Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  Now really suspicious, Adrian remained as he was.

  Angered, Atkins snapped, "I said turn around! I'm moving you out of here. Stick your hands through the slot."

  Adrian didn't like the idea, but reluctantly obeyed. When Atkins had cuffed him, Adrian turned around. "Where am I going?"

  The sneer on Atkins' face was all Adrian needed to see.

  "Actually, we aren't going anywhere, I'm going in there with you."

  Atkins unlocked Adrian's cell and entered. Sixty pounds lighter, handcuffed, and knowing what would happen if he resisted, he was at Atkins' mercy. The best he could hope for was not to give Atkins a clear shot at his head or vital organs. The big man was on him with a vengeance, punching, kicking, and stomping with a berserker rage. Again and again, he struck Adrian, cursing him for being an uncooperative dumbass, piece-of-shit convict. It reminded Adrian of the pounding he'd once taken when he’d been jumped by several thugs while he was high on pot. Only this was worse. His hands cuffed behind him were almost no use at all. Again and again, he rolled out of the way, not to avoid a blow, but to lighten it. It was near the end of the beating, however, that Atkins delivered his worst. He unsheathed the standard issue three-foot flashlight given to all guards, and with that he beat Adrian nearly into a coma. As the blows came, Adrian wondered what was keeping him conscious. His ribs ached, so did his shoulders, his chest, his arms and back. All he could really hope for was that Atkins didn’t kick him in the groin and tear open the hernia he’d suffered in the gym. Almost no part of his body escaped the onslaught. But in the midst of it, something deep within him reached a decision. Guard or no guard, Adrian committed himself to one day finding a way to repay Atkins for what he was doing. Then came one final blow to the head that mercifully knocked him unconscious.

  Chapter Twenty

  It seemed like much later, yet it felt like only a moment. Adrian heard keys turning a lock, heard the distant clang of a metal door, and then footsteps from what seemed like a great distance. From his crumpled place on the floor, he tried to straighten himself. He squinted in the direction of the footsteps, trying to evaluate his physical condition at the same time. The handcuffs were gone, and he slowly patted himself down. Nothing felt broken, but everything was sore. If Atkins now asked him how much of the blood smeared on him was his, he could only guess.

  The footsteps finally arrived and Adrian looked up at the elderly face outside his cell. Dimbrovski had brought Adrian's clothing and toilet articles.

  "Is too bad, Sonny Boy,” he said. His tone seemed sincere. “Atkins do this to you?"

  "It’s not like I did it to myself," Adrian answered.

  "No, I am sure you did not." Indicating one of the sacks he held, "These are yours, Sonny Boy." Adrian would have felt insulted were it not for Dimbrovski’s tone. His was a voice that was uncharacteristically kind and gentle compared to the rest of the prison staff. He also spoke with an accent that Adrian had yet to place.

  Adrian climbed to his feet, slowly hobbled to the front of the cell, and accepted the items through the bars. Next Dimbrovski handed him a plastic bag that felt heavy and warm.

  He looked at it, then at Dimbrovski. "What's this?"

  "You will need that," he answered in his heavy accent. "Go ahead, open it."

  Adrian opened the bag and looked inside. It contained a towel that had been soaked in hot water, a dry towel, a couple of washcloths, a bar of soap, and a bag with fresh underwear.

  Puzzled, Adrian said, "I don't understand."

  “There is nothing to understand. I think you need wash, that's all. No man should live like animal. That's why prisons in this country don't work. They treat people like animals, then say 'act like people'. When they don't, they put them back in cages again like animals. It doesn't work, never will."

  Adrian didn't know what to say. This was the only humane staff person he’d met since the beginning of his incarceration, and he found it out of place.

  "Why are you doing this? What's the hitch?"

  "No hitch," Dimbrovski answered, smiling. "It is simple act of kindness from one human to another. If there is hitch, it is only that you don't mention it to anyone. That is hitch."

  "Okay. But why?"

