike innocence, and loving admiration for his father. Andy had been a stabilizing influence simply by being there. He had been his fail-safe mechanism when everything else failed. He thought of all the times Andy had wanted to go with him when he was on his way out to do a business deal. Adrian had said no, not wanting Andy to be at risk. Now, lying in a prison cell seventeen hundred miles away, he couldn't see Andy at all. That might well prove to be the most difficult aspect of being in prison.