You Got Nothing Coming

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "No! Wait… sorry. Listen: what about my meds? They have to give me my meds in here, don't they?"

  "Trust me— they come twice a day and I can't imagine them overlooking you."

  "You really can be very sweet, Jimmy. If you like, I could talk dirty into the vent while you touch yourself or—"

  "Good-bye, Cassie."

  "Bye, Jimmy."

  Please, God, don't ever let me get that lonely.

  * * *

  Throughout the day Cassie chatters happily through the air vent. She's a twenty-two-year-old "street hustler" from L.A. who had the misfortune of getting arrested for peddling her hairy ass to a male undercover cop in Reno. When they took her down for booking, the cops found a condom stuffed with crank— speed— in her pocket.

  The judge gave her eighteen to thirty months for the crank and dismissed the soliciting charges. This is her first time in a regular prison— she's used to the J-Cat ward prison "where it's more like a hospital."

  After dinner— spinach lasagna, which is great— Leach shouts out, "Shower time, gentlemen— and ladies!" Leach giggles at his little joke. So do the Hole dawgs behind their doors.

  "You all know the fucking drill! Two cells at a time. You will exit your houses fully dressed and holding only your towel and your soap!"

  The doors open and Cassie and I head for the six-man communal shower stalls at the end of the lower tier.

  "I'll show you the tattoo in the shower," Cassie whispers.

  "NO TALKING, YOU FUCKING FREAK!" Bubblecop shows us his shotgun.

  There is a metal bench bolted to the floor outside the showers for our clothes and towels. I quickly strip and step into the stall, finding a showerhead as distant as possible from Cassie.

  Cassie, her back to me, takes her time removing her "altered state property." Inmates' bodies are also considered to be the property of the state. Get a tattoo and you can be charged with "altering and defacing state property."

  Cassie is whispering urgently.

  "Look at what that black bastard did to me."

  Tattooed in large block letters on Cassie's lower back is the Hunger's "butterfly." Three words and a downward-pointing arrow below them. The thin arrow points straight down, the tip perfectly aligned with the crack of Cassie's ass.

  Tattooed above the arrow is the instruction:

  INSERT DICK HERE

  And Jesus wept.

  * * *

  Leach is on my front porch, tapping courteously against the window.

  "Rise and shine, O.G.! You got the Disciplinary Board in twenty minutes." All of a sudden I am "O.G.?" I wonder whassup wid dat?

  The cell door slides open and Leach gives me a conspiratorial grin. "Hey, O.G. Why didn't you tell me you was down with Kansas? Me and that old boy go back a little ways, y'unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you?"

  Leach looks like he spent the night curled up in a Dumpster behind Domino's Pizza. His rumpled khaki uniform is stained with tomato sauce and reeks of cheese. The cheese is not fresh. Today's mouthwash selection is very fresh, however— I would guess Eau de Thunderbird Wine.

  Leach's peckerwood-issue ponytail, usually tucked in behind his collar, is now unfurled and waving in unwashed glory. He tosses a cleaned, starched state blue shirt on my tray.

  "You wanna look stract for the Disciplinary Committee. Appearances count a lot with the warden— you wanna shave?" Leach enters the cell and hands me a Bic disposable and a small square of polished metal.

  "J-Cat cells don't normally get razors, so I gotta watch you."

  It's been a long time since I've looked into a mirror, and I'm shocked to see some specks of white in the beard I've let grow since county jail. Actually the specks are more like broad swaths of white with a few brown specks. Sometimes, at first consideration, my brain cannot tell the difference between how I imagine things to be and how they really are.

  Not that that's such a bad thing.

  Leach is sitting on my bunk smoking a tailor-made while I take care of business at the sink. I keep the beard full, just trimming around it. No one could mistake it for a badass goatee. More like an O.G.— Old Goat.

  "Wanna tailor, O.G.? I know you got a stinger in here. I see the flashes at night."

  I accept a Marlboro from his crumpled pack and start tying my state sneaker, waiting for Leach's other shoe to drop. When it does, it's more with a whimper than a bang.

  "Ah… O.G…. ya know there's no need to tell the Disciplinary Committee about the occupancy problem in here, know what I'm saying? Not that they'd ask, but you wasn't in no J-Cat cell, y'unnerstan'? Them fucking Dirtboys supposed to be keeping better track, know what I'm sayin'?"

  "I got your back, Leach— what J-Cat cell?"

  "Aiight. It's all good then. Come on up to the office when you're ready."

  * * *

  Sergeant Stanger is waiting in the office to fully accessorize me with the cuffs and waist chain. He seems very excited to see me again.

