by Sophia Gray
“Didn't they do a powder residue test to see if you'd fired the gun?” Hank asked. “Seems like that'd clear things up pretty quick.”
Raheem blinked. “No, they didn't do nothin' like that. They just showed me to Mr. Getty, an' he said 'Yeah, that sure was him,' an' that was pretty much it. Mr. Getty, see, he's white, an' he always had trouble tellin' black folks apart. Most times I went into his store, he thought I was my cousin D'Aundre.”
Jesus, kid, Hank thought ruefully. When they were handing out public defenders, you sure did get the shitty end of the stick. No GSR tests, no proper lineup—nothing but a pat on the ass on your way to the slammer.
“Well, I damn sure ain't innocent, ha,” the man beside Hank piped up cheerfully. He was an overweight white guy in his late thirties with rosy cheeks and thinning blonde hair. He offered a pudgy hand to Hank. “Foley Cartwright. Pleased to meet you.”
Hank shook the man's hand, grimacing at how sweaty his palm was. “What are you in for, Foley?”
Foley grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “I'm a con artist, ha. Swindled a bunch of retired folks out of their savings. One of them got wise to it at the end, though, so I had to crack the old bitch upside the head. Put her in a coma for a couple weeks, ha. They gave me ten years, but my shyster said if I play my cards right, I can be out in three.”
Several of the other men sitting around Foley were starting to steal sideways glances at him. If he noticed, he gave no sign.
“You don't seem that worried about heading up to Bluebonnet,” Hank observed. “You been there before? Got anyone there to watch your back?”
Foley chuckled. “No and no, ha. But ain't you been listening, pal? I told you, I'm a con artist. Emphasis on the 'artist.' I can see all the angles, figure out all the right moves. Just give me a day or two and I'll own the fucking place, ha.”
The guard in the passenger's seat slammed his baton against the metal grate that separated the drivers from the prisoners. “All right, that's enough of the gettin'-to-know-you bullshit! You men can keep your mouths shut for the rest of the ride.”
“Why?” Hank asked mildly. “Talking isn't against the rules, is it?”
The guard glared at him. “First of all, convict, you're in my bus on the way to my prison, which means 'Y' ain't a letter in your fuckin' alphabet no more. You'll do what you're goddamn told if you know what's good for you. And second, you want to keep flappin' your lips an' pissin' me off, go right ahead. But you're gonna look pretty fuckin' funny tryin' to talk with all your teeth busted out.”
Hank lowered his head and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. He found his mind drifting to thoughts of Beth. He wished he'd been more sober that night, so he could have retained clearer memories of fucking her—as it was, he was only left with a series of vague impressions of the way she'd looked at him, how she'd smelled and felt and tasted.
He'd been disappointed that she hadn't visited him in jail, but not surprised. How could she still have feelings for him after seeing what he'd done to that yahoo?
Had she had genuine feelings for him that night? Or had it just been a childish crush, mixed with booze and pity?
And what about his feelings for her? Were they real, or...?
Hank shook his head, trying to clear it. Playing tug-of-war with himself over this was a waste of time. Whether they'd had feelings for each other was a moot point now. He was going to prison for two years, and by the time he got out, she'd be with someone new. They probably wouldn't even bring up the thing in the bathroom ever again—it'd be just another experience for both of them, something to carry around without dwelling on it.
Just focus on keeping your head down and doing your time, Hank told himself. Let go of everything else.
Especially her.
Chapter 6
Hank
The dusty chain link gates of the Bluebonnet Maximum Security Correctional Facility squealed as they slid open, allowing the bus into the courtyard. The guard in the passenger's seat—whose name tag identified him as Officer Lindhurst—walked around to the back of the bus, opened the door, and unchained the men from the metal bar under the seat. Hank and the others shuffled out, still chained together at the ankles.
Lindhurst led them into a large room where two more huge, broad-shouldered guards stood waiting. Another bored-looking older guard sat behind a long desk. There were pairs of thick red and blue lines denoting narrow paths on the squeaky gray linoleum floor, and they led to a row of yellow squares in front of the desk.
“Okay, shitbirds, this is how it's going to work,” Lindhurst bellowed. He enunciated every word as though he was speaking to a room full of slow children. “I'm going to unchain you one at a time. Once I have removed the cuffs from your wrists and ankles, you will walk between the red lines to one of the yellow squares. If you say a goddamn word or put so much as a toe outside of those red lines, Officers Breyfogle and Calhoun are going to beat you 'til you shit blood, and then you can spend your first month at Bluebonnet in the fuckin' hole.”
Hank sighed inwardly. He was already sick of this asshole's attitude, and he couldn't imagine how many more there were in Bluebonnet who were just like him.
“Once you reach one of the yellow squares, you will strip down to your bare ass and hand your clothes and personal possessions to Officer Morton behind the desk. This will include watches, earrings, wedding rings, cock rings, anything you've got that isn't permanently attached to your body. No holding out, no exceptions. He will catalogue these items, place them into storage, provide you with prison uniforms and bedding, and assign you a number. You will memorize this number, and you will by God answer to it when it's called, or you will be one sorry motherfucker. When you have your clothes, bedding, and number, you will put on your uniform, step back and walk between the blue lines to the area on the other side of the room.”
