A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3)

by Sister Souljah

  Seven minutes in, one dude started rhyming. It was hip-hop, but it was the blues. All about how hard life was for him. The one seated next to him started to click his cuffs together to the beat. Then one behind him began beat-boxing. Not everyone shared the same skill, but we were all black and young and we could each catch the beat with our hands, cuffs, chains, feet, or mouths. It was the only time I saw more than two or three young black males do anything together besides ball—football, baseball, basketball, or soccer. The hardest of the hard tried to ignore the pull of the a capella music. But even those few were either toe tapping or banging or stomping out to the beat. Dude in the middle made up a melody and started singing his own hook to our impromptu song. Somehow his deep voice was soothing, the way it laid back and laced the rhythm of the rhyme. When it was done, it was done. It was back to being frozen and hard-hearted and deaf and disconnected. The dude in front of me and the guy seated next to him were different, though. They broke the ice between them as we neared the Island. A few seconds of overhearing them and I knew that they already knew one another, which was why they were no longer frozen like the rest. One was older than the other, schooling him on the Island in a low tone. But there is no privacy in this circumstance, so I had to listen even if I didn’t want to hear.

  “Miz, we ’bout to arrive in hell. I know. This is my sixth time. You gon’ be a target ’cause of what you got on. So let me get your chain and hold it for you. You too new to rock it without getting sliced up. Niggas are gon’ test you for your kicks on your feet and for the shirt and pants off of your ass and back. Don’t let ’em strip you no matter what. But if them niggas bum-rush you, four or five or six of them at a time, I’mma tell you now, you gon’ lose. But fight them like you believe you can win. Hit ’em hard, fight dirty, bite a motherfucker if you have to. But show them you got heart and that you’re willing to go for broke. That’s the only way you can get some respect. If you don’t fight, they gon’ be ‘maytagging’ that ass. If you let them bitch you up like that there’s no turning back; word travels faster than fire on the inside, and everybody will want a turn to get at you.” The younger one leaned forward. The older one tried to remove the gold chain from his neck.

  “When we get to intake, like when we first arrive, the CO’s gonna talk a lot of shit about not fighting, not getting into no more trouble than you already in. Don’t listen to shit that a CO has to say. It’s fight or die. I was in your same position on my first trip up here. I had to lay a few kids down. They gave me a fifteen-second hearing, didn’t hear a word I had to say about it. They threw my ass straight in the box. That shit was hell; twenty-three hours a day I was locked in for ninety days. Thought I was gonna lose my mind. I started seeing shit, word up, hearing shit, and talking to myself, banging my head on the walls in shit. Crazy! You don’t want to go to the box. But believe me, when I got out of there, niggas started to show me some motherfucking respect.”

  * * *

  I looked around. A quick glance was all it took to survey the limited space in my box. There was a sink. I went to it, turning on the water yet not expecting it to pour out. I wasn’t expecting anything in fact. The water rushed out. I rinsed, then cupped my hands and began splashing water onto my face.

  This isn’t hell, I thought to myself. There is no sink or cool or cold water in hell. I know better. In the Quran, hell is described to us truthfully and clearly and in great detail. Nonbelievers wear “garments of fire” and hot boiling water is poured over their heads. Water so hot that what is in their bellies and even their skins will be melted. When those who have been “dragged to hell on their faces” try to escape, they are met by “whips of iron” and repeatedly pulled back in. They cannot rid themselves of the feel and taste of constant burning. There is a tree in hell, known to Muslims as the Tree of Zaqqum. It bears no fruit; the only food it offers is thorns and snake heads.

  What this captivity is for me is a trial, I told myself. In sura 25, ayat 29, the Quran says, “We make some of you a trial for others.” And in sura 29, ayat 2 we are asked the question, “Do men think that they will be left alone on saying ‘we believe’ and will not be tried?”

