Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  Then it dawns on me that I’m supposed to meet Susan tomorrow—I’ve really fucked that up now. I want to bang my head against the divider or pound my fist on the seat, but I’m cuffed so I just clench my fists hard, my nails digging into my palms. It doesn’t do any good. I’ve got no way to block all of this out.

  —

  THE FIRST THING I see when we pull up to the station is a huge sign saying: WELCOME TO THE 84TH PRECINCT. Yeah, right, I’m thinking, as I’m yanked out of the car by my arm. Inside, we pass people filling out accident reports and reporting thefts. One woman looks up at me warily as I’m buzzed into the secure part of the precinct and hauled up in front of a big desk.

  The arresting officer pulls out his pad and reads his notes to the captain on duty. Another cop writes something down in an ancient-looking ledger. I feel so small in front of them I think the desk must be designed to give them a sense of power. I feel even more worthless as I’m led off to the holding cells.

  Each cell is about eight by ten feet with bars on the front, an open toilet, and a couple of hard wooden benches. The few people in them are either sleeping or sitting quietly—except for one kid whose hair is half-braided and half-Afro, as if he got arrested in the middle of getting his hair done. He’s pacing back and forth rapping to himself, every so often mimicking the sound of gunfire: “blat-blat-blat.” I’m locked in a cell with a guy who’s curled up and snoring contentedly, like he’s home in his own bed.

  I pace for a while, trying to get my head around the last hour and how the fuck to deal with it. Putting everything out of my mind is practically impossible, seeing as how the arresting officer keeps coming in and asking me questions. There’s a weird smell I can’t place—not from the toilets, and not bleach—so that’s bugging me when the kid with the half Afro shouts, “Yo, man, what they get you for?”

  “Possession,” I mumble, not really wanting to get into a cell-to-cell conversation.

  “Oh yeah, can’t put that rock down once you start, right? I ain’t never touched it but that shit’s like the devil.”

  I don’t answer. This guy could be a snitch.

  Before long, the arresting officer comes in and takes me to a processing room to get fingerprinted. He makes me press hard into the ink pad, then even harder into the little boxes on the card, rolling my fingers from left to right. Even though he’s wearing rubber gloves, it’s strangely personal to have my fingers manipulated—especially by another man.

  “Do you know what I’m being charged with?” I ask.

  “We’re working that out now,” he says, directing me to stand against a wall. “Look straight into the camera.”

  It’s weird being photographed—I’m usually the one doing the picture taking. I wonder if my mug shot will end up online where anybody can see it. He asks me a bunch of questions—address, birth date, Social Security number, ethnicity—all the time writing stuff down or entering it into a computer. He’s systematic but slow, so the booking process is starting to feel endless.

  “Do you think I’ll get out tonight?” I ask.

  “That’s up to the judge,” he says coldly.

  He pulls out the bag of property taken from my pockets, counts the coins, rifles through some scraps of paper, and gives me a receipt for my paltry possessions. I wasn’t allowed to grab anything except my ID when they arrested me. After photocopying my green card, he hands it back and says, “Hang on to this—you’ll need it later.”

  Back in the cell, I curl up on a bench and rub ink from my fingers with the cuff of my hoodie, trying not to think about Liam. I know he’s gonna be crushed—I’d promised him I was getting my shit together. He must’ve known I wasn’t totally clean, but things were definitely getting better. I was going to his soccer games, we’d been hanging out more lately. We were supposed to go pick out his Christmas present this weekend, but there’s no chance of that now. I just hope he doesn’t find out about the gun.

  And then there’s Susan—she’ll be pissed when I don’t call and she can’t reach me. But she’s used to me being scatterbrained, so maybe if I get out tonight I can make up some excuse for why I disappeared. I’m trying to think of a believable story but I’ve been up for days and my mind is foggy. I close my eyes, finally giving in to exhaustion.

  A while later, the sound of heavy keys jangling against metal bars wakes me. A young, fresh-faced cop is leading my cellmate out and shouting at me to get moving.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “You’re going to court,” he says, holding a pair of cuffs in his hand.