On the outside, with the Warriors at his back, Hank would never let anyone talk to him like this, uniform or no. He'd stomp some respect into them, then hop on his bike and ride off—anywhere, nowhere, whatever he pleased.
But now there was no one to back him up, and nowhere to ride to. Blue skies and free air had been replaced with cement blocks on all sides and the stink of rusty iron, dirty concrete, and body odor.
Lindhurst approached the row of men with his keys, starting at one end. There were three men before Hank, including Foley. As Foley pulled off his clothes, some of the other convicts whistled and catcalled at him. Foley looked back at them, startled, then put on a shit-eating grin and tried to laugh along. Still, Hank could see the first glimmer of fear at the corners of Foley's eyes.
Instead of yelling for the prisoners to quiet down, the guards just smirked to each other knowingly.
When Lindhurst reached Hank, he gave him another hard glare, as though daring Hank to defy him in any way. Hank forced himself to stare straight ahead blankly until Lindhurst unlocked his wrists and ankles. Then he walked between the red lines to the yellow square and stripped naked, tossing his clothes onto the desk.
“One pair of dress shoes, brown, size 12,” Officer Morton droned. He noted each item on a clipboard before tossing it into a cardboard box. “One pair of socks, black. One pair of trousers, black. One leather belt, brown. One button-up shirt, white. One suit jacket, black. One tie, red and white stripes. One pair of underwear, boxers, gray.”
Morton removed the form from his clipboard and added it to the box. Then he put a lid on it and taped it down before throwing it on top of a stack of identical boxes. He produced a magic marker, writing a series of letters and numbers on the side.
“Your prison number is 17H404,” he said, handing Hank a folded uniform, socks, slippers, and a set of sheets. “You'll be reporting to cell block G. Please get dressed and follow the blue lines.”
That's all I fucking am in here, Hank thought. Just a number and a box full of clothes I won't see again for two years.
A suffocating wave of claustrophobia enveloped him, and his blood felt li
ke it was boiling in his veins. He'd been through so much in his life, and he thought he'd be able to take incarceration in stride—just an inconvenience, something unpleasant to get through and forget about. But now that he was inside the prison, he could feel it pressing down on him, as though he'd been buried alive. His head started to throb and his mind jittered crazily, insisting on his individuality even as it was methodically stripped from him.
Hank put on the uniform. The fabric was cheap, and it felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He walked between the blue lines, joining Foley and the others against the wall. He saw Raheem putting on his uniform, and noted that it looked about three sizes too big for him.
When all of the convicts had taken their places against the wall, Lindhurst hit a button next to the inner door. An alarm honked, and the door opened from the inside.
A huge guard stepped through the door. He had a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a professional wrestler—Hank could see the man's uniform straining against his enormous pecs and biceps. There was a deep scar extending from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, giving him a permanent snarl of disapproval.
He stood in front of the prisoners, addressing them in a booming voice.
“My name is Officer Butler, and I am the captain of the guards. Welcome to Bluebonnet. Life can be uncertain in this place, but I can promise all of you one simple thing: Your time here with me will be exactly as difficult as you make it. The rules are easy to follow. No buying, selling, using, or hiding drugs. No weapons or contraband items. No fucking or fighting. You do what the guards say, when they say it, without cussing them out or horsing around. You abide by these rules, you and I won't have any problems. You break these rules, I will make sure that all of your nightmares come true and I will have fun doing it.”
How many times has this hack practiced this little speech in front of a mirror? Hank thought.
“Those of you who have been assigned to cell block B will be escorted there by Officer Lindhurst,” Butler continued. “Block C, you'll go with Officer Calhoun. Block F, Officer Breyfogle. Those of you going to block G will be escorted by me personally. Line up by cell blocks and follow the appropriate officer, and do not dawdle.”
Hank, Foley, and several other men lined up behind Butler as the others formed ranks behind their respective guards. They were led through the inner door, which slammed shut seconds after the last convict passed through it. The sound echoed with a grim finality, and Hank felt a shudder pass through him.
If it didn't seem real enough before, he thought, it damn sure does now.
Chapter 7
Hank
Butler led Hank to his cell, a ten-by-ten box that was concrete walls on three sides and a sliding barred door on the fourth. There was a combination toilet and sink in the back corner, and a narrow set of bunk beds.
“Enjoy your new home, maggot,” Butler sneered.
Once Butler moved on with the rest of his charges, Hank stepped inside, setting his bedding down on the lower bunk. The upper bunk was occupied by a lithe, athletic-looking white man in his late thirties. He had close-cropped brown hair, and he wore glasses and a pair of boxers as he flipped through a dog-eared paperback. An armband with a swastika was tattooed around his left bicep, and a pair of jagged S.S. lightning bolts was inked on both sides of his neck, where a shirt collar would be.
