My Name Is River Blue

by Noah James Adams

  CO Tisdale, the CO who brought Scott to my cell, was the one that I knew was tight with the white gang. Tisdale and CO Clark took me to a room where they searched me, including a body cavity search. They found no weapon, and there was no blood on me or on my clothes. Tisdale tried to bully me into admitting that I killed Wink, but even when he slapped my face and punched me in the gut, I maintained my innocence. He kept me naked and on my knees, while he slapped me or kicked me in the abs every time I didn't answer him with a confession. The impact from his blows to my body jarred my back until I was writhing in pain.

  I was fortunate when Captain Lomax, Tisdale's boss, entered the room. I got the impression that Lomax didn't care about Wink or anyone else in the white gang, but he asked a few more questions. I continued to deny any knowledge, and when Tisdale angrily blurted out that I was lying, I acted as scared as I could. I covered my head and begged him not to hit me again. Lomax's eyes grew big, as Tisdale stuttered and denied that he had beaten me. I asked Lomax to help me stand and showed him the fresh marks on my body. Even with my brown skin, it was easy to tell I had been beaten and kicked. Lomax asked CO Clark what happened, and he hesitated enough that he answered Lomax's question without even speaking.

  While I had Captain Lomax's attention, I told him that everyone on the cellblock knew that Tisdale had a deal going with the white gang, and that was why he was so rough with me. My goal was not to convince Lomax that he had a bad CO. I wanted Tisdale to understand that if something happened to me, the seed was already planted with his captain so that Tisdale would be a suspect. Lomax stared at Tisdale a long moment and then ordered CO Clark to take me back to my cell.

  Word travels at the speed of light in a prison, and by last count that night, I would have bet that in the entire prison, there was not an inmate who had not heard that Wink bled out from a severed jugular. The story, which was embellished quite a bit as it was passed along, was that Wink disrespected my family, my race, and my manhood in the cafeteria. They say I joked around with him as if it didn't bother me at all. The speculation was that after I quietly ate my lunch, I cut his throat. Some of the men thought I had professional training since the COs found no blood on me or on my clothes. My friend, Tom, would have been impressed with such a demonstration of skill from one of his students. If the rumors had been true.

  No matter what the word was among the inmates, there were no witnesses, no evidence, and no weapon. No one could prove anything, and no one, including me, was ever stupid enough to take credit for Wink's death. When the investigation was over, the Captain released me back into population and returned me to my cell with Scott.

  There was no doubt that the other men looked at me differently after the lockdown was lifted. I never heard any more disparaging remarks called out at me, as the older inmates normally did with the new guys. It didn't mean that I was safe, only that any inmates who wanted to mess with me would be careful how they went about it. In some ways, it made me an even bigger target to a select few inmates.

  The white supremacist gang leader, or shot caller as some called him, was a man named Dugan, who was in for life on a murder charge. Just like his gang members, Dugan had a shaved head, swastika tat, and a muscular build from heavy weight lifting, aided by steroids. If I were close enough, I would often see Dugan staring at me and sometimes saying something to one of his gang who would look at me and laugh. The word was that Dugan was not seeking revenge for what happened to Wink. Dugan reportedly said that Wink was an idiot and got what he asked for, but I was still a mixed-race bastard, who disrespected his gang, and when he was ready, I would pay.

  ***

  After dinner one evening, Carney and I were playing spades in the day room with two guys from the group. CO Clark had just walked by and dropped a note on the table in front of me. The note said that I had to take an aptitude test the following morning, and since Clark walked off without saying a word, Carney explained how the prison job process went.

  "Okay, kid. About four weeks after a new guy arrives, he takes an aptitude test to see what kind of work he might be good at doing. A week or two week later, he goes for an interview with an admin asshole who assigns him a job. Because you're a new fish, you can expect one of the worst jobs in the prison, but your disability could play in your favor."

  "Which jobs are bad, Carney?"

