Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  That was the ultimate deal breaker, and his parting comment to the nurse as he staggered from her office went something to the effect, “Fuck you! Cut the Warden's balls off! I'd rather walk with a limp!” He then tore up the form, tossed it in the trash after which he pulled up his pants and hobbled back to his cell.

  Warren and Nazareth were there when he staggered in. “Hey man, how you doing? I'm real sorry about what happened.”

  “Not as sorry as I almost was,” he answered as he gingerly limped to his bunk. “They wanted me to leave a couple souvenirs with them. At least it feels better now that everything’s been stuffed back where it belongs.”

  “How ‘bout that thing that was moving around?” Warren asked.

  “That’s back where it belongs, too.”

  Nazareth sat up on the edge of his bed. “Gonna be alright?”

  “I’ll be okay. Just can’t work out for awhile. Right now all I want to do is soak in the shower.”

  He stripped down to his shorts, grabbed a towel, and headed for the communal shower at the end of the tier. As usual, the cell house was riotous and he could barely hear himself think. Sometimes, he heard screaming in his sleep. Fortunately, it wasn't his. Not yet, anyway.

  As he entered the communal shower, he encountered Meldrick Simmons, a tall, blond haired, muscular convict, and Robert Bent whose piercing, beady eyes, and rageful glare he had noted from the first time he’d seen him on their tier. What he also noted was their intended purpose for being there.

  Together they had subdued young Ken Burnett, twenty-seven, boyish, short with a slight build, who was naked, appearing fearful, and whom they’d apparently cornered in the shower stall. Bent was holding him down from behind, and Simmons was standing over him preparing for what could only be a sexual assault.

  Adrian paused, gauging the situation.

  Simmons stared at Adrian, appearing venomous. “That's right, pal. We’re gonna get busy and you're in the way. Get lost.”

  An odd look crossed Adrian’s face without him even realizing it. To Burnett, he asked, “You okay?” The unspoken, agonized plea in Burnett's eyes said he wasn’t.

  Bent seemed to be growing agitated. “Why? You think you're gonna be some kind of a hero? How’d you like to take his place?”

  Without realizing it, Adrian had crossed an invisible line. “How'd you like to step up and find out?”

  Simmons looked at Bent and smiled sadistically. “I think he'd like it. Matter of fact, I think he’d love it.”

  Adrian's eyes glazed over. An ancient beast had just been awakened, and he was no longer himself. And a sore groin wasn’t going to silence it. He set his wash kit on the sink, looked around, then retrieved a broomstick, which he jammed in the door handles, locking them all inside.

  His face expressionless, he looked up at the taller and more muscular Simmons. “Now no one can bother us...”

  A troubled look crossed Simmons' face, as though this wasn’t the reaction he was accustomed to getting when leveling a threat. “You're pissing me off...”

  For a man his size, he moved with surprising speed and agility. Adrian, however, having fought more than his share of larger skilled opponents, wasn’t intimidated. He side stepped Simmons, and then dropped him with a solid heel-strike punch to the temple. Stunned and almost uncomprehending, Simmons looked up at him through eyes filled with hate. As he attempted to get up, Adrian kicked the side of his head, putting him out cold. Pained after using the technique, he rubbed his injured groin, trying not to give any indication that something was wrong.

  He then directed his attention to the now curious Bent. “Guess that leaves just you and me, tough guy. Imagine that?”

  “How about if—“

  “How about if the talking part's over...” Adrian entered the communal shower, prompting Bent to face Adrian head on after he pushed the smaller Burnett to the side. “A minute ago you wanted to turn this kid into a party favor... Make me a party favor.”

  He pulled Burnett up from the floor and pointed toward him toward the doorway of the communal shower with taking his eyes off Bent. In a soft, barely audible voice, he said, “Come on, tough guy...do it...there’s just you and me now...”