  In times of being tried, a true believer does not doubt or curse or abandon his faith. Allah can never be abandoned. We believe that Allah is closer to us than our “main vein.” However, Allah can abandon whom he pleases, leave us in error if he pleases. So we humble ourselves in fear and in love of Allah that we might never be abandoned by the One who created us, gave us breath and light. We pray even more in times of difficulty. We are never disloyal. Those who are disloyal in faith are untrue and were untrue from the start. The Quran says:

  And among men is he who serves Allah on the verge, so that if good befalls him he is satisfied therewith, but if a trial afflicts him he turns back. He loses this world and the Hereafter. That is a manifest loss.—Sura 22, Ayat 11

  It was hot in the box, but I was used to handling the heat. This was nothing compared to the heat of the desert, I remembered. And this was not the heat of hell. I took a few deep breaths, doused my entire self with water, cleaned even the soles of my feet, and made a prayer. Afterwards, I collapsed; my body was exhausted and my brain was on burn-out. Sleep is a necessity not a desire, I convinced myself. It was the only way for me to give in and let go.

  Deep sleep, so deep there was no dreaming or memory of having dreamt. So deep there was no amount of cells slamming shut or men calling out that could rouse me. Deep, in a blanket of darkness so dark, there was no emotion in me, no desire to see, no fear of the unknown, no desires and no needs, not even yearnings, just sleep. This was the kind of sleep that could only be brought on by a week of interrogations and beatings, nearly two weeks of heavy suspicions and constant observing, and several days of carrying chains on hands and feet, taking baby steps and small motions, and of untangling lies that once untangled if pulled and stretched out in a straight line would run on for miles and miles and miles.

  * * *

  Fully awake and alert, feeling grateful to have finally slept. This was the blessing of “the box,” solitude. Still there was a stench. Ignore it, I told myself. If I simply breathed in and out enough times, it would become like odorless oxygen. I smiled. But I was awake now and the action in me was fully awake as well. One towel, that’s what I had been given, and one cup and one toothbrush and one bar of soap and one roll of tissue. On the metal slab that was my bed, on top of a cracker-thin mattress, I sat. Using my teeth, I loosened the threads of the towel until I could pull them out with my fingers. I ripped the towel into three portions and then each portion in half again until I had six washcloths. I began cleaning, a thorough cleaning without Dettol or detergents, but using the bar of soap that I was issued, and I was scrubbing each thing—the sink, the toilet, the walls, and even the floors—with a forceful hand and constant motion. “Allah loves those who purify themselves,” I remember. I was washing off the saliva and tears and breath and residues of hundreds if not thousands of men. The stench made their presence here in the box obvious. If I didn’t clean up, it would be like I was locked in a small space with all of the men who had ever been locked in this same space. With the soap and the cloths and the detailed scrubbing, I was creating a new start and a neutral scent, which was better than a foul one. With washcloth number four, I scrubbed even the slot where thousands of hands before mine had been pushed in and out, cuffed and released.

  Eyes, a CO peering in. No privacy; I didn’t expect any. I was being watched like a leopard in a cage.

  Feminine fingers; I could tell even through the thin white gloves she wore. The dinner tray came. I didn’t expect it. Didn’t expect anything. It was pushed through the slot and I took it. “Thank you,” I said through the cleaned slot. No response. Didn’t expect one.

  Eating now is just a function. The food is not connected to any emotional bonds, culture, or tradition. I would not savor it, anticipate it, or even taste it, yet I would eat it to survive.

  After di
gestion was fully completed, I was weighing out my workout options. There was enough space for the usual dips and squats and thrusts and push-ups and sit-ups and so on. I didn’t launch immediately into that formula. I was thinking and strategizing. My body was already cut and carved, solid and strong, flexible and fluid. Up against a wall of men, I realized that my most lethal weapon was my martial arts techniques. The Asian fighting arts were all about the art of the empty hands. Hands without guns, and sometimes without even poles or sticks or knives. And in learning those techniques, we are trained to fight more than one man at a time, sometimes five, ten, or fifteen. But there is a difference between men poised to engage in hand-to-hand and a mob, like the riot that landed me in the box.

