I was only an hour into my shift when Warden Thorpe entered the Library. I immediately felt uncomfortable. I looked at the librarian as he took notice.
“Steven, I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m being transferred to another prison. I’ve got the ball rolling here with the change in schedules, and the remodeling is going on as planned.”
We shook hands. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, and I hope we can continue our friendship. Lt. Cobb will be taking over until my successor is named. And don’t worry; I’ve left specific instruction that you shall remain in the library until your sentence is up.” He added, “Best of luck in your journey, and I look forward to seeing you again.” I thought it highly unlikely that our paths would ever cross again, and I wished him well. He turned and exited as I saw the librarian reach for his phone.
I went on with my daily duties and returned to my cell.
The prison was abuzz with the news that Warden Jackson Thorpe was leaving. There was some dissension amongst the prisoners as to how he had changed things, and there was speculation on who would replace him. Several names were mentioned, none of which I knew, but they were all very politically liberal, so as to conform to the governor’s promise to improve the prisons.
There was one thing everyone agreed on. Having Lt. Cobb in charge was not in the best interest of the inmates.
***
Raphael returned to the cell after one of his ten-hour shifts. I could tell he was upset. “That sonuvabitch is going to kill us all!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Cobb is putting us on twelve-hour shifts. He’s taking some of the workers out of the laundry room and putting them on construction detail. That leaves us shorthanded. He’s up for the warden’s job. He’s going to kill us all to make himself look good.”
He sat on the cot, disgusted with the situation. “I can hardly make it through ten hours of work now.”
I tried to console him. “I’m sorry, Raphael. Maybe if a bunch of you went to talk to him and…”
Raphael blew up. “You just don’t get it, do you? You sit up there in the library and flip through some books. You haven’t broken a sweat since you got here! Not everyone can be the warden’s special project!”
He left the cell.
I guessed that I deserved that. Everyone but me was busting their ass, paying their debt to society, following orders, and working under less-than-perfect conditions.
I was just trying to lay low and do my time.
Raphael came back a short time later, and I apologized.
“Forget it,” he said.
He sat on his cot, lit a cigarette, and let out a huge sigh. “Honestly, Steven, I don’t know how much more I can take.”
From that time on, I tried to make Raphael’s day better. Before he got back to the cell, I would have water in the sink for him to wash with. I would help him out of his jumpsuit and wash it for him. With Warden Thorpe gone, he was the only friend I had in this whole place.
***
I came back from my lunch break, and the librarian gave me a letter to inform me that, effective immediately, I would be transferred to the construction detail. I was sure there was some sort of mix up. Warden Thorpe had assured me that I was to stay in the library. Yeah, there had to be some mistake somewhere.
I asked to see Lt. Cobb and was escorted to his office. I took my letter with me. The whole way, I was thinking on how I should handle it. I decided to be polite.
“Lt. Cobb sir, Warden Thorpe assured me that I would stay in the library for the duration of my sentence.”
Lt. Cobb took the letter from me.
“It says here you are expected to start on construction detail tomorrow. What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
I started to stutter and stammer and mentioned Warden Thorpe’s name several times.
“Boy, Warden Thorpe is gone. Any kind of deal you had with him is over. There’s a new sheriff in town.” He pointed to his cowboy hat. “And everyone pulls their own weight. Everyone spends six months on construction detail. Then you go back to your previous job or get reassigned.”
“But…”
“Dismissed!”
I was led back to the library and finished my shift.
Upon entering my cell, I waited for Raphael to return from another grueling twelve-hour shift. In the meantime, I read my letter from Cobb, hoping it would say something different. It didn’t. As Raphael returned from work, I handed him my letter.
He glanced at it and remarked, “Welcome to the real world, Gringo.”
I was still grasping at straws and in denial. “Raphael, I think there’s been a mistake. I’m supposed to stay in the library. Maybe he doesn’t know who I am?”
Raphael laughed. “Steven, everyone in here knows who you are! Cobb knows exactly what he’s doing. Thorpe wanted to coddle you. Cobb doesn’t. Thorpe is gone. Deal with it!”
***
The following morning, with the help of some guards, I found my way to the cell block that was being renovated. A superior officer looked at my letter and instructed me to go to an area where they were demolishing some of the cells.
“Grab a wheelbarrow,” the foreman barked.
I did as I was told and followed him to some contractors working with jack hammers.
“When they bust up the concrete, put it in your wheelbarrow and dump it over that ledge into that dump truck.”
He was screaming, as the jack hammers were very noisy. He tossed me an oversized pair of gloves.
I filled my wheelbarrow to the top and then realized that I couldn’t move it. Being the new guy, I was too proud and would be too embarrassed to admit I overfilled it. I strained and lifted the handles off the ground. I then lost my balance and tipped it over.
Laughter filled the air, and I smiled. I filled it back up about halfway and headed for the ledge. Dumping it was another adventure. All eyes were on me as I made my first dump attempt. I succeeded but soon found that it would be very easy to end up over the ledge and into the bed of the truck.
