Corruption Officer

by Gary L. Heyward

  I stood there and watched him talk. Then Flocko came up to the front and we made eye contact. I shook my head, laughing, as the inmate continued mouthing off, trying to recruit other inmates to join his act. None of them budged. In fact, I could see Flocko sending out orders with just his eye movement.

  My B officer went to the other side of the housing area to give them an option of letting the inmates go to their cells to retrieve stuff. Now the inmate was openly challenging me, saying that he was about to turn it up and make it hot in here. I sat back in my seat and just watched him run his mouth. Then Flocko asked if he could talk to him. I figured Flocko was going to calm him down, let him know how things were run around here. Flocko put his arm around the inmate’s shoulders and told him to chill out. Then one of Flocko’s soldiers came up and handed the guy a girlie magazine. In my mind there is nothing that calms a situation down better than cooch. Flocko had his arm around the inmate’s shoulders, talking to him while he pointed out something in the magazine. I looked down at my logbook for a split second. When I looked up I saw Flocko spit something out of his mouth, across the inmate’s face, into his own hand, and then jerk his hand back real fast.

  The move was so smooth and swift that if you blinked you would’ve missed it. I heard the inmate yelp, then saw him grab his face. It was already too late, because the blood was already squirting out and I could see the slit opening wider as he grabbed his jaw and began to yell uncontrollably. I jumped up in shock and yelled for everyone to lock in. I saw Flocko and his goons do as I said real quick. I called for the B officer to lock in the side that he was on as well, then come over to my side.

  I immediately pressed my body alarm and called the clinic for medical attention. I rushed onto the floor, where the inmate was now squirming around, holding the flesh that was hanging off his face. The captain and the medical team arrived at the same time, along with several officers who I knew were going to perform an immediate search of the area. The captain ordered me to accompany the inmate to the clinic along with the staff to ensure that he would not act up along the way. It was a short trip to the clinic and the inmate lay still the whole way, quietly staring up at the ceiling, with makeshift bloody bandages wrapped around his head holding his jaw together.

  At the clinic the medics rushed the inmate to the back, where they began to work on him. I was told by the clinic officer that my captain called and said that he would be needing a report on the incident. I knew it was coming. It would be real simple, all the B officer had to say was that he was on the other side and did not see anything. All I had to say was that it happened in the back of the housing area, so I did not see who did it either. The fact was that there were only two officers watching sixty to a hundred inmates at any given time. So there is no way humanly possible for an officer to see everything that goes on. This is why it’s always easy for an officer not to assume any liability for what happens to an inmate.

  The captain arrived at the clinic just as a nurse came running to the front frantically asking for assistance restraining the inmate. I followed the captain into the room in the back, where we found the inmate sitting up on the edge of the table. The nurse was trying to apply some more gauze to his face to control the bleeding until they could get him to a hospital to get stitched up. The more she tried, the more he moved his face, not wanting her to touch him. The captain then said, “Nojockal Turner,” calling him by his government name, “who did this to you?” The inmate looked at me, the captain, and the nurse real hard before he tore off the gauze and exposed his wound. We all jumped back, because blood began to come out as he ran his tongue back and forth into the cut, which was so big now that we could see his teeth and gums through it.

  “My name is No-Joke,” he said. “I ain’t no snitch and those muthafuckas should have killed me.”

  CHAPTER 37

  ONLY FIFTY DOLLARS

  Work had become routine and for the most part I was acting like any other officer. Every now and then I would attend a CO function or attempt to play on the jail’s basketball team. I was blending in and no one was suspecting me of doing anything outside my everyday duties. The conditions were ripe for hustling to become a primary source of income. There was plenty of time and space. I had one foot in the jail as a CO, another in the streets between my hustles and the gambling spot.

  I was now bringing in either coke or tobacco whenever I worked. They were mandatory. The coke game, particularly, was really paying off. I was making a substantial amount of money on a daily basis, which supplemented my corrections officer paycheck.