  "There is unwritten code among the guards. If one of them gets too friendly with the convicts he gets bad rap with other guards. They treat him like prisoner, too. It is one of the ways they unite. They have forced men to move on for being decent to the cons."

  "So why are you taking the chance? Why aren't you like them?"

  "I've been working here almost thirty years. I have seen everything there is to see. What I haven't seen hasn't happened yet. I've seen men come here who made mistakes, who stepped outside the law because they were desperate, but never hurt anyone. After being abused here, many of those men became cold and hard. They lost the part of them that was human and became like coyotes. I watched gentle men become violent, sensitive men become ruthless, lambs become lions because men like Billings and Atkins pushed them over the edge. You can punish a man for breaking the law and still treat him like human being. If you don't, he begins to believe he is animal. After that it does not take long for him to start acting like same. If they really knew what happens in these places they would not be so quick to send people here, especially since most of the cons will again return to society that sent them away. In most cases, the man returns to society filled with hate, and worse than before he was sent away. Try not to let that happen to you.

  "Stick nose in law books, read up on sentence reductions and such things. Maybe you will get lucky."

  "Which books? Where do I get them?"

  "I bring them to you. What is nature of your charge?"

  "Drug conspiracy."

  "The drugs, always the drugs. Is killing America. Well, no matter. That is America's business, not mine. I bring you the books."

  As Dimbrovski shuffled off, Adrian called after him, "Hey, what's your name?"

  "Nicolai. I am Russian. That is why I know so much about prisons. I know your shoes, I was in them when I was Soviet Jew, and saw my family die in Gulag as a boy."

  “I’m sorry, Nicolai.” Then Adrian added, "How many people get their sentences reduced?"

  The old man didn't look back. He simply said, "About one in a hundred. You read books, maybe get lucky, be number one-hundred."

  Adrian sagged inwardly for a moment. Then he picked up the hot towel and began wiping away the blood that had caked over much of his body, most of it from a man he never intended to harm.

  ************

  Using the law books Dimbrovski provided had proven no mean feat. Adrian had devoted his every spare moment to researching and writing his appeal. By the time he had finished, he knew his only chance lay with getting his two five-year terms changed from consecutive to concurrent. In essence, the record would show a sentence of ten years imposed, but only five years in reality.

  Wouldn't Jimmy Atkins be ecstatic if that happened?

  ************

  He was outside the head caseworker's office, waiting for his disciplinary hearing. Atkins and two other unknown third parties were huddled inside, reviewing the "facts" in preparation for his hearing while he sat handcuffed in the company of two guards.As far as he was concerned, the whole thing was a sham, just another excuse for the administration to flex their muscles.

  The more he experienced prison life, the more he equated it to his four years in the military. The regimentation was the same. Everyone had rank, which meant everyone had a role. He had to stand in line for anything he wanted. And his life was programmed for him. The major difference now was the loss of freedom. The walls, the bars, the head counts, and the clientele were constant reminders of that. In the military he always knew who the enemy was. In here, he couldn't tell the players with or without a program. Everyone was his potential friend; everyone was his potential executioner.

  The office door opened, and Atkins came out. "We're ready."

  Adrian
stood up and followed Atkins back inside the office, in the company of two guards. To his surprise Billings was there. It seemed odd that he should attend a disciplinary hearing.

  Seeing Adrian’s surprise, Billings said, “Don’t let my presence go to your head, Mr. Cabraal. You’re not that important. The third member of the Hearings Committee couldn’t make it today, and when I heard it was you I couldn’t resist filling in. You being a ‘friend’ of Carmine Ruffino’s and all.”

  Adrian ignored him, and shifted his attention to the middle-aged woman whose thinning red hair was pulled back in a tight bun. He glanced at her, then looked away and shook his head. On the outside, she was a female version of Billings. If she was the same on the inside, he had a problem. Billings had already told him he didn't like him, and he was heading a panel that would determine whether he had been ‘rightfully charged’. Essentially, their decision would be final. He could appeal, of course, but he had seen enough to know that an appeal was more futility than real meaning. There might have been a semblance of justice back in the courtroom, but he could forget it in here. Like Billings had said, he was there "to be punished."