  The dilemma is that as a ninjutsu warrior, I am trained in the art of the kill. I can have an opponent that is a foot taller than me or a half foot wider than me, like some of these dudes up in here; I can have a rival who is a wall of muscle. Still, I could kill him through the technique of attacking his pressure points, joints, or his eyes, or by simply and swiftly catching him at the right angle, punching his flesh inside of his body and snatching back his organs. We are not trained in the “half kill.” We are not defensive fighters. We are not martial arts exhibitionists or dancers. There is no cute choreography. We aim to eliminate swiftly and to not leave a trace.

  I did not come here, however, to kill. I came here to serve my time until I am sentenced and sent elsewhere to serve more time, hopefully an amount of time comparable to the valuelessness of the deceased. The trick question or the trick situation for me, then, is, how can I serve my time without accumulating more time by eliminating enemies that simply appeared right in my face for no right reason when I get back into population after my ninety days in the box?

  Don’t overthink it, I told myself. I’d opt to change out of my street clothes and into the Department of Corrections–issued top and bottoms. While alone, I’d shadow fight, sharpening my techniques and accuracy, movement and speed, kicks and leaps.

  While getting deep into the sparring, my peripheral vision was catching glimpses of eyes peering into my cell. Soon as I noticed this, I broke my momentum, not wanting to display my level to the officers for any reason, or to anyone who might be collecting information for my still-open case. I’m not under any impression that I know what side anyone I come across is on. They’re all strangers to me. Give ’em a few minutes and something they say or do will reveal their hand.

  After my extended shadow fight with a swift and elusive opponent, I wound down into dips and thrusts and squats and sit-ups and push-ups. Then I lay down on the floor, looking up at the rule book I had been given for this place. It was the only book I had so far. Should I read it when it was already crystal clear that no one on Rikers Island was following any rules anyway, not the inmates or the keepers?

  I sat up and cracked it open. It was better for me to learn their official policy than to not learn it. This way, I would understand the consequences of each thing and how to possibly make moves in my own favor.

  “An inmate shall obey all orders of Department of Corrections officers, personnel, and staff at all times and without argument.” Now I knew that thinking was forbidden. I also knew that speaking was forbidden unless it was the normal nonsense.

  “Good time for good behavior can reduce an inmate’s sentence by one-third of the term.” I paused right there. It sounded like a trick. Yet they were trying to give us the carrot to chase, something to strive for in a place where in order to survive, you would have to disobey at least a few rules and knock out at least a few men, if not kill them outright. So the one-third reduction was something available that couldn’t actually be obtained.

  Some of the rules did not match the nature of men. “No wrestling,” or what they called “horseplay,” and “no sparring.” That was crazy to me. It actually meant that if we were fighting one another, it better be for real, and not because we are young men who are captives, rivals, or friends just doing what was normal for us to do. They labeled sparring and “play fighting” as assault, punishable by a trip to the box.

  A conversation between two or more locked-up dudes, according to their rules, could catch an inmate a “conspiracy” charge. It is considered “forging an agreement to break the rules.” So extreme, even if an inmate gives another inmate something, “with the intent to influence the person or benefit himself in any way,” it’s labeled bribery. I paused, thinking how the rules were worded and set in such a way that any inmate could be accused of anything at any time and he would be guilty, because what he was being accused of is normal everyday happenings. He would have no defense—although he would get a “hearing.” What a joke. At the “hearing,” once they charged the inmate with talking, or gathering together in a small group, or sharing a pack of ramen with the intent to influence another inmate to trade something he got, he would be found guilty. Even before reading their rule book I knew this system was a trap, not a place to expect or receive justice, not even if a man was honest and true about the unlawful actions he actually did commit. Not even if a man simply wanted to do what the facility was built for, serve his time . . . and nothing extra.