  I also found ways to further increase my revenue. Rarely did an inmate have that ride-or-die chick who would take the risk of bringing him contraband, so the inmate would have his peeps Western Union the money to a third party whom I knew, and once I got the okay that the money was there, I would deliver the item. If it wasn’t a wire transaction, I would meet the customer somewhere and he would pay me right then and there to deliver product inside for him. I was making money, but for some of these inmates, the money they made from the stuff I was bringing in was enough to support their families.

  My smaller hustles were not every day though, like cell phone service for the inmates. I brought the smallest compact prepaid cell phone that I could buy and would bring it in just as I would my own cell phone. Then after receiving five hundred dollars from the inmate I would lock him in his cell and let him rock out until the minutes ran out. I didn’t care who they called, because most of the time it was either their lawyer or some girl to discuss things that they could not say over the inmate monitored phones.

  Things ran smooth, too. I even had the mess hall workers come pick up in the morning so that they could make sales at the lunchtime feeding. I had the inmates that went to either recreation or the law library making transactions for me throughout the jail. Occasionally I had to issue an ass-whipping to a nondescript (an inmate with no affiliation, or one who had no influence) who I thought was too nosy or who might jeopardize my operation. If my employees performed well I would reward them with something like a drink of liquor or maybe some food from outside. And from time to time I’d still hear about what other COs were doing, but it did not matter because my organization was a close-knit one, and ran like clockwork.

  Since my housing area was a high-classification area, I had no problem finding loyal street gang members to hustle with. Most of their charges were attempted murder, murder, or some form of drug kingpin charge. No slouches here. I treated them fairly and with respect, because no matter what crime they committed, I still considered them men. Plus, they were already incarcerated and going through trial and they might never see the light of day again, so there was no need for me to stress them over petty jail shit. I began doing business with them mainly because Flocko had gotten sentenced to a ten-to-twenty for his attempted-murder charge and was waiting to go up north.

  —

  One day I’d gotten off work and was on my way to Queens to collect five hundred dollars from an inmate’s grandmother. It was his birthday and he wanted a half pint of liquor and some red velvet cake. I followed her directions and pulled up over by the 40 Projects. I spotted her standing on the corner in front of a grocery store in the clothes that she said that she’d be wearing. I pulled up in my van and rolled down the window. She came up to my van and said, “Gee?” I responded with a nod. She smiled and got in. I checked her out for a moment. She had salt-and-pepper hair. Her age showed on her face, but she still looked good for a woman who I guessed was in her fifties. She had on a short jacket and jeans that displayed the fact that she kept in shape, or at least it appeared that way. She started talking to me, asking about her grandson, if he was okay and where he was, and were we treating him right, and so on. I answered with, “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t being treated right.” She smiled and began to thank me as we pulled away from the curb to go somewhere secluded to finish our transaction. She started talking to
me about her grandson going in and out of jail and reassuring me that I’m safe with her because this is not the first time she has met up with a CO or used Western Union to pay for something to help her grandson. She told me that the way she looked at it, I’m down for the people. She said only real COs never forget where they come from and recognize how hard it is to maintain out here. She went on to say that I provided a service that allowed families who can’t afford to take care of their loved ones with commissary money every two weeks to do something to help them. I acknowledged that when someone paid me a hundred dollars for two or three pouches of tobacco, their loved one could juggle them and trade them for commissary, that the money could last him for months, thus taking some of the burden off the family.

  I parked a few blocks down from where I picked her up so that I could get this over with and be on my way. She handed me the liquor and the cake and before she handed me the money she said, “Um, the money is a little short.” I gave her a look like, “I don’t want to hear that shit.” Then I asked, with one eyebrow up, “How short?” She said, “Only fifty dollars. It’s because they cut my food stamps this week and I did not have that many of them to sell to get all the money up.” I counted the money. It was $450. I was about to tell her it was cool when she leaned over into my ear and said, “There’s other ways to get paid, baby.” Then she licked my ear.