  "You're going down, motherfucker! The board don't like weapons possession charges. Not to mention the conspiracy charge I threw into the mix when they told me to change the 'manufacturing' to 'possession.' "

  "I appreciate your flexibility. I'm sure the board won't appreciate having their time wasted by some trumped-up Mickey Mouse charges, C.O."

  In response Stanger ratchets up the pressure on my wrists. "Oh nooo, O.G. Nothing 'Mickey Mouse' about these charges. We're talking major violations of the Code of Penal Discipline. You're looking at two to five more years, and that's Sergeant, asshole! A C.O. got mosquito wings like this piece of drunken shit Leach here."

  Leach objects. "Come on, Sarge— that's way outta line!" Stanger ignores him and yanks my chain. Behind us Cassie is yelling from her cell, "Good luck, O.G.!"

  Once again out into the sandstorm and the sun, Stanger ranting nonstop while he sprays me with his saliva.

  "Heard through the wire you been coming on to the Hunger's bitch. The Hunger ain't gonna like that when I tell him… oh noooo, Big Hungry is gonna be Big Jealous!" We halt in front of the electronic gate that protects the administration building from uninvited guests bearing grudges. Guntower Cop stares down before hitting his remote to let us in.

  "Yeah, you going down! Going down hard! Talking outta the side of your neck to me!" I am still trying to decide if Stanger is doing a Rocky Balboa ("Yo— I ain't goin' down no more, Apollo") or a Travis Bickle ("You talking ta me?") when he shoves me down into a bench outside the hearing room.

  Stanger unchains me and then we are in the conference room, three men seated at a long table and an empty chair placed behind a red line painted on the floor about six feet from the table. My second chair in a week!

  "Lerner? Jimmy?" says the spokesman in the center. He is a very tall, very thin stick of a man with a thick white head of hair.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Back number?"

  "Six-one-six-three-four." I know it now better than my Social Security number.

  "I'm Assistant Warden Noble and with us today are Caseworkers Joe Ringer and Wally Sykes." The caseworkers— civil servants in short-sleeved white shirts— don't bother to look up. They are perusing my "full jacket"— the file containing my life history up to and including any "disciplinary problems" while incarcerated.

  "Mr. Lerner, you are charged with two major violations of the Code of Penal Discipline: MJ21, possession of a weapon, and MJ22, conspiracy to possess a weapon."

  Behind me Stanger emits a somewhat insane giggle. Noble is not pleased with the interruption.

  "Sergeant Stanger, this is a formal disciplinary hearing and you will kindly remain silent unless and until you are asked to testify. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

  Joe and Wally are still studying the folder before them, shaking their heads in obvious puzzlement. Caseworkers can be a prisoner's best friend or worst nightmare. They are not cops, often have some background in psychology or social work and can serve to slightly offset the ov
erwhelming power of the guards.

  If they want to.

  Assistant Warden Noble places a small tape recorder on the table. "Mr. Lerner, you have a right to be represented by an inmate-counsel substitute— a law clerk. Private attorneys are not permitted at these proceedings. Do you now wish inmate-counsel representation at this time?"

  "No, sir, I believe I can adequately defend myself against these charges."

  "Do you understand that if found guilty of these charges the Disciplinary Committee may refer your case to the State Attorney General's Office, where new criminal charges may be filed against you?"

  "I understand that, sir."

  "Let's proceed then. Mr. Sykes, would you turn on the tape recorder? Thank you. Mr. Ringer, you have examined the write-up from Sergeant Stanger. What weapon is involved here? A shank? A trazor? A Bic?"

  Ringer smirks and smooths his thick black hair, which is greased severely back from a massive shiny forehead. His bird-black eyes seem to be smiling above a hooked proboscis.

  "Mr. Noble, according to the Notice of Charges, 'pursuant to a routine cell search for contraband, Mr. Lerner was found to be in possession of…' "

  "Well? Come on, Mr. Ringer— we have six more disciplinaries to get through today."

  "Sorry, sir— 'found to be in possession of a Sunday issue of the New York Times, folded and concealed within a state-issue towel.' "

  Caseworker Sykes, a small man with tiny hands that tend to flutter involuntarily in the air, has suddenly discovered some object of fascination on the ceiling. One fluttering hand descends to arrange the four strands of gray hair he has painstakingly pasted across his bald dome.

  The assistant warden's voice is rich with disbelief. "The Sunday New York Times? What section?"— as if possession of, say, the Week in Review section would constitute a mitigating circumstance.

  "It doesn't specify, sir," Ringer answers.