  As a businessman, I understood this hustle. Each inmate was a “captive consumer.” Out in the world, businessmen had to attract a customer by having an excellent product, or a very accessible product, or a very useful or popular well-advertised product, or a fairly priced affordable necessity product. But in here, according to their rule book everything an inmate buys must be purchased from the Department of Corrections “commissary.” If an inmate buys or shares or trades anything, it is a violation that comes with a write-up and a punishment. It is illegal, and the thing that was purchased, shared, or traded they label “contraband.” If an inmate got two Tylenols or Bayer aspirins and he gave one to his man who is sick, that’s a violation. They wrote that in their rule book! Crazy.

  I learned that in here you could buy food. The food is only legal if it is purchased from commissary. The food could only be stored in our cell if it was purchased from commissary. That’s a mean hustle, I thought to myself. There was only one supplier providing products, setting prices, and controlling and monopolizing the market, which was definitely not a free market with competition at all.

  There were other rules, of course, that were even stranger. Reading them typed out in a leaflet let me know what usually goes on in here. Rules like “No demonstration, boycotts, or work stoppages or interrupting the routine in any way.” Same as saying “We know we’re robbing you and fucking you over, but just let it happen.” They even stated that no inmate can “resist” any correction officer or DOC staff member. They put in parentheses the word physically, but they already had stated that it was also wrong to “resist” by talking back.

  “Inmates shall not make threats or take hostages.” Now I was laughing to myself. They made the rules so ridiculous and so tight that it must be an everyday reality in here that shit explodes into the riot that I saw, or into inmates “taking hostages.”

  And the last and filthiest rule, one that should never have to be spoken or written down, is “No sex between inmates or anyone at Rikers. No exposing your private parts or asking or paying for sex.” An all-male facility, I thought to myself. Why would there be any mention of sex between men? And what of the feminine fingers I saw? Was the “no sex” rule put in place to protect whatever few women who were unloved and unprotected and therefore desperate enough and allowed to work in here surrounded and engulfed by filthy men including the male officials and the inmates?

  The second part of that final rule, not to expose your private parts, was pure bullshit. I was part of a lineup of naked men, after having been stripped of my clothes at Rikers intake. Some of the same dudes that rode up on the same bus with me chained and cuffed together were there too. Men who were already humiliated prisoners became visibly insecure, embarrassed, and vexed enough to curse the guards out loud. I didn’t say shit. I’m not shy. That�
�s a feminine trait. Moreover, I’m not shy standing before men who although they are still in uniform, physically, have the same as me. I was not going to let these authorities raise any emotion in me, fear or otherwise, I told myself. Instead I pitied the corrections officers. Thought about just how miserable and desperate a loser a man would have to be to take a job staring at other men’s dicks and balls and then asking them to bend over so you could take a look up their asshole. To take that job, a man would have to be a complete failure at business, which is the backbone of America. He’d have to be either too lazy or too dumb or too broken to have developed a product, opened a store, or dealt in trade, import or export. He would have to be a man whose father left him nothing—no land, no jewels, no gold, no cash. He’d have to be a man who had no other choice, was in debt everywhere, even to the mother of his children. So I was calm during the naked search. I felt despite my present situation that I was still above all of the men hired to do what they were doing right then.

  In my Southern grandfather’s village, there were times when men were naked and in groups. It could be while washing in the bathhouse or down at the water. It was no big deal. We would wash each other’s backs. Men were solid. In our minds there was nothing a man wanted from another man besides true brotherhood and sincere friendship. In that village all men knew that we were bonded one to the other, as the protectors of our women, our land, our animals, and our culture and beliefs.

  In the conclusion of their Rikers rule book, it was repeated in bold lettering that accused inmates have a right to an in-house jail hearing. But who would believe in receiving justice at a hearing, after reading the rules and therefore peeping both the hustle and the setup woven into the rules? I wouldn’t.

  That was one of about three urgent reasons why, in my riot hearing, which occurred before I was transferred to “the box,” I said absolutely nothing.