  I looked at her like, “You’re this dude’s grandmother, and what I look like doing something like that?” She sat back in her seat and said, “I’ll do anything to make sure my baby is alright.” Then she put her thumb in her mouth. I’m stuck, just sitting there with the money, the liquor, and the cake in my hands. She looked around to see who was around then leaned over into my lap and started to unbuckle my belt. Guess what? I did not stop her.

  I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes, thinking, Damn, I made some good money in the jail today and this is an extra couple of dollars to throw in with it (not to mention that she was serious with what she was doing). It felt eerie seeing her salt-and-pepper hair go up and down. Eerie and good, real good, so good that it took me two seconds to upchuck and release my tadpoles. When it was over she raised up and just smiled, didn’t say a word while I drove back to where I picked her up. I pulled over, she got out and waved. I sat there for a minute putting the stuff away, and then she came back and knocked on the window. I gave her a confused look as I rolled down the window. Then she pointed to my dashboard and my eyes widened when I saw why her performance was so good. Sitting up there near my window was a full set of dentures! She had gummed me. She reached in and grabbed them, then smiled wide, showing no teeth. I shook my head and pulled off, thinking about my day.

  —

  Later that day, my money is right and I have that itch to shake them up! Dice, that is. First, I have to apply rule number one: Never go into the gambling spot with all your money. This way, if you lose, you still have something stashed. So I head home first, and I figure while I’m there I’ll check up on my kids. I knock on my baby momma’s door several times but there is no answer. Then while I’m standing there, the peephole cover moves to the side and then slides back. Still no one answers. I just laugh it off, because I’m done getting heated over the dumb shit, so I go around the corner to my apartment.

  Once inside I take a deep whiff of whatever it is Momma is cooking. Aaaaah! I can tell that there is real fatback in them greens. I go into the living room to find my mother sitting there with this sad look on her face. I ask her what’s the matter. She just starts crying. Now I am really concerned and I sit down beside her and ask her again. She says that they found a body in the back of the building today. It was Brian, known to me as Biz.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE PROTEST

  I felt like I had just attended back-to-back funerals. First it was Biz’s mother and now Biz’s. I’m at work one day soon after. This particular day my mind is somewhere else thinking about everything that’s happened when my phone rings. I answer it. I find out that it’s my turn to press my alarm, so I get up and signal my B officer and he nods. I then press my personal protection body alarm. The inmates are unaware, because there is no alarming situation. What’s happening is a demonstration organized by the officers to protest the bullshit that goes on in here with the higher-ups. It’s a protest because of the unfair treatment that we have been receiving as of late, all the bogus write-ups and the tedious new rules that they were trying to implement. The sole purpose for the protest was to give the higher-ups another reason to write us up.

  Yeah, it’s my turn. A minute ago another housing area on the other side of the jail had pressed theirs. Every time this alarm is pulled a signal goes to the main control room to alert them that an officer is in need of help. The control room then alerts all available officers to run and assemble in the staging area with riot gear on and proceed to the problem area. Just imagine if this took place every five minutes or ten to fifteen minutes all day. I’m standing at my desk in the officers’ station pretending to be doing my job when the probe team arrives at my gate. I give them a perplexed look like, “What’s going on?” The captain just looks at me real serious, because he and a few out-of-breath officers already know that it’s a false alarm. They’re upset to be on the receiving end of this situation because false alarm or not they have to respond just in case it is not. I yell out to him, “Sorry, Cap, accidental discharge. I must have bumped it by mistake.” He takes off his helmet and throws it against the wall! He’s about to lay into me when a call comes in over the radio for an alarm in another housing area. He yells, “Fuck!” then scrambles to retrieve his helmet from the ground. Then he and the other officers take off in the direction of the other false alarm.

  I already know that this protest isn’t going to work. The only protest I heard of that did any damage was the infamous “blocking of the bridge.” That was when corrections officers blocked the only bridge to Rikers Island, thus preventing anybody, including officers, from entering or leaving the Island. I wasn’t there then, so I still don’t know if it helped change any policies.