  “Can you not put them on so tight? My wrists are really sore.”

  “It’s not the cuffs, it’s moving around too much that makes them tighten. Try and keep still.”

  I want to say: Then don’t tug my arm every time you move me.

  We shuffle through the precinct to a rear exit where there’s a van waiting to take us to central booking, somewhere in the bowels of the Brooklyn courthouse downtown. Once we get there, we move from one dingy cell to another before getting squeezed into a holding pen that’s totally overcrowded. There’s no space to sit, so I stand there trying not to look freaked out. I’m the only white guy except for a short bald man wearing a tank top. They’re all talking nonstop—about judges, bail, and their chances of getting released tonight.

  “You’re better off here on a weekend than a weekday,” the guy next to me says, addressing no one in particular. “They make it quicker so they can all go home early.”

  “That’s bullshit,” cuts in a fat dude hogging half of a narrow bench. “They’re pissed they have to work Saturday night so they come down real hard.”

  I’ve got a million questions, but I don’t say anything. Better just to keep my head down.

  Every so often, one or two people get pulled out to meet with a lawyer or see the judge. The lucky ones don’t come back—they’ve gotten bailed out or released. The ones that do are mad, cursing about having to spend Christmas at Rikers.

  “Yo this motherfucker is outta line. He set bail at a grand. I can’t get that kind of paper.”

  “Shit—a grand? I gotta come up with five stacks. Cash only, no bond.”

  Fuck, five thousand dollars? I doubt I could pull that together.

  My name finally gets called for a meeting with a public defender, who talks fast through the divider between us—he’ll be my lawyer, he’s not sure what evidence there is against me but he’ll try to get me a low bail. It sounds like a speech he’s given a million times.

  “But I’ve not done anything,” I tell him. “The explosion was an accident.”

  “We’ll know more when we see what the DA has,” he says, a bit gruffly. I’m wondering if I should hire my own lawyer, but I’m still hoping the case will just get dismissed.

  Based on the number of people coming back to the cell, it seems like the later it gets the less chance you have of getting released. So by the time I’m led into the courtroom, I’m totally in a panic. The public defender doesn’t say anything to me, just nods and approaches the bench. I watch the judge rifle through some papers, then talk to my lawyer and another guy who must be from the DA’s office. They’re all handing documents back and forth and asking each other questions.

  I’m wondering if I’ll get a chance to explain what happened, when my lawyer comes over and asks, “Why didn’t you tell me you were arrested in September?”

  I stiffen. “Why does that matter?”

  “Because you had an adjournment in contemplation of dismissal—that means you were supposed to stay out of trouble for six months.”

  I got busted right after I got back from Tulsa. Just my luck I went out to buy on a night the streets were crawling with undercover cops.

  “The judge released me straight from court, so I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I tell him. “And I did stay out of trouble. The explosion wasn’t my fault.”

  “No trouble means no contact with the police,” he says, turning and walking back to
the bench.

  The judge says something about problems with the criminal complaint and missing information, so he delays my arraignment until Monday. In the meantime, he’s remanding me to Rikers.

  Rikers Island—the thought stuns me.

  “Can’t I get bail?” I ask.

  “Not until you’re arraigned,” my lawyer says. “You’ll probably get it Monday. Just make sure you’ve got someone in court with the cash.”

  Who the fuck is going to bail me out? I can’t remember anyone’s phone number—except for a couple of dealers and Liam’s mum, but I’m way too scared to call her. I try to think of Susan’s number but all I can come up with is the first six digits.

  Then it’s back to the holding cell with everyone else heading to Rikers. The court officers take us out one by one and cuff us, lead us single file through a labyrinth of corridors, and buzz us through a heavy door leading to a barbed-wire enclosure where a bus is waiting.

  That’s when it really sinks in. I’ve heard a lot of stories about Rikers from guys I’ve hung out with in the projects, so I know I can handle myself—I’m not some sheltered white guy. But it’s hard not to feel nervous as I climb onto the bus. People look out for me in the projects, so no one messes with me there. In Rikers I’m not gonna know anybody, and that makes me feel totally fucking alone.