  Without further comment he tore into Bent with maniacal fury, and began administering him the beating of a lifetime. The suppressed rage poured forth from deep in his core and exploded out through his fists. It became obvious to Burnett that Adrian would kill him if left to his own devices, so Burnett – despite what had almost happened to him moments earlier - attempted to pull him off Bent, who was already beaten so badly that his face was a puffed up bleeding mess.

  “Stop! You'll kill him!”

  Raging, out of his mind with wanton vengeance, and covered with blood, Adrian screamed back at him, “I'd like to kill him! He's nothing but a fucking bully! Guys like him terrorized my entire childhood! I just wanted to be a good kid and to be left alone, and all they did was humiliate me because I was always the new kid in school. All nine of them! My life was nothing but fear and humiliation! Well guess what? I’m not a kid any more, and it feels good to let one of their own pick up the tab for what the rest of them did!”

  He looked down on Bent’s swollen and bloodied face, and then dropped down and punched him one last time. “Motherfucker!”

  Burnett slowly eased Adrian up off of Bent. Holding his wounded groin, Adrian looked toward the door. “Better get out of here.”

  “What about you? The hacks are going to be swarming all over this place.”

  “It was self-defense. I’m allowed to defend myself. Right?”

  “Or maybe defend a guy like me who couldn't. Thanks.”

  Adrian patted his back as he turned to leave. Rubbing his injured groin, he took a final look at Simmons and Bent. Simmons was now doubled up, groaning; Bent lay bloodied and motionless.

  Not wanting to be there when the guards arrived, he grabbed his shower gear, limped to the door, and stepped outside...right into the arms of guard Ray Fergus.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adrian nearly knocked Fergus over the railing. Were it not for the reinforced chicken mesh wiring that kept people from falling over it – or being pushed – he would have. Fergus recovered, saw the blood on Adrian, and put two and two together.

  Fergus sounded a shrill, blaring note on his whistle, and keyed his walkie-talkie. “Got an incident on four in A Cell House. Give me some backup, and send a medic!” Within seconds the tier had been locked down and was controlled by guards, including Nicolai Dimbrovski. Fergus ordered Adrian to spread-eagle against the wall, and handcuffed him. After putting Adrian in the custody of two other guards, he nodded at Dimbrovski, who then entered the shower room to investigate.

  A moment later Dimbrovski returned. To Fergus, he said, "Get ready for hospital duty, Simmons and Bent in bad shape.” Fergus pushed open the bathroom door, looked in, and whistled softly. “You made a real mess in there. What happened?"

  "What can I say? We had a contest. They lost." In the seconds it took to call for backup and lock down the tier, Adrian had gotten over his initial shock, and had regained his composure. As he faced Fergus, inmates being ushered back to their cells stole glances at Adrian. A man covered with blood always drew a crowd. It was as much entertainment value as it was curiosity. And just as they had in the dining hall, he knew they’d be watching closely to see how he handled himself.

  "A contest?" asked Fergus. "What kind? A gladiator contest?”

  “Bent might die,” said Dimbrovski, in his thick Slavic accent. When Adrian didn’t answer, he added, “We know Simmons is predator. Bent, too. They target new men for sex. He try that with you, maybe?"

  "What happened is between me and them."

  Fergus looked at Adrian, and decided to put off further questioning until they were in Atkins’ office. Maybe Adrian would feel more cooperative away from the probing eyes and ears of other convicts.

  They moved aside as medics rushed into the shower room
with stretchers. Meanwhile, Fergus gave him something else to think about: "He’s right, one of the men in there might die. If that happens, you could earn a permanent vacation here.”

  Adrian began to pray he wasn't destined to become one of the 'shit heads' Carmine Ruffino had told him about.

  ************

  Wrapped in only a towel, handcuffed, and covered with blood, Adrian almost felt humiliated as people stared at him along the way. But that’s the way things went in there, and the alternatives to what he’d done were all bad. Nor would it become known to him until later that being covered with someone else’s blood was a badge of honor. He had stood up, and then measured up. Meanwhile, his ‘badge of honor’ was growing uncomfortable as Robert Bent’s blood began to cake and dry.

