Steeple Head had been shamed to his knees and pleaded for forgiveness. Between sobs he begged some of the half-dozen men in the office, “Y’all pleeze hep me!”
One of them said, “You know, Zan, I’m willin ta take a chance on this nigguh’s word an say I b’leeve he’s a-tellin the truth when he says he wuz tryin ta git heah fast as he could.”
Big Devil joked, “Why Gotdam, Haley. You gittin weaker’n a bottle uv piss in yore old days. If I wuz ta let you, hell, you’d be askin me if you could take this nigguh home wit you.”
They all laughed as Steeple Head sobbed on, puddling up the floor. Big Devil continued to conversationize with his buddies, ignoring him completely. “This nigguh’s still crazy, but not as bad is he wuz. The rotten bastard never could keep up wit th’ squads in the field, so even afta he fucked up ‘n cum back, I give ‘em an easy job in the lot squad. All he has to do is saddle ‘em bosses’ hosses ever mornin an have ‘em ready by turnout time. Does the bastard ‘preciate it? Why hell no! The sonuvabitch gits the bosses’ saddles mixed up an puts ‘em on the wrong hosses all the time.” Big Devil called to him in a milder tone, “Ol’ Steeple Head.”
“Yassuh?” he answered as if coming out of a trance and looking for the voice that spoke his name.
“That’ll be enuff uv ‘at now.” In a stronger tone, “You hear me talkin to you?”
Steeple Head sprang up, stood at rigid attention, the crying ceased.
In second gear, “Tell ease people jes how long I been a-puttin up wit yore black ass.”
“All my life, Warden Suh. You been had me all my life, tawt me all I knows. You raised me to whut I is today,” he said with pride.
“Nigguh, don’t stand there an blame ‘at shit on me!”
“Warden Suh, I do everthang you tell me to. You been my daddy.”
Big Devil’s buddies laughed and one of them joked, “Ah ha, so that’s why you lookin out fer ‘em.” They laughed harder, all except Big Devil.
With no forewarning, “Tell ‘em how many times you been fucked. You bet not lie. You hear me, nigguh!?”
“Warden Suh, I ain’ gon lie ta you. Warden, is you talkin bout since I been heah altogetha, or since I been heah wit you?”
“See whut I been tellin y’all. Did y’all hear that? Whenever I try bein nice to this nigguh, he turns aroun an gits smart alecky wit me. Naw, nigguh, I ain’ talkin bout the number uv times you been fucked in yore whole damned prison career. Hell, this addin machine can’t add up numbers ‘at big. Jes stick wit who dun it since Sadday night.”
Steeple Head began calling off the names one by one with Lassie-like obedience until Big Devil stopped him. “Ol’ Racehoss, go over yonder ta them guards’ quarters an tell the officer on duty ta git over heah!”
Any time the warden sent for somebody, whether convict or guard, he came posthaste. In two shakes of a deer’s tail, the on-duty officer was in the warden’s office getting instructions. “Git out yore pencil an pad an write these nigguhs’ names down when Ol’ Steeple Head tells ‘em ta you. When you finish writin ‘em, go in that buildin an put them nigguhs on sum soda water boxes. I’ll let ‘em down.”
According to Steeple Head’s tally, four cons had sex with him since Saturday night. After writing their names the duty officer wheeled around, headed to arrest the fingered ones.
Big Devil asked the sheriff, “Didja brang that apparatus witcha this time?”
“Yeah, I did,” Lester replied.
“Okay, hook ‘er up an plug ‘er in. Les see how much she’ll burn.”
Lester walked over to the device, which he had placed on the warden’s desk. As pre-planned, an empty chair was left by the machine for Steeple Head. He unraveled the electrical cord and plugged it into an outlet. The polygraph machine buzzed, hummed, and clicked with each adjustment. Steeple Head stood mesmerized, his watery eyes glued to the machine’s dials flickering back and forth. “Damn! She kicked all the way up ta fourteen-forty!” Lester said dramatically.
