American Criminal
Page 4
Burnside leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Okay, pal. Get a grip. You’re fucking losing it. There must be a way to adapt to this situation. Must be. God wouldn’t put me in this situation without a reason. It must be to make me stronger.
Burnside brainstormed for a way to escape or adapt to the miserable situation. He opened his eyes and counted the number of inmates in the cell.
Fourteen inmates. Looking on the positive side, it’s six less inmates than usual in a cell this size. No, that’s not quite right. Five less. I forgot to count myself. Okay, I’m facing the same old dilemma; ten bunks, fifteen people. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on my arms again tonight. Could be worse. Now, what do I do to keep my mind occupied? No book, no newspaper. No pen, paper. What am I going to do until I get transferred out of here? My options don’t look good.
Burnside tried to prepare himself psychologically for the inevitable boredom that was going to set in. He tried to think of an experience in his previous non-criminal life that compared to waiting around in a cell: bored almost to the point of insanity. Waiting in a long line at a store didn’t come close. A store line usually didn’t last any longer than ten minutes, and after you paid, you were free and clear. He remembered waiting in long lines when he went to Disney World when he was a kid, but that was no big deal because it only built suspense for the rides.
The situation he found most similar to sitting around in jail was going on an extremely long drive. When he was nineteen he drove from New York City to Atlanta to visit a friend from high school. He wanted to make good time, so he would have more time to spend with his friend. That meant he had to keep going with a minimum of stops. He remembered sitting in the driver’s seat hour after hour, bored with the audio book he bought and looking forward to the next rest stop so he could stretch his legs. After six hours of driving, his mind numbed out. The only emotion he felt was annoyance at being trapped in such a confined space. That was the closest experience he could think of to the jail experience. But of course, it was inadequate. Even if you had to drive for six hours straight, there was always the eventual catharsis when you got out of the car, grabbed a snack from one of the rest stop machines, and walked around in the fresh air.
Burnside stared at the cell’s blank wall, thinking about the drive he took to Atlanta four years ago. The idea of stretching his legs was in his head, so he got up and walked around. First, he walked to the row of bars and grabbed two of them, movie-criminal-style, and tried to peer around the corner to see down the corridor. There was nothing to see. Just an empty corridor. He could hear the prisoners in the other large cells talking and muttering - with an occasional barking laugh thrown in. All the cells were built on the same side of the block, so there was no interaction between inmates in different cells.
Okay, I’ve tested the bars. They’re sturdy. Now what?
Burnside turned away from the bars and scanned his motley surroundings. There was one double bunk pushed against the left wall, two against the back wall, and two in the middle of the room. The wall on the right was bare. Two clean-cut inmates leaned against the right-hand wall talking in low whispers. Two scruffy inmates leaned against one of the bunks in the middle of the floor talking heatedly. A dirty, ragged man, who looked like he was homeless, was sitting in the corner, muttering to himself. While most of the other prisoners wore orange jumpsuits, the homeless man wore a faded gray winter coat, although it was the middle of July, and white trousers that were so stained, they appeared grayish-black. He was wearing black high top sneakers that may or may not have started out black. He must have smelled, too, because no one else was anywhere near him.
Poor bastard.
Burnside had always felt bad for the homeless. Whenever he spotted one of them begging on the street, he always reached into his pocket to gave him or her a dollar and whatever change he had in his pocket. When he was feeling really bad, he sometimes gave a homeless person a five. His friends always gave him a hard time for it. They said, “He’s just going to spend it on drugs and alcohol.” Burnside ignored them and didn’t give in to their peer pressure. The way he saw it: if he were ever so down-and-out that he was forced to beg on a street corner, any amount of money would be a relief.
Glancing down, Burnside realized he was still wearing his dark blue dress pants, white dress shirt, and polished black shoes from court. His red tie had been ripped off some time during a struggle. Of course, the previously clean, white shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained. He figured the cops and guards were in such a rush to lock him up that they neglected to make him change into standard prison attire. Looking around, he saw two other inmates wearing civilian clothing other than himself and the homeless man. If a prisoner was only being held temporarily, he or she was not asked to change into an orange prison jumpsuit. If they were in for the long haul, they were stuck wearing the hideous prison attire. Burnside was in for the long haul, but somehow he got lucky.
Burnside continued scanning the cell. Another inmate was lying down on the top half of one of the bunks set against the left wall. He looked fairly comfortable, considering where he was, and may even have been asleep. Another guy was lying on the lower half of the middle bunk next to the two heated talkers. He lied tensely with his hands behind his head, staring at the top bunk - apparently lost in thought.
The action was taking place in the back of the large cell. The remaining seven inmates were crowded near the back bunks in a rough circle. Two of them were seated on the lower half of the bunks. Four guys were seated on the floor, Indian-style, in a rough semi-circle. The last guy was sitting on the floor leaning against one of the bunks. All of them held cards in their hands.
Burnside guessed the game was pretty intense because they concentrated on their hands and only talked to each other when necessary. There was no laughing or joking like at most card games played by a group of guys. Burnside walked closer and saw a small pile in the middle of the circle. He squinted his eyes and realized it was a stack of cigarettes.
