You Got Nothing Coming

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  "So you just sell the whole ounce, or what's left, to make your profit?" Give Spoony a minimal cue, a lead-in to Fun With Fractions.

  "Fuck no, O.G.! I thought you grew up in the sixties! We cut it, break it down, and bag it, you know what I'm saying, dawg— sorry, I meant 'O.G.' "

  "Spoony, trust me when I tell you that I have probably spilled more drugs on the floor than you have taken in your entire life, but what I'm asking is just how do you break the stuff down?" My Inner Teacher can be relentless!

  "You know, like… into quarters, teeners, eight balls, whatever the customer wants."

  "Spoony, I rest my case— you're down with fractions."

  Later I turn off the overhead light. "Night, Spoony."

  Outside the relatively safe cocoon of our locked cell (we can lock ourselves in), the ghetto blasters blare out their themes of murder, robbery, and rape while predators— white, black, brown— roam the corridors.

  In prison the Morlocks always come out at night.

  Spoony's squeaky adolescent voice drifts down in the darkness.

  "Yogee— you still awake?"

  "Yeah, Spoony, I'm enjoying the music from the street fair."

  "Listen… uh… thanks for helping me with the GED stuff and all. Hey! We got biscuits and gravy tomorrow. You want I should bring a biscuit back for you?"

  "No thanks, just an apple or orange would be fine."

  "I'm down with that."

  "Then it's all good."

  "Night, O.G."

  "Night, Spoony."

  * * *

  Every Friday I join Caseworker Ringer for the disciplinary hearings. They are held in his office in the administrative building, down the hall from Dirt Headquarters. Sergeant Stanger drags in up to thirty accused convicts during the course of a long day.

  Ringer looks like a refugee from a production of Grease, his thick black pompadour slicked into shape by a gallon of gel. His hooked nose would not be out of place on some birdlike, prehistoric creature.

  Ringer is all bark and no bite. I like and respect him.

  "Your job," Ringer likes to explain to me, "is to shut the fuck up and write down the punishments imposed— the sanction— after I find these fuckups guilty. They had plenty of time to send you a kite and consult with you before the hearing. Anything you don't understand about the process?"

  Caseworker Ringer is firm but fair. I know this because of the hand-lettered sign taped to the front of his desk: SENIOR CASEWORKER RINGER— FIRM BUT FAIR!

  A veteran of Quality Improvement Process meetings, I thank him for the role clarification. He tells me to knock off the sideways shit. We get along fine. Ringer is ready.

  "Sergeant Stanger, send in the meat!"

  And here comes the meat! One shackled, cuffed, cowering victim after another is hauled in by Stanger, who then exits the room to guard the remaining meat on the Group W bench in the hall. Busy as he is, Stanger always makes some time to glare at me and spray threats. "I hear your little bitch Spoony is running drugs for you and the Car, O.G. You're going down real soon, asshole." Then Ringer orders him out of the hearing room. Senior caseworkers outrank Dirt sergeants around here.

  "How do you plead?" Ringer asks the first victim, a confused black teenager charged with "M-5, a minor violation: failure to keep one's person or assigned area neat and clean." The kid slumps in the chair, bewildered, as Ringer reads the Notice of Charges aloud, omitting the Copspeak narrative.

  "Guilty… I guess," he whispers to his state sneakers.

  "You guess— you can't fucking GUESS!" Ringer roars. He tosses aside the write-up and tilts his beak down at Kid Guess. His tone is suddenly calm, reasonable.

  "Why don't you just tell me what this is all about— you didn't clean your cell? Scared of dropping the soap in the shower?"

  "No… nothin' like dat," Guess murmurs to his feet. "I takes my showers, keeps myself clean… I ain't be havin' no nasty-ass crib neither… but I was in the holding cell by the intake waiting, you know what I'm sayin', all day I be up in that muthafucka… den I axed the C.O. to use the bathroom, you…" Kid Guess hunches further down in his chair, acutely embarrassed.

  "And the C.O. told you to hold it— right?" finishes the suddenly helpful Ringer.

  "Yes, sir… Sergeant Stanger, he say 'hold it' or piss myself because he be too busy to come to the holding cell right then." Kid Guess is now trying to disappear through the floor.

  Ringer senses a confession. "So you did, in fact, proceed to piss yourself!"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Ringer… so I guess I be pleadin' guilty."

  "Plead not guilty," orders Ringer.

  "Sir?" Kid Guess glances at me, his silent advocate. I give the kid my best legalistic shrug. Ringer is writing on his disposition form.

  "I'm entering your plea of not guilty to the charge of M-5. I have considered all the available evidence in this case and I find you"— Ringer pauses for dramatic effect— "not guilty!"

