Little Havana Exile

by Hale Chamberlain

  “Most of the time, you don’t choose your gang, the gang chose you,” Ray said.

  “Which gang are you in?” Teddy asked.

  “Me? I’m with the White Supremacists.” Ray caressed his shaved head from his forehead all the way down to his neck. He added, “We got each other’s backs, there’s always some bastard trying to get you so it provides a little comfort. And I know that if anything happened to me, there would be retaliation.” Fucking weirdo, what is this White Supremacist shit? It’s the Soho Road Boys all over again.

  “That’s good for you, mate,” Teddy said. “But I’ve got no intention of joining any gang. I’m doing my time quietly and then I’m off this fucking disaster of a prison.”

  “I wouldn’t play it like that if I were you,” Ray warned. “Gangs control the prison. You’ll get beaten to your knees if you don’t pick a side. The only group not involved in gang feud is the Nation of Islam, a Muslim religious group.” Ray leered at Teddy and added, “By the look of you, you don’t qualify.”

  He explained that the White Supremacists’ natural antagonists were the Black gangs, even though he personally felt no enmity against Afro-Americans, or against any people of color for that matter. Black prisoners separated themselves mostly according to their hometowns — Miami, Jacksonville, Palm Beach, Tampa, St. Pete, Fort Lauderdale, Orlando, and Pensacola. Fratricidal infighting was common amongst them: Miami versus Jacksonville, Fort Lauderdale versus Orlando, and so on.

  Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and Mexicans formed individual groups but huddled together in the yard and the canteen. Inside the prison, they were notorious for their roughshod and evil ways, which Teddy was only too familiar with.

  As Raymond Cooper went off on a tangent about the Jamaicans and other islanders, Teddy picked up the prison brochure that the fat lady with short hair had handed over to him upon arrival. It looked every bit like a leaflet from an Ivy League university. Glossy paper, high definition pictures, some upbeat introductory words from the director. All very enticing, I’m glad I accepted your offer, Director Jones. Your establishment’s nationwide reputation and brilliant inmate population did it for me.

  Along with the prison’s history and facilities, the brochure detailed the list of rehabilitation and education programs available to inmates. From top to bottom, the list read: financial planning, parenting counseling, mental health counseling, alcoholics anonymous, narcotics anonymous, stress management. Teddy’s gaze stopped at the last item – anger management and resolution. These fucking crazy lots could use some of these courses, he thought.

  CHAPTER 25

  In the morning following his admission to the correctional facility, Teddy was presented with shining examples of what Ray Cooper had evoked the previous night. Prison guards were every bit as malicious and sadistic as his cellmate had described, if not more. In the canteen, three of them had dragged a scrawny prisoner to the corner of the room in plain sight, then proceeding to brutally batter him.

  The screams and thuds from the poor boney man did nothing to alleviate the guards’ hysteria. Neither did the fury of insults coming their side from other inmates, who knew all too well that a similar fate awaited if they dared get physical with the guards. The trade-off just wasn’t worth it.

  Teddy was nervously watching the loathsome scene and fully expected a riot to break out. It never came. The guards were well-versed in reading a crowd, and they promptly returned to their post at the first hint of a mass rebellion. The last time their riot gear had been needed was over a year ago when a rookie guard had crossed the line by smashing a prisoner’s face with his boot. The ensuing rampage from all quarters had caused a complete prison lockdown that had lasted two entire days. The said rookie guard came out of the ordeal with a shattered rib-cage and a body covered in bruises. He had been fired shortly thereafter.

  “This is a treacherous game those bastards are playing,” Ray said, as he bit into a tiny loaf of bread. “Sooner or later, another one of those sons of bitches will get smashed to death,” another prisoner added.

  Teddy asked, tilting his head toward the beaten prisoner, “Who’s the poor lad?”

  “No one you want to get anywhere near. A snitch. Would be dead by now if it wasn’t for his condition. The man has schizophrenia. His name is Salvatore Ricci, he’s been here forever.”

  Teddy shrugged, his attention uncontrollably drawn toward a massive Afro-American dude with arms wider than his own head. The weavings of black ink on his dark skin was challenging to decipher but after a minute of conspicuous staring, Teddy finally made out the letter BGF, which, he later learned, stood for Black Guerrilla Family – another Black gang.

  Gang affiliations were easy to spot, especially in the canteen. There was a clear physical separation between different groups and little to no mingling. Latinos sat on one side, and were further broken down by sub-gangs. Blacks stood opposite them, while White Supremacists were in the far corner, and a few more groups that Teddy wasn’t able to identify were scattered all over.

  “It’s probably all blurry for you right now,” Ray Cooper said, “but trust me, you’ll know who’s who soon enough. And who not to piss off.”

  Living conditions in the prison were unlike anything Teddy had ever experienced, certainly a far cry from the comfortable lifestyle the Corporacion was guaranteeing until just a few months ago. The Florida summer was around the corner, and there were no fans or air conditioning to mitigate the scorching heat. Food portions had been cut in half a year prior, and contrary to the promises on the brochure, there was no employment training available to the overwhelming majority of prisoners.