  When he was led into the Security office, Atkins laughed, clapped his hands, and swung his feet down from his desk.

  "Damn, boy! What in the world are we going to do with you? I said you'd be back, but I never thought it would be this soon. And look at you, half naked and covered with blood like some kind of friggin’ caveman. I'll bet your folks would be proud if they could see you now. ‘Dear Mom, having a great time with all my new friends. Glad you're not here.’ Tell me, Cabraal, how much of that is yours?"

  Adrian wanted to kick Atkins in the crotch. He wanted to kick him so hard that he split up his nuts - if he had any. But he’d heard what happened to convicts who assaulted staff members. A goon squad of five or six guards with three-foot flashlights would lock themselves in a cell with the guilty party, then beat him until there wasn't anything left to load on a stretcher. The procedure wasn't listed in the institutional handbook, but it happened just the same.

  He looked at Atkins' puffy face. He was a repulsive man, both in disposition and appearance. His paunch had spread across his midsection after too many beers, too many pizzas, and too many sedentary years behind a desk. His eyes were small, and heavy jowls sagged from his cheeks, forming a double chin. The effect was morbid in appearance, and Adrian was sure he had drawn his share of inmate blood over the years. Provoking him would be like provoking Carmine Ruffino. He could end up just as dead.

  Adrian met his gaze evenly and said, "None of it as far as I know. You'll have to wait till next time."

  "You're a real smart ass, aren't you boy?"

  "Just trying to get along."

  "I'll bet you are."

  Turning to the guards who had brought Adrian to his office, "What happened? We got a body up there?"

  "Not yet," answered Fergus. "Might not be long, though."

  "Who was it?"

  "Simmons and Bent, from A cell house."

  "You mean that big blond sissy?"

  "Yep. Best we can tell, this man knocked Simmons out, and we’re still trying to figure out what he did to Bent. Busted him open like a melon, but won't tell us why."

  "You damn near kill a man, and you still won't talk? What'd he do, try to rape you? Come on, we're alone. You can tell me."

  "What happened is our business."

  "Oh, come on. You can tell old Jimmy. Would you feel better if these men left? Would that help?"

  "I don't care if you turn your collar around and offer me absolution, I got nothing to say."

  "Dumb shit, you got a chance to save your ass, and you try to play convict hero to prove you’re as tough as all those other assholes. Trouble is, most of them are full of shit. They just act like they're standup. They'd snitch you out in a second. The rest of ‘em would bury a shank in you. Play it smart, Cabraal, get on my list. I always got room for another pair of eyes and ears, especially from an interesting guy like you. I can make life easy for you. I can get you the right job, or do creative things with your visiting conditions. Hell, I can even go to bat for you when you go for parole. I go fishing with a couple of guys from the regional office. All I have to do is put in the word and you'll be out of here with minimum time served. Of course, if I tell them I want you around for a while, then you'll have to bring all your time behind the walls. How much time you say you're doing?"

  "Ten years."

  "Ten years," said Atkins. "Let's see, if you serve the minimum, you'll only do three years and four months. Minus the six months I can get you in a halfway house, you'd do less than three years behind the walls. That's chump change compared to the almost seven years you'll do if you max out without parole. And if I get a real hard-on for you, I can squash most of your good time. That means you'd do almost eight years. And make no mistake about it, I can do everything I say."

  "I have to live with myself. If I go over to your side, I wouldn't like the guy in the mirror. On top of that, I've got to live with the rest of the people in here. If I were in your back pocket, one of them would find out and that would be that. I got to spend more time with them than I do with you. You want to jam my parole, there’s nothing I can do about it. But even that’s better than the alternatives."

  The phone rang. Atkins picked it up, listened for a moment, and hung up.

  "That was the hospital ward. You must have done a real number on Bent. It's going to take a team of brain surgeons several hours of hard work just to keep him alive. Seems you not only cracked his skull real bad, but you inflicted some serious internal head injuries, too. According to them, he might be a veggie even if he lives. But we can fix that. Shit, we can fix it even if he dies. That list means power; power for you, power for me."