  Atkins took his seat, leaving Adrian to stand in front of the panel. He looked at Adrian as though he were so much human fodder. He felt himself flush, but said nothing. Show no emotion. Die in your cell, smile to their face. Never show them a sign of weakness.

  He looked at Billings, who once again was studying him as if he were a frog about to be dissected. Again, he showed no emotion. He did, however, decide that both sides could play the game and, as far as he was concerned, the advantage was his. He already had nothing to lose.

  Billings got things started. "You've been charged with fighting, Mr. Cabraal. That's a serious offense. What have you to say for yourself?"

  Adrian shifted his deadpan gaze from Billings to Atkins. His eyes remained passive and he maintained his silence. Atkins pounded his fist on the table and was about to speak again, when the woman interrupted him.

  Her looks were severe, but her tone was soft and tranquil. Adrian got the feeling that he was under a microscope, and pegged her as a psychologist. Although he found that interesting, he reminded himself whose side she was on.

  "Mr. Cabraal," she began, "please answer the question. The only way we can reach a fair decision is with your help. If something’s bothering you, or you don't understand these proceedings, tell us and we'll consider it. Please, speak up."

  His eyes locked with hers, and he tried to determine how much was real and how much was bullshit. She didn't sound as hostile as she looked, yet he knew there was a reason for her presence. He decided to use her line of questioning to determine her intent, while also making his point.

  "I don't think we've been introduced," he said.

  "Doctor Jennings," she answered. "I'm head of the institution's Psychiatric Unit."

  Adrian nodded graciously. "I don't envy your job in a place like this, Doctor. But maybe you, more than the others, can appreciate how I feel."

  "And how is that, Mr. Cabraal? How do you feel?"

  "Look at me and tell me what you see."

  She frowned briefly, looked up and down the length of him, and said, "I see a young man of about thirty."

  "That's right, you see a man. Now that we've established that, why am I being forced to stand here, handcuffed like an animal? What am I going to do? Escape? Run away? Murder all of you? What?"

  Billings and Atkins looked at each other in disgust. They didn't play 'warm and fuzzy, touchy/feelie'. Dr. Jennings, on the other hand, responded differently.

  "Is that the problem, Mr. Cabraal? You resent being handcuffed and treated ‘like an animal’ as you say?"

  "That's right. I resent being treated like an animal. As for my silence, men talk, animals don't. And until you treat me like a man, I'll remain silent."

  Atkins had heard enough. "Knock off the bullshit, Cabraal! You almost killed a man in a fight. Only through the grace of God and seven hours of hard work by a team of surgeons is he still alive. We're not here to listen to your personal viewpoints. Now answer up!"

  Dr. Jennings interrupted. "Just a minute, Mr. Atkins. I’ll handle this." Turning back to Adrian, she said, "If we remove the handcuffs and treat you like a man, you'll be required to handle yourself as such. In doing so, you’ll be required to answer our questions. Is that a fair exchange?"

  Billings looked on quietly, his face fixed and hard. If he had his way, the prison system would be comprised of three groups: guards, convicts, and a team of gravediggers to bury the ones who wouldn't conform; ones like Cabraal. As far as doctors and psychologists were concerned, they could be shipped out on the next bus to a rehab center. All they did was get in the way.

  Adrian read Billings' thoughts, even through his wire-rimmed glasses. Drawing satisfaction, he looked at her and answered congenially, "Yes, as long as you don't try forcing me to reveal the details of what happened."

  "Very well," said Jennings. "I think we can go along with that, for now at least. We can't force you to reveal the details of the assault, but we can treat you like a man."

  Then, turning to Billings and Atkins, she said, "Isn't that so, gentlemen?"

  Billings and Atkins were livid. Billings gave her an icy stare, and broke his pencil in two.