Just like in the movies; they are living stereotypes.
The prisoners all wore orange jumpsuits, so no one was wearing a wife-beater t-shirt or a black leather jacket with zippers, which Burnside guessed was the clothing they would be most comfortable in. The leather jacket he wore on the outside was top of the line; Armani; no zippers. He felt like he had nothing in common with any of these inmates. From his perspective, he was on one side, and they were on another. Now, inexplicably, he was counted as one of them.
What an upside-down world. I can’t believe I’m going to be spending the next twenty years with people like this.
Burnside knew the inmates in state prison would be even worse. This was only jail. Jail was only utilized for people who were awaiting trial, attending trial, convicted of misdemeanor crimes, or awaiting transfer to state prisons. Prison was a whole different story. It was reserved for felonies of all shapes and sizes ranging from armed robbery to murder.
The people I’ll be spending the next twenty years with will be worse than these low-lifes. I hope I can stay in good enough shape to defend myself. In the movies, they have weights in prison. Maybe I’ll be able to work out.
On the outside, Burnside spent a lot of time hitting the bag at his gym. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t have any punching bags in prison. Not if they were smart. There was no doubt his boxing skills had already helped him kick ass in the jail, courtroom, and even the hospital MRI room.
Those incidents were nothing like boxing. They were more like a combination of wrestling and street fighting.
He wished he had a punching bag to pound on. That would make him feel better. Some weights would be nice too. He would like to get out some aggression by lifting heavy objects. He thought about how out of shape he was becoming since being in jail. They didn’t have any weights in jail, so he hadn’t hit the gym since he had been a free man almost five months ago. In the meantime, he was doing push-ups and sit-ups to at least keep a s
emblance of physical conditioning. It depressed him to think the animals in state prison were hitting the weights right now while he stood watching a bunch of dirt-bags playing cards.
There’s no use dwelling on it. I’ll get back in shape.
Burnside grinned as he thought back to his past battles in the jail cell, court, and hospital. A couple of the guys in the department were into boxing and he had spent some time sparring with them, as well as using the heavy punching bag. Facing a real live opponent who actually threw punches back at you was indispensable if you really wanted to learn how to fight. Hitting a motionless bag could help you punch with more strength and accuracy over time, but if you couldn’t move out of the way when the other guy threw a punch, you were all done.
I’m bored. This is ridiculous. What I wouldn’t give for a book right now. Any book. Even a bad book. Even one of those ridiculous romance books my ex-girlfriend liked.
This train of thought led him to think of his ex-girlfriend, Michelle; it was something he had been trying hard not to do for quite a while. She left him even before the verdict was handed down. She didn’t believe any of his arguments proclaiming his innocence. She knew he always had a wild side and she knew he liked to own top-of-the-line possessions. It seemed logical to her that he would take an illegal risk to get ahead financially.
He was also caught lying to her a few times, which didn’t help his credibility. Nothing too big. Just little lies to avoid conflict. For example, instead of telling her he was going out to dinner with his ex, he told her he was going to play tennis with friends. His relationship with his ex was purely innocent, but that didn’t matter. He was caught in the lie and the resulting fight was far worse than it would have been if he told the truth right away.
Throughout most of his life, he had often learned things the hard way. He learned that speeding in a car was not advisable because of the large fines and license suspensions that were imposed upon habitual offenders who got caught. It had taken him over five hundred dollars worth of fines and two license suspensions before he finally figured it out. That, he knew, was just one example among many.
How many more lessons am I going to have to learn the hard way? Probably quite a few, considering where I’m going.
He was not looking forward to them.
Burnside sauntered closer to the card game for a better look. He was never a big card player, but he was so bored he would settle for any entertainment. He walked to the circle and stood just outside of it, observing the play. He was not well received.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” a burly guy sitting on the floor in front of him asked.
Burnside thought it was amusing that the guy had to crane his neck like an ostrich to look over his shoulder to see him.
“This is a private game. Get the fuck out of here,” a guy sitting on the edge of a bunk said.
Burnside observed that the two inmates mouthing off to him were the largest in the group.
“You gentlemen lack courtesy,” Burnside said. “I was merely bored and desired entertainment.”
“Go find it somewhere else, asshole,” the burly guy snarled as he stood to his feet and faced him, nose to nose.
Burnside noted the man outweighed him by fifty pounds and had at least three inches on him. He also noted that it probably wouldn’t matter.
“Rather than getting all excited about it, you should sit back down and play your game,” Burnside said, calmly.
The big man’s answer was a hard shove to the chest. Burnside temporarily lost his balance, but he was expecting such a maneuver, so he recovered easily. The ex-cop followed up the man’s assault with a left jab to the nose and a hard right to the jaw. The man dropped to the floor like a limp sack of grain. Burnside heard exclamations of surprise erupt from the other card players as they watched their buddy hit the floor.
