Then, out of nowhere, there was a riot at the facility. In the aftermath, several young prisoners and correctional officers were injured. One officer was killed. Rise was tried and convicted for the guard’s death. Given life. Transferred to the state penitentiary. All in a whirlwind of consequence.
Rise remained closed-mouthed and silent through the whole process. He had been within two years of his release date. Now, he would face a true life sentence. He was 19 years old when he first set foot on this prison farm. Louisiana’s prison city, Angola.
“So, you go’n answer my question or what?”
“What question?”
“Come on, man. You been actin’ like a punk all visit. All sad-eyed and such. What’s up with that?”
“I’ll answer your question when you answer mine,” she replies.
“What question?”
“Why you questioning me? Who you supposed to be, my man or something?”
Rise just sits there with his mouth open, staring at her with a look of utter bewilderment. A detailed picture of the perplexity that has seized him.
She gives him a pucker-lipped smile. “That’s what I thought. Get it on back, then, and, uh, baby … close ya damn mouth.” She reaches over to place a piece of the chocolate she’s been eating on his tongue.
CHAPTER NINE
Creation!
I ain’t lyin’
I swear I hear
The beauty of the Nile
From my cellblocks.
Starin’ through my bars
Contemplation
Invaded visions of virtual nautical shocks.
My adversaries bangin’ on my walls
Who did it?
I ain’t guilty, no!
Feelin’ cheated, I fall.
Crocodiles draggin’ me.
Oh!
The agony of accusation
My uninhibited pleas.
Shake the heavens
Why y’all lyin’ on me?
Maat!
HE STANDS AT THE CELL bars, runnin’ it:
“Picture the world
outside of my cell bars, light rain
Doin’ ’bout 80 on the interstate
Blowin’ out my carburetor.
I got a 7-9 Chevy
With a 454 engine
And I’m tryna get it
Spinnin’. Kick in!
America’s Nightmare in the tape deck
Spile 1 talkin’ to me.
I’m mashin’
Streetlights passin’
Spirit o’ the homies in the backseat
Pushin’ me
Muffler blastin’
Car jumpin’, cylinders pumpin’
It’s all good
Got an insurance settlement
Moved out the hood. Premature
Cash flow splurgin’
Done put a dent in my wallet
Now, holla at me.
I can’t call it
I need a hustle
Man!
I’m bent. The life of an alcoholic
Wit’ a weed fetish
Roll seeds and all.
Poppin’; I’m burnin’ holes in my clothes
That ain’t stopping me, though.
I’ll probably roll.
About four blunts
Str-8 skunk
Wit’ a shot of Jack Black
Puffin’ it all
Smoke film, stainin’ the wall
Who can relate, this is how we ball
What?!
Die!”
They love it so much they beat their applause on the wall-mounted iron desks in each cell. Lil Chris done been in these two-man cells for five weeks now. The dungeon. Administrative segregation. The middle ground, between drops. No cosmetics. Hygiene is wrecked. They shower and rub soap under they armpits. No radio. No television. Nothin’ to read besides religious papers, law work, and personal mail. Cell confinement for 23 hours and 45 minutes a day. Exactly 15 minutes to shower.
The disciplinary board took 90 days good time, gave him eight days extra-duty, and sent the C’ster to the working cellblocks. The inmate counsel told him he lucked up ’cause he could have been sent to Camp J or some other extended lockdown. One-man cells. Twenty-three hours a day for months—even years—in a cage.
PowwWoww has been having the homies smuggle tobacco, deodorant, soap, candy bars, Black & Mild cigars, and of course two or three sugar bags of bud a week into the cellblock for Lil Chris.
Word got out that Billy Black snitched and told them that the C’ster snuck him, slid him, and stomped him. That’s why they ain’t even blow the yard. They just came straight to Lil Chris’s dorm. That’s how he got an aggravated fight instead of a rule-ten simple fight. For the footwork. He stomped him. The free folks also charged Lil Chris with Billy Black’s medical fees.