  Little Wally Sykes now decides he wants to participate. "Sir, uh… I'm not precisely certain as to the particular relevance of any one section."

  Noble releases the issue. "Oh well, the wife and I subscribe to the Sunday Times. Lerner, why did you conceal the paper in the state towel?"

  His expression, to my relief, is one of benign and fatherly bemusement.

  "Sir, I didn't conceal it. I used it to make a pillow."

  "A pillow?"

  "Yes, sir. And that took all the sections of the paper."

  "Including the Book Review?"

  "Yes, sir. Also the Money & Business section."

  "Do you work the crossword puzzle?"

  "No, sir— much too difficult for me." Noble is positively beaming now at my humble admission of ignorance. I'm beginning to feel it's all going to be good— in the hood.

  "Too tough for me too," says the assistant warden, not without a trace of sadness. "My wife does, though— in pen!" He is smiling with obvious pride.

  "She must be a remarkable woman, sir," I say, always alert to rapport-building opportunities with my new masters.

  Noble ignores this ass-kissing overture and returns to reading Stanger's fiction. "Okay… Mr. Lerner, what about the Conspiracy to Possess a Weapon?"

  "Sir, I have no idea. Unless I conspired with the United States Postal Service to deliver the paper to me."

  "Hmmm… your point is well taken. I think we can now conclude these proceedings with—"

  Stanger can no longer keep a lid on it. "Sir! We're talking about a ten-pound slocking device— concealed and affixed to a state towel!"

  Noble is not convinced. "And the conspiracy?"

  "Sir, we believe the O.G.— Lerner— did not act alone. He's a new fish, never been down before. He had to have some help. Some old con, probably that hard case Kansas, must of conspired with him."

  The assistant warden slowly lets out a world-weary sigh. Sykes and Ringer are now captivated by their shoes.

  "Can you produce a co-conspirator at this time, Sergeant?"

  Stanger reverts to the comfortable territory of Copspeak. "Sir, we are still in the preliminary stages of an ongoing investigation."

  "I'll take that as a no, Sergeant."

  Ringer is quietly humming the theme to the old Mickey Mouse Club.

  Noble has heard enough. "Sergeant, exactly what kind of… trumped-up Mickey Mouse charges are these?"

  The assistant warden cuts off Stanger's stuttering response with a curt wave of his hand. "That was a rhetorical question. These charges are found to be without substance and without…" Noble pauses to enlist Wally's input. "Wally, do you perceive any merit to these allegations?"

  This time Wally is quick. "Merit? I most assuredly think not."

  "Mr. Ringer?"

  "No substance and no merit."

  "Then this case is dismissed." The assistant warden turns off the tape recorder.

  I'm loving this guy! This is not going to be one of those hackneyed prison tales starring an Evil Warden.

  "Next case, Sergeant, and if it turns out to be even remotely similar to this piece of claptrap, don't waste the committee's time." Claptrap— the man actually uses that word. "In fact, Wally, why is my presence even necessary at these proceedings? Surely a single caseworker can handle the disciplinary process."

  Wally is paging through a battered copy of The Nevada Code of Penal Discipline. "I think not, sir. The code states that a committee should consist of at least three members to hear major disciplinary charges."

  The assistant warden picks up on the word "should." As well he should. "Wally, that sounds like a suggestion to me. Is there anything in AR-22 that relates to this?"

  Wally doesn't bother to look for the reference. "Administrative Regulation 22 also stipulates a three-member committee— except in the event of staff shortages." Wally and Noble are grinning at each other.

  "Well, that covers it, wouldn't you say? We have chronic staff shortages. Mr. Ringer, going forward you will now be the Disciplinary Committee."

  Ringer tilts his beak at him. "No problem, sir."

  Noble is digging through my jacket. "Mr. Lerner, it says here that you have an M.B.A. What school did you attend?"

  "Golden Gate University in San Francisco." Noble frowns slightly. What is he expecting? A Harvard M.B.A.?

  The assistant warden has an agenda. "Lerner, we'll have an opening shortly in the law library for a clerk. Do you have any legal background or experience at all?"

  "No, sir." And the entire committee looks pleased. Correct answer, I guess.

  "Are you currently appealing your sentence or do you have a habeas corpus petition filed in federal court?"

  "Sir— I can't even spell 'habeas corpus.' " Now all three of them are grinning and nodding in approval. I have just had a successful job interview. The phone company had a similar screening process for top management.

  "All right then. I want you in general population— out of the Shoe, out of the Fish Tank— as of now. You'll be required to put in your time as a kitchen worker first— we can't have any favoritism in here, bad for inmate morale. Then you'll be working as our new law clerk."