  "Laundry's one of the worst," said Carney. The other guys at the table nodded in agreement. "It's hard, nasty work. It's hot as hell down there, and your clothes will be soaked and chafing you in an hour. No guard will stand around in that shit, so they got one civilian boss that stays in his little air-conditioned office. It's so noisy that no one can hear a kid screaming for help, and the guard only peeks in once every hour. Can you imagine what can happen to a young kid like you in an hour?"

  Smitty, an old black guy, added, "Yeah, and if the kid goes on sick call, they patch him up and send him right back down there for more of it. Usually, after a few weeks, the fish toughens up or checks out for good."

  "Sounds great." My voice was thick with sarcasm.

  "Any of those jobs in the wood and metal shops are bad, too," added Carney. "Making mail boxes and license plates can be dangerous work."

  "Are there any good jobs that I got a shot at getting? Can I tell someone my concerns and request a safer job?"

  The leatherheads laughed a full minute before they realized I was serious.

  About a week after I took the prison aptitude test, I went for my interview with Mr. Sanchez. I decided that if he didn't offer a decent job that I would play on my disability as much as possible while still showing a willingness to work hard where I was physically able.

  When Mr. Sanchez told me that he was placing me in the prison library, I thought he was joking because I had heard that it was one of the most desirable jobs in the prison. He explained that it was because I couldn't do strenuous work, and because I scored one of the highest grades ever on their aptitude test. Apparently, literacy was a requirement of the position, and there were a surprising number of inmates, who were illiterate. Mr. Sanchez told me that almost half the inmates had never finished high school and some of them never made it to high school at all.

  I immediately thought of Gabby, my old CO from Stockwell. If he hadn't cared enough to push me, I would have never worked ahead of the other students so that I was on grade level when I returned to public school. I remembered Gabby encouraging me to use the reading program by borrowing books from the prison library and the county library. He told me that reading books on my own was a sure way of educating me that I would never regret. In addition to those assigned by my teachers, I chose to read more than sixty books. Because I followed Gabby's advice, I got one of the best jobs in Rockville.

  The library was part of the Quad, which was the newest and safest part of the prison. The Quad also housed all the administrative offices, the staff locker rooms and showers, and the staff cafeteria. Everything was in good repair, including the air conditioning and security cameras. I noticed right away that the area didn't smell of human filth and disinfectant like the cellblocks did.

  An inmate, who worked for any of the staff in that quadrant, could earn special privileges for exceptional performance. Those inmates were allowed to eat at a designated table in the back of the staff cafeteria if a mealtime occurred during their work shift. They could also use a part of the staff showers as long as it was not at a staff shift change. Of course, everything the staff used was better than the rest of the prison, and the inmates in the Quad worked especially hard for the privilege of eating the same meals the staff ate.

  The library job was exactly what I needed. If I could work, eat, and shower in the staff area, it would cut down the opportunities for the white gang to attack me. I knew that some of the inmates would be jealous, but I wasn't giving up the job. There were already longtime inmates who were pissed that Mr. Sanchez didn't assign jobs by seniority, so I thought that maybe Carney and the guys wouldn't give me too much grief
if I told them that I didn't ask to be assigned to the library.

  When I told the leatherheads about my library job, they bitched a little, but most of them agreed that with my physical problems, maybe Mr. Sanchez finally did something that made sense. Most of them said that they were glad I caught a break, and then Smitty asked me if my knees were still sore. I didn't get the question until Carney explained using a motion that turned my face red and had all the guys laughing at me. As much as those guys enjoyed teasing a new fish like me, I should have seen it coming. They gave me plenty of practice at being a good sport, and it reminded me of the hazing I took as a freshman football player for the Hawks.

  Later, when we were alone, Carney asked how I really got the job in the library. I was surprised that he didn't believe my story, and I insisted there was nothing else to it. He stared into my eyes long enough to make me uncomfortable and then said, "Kid, I've done seventeen years here, and those jobs always cost somebody something. If you haven't paid yet, you will."