There must have been at least fifty of us doing the wheelbarrow detail. Most of the inmates looked like it was second nature to them. They must have had some kind of blue-collar background. The new workers, like myself, struggled with just keeping their balance.
The place was incredibly dusty and noisy. The contractors were fitted with hard hats, dust masks, and ear plugs. The inmates had dirty rags that barely covered their faces and wads of toilet paper stuck in their ears.
On my first day, I had neither.
A buzzer rang for our fifteen-minute lunch break. Peanut butter sandwiches were the norm, and watered-down milk or lemonade were our only choices of beverage.
One of the more compassionate guards tossed me a rag and a partial roll of toilet paper and advised me not to misplace my gloves, as I was only allowed one pair a week.
I thanked him.
I had never worked a twelve-hour shift before. Hell, I had never even worked an eight-hour shift before. Even with youth on my side, nothing would have prepared me for such a physical struggle. I had to utilize all my strength and energy to complete my task.
By the end of the day, I could hardly walk. The journey back to my cell was agonizing. Raphael was waiting for me. I was ready for him to snicker and make fun of me for being such a wimp. I got the opposite. He helped me take off my shoes and jumpsuit. He took a wash cloth and wiped my face, as my eyes were caked with concrete dust.
My first thought was, I’ve got to get ahold of Jake. He’s got to get me back in the library. I looked at the calendar and calculated that it would be a month before I would see him again. I quickly fell asleep and totally missed the buzzer for dinner. When I woke, Raphael was gone, but he returned later toting a bag with that night’s supper in it.
“Here, Gringo, you’ve got to keep your strength up.”
I gobbled down food that I had once found too gross to eat. I leaned back on my cot and thought, OK, five months
and twenty-nine days to go.
The mornings were the hardest. Being still for the six or so hours I spent in my cot just made me even stiffer. At Raphael’s urging, I would try to do some stretching before I went to breakfast. It didn’t help.
Even before I had arrived on the wheelbarrow detail, there had been dissension in the crew. There were daily scuffles, as tempers were wearing thin. These guys were being worked hard with no end in sight. The initial plan by the governor was that the prisoners were to be rotated to several jobs, in hopes that some of them would learn a trade or a specific skill that would benefit them after prison life. Some of these guys had been hauling concrete for two to four months, ten to twelve hour days, six days a week, with no notice of being relieved.
***
While some inmates lingered and dragged their feet to get to their work detail, I found that if you were one of the first ones there, you got your pick of the best wheelbarrows. Some rolled easily, some had nearly flat tires, and some just didn’t roll straight. And with my small frame, I needed all the help I could get. I started taking notice of my arms, as they seemed to be getting bigger and the muscles more defined.
I finally had enough strength after work to write a letter to Jake. I dropped it in the mailbox and tried to estimate when he would get it. If I ever needed him, it was now.
A new inmate showed up to man a wheelbarrow. The only one left was this really junky one that was taxing to move, even with no concrete in it. The other inmates laughed at him as he fell numerous times. Welcome to the club, I thought. He stopped and surveyed the crowd. He eyed me as the weakest in the herd and headed my way, hoping to exchange his broken-down barrow for my easy-rolling one. It was to be my first “one-on-one” altercation.
We exchanged insults, and he got his way. It was short and humiliating. I spent the rest of the day hauling concrete in a less-than-perfect barrow amid chuckles
I contacted Bo and told him to strong arm this guy into leaving me alone. “Get physical with him if you have to,” I said.
“Sorry, Steven. Your payment stopped last month. I can’t protect you anymore. Sorry.”
I could tell that he was really sorry, and it was strictly a business decision.
I then asked him to handle it for me as a friend.
He answered. “If I did it free for you then I’d have to do it free for everyone.” And once again, he apologized.
I told Raphael what had happened.
“Who was paying your protection money?” he asked.
I told him that I had no idea and that Thorpe had said it was taken care of.
I asked Raphael if he thought Cobb was involved.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. If Cobb found out that Thorpe was having the payroll department send Bo’s wife money, he would stop it. He’s a control freak, and he definitely doesn’t like you.”
The next day, the same scenario happened.
He shoved me aside and secured my barrow. He smiled at the remaining inmates as all eyes shifted to me waiting for a response. There was a rage that lingered inside of me that had never been released before, but now it was time! I picked up a baseball-sized piece of concrete, threw it, and nailed him in the back of the head, drawing blood. Fearing I had overstepped my boundaries, I looked for help from the guards. They stood steadfast. He charged at me, knocking me to the ground. I gained my balance and managed to scuffle with this much bigger man. I picked up another small piece of concrete, pounding him in the head and getting the best of him. His face was now covered in blood as the gash in his head widened.
My fellow inmates were yelling for blood, and I was giving it to them!
By now, the crowd was in a frenzy. Anyone who had a grudge with another was fair game. It was a near riot. The contractors ran to safety. The guards were outmatched, and they called for reinforcements. I continued rolling on the ground with my enemy, pummeling him in the face.
Order was restored, and all involved were herded into one of the common areas. We were told to sit Indian style with our hands on our heads and our fingers locked. I looked about the room and saw nods and confident smiles aimed my way. I felt I had earned their respect. The medical staff attended to the wounded. My fighting partner received nine stitches on his head.