  —

  INTAKE AT RIKERS is like everything in this outdated system—it takes forever. More fingerprints, more photos, more questions, and then the final humiliation: the strip search. There’s about twenty of us, all shapes and sizes, standing there totally naked. We hand our clothes to a bunch of guards who search the pockets for contraband. I look straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact.

  We turn and squat and lift our balls to show we have nothing hidden before we’re allowed to get dressed. No one’s talking—all the banter has stopped—so there’s just the sound of rubber soles squeaking and jeans getting zipped. I’m shocked that this could actually be legal. I haven’t even been charged yet, never mind convicted.

  Then it’s back to being moved from cell to cell. There seems to be no rhyme or reason for the constant shuffle—and no sense of urgency.

  “Bullpen therapy,” one guy calls it. “They do this just to fuck with you.”

  “They spin it out for the overtime, man,” says a wrinkly guy with gray hair. He looks about seventy—too old to be in jail.

  “Yeah, they got it all computerized in some joints I been in—bar codes and all that technical shit. But we’re on the island. Nobody gives a fuck about anyone in here.”

  I’m desperate for a piss but there’s only one nasty toilet in the corner of the cell and it’s already practically overflowing. Every time someone goes to use it a collective groan goes around, along with threats of “Don’t shake up that shit” and “Hold that slam dunk.” But that doesn’t stop people from pissing and even one guy taking a dump—right there in front of everyone.

  I hunker down in my corner, waiting to see what happens next.

  Every so often someone gets pulled out and handed bedding, a small worn towel, a green plastic cup, and a toothbrush, then is led off by a guard. We’re all tired and cranky—all I want is somewhere I can lay my head down. It’s hours before my name is called and I finally get out of this cell.

  A couple of guards lead about eight of us through long, empty corridors, stopping at every door and gate we come to as men get dropped off at different dorms. There are only two of us left by the time we climb the last set of stairs, pass through another locked door, and enter a scene that totally blows my mind. I thought it would be quiet and orderly but what’s in front of me is a fucking free-for-all. About fifty guys are milling around, playing cards, watching TV, and arguing. Some are listening to radios, others are stripped to the waist working out. I don’t see a white face anywhere.

  The corrections officer points me to a bed opposite a couple of phones where inmates are lined up waiting. Nearby, two other COs are in a booth overlooking the dorm, but they seem totally detached from what’s going on. I put my stuff on the thin plastic-covered mattress and look for a pillow (there isn’t one), then sit on the edge of the bed, trying to take in everything around me. The energy doesn’t look like it’s gonna die down anytime soon.

  I don’t bother undressing or making the bed. I just pull the rough gray blanket over my head and spend a miserable night tossing and turning, thoughts ricocheting around in my head. Worrying about Liam. Wondering if my parents know. Hoping Susan doesn’t find out. Anxious about my house. Eventually I doze off to the sound of men grunting and snoring.

  When I wake up the next morning, it’s still dark outside and the dorm is deadly quiet. I don’t see anyone else up, except for a guy in the bathroom doing pull-ups using the bar between stalls. Slowly, rhythmically grunting every time he gets to the top. I want to piss and clean my teeth but tales of jailhouse bathrooms make me a bit nervous. Fuck it—I can’t hold it. I walk over to the open toilets, piss quickly, then turn and face the row of sinks.

  I try to look at myself in the mirror but the metal plate has been worn down with so many years of scouring that all I see is a distorted reflection. Even though I don’t have any toothpaste, I turn on the tap and clean my teeth with the cheap plastic toothbrush—the bristles make my gums bleed. Then I head back to my bed, watching the sky change from dark to light as the dorm comes to life.

  I’m not sure what time it is when breakfast is brought to us on carts rolled into the dayroom. Trays are clattering, and the guys serving are shouting, “Chow time!” I look around at the men still curled up in bed, dead to the world. How the fuck can they sleep through this?