  There were six of us, who worked for the library. Four of us were at least part Latino, and all of us were in our twenties. On a normal shift, there would be two of us using carts to wheel a selection of books through each cellblock to offer them to inmates, and the same two guys would collect books returning to the library. Another one would deliver books to the cells of specific prisoners, who had placed their names on a waiting list. The worker who stayed in the library had to make sure that all books and magazines were in their proper homes, or that they were logged out to a prisoner using his cell number and personal prison ID number. He also kept the library clean and orderly. That inmate was called "the accountant" because he had to make sure that every single book was accounted for at the library's closing time each day.

  On my first day at the library, I was surprised that the supervisor, Mr. Cortez, gave me the accountant job. Mr. Cortez was a middle-aged, Mexican-American, who had worked in another area of the prison before they reassigned him to oversee the library and the canteen store. Running the canteen included supervising the inmate accounts, which is how inmates bought items such as toiletries, snacks, candy, ramen noodles, coffee, and cigarettes. Inmates were not allowed to have money, but their family and friends could put money in their accounts each month. I discovered that inmates used canteen items, mainly cigarettes, for currency and trades between themselves.

  My impression of Mr. Cortez was that he was a fair and decent guy who expected us to work hard and follow the rules. If we did a good job, Mr. Cortez would reward us with the use of staff facilities in three-day increments. After a few days, he told me that I would have staff facility privileges until he told me otherwise.

  Every day, Mr. Cortez inspected the library and the book lending ledgers to see what kind of job I was doing. When he was satisfied, sometimes we would sit down and talk for a while. He began to recommend certain books to me and told me that I could read on the job as long as I kept up with my work. Soon, we began discussing the books, and it was obvious why he chose them for me. Most of them contained inspirational messages for people suffering through hard times. He didn't try to dig much into my past, but he asked questions about what I wanted to do with my life after my parole. Mr. Cortez acted more interested in my future than my counselor or the priest. He had even begun to use my first name.

  One day, during my third week in the library, I was reading a book at a table near the windows when I heard Mr. Cortez's voice behind me.

  "River, I think any inmate who loves a good book as much as you do is worth saving."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Mr. Cortez surprised me when he smiled down at me and ruffled my hair as a man might do to his little boy. I thought it was an odd thing for him to do to an inmate, and I was suspicious because he had been nicer to me than I ever expected a prison supervisor to be. I wanted very badly to keep my job in the safety of the Quad, so I acted as if his gesture didn't bother me, but I wondered if Mr. Cortez was building me up for something illegal. Did he need a partner to help him shave a little off the canteen accounts? Did he want something more personal? As my mind went wild with thoughts of what he wanted with me, I guess he could sense my unease because his next words gave me all the assurance I needed.

  "Don't worry, River. I was just agreeing with Manny that you're a good young man."

  I was curious about my uncle's arrangement with him, but I knew that some subjects were not safe to discuss anywhere in prison no matter what precautions we took. I decided that I would not mention the deal as long as I was in Rockville.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Not long after I began working in the library, two members of a Latino gang, which was comprised of all Mexican-Americans, approached me in the yard. They invited me over to their group to talk to me about joining their gang. I was a little surprised since I was obviously not pure Latino. I wanted the protection of a gang, but I didn't want anyone controlling my fate by making me do something that brought me more charges and additional prison time.

  Carlos Perez, the shot caller, was another muscled man like so many of the men that I saw in Rockville. He was in his mid-thirties, over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred twenty pounds. He and others like him made me wish that I could still work with weights, as I used to before the accident. It had been a long time since I had been able to do more than light-weight bench presses flat on my back and curls with hand weights that wouldn't strain me. I was as strong as I could be with my limits, but I was nothing compared to Carlos. I told him that he might not want me in his gang if he expected me to be physical with anyone.