We were all instructed to return to our cells until the matter was investigated. Raphael greeted me at the door, acting like he was dusting me off with a rag. “Make way for the King! Woo hoo! Who the Hell are you, man? Sounds like someone woke up a sleeping giant! Gringo kicked some major ass today!”
I was smiling ear to ear. “You heard?”
“It’s all over the cell block. Hell, you don’t need no protection. You’re a bad ass! That guy was in here on a first degree murder charge!”
I kicked back and felt satisfied with the way I had handled myself and wondered what I would have done if I’d had my Battle Ring. Maybe I would have knocked everyone out!
The next day, I was only five minutes into my workday when I was summoned to the warden’s office. I complied, being escorted by two armed guards. I felt overly confident as I entered Lt. Cobb’s office.
He wasted no time. “You are being charged with disorderly conduct and inciting a riot. There is no court here, boy, just me, and the verdict is guilty! Normally, I would sentence you to a week in solitary confinement, but that would be easier than hauling concrete.”
He came at me nose to nose and spoke to his assistant. “Make sure this inmate stays on the construction detail until it is completed.” He returned to his desk as the guards waited for more instructions.
“What are you waiting for? Get him the Hell out of here!”
I returned to my work, and at lunch break I was besieged with questions from my newfound friends, my fellow inmates. They all wanted to know what my punishment was, and we were all laughing at what had transpired the previous day.
I had never felt more accepted in my life.
Chapter 25
Word had come down that Cobb had suspended the mandatory Sunday religious services. It was speculated that he was going to put us all on a seven-day work schedule. My fellow inmates were convinced that this was the truth. But Raphael enlightened us with his knowledge of psychology.
He gathered the masses and spoke. “Cobb is no dummy. He knows that the mandatory service was uniting us all. It was a mental and physical escape for all of us―a reprieve in sentence, if you must. He wants each and every one of us to feel trapped with no end in sight. With him, it’s all about the power. Besides, they would have to pay the contractors double time for Sunday. Cobb knows that would make him look bad.”
At the end of his speech, his reassurance had eased everyone’s mind, and we all hoped that he had diagnosed this crazy man named Cobb correctly.
I shook his hand and complimented him. “You’re one smart cookie.”
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
***
The first Sunday with no religious service was welcomed by myself and others. Raphael and the other devout, religious inmates continued attending. Raphael entered the cell with his Bible. I asked him about the attendance.
“Hardly anyone. Just what Cobb wants,” he replied as he opened his Bible to a random place.
I began questioning him on his religious beliefs and his dedication to the church.
“I was raised Catholic and attended mass every time my parents went, and I continued into adulthood.” He stopped and thought for a second. “I would consider myself as a very spiritual and religious person.” He said this with much pride.
I asked him about all the wild tales like the parting of the Red Sea and how Jesus turned water into wine.
“The power of God is immense. I believe with all my heart those things happened.”
All of these inquiries led me to ask the question that I wanted to ask him:
“Do you believe the Devil is real?”
“Yes, Steven. I believe the Devil is real.”
With his Bible in hand,
he turned the tables on me. “What are your religious beliefs?”
I started from the beginning of how I had become a nonbeliever due to my mother being a religious fanatic, and that being forced to attend church seemed more like punishment than something to embrace and learn from. I followed with the example of Reverend Randolph’s cash cow he called a church.
There was a lull in the conversation when I decided to confide to him my history with Miguel. I left nothing and no one out, and I told him of my plans for when I got out of prison.
In the beginning of my story, Raphael had looked unfazed. As I continued, I felt I had struck a nerve. I spoke in very descriptive terms about Miguel being an exalted demon or an agent of the Devil. Raphael seemed to freeze and gaze at the heavens. When I got to the part about me being The Chosen One and how, in some people’s opinion, my life’s journey had been preordained by a higher power to kill Miguel, Raphael motioned me to stop as he splashed water on his face.
“Steven, as a devout Catholic, I went through catechism school, attended Catholic high school, and even attended a college that was of Catholic-based faith. Some of the required classes were theology inspired. If I remember my classes correctly, this sounds like the beginning of The Great Tribulation―or maybe Armageddon?”
I had heard Father Patrick speak of The Great Tribulation and Armageddon, but he had never elaborated on what they meant.
Raphael could tell that I was Bible illiterate.
“Armageddon is the final battle to decide who will rule the world: Good or Evil.”
“So the battle between Miguel and me will be about the possible end of the earth?”
“Your battle may signal many things: Armageddon, The Second Coming, a prelude to Judgement Day. You must be ready to fight to the death!”
He placed his Bible back on the shelf. His hands were shaking.
Our conversation ended. We didn’t talk religion again for quite some time.
Chapter 26
A stretch of hot weather hit the area, and the construction detail was like a sauna. Not everyone was in shape like I was. Some of the inmates were overweight and lacked stamina. Prisoners were falling by the wayside. They were just dragged out of the way, and the remaining inmates were told to pick up the pace.
The Killing of Miguel Page 11