Billy Black got his issue. PowwWoww, who’s from New Orleans, couldn’t even get to him when they sent him back down the walk from the dungeon. Lil Chris’s “round the ways” from Shreveport put the boy in a Soul Train line. Everywhere he rolled his property, somebody from the home team rode him out. They put the word out on the homie hotline. The C’ster wasn’t even hanging with his rounds when he was in population. He was seen as a stand-up nigga, though. So they stood up for him. The Port City homies touched Billy Black at every camp he transferred to. Until he went ahead and caught a one-man cell on a protection tier. He’ll be there until Lil Chris makes it out of the blocks. That’s how that goes.
Now, Chris is on the backlog list waitin’ on a bunk to open in one of the workin’ cellblock units. Until that happens, he’ll be doing what he’s doin’ at the moment.
“If given a nickel
for my troubled thoughts
I’ll reveal humble petitions
To powers that be
Stand in agreement for the fury it brought
Cold part about it
I was righteous, this whole affair
Is shady.
What manner of man
Could hand
True reproach to a prophet!
Tell me his heart is pure
Stop it!
I ain’t tryna hear your practical probes
Ill-intended to fish me for the meanings
Of epistles I wrote
Ponder parables
I got issues
Y’all don’t hear me, I’m worried
I ain’t see the pen for months
Shaken by what was spoken
My distracted dreams hindered
Habitations.
Unable to reach back
I was copin’
Mode of action was open
Squeeze off like
Demagogues
Utterances spoke with flashes of age
Must be changin’ my ways
Hear me populace
Nah, they ain’t right!
Break to the city of habitation
And pray for vindication
In seven days!
Maat!”
“Damn! Who was that?”
“I think that was cell 7?”
“Say 7 … cell 7!”
“Wow!”
“Say, mayne … that was you?!”
“Uh-uhn. I think that was, ah … 8! Cell 8!”
“Nawl, dog. That wasn’t me, but I know who it was.”
“Say, ah … Lil Playa … Lil, ah!”
“Don’t try me, nigga! You know my name. My name Lil Chris!”
“My bad. My bad, lil homie,” Bama says, in his high-pitched, almost childish, breathy voice. “Don’t take it like that. I wouldn’t never disrespect you, ya heard me? I just was tryna find you. What cell you in?”
“I’m in 9,” Lil Chris says.
Another voice from further down says, “No, that wasn’t Lil Chris. That dude in cell 8 lyin’! That was him!”
“That’s rattin’!” Someone shouts.
Everybody breaks out laughing.
“I knew you was a r
at, Kay Ray!”
“Don’t play wit’ me wit’ no rat jacket, fool! I’m tellin’ you right now, don’t play wit’ me like that!”
“Boy, ain’t no secret! You know you been eatin’ cheese. Don’t stunt now, potnah! You done did that.”
Everybody gets quiet. Pregnant silence. Listenin’.
They ’bout to trip.
“I done told you, whoever you is, don’t play wit’ me like that—”
“You know who this is,” the voice cuts him off. “This Sanrock! Now tell me you don’t know me.”
“Sanrock? Nawl, I don’t know no Sanrock,” Kay Ray responds. “Where I suppose to know you from?”
“Oh, you don’t know me, huh?” Every word spoken is crystal clear. Piercing the silence.
They’re listening. Everyone.
“So, that’s how you go’n play it, huh?”
A snicker comes from up front. A giggle in the back.
“Alright! Didn’t you work in the captain’s office? You was a clerk or somethin’.”
“Yeah, but that don’t mean …”
Somebody says, “Ah, man!” Condemnation.
“Hold up, y’all! Hold up,” Sanrock says. He’s tryna keep control of the situation. He loves exposin’ these chumps. “Y’all be cool. Peep. Check this out,” he says insistently. “Kay Ray, you was in Pine 1, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I was in there, too. You sho’ you don’t ’membah me?”
“No. I told you I don’t know you.”
Silence.