  Adrian stared at Atkins, wondering if keeping his mouth shut was worth it. If he'd cooperated with the DEA, he wouldn't be here; he'd be with Andy and Jennifer. Somewhere. Less than three years if he played ball; almost eight if he didn't. Was it worth it? Was looking in the mirror that important? Did self-respect mean that much?

  He then contemplated a very different train of thought. He had refused to cooperate with the DEA because he couldn't stand the thought of facing his son, trying to explain why his life would be spent hiding. He’d also seen what happened to RJ. It had been better to go to prison. At least when it was over, he'd be able to go home, face his family and friends, and walk down the street with his head held up, knowing he had handled himself like a man. He could live under his real name, and not wonder about things that went bump in the night. There were those who would disagree with him, but they didn't have to walk in his shoes. Or his family’s. With Atkins, he was facing the same options he'd had with the DEA. He could take his chances or turn informant.

  His decision came quickly. To him, pride and self-esteem outweighed a few token favors and time off his sentence. Maybe Atkins could do what he said, maybe he couldn't. But he had to live with himself, and sleeping peacefully at night was better than living in fear and self-loathing. His life expectancy was something to consider, too. Atkins wouldn't kill him for refusing to cooperate, but the convicts would if he did.

  He looked at Atkins, and shook his head. "Sorry, Lieutenant. The answer's the same. If you squash parole, my good time, my job, or anything else, that's up to you. I don't care if I do the rest of my time in the hole."

  Atkins flushed. The veins in his temples stood out like pipelines and, his face was like stone. Adrian had stripped him bare. Retaliation would be superficial, tantamount to beating a man who refused to fight back. And Adrian had done it in front of the other guards. They knew the score, too. Atkins wouldn't compromise himself by getting physical with him now. There would be other times and places for getting even.

  Atkins looked at one of the guards, a middle-aged, balding man, and said, "Harold, go to Mr. Cabraal's cell and bring his things down. I'm going to place him in administrative detention.” The guard nodded and left.

  "I'm going to write you up for fighting, Cabraal. Since you won't incriminate Simmons or Bent, you'll be granted a hearing at which time you may contest the charges. It will take place within seventy-two hours. In the meantime, you can cool your heels in the isolation block. Fergus, Dimbrovski, lock him up."

  They escorted Adrian from the office. When they were gone, Atkins snatched up
an ashtray and pitched it against the wall.

  ***********

  Adrian sat on his bunk in the isolation unit, trying to figure out what fate had against him. It seemed no matter what he did, he wound up in trouble. This time, a simple trip to the shower room had turned to disaster. It wasn't enough that he was seventeen hundred miles from home, locked up in a maximum security penitentiary, cut off from his friends, family, his attorney and the rest of the outside world. He had barely settled in, and had already been down the road and back. And if Bent didn't pull through, he'd go down the road again.

  He heard a key turn in the heavy door at the end of the tier. The door opened, and then closed with a loud, metallic slam that echoed through the cellblock’s desolate stone walls. It was a noise he hated because of its uncompromising finality. It echoed of despair and hopelessness, and served as a constant reminder of where he was. Carmine Ruffino had been right; in there he'd find nothing but steel, concrete, and misery.

  He was surprised when he saw the owner of the footsteps; it was Jimmy Atkins. There was a pitiless look on his face. "We're alone now, Cabraal. That means we can talk honestly like men, and say what we really mean."

  "We already did," Adrian said, his suspicions rising.

  "It's different when there's people around. But now there’s just us."

  "Nothing's going to change what I said in your office. I'm not going on your list."

  "There's smarter men than you on it. Damn boy, you ain't got the sense God gave a rag."

  "Maybe dumb is better than smart," Adrian said. "Might live longer." The more he talked to staff members, the more he realized he’d been pushing the envelope further and further. This he attributed to his growing resentment and intolerance of them. He wondered how far might be too far, especially with Atkins.

  Atkins studied him, appearing to be deliberating. Finally, he said, "Turn around."