  Most convicts were desperately strapped for cash. For the lucky few who did work, state prisons paid pittance for prison jobs – canteen workers, laundrymen and shoeshine boys – just enough to buy staple items such as soap, shampoo, deodorant, coffee and basic foodstuff.

  Meanwhile, as the prison cut back the daily food budget to a dollar and a half per head, hungry inmates watched gang members feast on food purchased with contraband cash, longing for the largess granted by sworn affiliation, in turn further increasing the gang population. “A fucking vicious cycle if there’s one,” Ray commented. “Another way to survive for inmates is to ride officers’ legs and obtain favors from them, but that’s even more looked down on than being a snitch like Salvatore Ricci.”

  Under such deplorable conditions, Teddy found it hardly surprising that most prison gangs were organized to facilitate profit-making illegal activities inside and outside of prison. At the end of the day, trafficking in drugs, tobacco, and other sought-after items was the only way to live decently as an inmate.

  Of course, smuggling large quantities of contraband items into prisons could only be accomplished with the collusion of correctional officers or other staff. “Those bastards are playing a dangerous double game”, Ray explained. “Cigarettes are going for sixty dollars a pack inside the prison and many staffers have few qualms about sneaking in entire cartons.”

  Sometimes that game of deception would backfire. Ray pointed at a staff member of the canteen clearing a table twenty feet away. “Alvarez over there is the man if you’re looking for contraband items. The motherfucker’s compromised himself by handing off a pack of cigarettes to a prisoner a couple years ago.” He laughed wholeheartedly at the recollection and then whispered, “Now he can’t get off the hook. Prisoners are coercing him into bringing in drugs, or risking being exposed and arrested.” Teddy observed the man wiping the table and thought that he indeed had the face of a victim.

  Two hours later, the inmates were ushered outside for their daily leg-stretching time. While prisoners always welcomed the respite from the crampedness of their cell, going to the yard could be a troublesome and somewhat chanceful affair. After all, this was the only time prisoners had to interact with inmates – and gangs – from other housing buildings.

  The layout of the Dade County Correctional Institution resembled an inverted triangle cut at its ti
p, with two main L-shaped units facing south, and three smaller blocks on the opposite side. In the center of the set-up, the yard could host two to three hundred convicts at any one time, with five-yard officers walking around with the inmates and some more in lookout towers.

  As the prisoners made their way outside, Ray gave Teddy a crash course on the operating forces loitering across the barren turf. They were walking toward the northwesternmost corner of the yard, where two dozen of White Supremacists were working out with rusty weights, chatting, observing and plotting.

  “The two other corners of the yard are Latino and Black territories,” Cooper said, slowing down his pace as he delved into the intricacies of gang’s inner casts. He was careful to point with his eyes and not his fingers. “Fights are a frequent occurrence in here both between gangs and within them. So keep your head down for now.”

  Teddy’s stare was locked on the Latinos and he studied their features individually, anxious at the prospect of spotting any of Herrera’s followers.

  Upon noticing his cellmate’s foolish behavior, Cooper took his elbow, ushered him away and toward the Supremacist group, “What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “Are you looking to start a fight? Fixating someone is seen as an act of defiance here. Surely you know that.”

  “Yeah, give me a break,” Teddy said as he hauled his arm free.

  As soon as they reached the White Supremacist group, a party of ten Latinos paced briskly across the yard toward them. Ray Cooper said in disbelief, “Here we go…” Automatically, the entire gang of supremacists stood up and turned to face them.

  The most tattooed of the Latino group, an average but bulky man wearing a white vest plowed himself an inch away from the wall of White Supremacists. He tilted his head slightly to the side, just enough to have Teddy in his field of vision, and said enthusiastically, “Goddamn white boys! You’ve got yourself a famous new recruit here.”

  The row of white skinheads looked ready to jump at him and let all hell loose at the slightest hint of physical or verbal attack. Teddy was stunned and couldn’t believe the nerves of the Hispanic desperado.

  The man went on, “I understand we have some common friends outside.” He smiled, observing the young Englishman attentively. But Teddy was hard to read and the phlegmatic expression on his face wasn’t giving anything away. Inside, however, he was petrified.

  “In any case, welcome to your new home.” The man raised both arms to his sides. “If the white boys give you trouble, come over to us. We’ll make sure you’re looked after like you deserve.” The entire group of dispatched Latinos burst out in laughter, spun around, and walked back toward their corners.

  Teddy was sweating profusely. It felt like being against Herrera and his squad of nutcases all over again. Except this time, he was locked in a cage with them.

  CHAPTER 26

  Halfway through his sentence, Teddy had acquired an intimate knowledge of every gang’s characteristics, customs, and key members. He had had numerous opportunities to witness the power dynamics inside the Dade County Correctional Institution and had learned when to keep a low profile, and when to show force.

  One night, unable to sleep as Ray snored like a raging jackhammer, he had mulled over the question of alliances and by dawn, he had decided that he would stay close to the White Supremacists. He couldn’t care less about their ideology, and certainly didn’t uphold similar beliefs, but they would provide protection from the Latinos. And in truth, he had hit it off with many of the group members – half a dozen of them being linked one way or another to England.