  With the protest, the jail is on lockdown, which means there’s no inmate movement. In a way, I am glad that all this is going on because I really don’t feel like being there or doing shit. I had a pocket full of money when I left work that day. I was still feeling down about the death of Biz and his mother. I needed to release some stress, so I headed to the gambling spot. I was so thirsty to gamble that I went straight there, uniform still on under my windbreaker and all. I broke my number-one rule of putting some of my money up. I arrived at the spot and knocked on the door. The peephole slid to the side and I heard a voice say, “Oh, that’s Gee,” then I heard all kinds of locks and dead bolts being opened. It took about ten minutes for the door to open. When I went inside there was the smoke, there were the drinks, and there was the houseman yelling, “Diiiiiiicccee!” Aaaahh, music to a gambling addict’s ear.

  The place is packed. I go over to the gambling table and get in where I fit in. I look down at the table and see that there is a lot of money to be won. Then I say a silent prayer to the gambling gods, “Please, please let this be my night,” and then I place my first bet. The guy who’s holding the bank begins to shake the dice and that’s when all the praying and begging of the dice begin from all the bettors. You hear, “One dice, c’mon! Ace away, dice! This nigga’s arm is noodles!” All in unison. Truthfully, unless there is some crooked shit going on it’s all luck. The dice get rolled and it’s a head-crack. The banker wins. After the first roll this fool doesn’t look back. He throws winner after winner. It takes me all of twenty minutes to lose all my money. Man, I’m so heated I’m about to black out in this funky joint. Then again the banker throws another winner. That’s like six or seven in a row. I stand there thinking that something ain’t right with the dice. I look at all my hard-earned money sitting over by the banker in a pile. My dumb ass risks everything to get that money, only to come in here an
d lose it just like that. I’m pissed at myself for hustling backward. I storm out of there with nothing more than my gun, my badge, and a wallet full of lint balls.

  I go and sit in my van, which was parked right in front of the gambling spot, drinking straight from a half-gallon bottle of Hennessy and sweating like I just came out of the gym. My hand is now on my Smith and Wesson and I’m shaking my head vigorously while talking to myself. I feel cheated and I want my money back one way or another. I lean over to one side to lift up my left butt cheek so that I can let out a long-awaited fart. It seems like my stomach has cleared out some more room for me to chug-a-lug more liquid courage, and so I do. I’m numb from my pinky toe up. A Mack truck could have hit me and I wouldn’t have felt it. I sit there scratching my forehead with my gun, determined and plotting to get my money back, saying to myself, “He ain’t going home with what’s mine.” I continue to drink and watch the door, waiting for the banker to come out. Then all of a sudden I see flashing lights all around me. Oh, shit, it’s the cops. I put my gun away and hide the open container.

  My drunk ass starts to panic. Someone must have called the police, because all the cop cars come to a halt right by my van. I breathe a sigh of relief when they rush by me and run up into the gambling spot. A few moments pass as I sit there, mad as hell, as one by one the gamblers are led out, handcuffed, into the waiting police cars. My stomach sinks as I see the banker and all my money being led away to central booking. I wait until it is all clear before I take my bottle and prepare to leave. I’m about to pull off when someone knocks on my window. It’s Trent, a gambling buddy of mine. I unlock my door and he gets in. We begin to finish off my bottle and talk, because he, too, had just got his money wiped out in the g-spot. We’re getting sauced up when he tells me that he knows a way for us to get our money back and then some. The big-eared fucker that I am, I pay close attention to what he’s saying. Any chance for me to get my paper back, I want in on it. He says he knows the banker and knows where the bank’s drug spot was. He starts to formulate this plan for us to go and rob the drug spot. Mind you, Trent is not a CO, but he is a city employee just like me. I sit there still sipping and contemplating everything that he says. When he finishes laying out the plan he tells me that it’s easy money.