  "No...we...can't, Dr. Jennings. I refuse to negotiate with an inmate. As far as I'm concerned, his refusal to cooperate constitutes an admission of guilt, and I'm vote that he receive one week in solitary confinement for fighting. I also recommend that he be given extra duty for two additional weeks. How do you feel about that, Mr. Atkins?"

  "I concur. A week in the hole, two weeks extra duty."

  Billings smiled, turned to Dr. Jennings, and held out his hands. "See how easy that was, Doctor? You were outvoted, two to one. It's settled."

  Then, looking at Adrian, he added, "Mr. Cabraal, it will be entered into your record that you were found guilty of fighting, and were given one week in solitary confinement and two weeks extra duty. Perhaps the next time you'll be less inclined to make demands that you have no right to make. Take him away."

  *************

  The Hole. Again. Different this time in that he already knew what to expect, yet similar in that it was just as unpleasant as the first time. Maybe even a little worse. The mystery was gone now, and only maddening, stifling solitude remained. Worse, there were no anonymous benefactors to make things easier this time. The boredom, the silence, the claustrophobia wouldn't be broken. He couldn't count on decent meals, fruit or magazines into which he could escape. All that remained were sleep, exercise, and a pad and pencil for writing letters.

  Letters were something he had never been very good at, but he needed to maintain contact with the outside world. More important, he considered it his responsibility. There were people on the outside that loved him, and wanted to know how he was doing. He should be grateful. That was a lot more than many of the other guys in there could say.

  He picked up a pencil and paper, and sat on the edge of his bunk to begin letter number one.

  “Dear Andy,

  I’m far away right now, but I still love you just as much. And I miss you. By now, I'm sure you know that things didn't work out, or I would have come back home. The school I'm in isn't much fun, but I'11 be all right. The important thing is that you and I don't forget each other. I know this is hard for you, and it is hard for me, too. Sometimes things happen that we don't like or understand, but that's part of life. You'll understand more about that when you're older.

  I hope you're being good for your Mom. That means a lot to me. I've always been proud of you, and I always will be. And if I know you're being good while I'm away, it will make me feel much better.

  There isn't much else to say for now, other than telling you again that I love you and miss you very much. Someday, we'll be together, and when that happens, I promise never to go away again. Take good care of yourself and your mom, and remember to say your prayers every nig
ht. Say an extra one for me.

  With all my love,

  Dad

  P.S.- After you and mama read this, have her write me a letter for you and send me your picture. That way I can see you every day, even though we're apart.”

  After reading the letter, his spirits sank. It only served to remind him of the boy he had lost due to his mistakes. Andy was perhaps the most important person in his life.

  What hurt, too, was that Jennifer had preferred not to let Andy know what had really happened. She wanted him to think his father was away at school for a long time. Adrian felt it might have been better to somehow tell Andy the truth. Then he’d know that he couldn't come home, as opposed to wouldn't. Once again he had to admit that things wouldn't be like this if he'd have chosen something else to do with his life.

  His second letter was to Jennifer. Writing to her presented an entirely different problem. Should he tell her the truth about life behind the walls, or downplay it? Which was the lesser of two evils, worrying her or lying to her? In his previous letters, he’d played it down, feeling she’d worry less about him. After a brief internal debate, he decided it was better that she didn't know how bad it really was. There was no need to cause her any undue angst.

  Dear Jen,

  I'm sorry I haven't written more often. I spent more than two months in transit on the prison bus system and after finally reaching this place I was kept in isolation until after I was indoctrinated. Now that my head has cleared and I've begun to adjust, I'm finally in a position to write more regularly. I'll do better from now on. I promise.

  I've thought about you a lot. When I was first sentenced, I couldn't imagine what it would be like without you and Andy. Now, I don't have to imagine. The reality of it all has begun to sink in, leaving me down and a little frightened. The longing is almost unbearable at times, but the fear of losing you or having something happen while I'm away is even worse. I feel we were given a glimpse of paradise, only to be shut off without knowing when we'll be together again. It makes my time a lot harder.