  Carlos smirked. "Wink would say you got physical with him. That is, if he could talk."

  "Yeah, well you know how rumors are. But if I had done something like that, it would have been done quickly with no fighting involved."

  "You can still join, man," said Carlos. "Word is that Dugan has marked you, and you need our protection. You didn't take shit from Dugan's gang, so I know your heart is Latino. I won't turn my back on you because you got some weak Anglo blood. We can find something for you to do."

  "It's cool that you want to help me, but you don't need to go to any special trouble for me." I wondered how obvious it was that I didn't want to join him.

  "Let's see." Carlos ignored my comment and rubbed his chin as he thought. "My cellmate just got out, and I got a CO that can get you transferred to my cell. There you won't worry about all these guys ganging up on your shit. Young dude like you needs an older con to teach you and keep you safe. Show you how to get along in the joint."

  Standing there with Carlos and his gang around me, I didn't know what to say. There was no guard in sight. I knew if I offended him that his gang might kill me right there. It was another time that I cursed Max for the accident that left me so vulnerable. I tried to be honest with Carlos without disrespecting him.

  "I'm honored that you would consider me, and I don't mean any disrespect, but I have limits to what I will do for protection, and I need to know what the deal is. Also, I have less than four years to serve, and I don't want a situation that could cost me more time."

  Carlos stared at me in a way that I interpreted as surprise that I would dictate terms to him. "So you want my gang to protect you, but you want to do only what you want? Is that it?"

  "I want to contribute, but in a way that keeps my parole date the same."

  I tried to think of something that would be of value to him, and came up with money. Papa had left me plenty of money I could use to buy the approved items that inmates could have in their cells. On a visit, an inmate's family member could bring items to the COs to check, and if they were permitted, the COs would send them to the inmate's cell later that day. I offered my idea to Carlos.

  "I have some money. Enough that I could contribute things to you and the gang from time to time. My uncle could handle it for me. Maybe put some money in your canteen accounts or buy something for your cells from the list the prison allows. Radios, CD playe
rs, coffee, cigarettes, whatever you guys need."

  Carlos looked thoughtful. "I'm sure we can work something out. We could use some things. So I will make the cell change happen quickly." He stepped closer to me until he placed his hand behind my neck and pulled me forward until his cheek pressed against mine. His hand was painfully squeezing my neck, as he whispered in my ear. "You should remember a few things, my young friend. First, I am not Wink, so don't fuck with me. If you promise me something, you deliver. Second, from now on, you will do anything I tell you, and you will never refuse me. You got something to say, something you want, you ask me nicely and I decide. Understand me?"

  "Yes. I understand." I said it quietly and respectfully. I was afraid of Carlos and his gang, and I'm sure it showed.

  I wished that I were any place but that prison yard with Carlos threatening me while his gang watched. The frustrating part was that before my accident there's no way I would have taken any crap off him, which would have gotten my ass beaten, but I would have felt more like a man. I wasn't sure what Carlos might order me to do, but I was trapped and powerless to stop him. Since I knew that Dugan would come after me one day, I hoped that joining Carlos was the lesser of evils.

  Carlos used his connections to arrange for my transfer to his cell, and the day I bagged up my few possessions, I wasn't sure if I felt sorrier for Scott or for me. I didn't believe there was much anyone could do for Scott. I never really knew him, but whoever he was before he came to Rockville died the day the white racists attacked him. Scott ate very little, kept to himself, and hardly spoke. I told him that he should get help from the infirmary doctor, but he never responded to my suggestion.

  The prison chapel held various religious services each week, and I had been attending Mass. I told the priest what happened to Scott and that he was sinking fast. The priest told me later on that he did talk to Scott and arranged for him to get counseling, but I guess Scott was so depressed that he saw only one way out of his pain. Another inmate gave Scott a blade that my young cellmate used to end his life.