  Ringer is ripping up another of Stanger's write-ups. "Now get the fuck out of here! Your charge is dismissed! No man should have to piss himself— you've been punished enough."

  Over the next five hours, Ringer judges twenty-three more cases, often advising convicts how to plead when it is in their best interest. Final score: eleven guilty, seven charges reduced from major to general or minor violations, and six not guilty.

  Senior Caseworker Ringer: firm but fair!

  * * *

  As a Lawdog I am permitted to review various Department of Prisons guidelines if they are relevant to an inmate's disciplinary charges. Among my favorites are the UA Drug Testing Guidelines. In addition to random urinalysis tests (usually administered to convicts the cops hate), inmates may also be tested if they meet any of the following criteria:

  1. The inmate exhibits an "inexplicably cheerful demeanor."

  2. The inmate "appears depressed."

  3. The inmate "exhibits mood swings."

  4. The inmate "isolates" in his cell.

  5. The inmate "is excessively sociable or garrulous."

  6. The inmate is in "a state of denial" characterized by refusals to attend A.A. or N.A. meetings.

  7. The inmate "exhibits impaired motor skills."

  8. The inmate engages in "confrontational behavior toward others."

  9. The inmate has a "criminal history involving drug abuse."

  10. The inmate "protests a pat-down or strip search."

  The cops do a lot of urine sampling around here. Successful test candidates make it to the final interview stage with Mr. Ringer on Fridays. I have already "counseled" (in a collaborative or consultative way) most of these guys during my daily rounds to the lockdowns. My value-added counsel consists primarily of advising these dawgs of the sanctions that they will be subjected to after Caseworker Ringer finds them guilty.

  And he will. Ringer never dismisses dirty UAs, never reduces them, and always imposes the harshest penalties. It's a political issue right now. Federal agents have just arrested one of our very own correctional officers for dealing drugs to inmates. The federal investigation, as Stanger would say, is ongoing.

  "Mr. Narducci," intones Ringer, reading from the Notice of Charges, "you are charged with MJ-45, a major violation: possession, introduction, sales or use of any narcotics, drugs, alcohol or other intoxicants, or possession of materials suitable for such manufacture." Ringer adjusts his head-beak unit to better scrutinize Narducci, a real hard case doing Life on the Installment Plan. His full sleeves are his résumé from various prisons and gangs.

  "How do you plead, Mr. Narducci?"

  Narducci, well seasoned in these little chats, has never copped to anything in his unillustrious life and isn't going to start now.

  "Not guilty, sir. I ain't lookin' to get crossed out behind no drugs. I don't do drugs. There can't be no speed in my piss unless the cops put it there, trying to get me crossed out and off the yard, you know what I'm sayin'?" Narducci leans back in his chair, convict-cool, fiddling with the
rubber band around his ponytail.

  Ringer absolutely hates not guilty pleas on dirty UAs— he has the lab results and that's all he needs. A not guilty plea not only wastes his time, it is Disrespectful! It insults his intelligence, which is not inconsiderable.

  "Mr. Narducci, after reviewing the available evidence, I find you guilty of MJ-45 and impose the following sanctions: 180 days in disciplinary segregation, loss of all visiting, phones, commissary." Narducci snickers. This ain't shit. He's been down and done all that.

  Ringer is saving the silver bullet for the end, though. He smiles and resumes. "In addition, Mr. Narducci, you will immediately forfeit all category A stat time."

  At the mention of stat-time loss, Narducci is on his feet, chains rattling in outrage. This sanction is clearly outta line!

  "That's bullshit! I know the fucking code! You can't take no more than 120 days of good time for a dirty UA!" Narducci is just about to share some additional insights into the code when Stanger races into the office and clamps a choke hold around his neck. Stanger squeezes hard, grinding this outta-line con back down into the chair.

  "Thank you, Sergeant," says Ringer. "I believe that will be enough." But Stanger's bloodlust has been roused. He increases the pressure on Narducci's trachea until blood vessels promise to burst from the cuffed and chained convict's eyes.

  "Sergeant Stanger! I said that's enough!" Stanger reluctantly lets go of Narducci's throat but not before jabbing two kung-fu stiffened fingers into his larynx.

  Stanger saunters out of the office, making sure to flash me his bright sociopathic smile, a smile that promises me future pain, great suffering, and lots of it. I smile back sweetly.

  Narducci is now massaging his throat with cuffed hands, his hardcase act in temporary deep storage, along with the patented convict smirk. He starts whining and puling.

  "Please don't take my good time, Mr. Ringer," he croaks through his abused throat. Good time, time off a sentence for "good behavior," is computed at the rate of ten days off for every thirty days served. Narducci, almost six years now into an eight bid, is eligible to hit the front gate in a month.