  There aren’t any tables left, so I take my tray back to my bed. Out of nowhere a young white guy pops up in front of me—I didn’t notice him last night. He’s talking fast and his eyes dart past me, never quite catching mine.

  “What are you in for?” he asks.

  “Nothing that’ll stick,” I tell him. “I should get out tomorrow.”

  “Good luck with that,” he says, laughing. “I’ve been in for seven months going back and forth to court. Five minutes in front of the judge, then sent back here to wait. Can’t get money for bail so I’m stuck.”

  The thought of not getting bail makes me shudder. Since he asked me, I feel okay asking him why he’s here.

  “Conspiracy charge,” he says. “I was just selling a few oxys on the side, but my connect was getting them from some bogus pain doctor and I got caught up in his bullshit. See that dude with the neck tattoo? He’s been fighting his case for two years—that’s how fucked-up this place is.”

  The shock must show on my face because he says, “You’ll be okay. Sounds like you ain’t in deep shit. Anyway, I’ll catch you later.”

  As soon as he’s gone, an empty feeling seeps through me—the comedown I’ve been fighting crushing me again. Ever since I got arrested, waves of depression have been crashing over me as the cravings come and go. I just want something to take my mind off everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, but I’ve got no way to distract myself. There’s nothing to do except watch the rabble around me.

  My bed is right across from the toilets, so all day people stream past me, pissing and shitting in earshot. The smell wafting out of there is disgusting. The stalls don’t have doors and the showers are open, so as much as I’d love to rinse off I’m not ready to tackle that—and I’d just have to put on the same clothes I’ve been wearing.

  I’m trying to will the day away, but the endless fights about the phone and the mindless conversations are driving me crazy. I just want to scream “Shut the fuck up!” but I don’t think that would go down too well. Lunch finally arrives—bologna sandwiches—and then five hours later, dinner: potatoes that look like wallpaper paste, a few soggy vegetables, and a rubbery piece of meat coated in breadcrumbs.

  Other people are wolfing their food down like they haven’t eaten in a week, but I just sit on my bed picking
at the vegetables before taking my tray back to the dayroom. “Not good enough for you?” the server says, grinning. “You’ll get used to it.”

  After dinner I try to watch TV, but I can’t get close enough to hear anything and I’m too agitated to sit still. I don’t know how people survive in this place—even a week would drive me insane. I pace back and forth the length of the dorm, avoiding a couple of guys swaggering around, rapping along with whatever’s playing on their prison-issue radios. I’m hoping I can wear myself down before lights-out.

  As I walk back to my bed, I see a few guys huddled by the showers—I swear I smell crack, a whiff of burnt foil filling my nostrils. How the fuck did they get that in here? Just the thought of a hit sets me off. My mind goes into overdrive, the smell triggering every receptor in my brain. I want to see if it’s for real but I’m too scared to walk over and check it out. I just sit on my bed, letting the cravings surge through me. At least I’m not dope sick. It’s the only positive thing I can grasp on to right now.

  —

  ON MONDAY MORNING I’m woken up at 5 A.M. for the long journey back to the Brooklyn courthouse. It can’t be more than ten miles away, but it takes hours to process us all out. Everyone piling onto the bus is wearing street clothes, since most of us haven’t even been charged yet. Once we get there, we’re crammed into a cell for another excruciating wait to see a judge.

  When the court officer finally calls my name, I’m cuffed and led from the holding pen into the courtroom, in a line with half a dozen other defendants. A crowd of mostly black and brown faces is staring at us, but one of the lone white faces jumps out: It’s Susan, sitting at the end of a wooden bench. She looks exhausted, the dark rings under her eyes accentuated by bad lighting.

  Part of me is angry that she’s here—this is the last place I want her to see me—but I’m relieved that at least someone showed up. The way she’s looking at me kills me, as if I’ve turned out to be the biggest disappointment of her life. Even if she had been willing to give me another chance, clearly that’s not gonna happen now. Blinking hard, I look down at my feet. I can’t fucking start crying in court.