“Check … In ’99, around September, they found a shank in the air vent in the shower—”
“Mayne, that was umpteen years ago!”
“Yeah, but you remember, huh?” Sanrock asks portentously. “Chill out. You was messin’ with that homo, ah TinaBoy, huh?”
“Yeah! He was for me.”
“Or was it that y’all was for each other!”
“What?! Fool, you know who I am? I’m Kay Ray—”
“—I know who you is! I was workin’ in the shower area. I caught y’all flip-floppin’ back there!”
The tier erupts. Cats is shakin’ the cell doors and beating down! Real boisterous laughter. All kinds of laughs sound out. If what was said wasn’t all that funny, the laughing itself was infectious.
“You ’membah me now, huh!”
No response.
“You ’membah y’all set me up?! You know, by right, both of y’all was supposed to be for me, huh!”
No response.
“So you put that black diamond on my drop, and turned around and played the people on me, huh! That’s rattin’, huh? Ain’t that rattin’?”
Some snickering in the background. Bar fighting. Plain and simple. Bar fighting. Some stray giggles, then silence. They’ll be throwing shit on each other when they make it to extended lockdown.
“Say, cell 8!” Bama calls from cell 10.
“What’s hap’nin’?” he answers. Bama can hear the smile in his voice.
“Was that you, my man? I’m just tryna find out ’cause if it was, I liked that! You ah … ah, you es’spressas yo’self good.”
“What? Rappin’? That wa’n’t me, big bro. That was my cellie. Say cellie,” he calls out. Beating on the bunk to get his cellie’s attention. “Go’n head holla at them people, cellie.”
“Say, Bama,” his cellie says. “This me, man.”
Lil Chris is in cell 9 paying attention. He knew it was cell 8 that was rappin’. But which one of the two in there? He listens to Bama to find out the name of the rappin’ cellie.
“Who that!” Bama gets excited. “That’s No Love, huh?”
Now Lil Chris gets it. No Love must be the second dude in cell 8. The rapper.
“Yeah!” No Love replies.
“Lil Chris! … Lil Chris! Say, lil bro!” Bama beats on the wall in cell 10. “Ain’t you from Shreveport?!”
“Yeah. Anna Street. Thirty-one hunned block!”
“Lakeside,” Bama exclaims. “That’s yo homie, No Love! Y’all homeboys! No Love yo’ ’round, Lil Chris!”
Ole Bama, he was one of the truest.
Another day in the cellblocks.
Thug life!
Rise walks through the door of the Main Prison Law Library, already tired. He’s gotten plenty of sleep, but still he’s tired. It’s always like this when it comes to law work. Just the thought of it makes him weary.
He spots Gary Law stepping away from one of the dusty old shelves. The old guy looks alert and as resolute as ever.
“What’s goin’ on, G?”
“Everything’s cool, lil brotha,” G answers before clearing his throat. “You finally here to check out the new cases come down, huh?”
Rise dips his head a bit. G knows he hates this part of it. Which happens to be the most important part. His silent gesture is answer enough.
“Gimme a minute,” G says. “I’ll run you off a copy. Just lemme grab this criminal code for that man over there.”
Rise takes note of the old ’vict sitting over by the typewriters. He’s seen him several times before. Knows the type. The bald spot is an island at the crown of his head, surrounded by a halo of gray hair. The well-worn pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck on a faded brown shoe strap pulled from long-gone state brogans.
The old man could probably quote every noteworthy court ruling published in the last 20 years from memory. And he’s probably sent every bit of 10, 12 lucky fools home. All out of the kindness of his heart and his commitment to just results. He just as likely is 10, 12 times bitter because not one of them ever looked back to lend him a helping hand.
G walks over and hands the man a green-covered, annotated volume of the state code of criminal procedures. That done, he heads for the computers and printers situated along the back wall. Rise joins him there.
As G clocks through the case law, Rise sits back in his chair. One guy kidnapped a girlfriend and boyfriend, then made the boyfriend watch while he raped the girl. Another dude killed his grandfather. Another one molested his nephew. Two or three more murders. Then an attempted murder.