  Was eligible. The drugs that he doesn't do 'cause he ain't looking to get crossed out just cost him two years of accrued good time. Two years crossed out. He now knows he should have taken my advice to plead guilty. Also shouldn't have dissed the caseworker, throwing the code in his face.

  Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

  "Get the fuck outta my office," says Ringer, already studying the next write-up.

  'Cause Narducci got nothin' comin'!

  * * *

  One of the least stressful jobs on the yard is the grounds maintenance worker's, since there is nothing to maintain. For "security reasons" the prison prefers steel, concrete, and asphalt. Between the asphalt path on the yard and the cellblocks are flattened wastelands of dirt. The maintenance crews rake the dirt every morning. The purpose of raking dirt is to discourage inmates from secreting their shanks and hypodermic needles in dirt crevices on the yard.

  For this reason, as well as a love of proximity, cons keep their shanks and drug paraphernalia in their cells or in their yellow plastic tubs. They are confident of the efficacy of the grapevine, "The Wire," to provide them with ample opportunity to move the contraband in case of a shakedown.

  As a former telecommunications manager, I can confidently state that The Wire is the convict analog to the World Wide Web, ubiquitous, accessible, instantaneous. Who needs packet switching? The Wire is capable of quickly disseminating news ranging from a stabbing in the San Quentin yard to the quality of this week's pruno in the bakery.

  Kansas used his juice card to get a job as a raker. This enables him to keep an eye on all yard commerce, human and otherwise. His raking system consists of slinging four rakes behind him, two over each massive tattooed shoulder, while he plows unevenly across the dirt fields, his Walkman delivering his favorite country music.

  Country music captivates many of the woods here with its suspenseful narratives. Will that cheating, lying slut come back seeking forgiveness from her man? And will he forgive her or just kick her to the curb? Where she got nothin' comin'. Will the righteous dawg's dog die as a consequence of him drunkenly backing his pickup over Old Yella? A tragedy caused by that lyin', cheating be-yatch Sue-Ellen.

  Kansas adjusts his headphones, sweat streaming down over the tattooed mural of his chest. The rakes churn dirt, discouraging any green grass conspiracies. Nothing grows on the yard.

  Except where the Witches kick it. Excuse me, the Wiccans— a recognized (by the Supreme Court and reluctantly by the prison) religion. The warden, a man of transcendent tolerance, has even bequeathed (following a court order) a small, miserable patch of dirt for Wiccan gatherings.

  To cultivate and do with as the Wiccans wilt. The Wiccans never tell you what their religion is all about, other than some vague references to the seasons, nature, the moon, and a goddess. They will tell you what they are not— not devil-worshipers, not sacrificers of babies and children, not casters of bad spells (only good ones), and definitely not Christians.

  "Not that there's anything wrong with that," the Wiccans insist. It is not clear if "that" refers to devil-worshipers, baby-killers, or Christians. How do I describe the members here without sounding disrespectful of a recognized religious group? Picture your prototypical pimpled (from excessive masturbation) white teenage Star Trek aficionado. Now picture him in prison for robbery, rape, murder, whatever. Finally he's usually high on crank. Of course, I am looking at a highly biased statistical sampling of the Wiccan population. I am sure that the free Wiccans are nothing like the creatures in here.

  Things grow in the Wiccan patch of dirt. Brown things. Like desert-baked mesquite, they don't grow so much as spread, cancerlike— stunted, twisted little branches rising in tortured chaos from the Wiccans' sacred soil.

  The Wiccan World is fenced off from the rest of us in a special enclosure at the end of the yard. Wiccan ground zero is a pentacle planted in their sacred patch of dirt— a flat piece of contraband metal inscribed with pentagrams. The pentacle is just the right size for a squalling infant.

  Ever the intrepid observer of human diversity, I secrete myself in a blind spot on the yard— a narrow dirt alley between cellblocks 7 and 8. Metal prongs drag on the dirt behind me. I whirl, startled, to face Kansas, who has also succumbed to a voyeuristic spell. Nothing goes down on this yard without Kansas's full knowledge, if not approval.

  "What are these punk-ass Witches up to now?" he asks, removing the headphones.

  "Shhhh…," I warn him— the Witches are chanting softly now, gathered in a circle around the pentacle. We fasten ourselves deep in the shadows of the walls, straining to make out the words— the Secret Spell of the Wiccans! Their chant is a frightening familiar melody— Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda" something or other.

  The actual words, the Wiccan Coven's Chant, are less than terror-inspiring:

  I am rubber

  You are glue.

  Whatever you say

  Bounces back on you!

  It was not until a week later that Hector, one of the Wiccan "Elders," told me the chant was an ongoing practical joke. Whenever the Wiccans suspected any convicts were bird-dogging their ceremony, they simply substituted this child's rhyme for the real thing. Which he would reveal to me for three cans of Bugler.