“Anyone else have a problem with me watching the game?” Burnside asked, grinning down at the card players’ gape-mouthed expressions of surprise.
Not surprisingly, no one answered. Silence filled the large jail cell like the calm before a storm. Even the other prisoners, who weren’t part of the card game, remained silent to see how this drama would play out. Burnside was enjoying his newfound sense of power. After all the powerlessness he felt during the past five months, if felt good to be in control again; even if it was such a petty form of control. Sure, he was stuck with these lowlifes, but he wasn’t going to let them push him around.
He looked down at the prone body of the prisoner and decided his next move. He grabbed the man’s meaty arms and dragged him to the corner where the homeless man sat alone. He left the prone body next to the homeless man and returned to the card players.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Deal me in,” he said as he sat down Indian-style in the spot formerly occupied by the burly inmate.
“Okay, the man wants in,” a short, stocky guy with a buzz-cut said as he began collecting the players’ cards.
“You may want to add these to the deck,” Burnside said as he picked up the unconscious inmate’s scattered cards and handed them to buzz-cut.
Chapter 6
Sentencing
A sudden commotion in the corridor outside the cell caused Burnside to turn his head along with the other players. He saw a large formation of light blue uniformed guards sliding open the barred cell door. They entered with batons drawn and made their way toward the back. The prisoners in the guards’ path got out of their way and sought the remote corners of the cell.
Burnside didn’t realize the guards had come for him until they reached the back of the cell.
“Stand up,” a guard commanded as the group surrounded Burnside with batons at the ready.
Burnside’s eyes flashed to the closed circuit television camera hovering behind a small metal cage in the right corner of the cell.
They saw the whole thing.
Burnside didn’t see the point in resisting, so he stood up and faced the guards. He counted eight of them carrying batons.
Damn, they brought the whole cavalry.
He grinned at them.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” a tall, well-built, older man instructed him.
“Sure, no problem,” Burnside said as he complied.
Cold steel encircled his wrists.
“Move,” a skinny young guard with a black moustache said to him as he grabbed his right arm. Another guard grabbed his left arm as they pulled him toward the cell door.
Burnside allowed them to lead him out of the cell and down the corridor without resisting. He heard the irritating metal clang of the bars sliding back into place as they reached the end of the cellblock. They took a left into a narrow hallway leading to a cluster of smaller single cells. The cells looked about as large as a fairly good-sized closet with a bunk against the left wall and a toilet in the right corner.
I guess this is where they put the troublemakers.
They opened one of the cells and pushed him in. Once inside, they surrounded him and took off his handcuffs and leg cuffs. He offered no resistance because he knew it would be futile.
The guards filed silently out of the cell and returned to the main corridor. The last one slid the doors back into place and smirked at him as he walked away.
That really backfired. Now I’m really going to be bored, Burnside thought.
Burnside looked up and saw a closed circuit television camera positioned in the ceiling just outside the cell.
Why would anyone want to watch this lame show?
He smirked as he began pacing the cell. It took him two long strides to reach the back and two long strides to the front bars. If he took smaller steps, he could take four paces to the back and four to the bars.
This is going to be a long day.
He tried to look on the positive side.
At least I have my own bunk.
The only problem was the hard metal bunk wasn’t equipped with a mattress, never mind a pillow.
He lay back on the metal bunk and used his crossed arms as a makeshift pillow. The ex-cop looked up at the monitoring camera and gave it the finger before he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Burnside dreamed he was being chased through a dark forest by a horde of hungry wolves. He ran past thick tree trunks, ducked under sharp branches, and leaped over rocks and bushes as the wolves howled in pursuit. He felt the wolves’ hot breath on his heels. Suddenly, a loud metallic clanging noise, which sounded like a church bell, resounded throughout the forest. He looked around for the source of the sound and realized it was coming from straight ahead. The spacious forest faded away into a tiny gray cell as he opened his eyes and saw one of the guards banging on the cell’s metal bars with his baton.
“Hey, wake the fuck up,” the guard said.
“I’m up. What?” Burnside replied.
“What does it take to wake you up anyway? I’ve been pounding away on these bars forever and you haven’t batted an eyelid.”
“All it takes is an obnoxious fuck like you doing what you’re doing,” Burnside said as he sat up on the side of the smooth metal bunk and glared at the jailer.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but apparently you actually had a friend who came by to visit you earlier,” the guard said.
“So I guess I can assume by your use of the past tense that he’s no longer here,” Burnside said.
“You can’t have visitors while you’re awaiting transfer. But I can give you this,” the guard said as he held a paperback novel inside the cell bars.
Burnside’s eyes widened as he stood quickly from the bunk. He grabbed the book away from the guard as if it was a bar of gold and stared at it, greedily. He ignored the guard’s disgusted “you’re welcome, asshole,” as he read the title: Nightmares and Dreamscapes by Stephen King. His favorite author! He only knew one person who could have brought it. It was his best friend from high school, Bob. Bob was the only one who had visited him during his stay in this fleabag motel. He was also the only one who believed his story about being framed. Burnside vowed that he would not forget this kindness.