Just what I need, Hank thought sourly. A fucking Nazi cellmate.
As Hank put the sheets on his mattress, he nodded at the book. “Mein Kampf?” he guessed.
The Nazi shot him a withering look and held up the paperback, showing its tattered cover. It was a copy of “Anne of Green Gables.”
“Seriously?” Hank smirked.
“It's a prison library, not a fucking Barnes & Noble. We don't exactly have a lot of choices in terms of literature, and after reading 'The Rise & Fall of the Roman Empire' for the sixth time, I figured I could do with something lighter. You're Hank Hall, right? The guy they call The Hammer?”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that's me. How'd you know?”
The Nazi nodded toward the common area of the cell block. “They've been expecting you.”
Hank peered out and saw four bikers sitting at a table, playing cards. Their tattoos identified them as Carnage Warriors. He walked over to them, and one of them looked up as he approached. He was a short, wiry, scraggly man in his late forties, with a red bandana tied around his greasy, graying hair. When he smiled, Hank saw that both of his front teeth were missing.
“You must be Hank!” The biker's missing teeth gave him a slight lisp. “Nice to finally meet you, kid. Bib's told me so much about you. I'm Speed Bump.”
Hank shook Speed Bump's hand. “I've heard a lot about you, too. Bib always said it was a shame I never got to meet you. He said you were the best Sergeant-at-Arms the club ever had.”
Speed Bump shrugged. “Yeah, 'fore I fucked up an' got me a life sentence.”
“So now you're in charge of the Warriors on the inside?”
Speed Bump fidgeted, grinning uncomfortably. “Well, uh, heh, yes an' no, actually.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Doesn't seem like that complicated a question.”
“That's just 'cause you're new here, kid. See, we got a decent handful of Warriors in here, but the other gangs are a helluva lot bigger. There ain't really enough've us to watch each other's backs, 'specially when they got us split up in different blocks.” He gestured to the other three bikers. “I mean, here in G block, there's me, Scab, Pete, Boffo, an' now you, an' that's it. So we kinda had to get affiliated with a larger gang, just to stay alive in here.”
“That makes sense, sure,” Hank replied. It wasn't what he'd expected and he didn't love the idea of taking orders from non-Warriors, but he understood how it might be necessary under the circumstances. “So which MC do we run with in here? Angels? Outlaws?”
Speed Bump tittered nervously. “Uh, not exactly, heh. Come on, I'll introduce you to the guy in charge. He's been mighty eager t' meetcha.”
A feeling of unease started to bloom in the pit of Hank's stomach like a malignant flower as he followed Speed Bump. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blonde female corrections officer—and for a split-second, he could have sworn it was Beth. But then a group of prisoners blocked his view as they headed for the showers, and by the time they'd passed, the officer was gone.
I told you to cut that shit out, his brain snapped at him. Beth's not here. Beth's not coming. You won't be seeing Beth for at least two years, and maybe not even then. So stop thinking about her and get your head in the game.
Speed Bump led him to a cell at the corner of the block. There was a large white sheet hanging over the entrance to the cell like a curtain.
“I'm surprised he'd be allowed to put that up,” Hank commented.
“The rules in here ain't the same for 'im, or for the folks who stay loyal to 'im. Come on. You'll see what I mean.” He knocked timidly on the bars outside the curtain. “Bull? He's here.”
A stocky man in his early fifties emerged from behind the curtain. He had icy blue eyes and iron-gray hair cut into a flattop, and he wore a white undershirt with his prison pants. Even with his protruding belly, there was nothing about him that looked soft or weak—he seemed disturbingly solid, like a walking bag of dry cement. He had “White Power” inked across his knuckles and “14 Words” on his chest. When he saw Hank, his lips parted in a friendly grin, displaying the wide gaps between his small teeth.
You've got to be fucking kidding me, Hank thought, his heart sinking. Taking orders from another gang is one thing, but since when do Warriors bow down for Nazis? They're nothing but a bunch of ignorant, racist scumbags. On the outside, they're nobodies. What the hell is going on here?
And why didn't Bib know about any of this?
“Hank 'The Hammer' Hall,” Bull said, grabbing Hank's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It is truly
an honor to meet you, son. My name's Bull Packard, and I run the White Knights here in Bluebonnet. I'm also your new best friend.”
Hank nodded, looking at the ink on Bull's chest. 14 Words? What was that supposed to mean?
Maybe it's the number of words he can actually read, Hank thought wryly.
Bull saw Hank looking at the tattoo, and his smile widened. “Nice, right? Here, take a look at this.”
He turned around and lifted up his undershirt, revealing a large White Power fist inked on his back. Underneath it were the words We Must Secure The Existence Of Our People And A Future For White Children.
After a few seconds, Bull lowered his shirt and turned around again. Hank figured he must have done a poor job of hiding his distaste, because Bull saw his expression and laughed.
“Okay, so it's not your thing, right? Hey, that's cool. No one's going to make you carve a swastika on your forehead or anything. You bikers have the right skin color, so as long as you guys watch our backs, we'll watch yours.”