  The lack of quality educational programs and job opportunities inside the ward left prisoners with little choice for entertainment. Some turned to books; others dedicated themselves to the contraband business, treating it as a real gig. Most of the inmates however found solace in daily hardcore iron pumping sessions.

  Teddy had always been a hard gainer. He just wouldn’t put on weight no matter how much he ate. It was as if his body was programmed to take on one shape no matter how much he agonized under the barbells or forcefed himself.

  This changed dramatically after he entered the slammer. He had lean muscles – skinny but tough like steel, by his own account – yet he immediately knew that if he was to earn the respect of his fellow inmates, he would have to bulk up and toughen up, not only in words but also in deeds.

  The truth was that, out in the open, outlaws had no use for an oversized musculature. The ability to pull a gun apace and aim accurately was enough come out on top. It was all about efficiency. A man’s body was only a means to use other, more powerful weapon.

  In prison, however, things were reversed. Appearances trumped all other artifice and tools, and were intimately linked to how much respect one could claim. A man’s body was oftentimes his only weapon, and it’d better be deadly.

  Logan – a fellow high-ranking supremacist of British descent – rapidly took Teddy under his protective wing, sprinkling his advice on the training ground. The man promoted an old-school training method, complementing iron weights with an all-you-can-find kind of workout at random hours, to stress the body and force it to grow. As a result, it wasn’t unusual for Teddy to do curls with six-gallon coffee jugs until his arms gave away, dips on a half-wall, or even launch into handstand push-ups against the door of his cell shortly after waking.

  Logan even offered to supplement his insufficient daily food intake with proteins bought with the supremacist gang’s money. In exchange, Teddy would have to stand ready to defend any member of the White Supremacists in the event of an assault. This was a deal Teddy was willing to strike, as the corollary was that he had a band of mighty white pit bulls ready to intervene should he fall into a trap.

  In just a few months of biweekly heavy-duty workout, Teddy’s morphology looked to have shifted entirely. It was as if he had rewritten his genetic code from ectomorph to endomorph. Under Logan’s benevolent supervision, he put on a massive amount of raw muscle, his neck almost doubling in circumference, and his once powerful but feeble-looking biceps now alike to crude veiny logs. There were no mirrors around, but he could feel that he was getting significantly bigger. He had barely thrown a punch in his first semester in the joint, yet other inmates looked at him differently. It was remarkable; the laughter that used to echo as he passed by other gangs’ huddled soldiers gave way to tensed silence.

  Yard time had gone from nerve-wracking to bearable, and even enjoyable. He would relish walking past the Cubans, oozing a confidence that he had no right to project given his fragile standing within the prison’s Latino community. He knew that they were up to something, that Herrera would probably attempt to have him killed at some point, but he was no fool. He was cautious never to be left alone with the Hispanics, and he was making sure a camera was on him at all time. Correctional officers could hardly be trusted – bare a few – and he wasn’t relying on them for protection.

  From the get-go, Teddy had been transparent with the Supremacists, detailing his special relationship with the Hispanics and his critical role in the arrest of the Padrino. There had been no protestations whatsoever. They all welcomed him as a brother from day one, and Teddy couldn’t help but wonder why he had only been able to find such a strong sense of community in groups of men engaged in dodgy activities.

  Either way, it was clear to him that in prison, race mattered more than one’s past amongst the civilians.

  His transformation spanned beyond his brawn. His thick, full beard went a long way toward bringing out his meanest-looking self, and he was now sporting longer hair, having politely refused Logan’s suggestion that he shaved his head.

  “Don’t listen to the meatheads,” Ray Cooper had told him. “Longer hair suits you better, and it does the job of erasing this disgusting pretty boy appearance you had when first moved in. I like the beard too, the hairier, the better.”

  “Finally, some reasonable egghead who won’t try to convince me to join their cue-ball club,” Teddy had joked.


  “Man…genetics is a bitch.” Ray was bald.

  The man was a patient observer and always keen to present his theories to any sympathetic ear. He firmly believed that inmates’ hefty looks were not due to workouts but to the very experience of being locked up in a limited space amongst hostile rival groups – always on alert – making everyone’s testosterone levels peak to new highs. Raymond Cooper – a fairly frail man overall – shrugged when Teddy asked him why, in that case, he himself wasn’t ripped like the rest of them.

  For good measure, Teddy obtained a small pocket knife from Alvarez, the canteen worker, in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. He hid it in the side of his shoe when out in the yard. Body searches were frequent but guards were never thorough enough to check the shoes.

  As he entered his second and last semester in the most dangerous house prison in Florida, Teddy was feeling fairly confident he would make it out in one piece. At the same time, Ray had warned him from the start that he would truly feel the heat as his release got closer. Inmates from rival gangs –more often than not lifers – would frequently initiate baseless quarrels to try and extend soon-to-be-out convicts’ stay in prison. This was a nasty but common practice.

  Therefore, Teddy was hardly surprised to overhear a conversation likely aimed at him while taking a dump in one of the yard’s outdoor washrooms.

  “Man, you guys ready for tomorrow?” a voice with a distinctly Hispanic accent whispered.