This is exactly why Rise hates law work. It’s not the studying, since reading and writing are second nature to him. It’s having to read over the most heinous, despicable crimes imaginable, then having to consider his own actions in that context. The whole enterprise always leaves him feeling like a lesser version of himself for having the criminal act in common with these people.
He exhales expressively as G hands him the stack of case law. “Anything in particular I should focus on?”
“Actually, there is,” G says. “U.S. Supreme Court. Another Strickland application. This one relevant to you.”
Rise frowns. Strickland? Ineffective assistance of counsel. Nothing to do with his guilt or innocence. This would be about whether he had adequate legal aid. Always a really hard one to prove and will definitely take a lot of time and effort to develop.
Gary Law knows Rise’s case. Been helping him with it for years. “Major?”
“Gonna take alot of work,” G confirms. But, twice, he nods. “Yes, this could be major for you.”
Rise braces himself. If this is what he’s been waiting on, he’ll almost certainly need a lawyer to represent it. A lawyer that will cost money. Money he absolutely doesn’t have and doesn’t know how he’ll find.
Still, he clamps down on his misgivings and focuses on the only thing he knows for sure he can do.
Grind.
They really clicked.
Their first conversation lasted all through the night. They’ve been in the same places. The odd thing is, although they’re both relatively young—No Love is 30, Lil Chris 22—they’re still from two different generations.
No Love grew up under old heads. Got the game from the last playas and macks. The real ones. He was a humble student first. Had to pay his dues. Now that he’s older, he has a sum of game stack to deal from.
Lil Chris was a ghetto star. S
treet fame. Spotlight. All-hood first team, first selection. When he was super young, the OGs used to stay running him off the corner. He couldn’t hang out with the big homies. He wouldn’t accept the subordination that was thought to be a young G’s place.
He stayed in confrontations with dudes that were twice his size. Got scuffed up most of the time. Developed a name for hisself ’cause he kept comin’ back. Long before he was strong enough to whoop ’em, they were already startin’ to avoid him. Tried to ig him. Eventually, gave him some space. Yeah, they could whip him. But they knew he wouldn’t stop. That’s what’s up.
Different paths have led him and No Love to the same point. They both are extremely self-confident. Both are given to pushing the envelope. Married to the rugged road. Without question or reservation, both would choose death before dishonor. Both draw people to them without effort, just their demeanor.
By the time Lil Chris was 13, he had a jump crew of misfits, young cats, and busters. All of them fiercely devoted to him. By 15, he was quite the young manipulator.
As was No Love. After he understood enough to step out on his own, he quickly made a name for hisself. He wasn’t afraid to do what others only thought about. And was clever enough to get away with it. At least, most of the time.
Few people his age know him from the block. Most of his life done been spent in and out of some detention center or another. On the inside, though, it is a different story altogether. No Love is a legend. One of the most recognizable prisoners not only in the institution, but also in the system.
No Love takes to Lil Chris almost immediately. The cellblocks offer another type of hip-hop scene. Much like population’s, but still very different. The whole setup is a lot like that old school television series Highlander.
The rappers fall into a circuit of sorts. They all have at least a little bit of hype. Some have a lot. The exceptions are those writers and brand-new cats who stay working on their tablets on the under.
Mostly, they move back and forth, from block to block. Raven, Tiger, or the main prison cellblocks. These are the working cellblocks, where prisoners still mix at work call in the field and on the cellblock yard at their leisure. There are also the dungeons and extended lockdown. Max. Where the only way prisoners mix is by yelling through cell bars or air vents, or during extended’s rotating tier hours.
The majority of them are young dudes who’ve just come to prison. Wild. Constantly into it with security or each other. Misunderstandings. Blame it on respect preservation and principle adherence. Their peers call them ridahs, ’cause they stay packing their property. Pushing it to the dungeon: administrative segregation, which is the middle ground for investigations and everywhere you transfer to for disciplinary reasons.
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