“Thas enuff ta fry th’ hairs off’n a gnat’s ass three hunnerd feet away! These portable ones is damn near good as Ol’ Sparky. He won’t feel a thang.”
Visibly shaken, Steeple Head’s eyes got bigger and his ear-to-ear grin had shrunk to a mere pucker. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Big Devil fixed an intent stare on him while waiting for the sheriff to finish the “adjustments.” He got the “she’s all ready to go” nod and lit into him again.
“Nigguh, how much more uv yore shit do you thank I kin stand? How long do you thank I oughta wait ‘fore I do sumthin bad to yore ol’ rotten black ass?” Steeple Head tried to speak. “Jest shet yore lyin mouth up an set yore stankin ass down over there in that chair!” pointing to the vacant chair next to the machine.
This was the first time Steeple Head ever balked at the warden’s command. Big Devil spat out the order again, “Ol’ Steeple Head, set yore ass down in ‘at Gotdam chair lak I tole you! An cut out so Gotdam mucha that sweatin too, befo you trigger this damn thang off.”
Scared and confused looking, Steeple Head backed slowly toward the chair and sank down in the seat. Pleading more desperately, “Pleeze, Suh, Warden! Don’t let ‘em do it! Pleeze Suh. Warden, I ain’ lied to you bout nuthin. Pleeze Suh!” Tears streamed. His body shuddered and trembled uncontrollably.
With a deep sigh of faked remorse Big Devil ordered, “Go ‘head an hook ‘em up. I’ve gone fer as I’m goin to wit this nigguh.”
The sheriff began wrapping the long, black cords around Steeple Head’s body. “Raise yore arms straight up, lak this,” he said showing Steeple Head what he meant. “Lak this, nigguh! Raise up yore Gotdam arms!” he said impatiently. Steeple Head sat rigid as stone. “This is the dumbest nigguh I ever seen in my whole life!”
“Well, I dun already tole y’all that. Tell you whut, if you can’t git ‘em wrapped roun his chest an under his arms, jes wrap ‘em roun his fuckin legs. They’ll git the job dun wherever ya put ‘em.”
Lester began again, but Steeple Head jumped straight out of the chair as if being ejected by a giant coil. “Warden! Oh Lawd! Have mercy Warden! Oh Lawd! Warden! Nawsuh, Warden! Pleeze don’t let ‘em wrap me up in dis stuff! Pleeze spare me, Warden! Don’t turn yo back on me! I’ma good nigguh!”
“Set yore Gotdam ass back down in ‘at chair! You bet not make me havta put you in it!”
Steeple Head sank back down into the chair. To intensify and prolong their game, the sheriff slowly wrapped the cords around him. First, his legs, then underneath the bottom of the chair, looping them around his lap and on up around his chest. Finally, all systems were go.
The warden issued the order, “Okay, go ‘head an crank ‘er up again.”
Just as the sheriff reached for the switch, Steeple Head unzombiezized. In a terror-stricken voice, he screamed “OH NO!!” and bolted up with the chair still strapped to him. He fell down, kicked and hollered hysterically while rolling and twisting on the floor trying to free himself. He managed to get the chair off his back, but was still entangled in some of the cords. Struggling to his feet, he almost knocked the sheriff down as he broke for the door. Off the desk crashed the polygraph machine, scaring him even more. Out the front door and down the sidewalk he ran, dragging the cords behind.
The game backfired. Big Devil’s cronies were cracking up at the unexpected finale as the warden ran a short ways down the sidewalk chasing him and yelling, “Cum back heah, you crazy sonuvabitch! Cum back heah!”
Big Devil stopped after hollering one more, “You betta cum back heah, you ignant bastard!” But it was useless. Steeple Head was long gone, heading down Hog Pen Alley. On his way back to the office, the warden told the outside picket boss, “Radio the lot boss an tell ‘em I said go down to the lot an brang Steeple Head back.”
When Big Devil got back to the office, the sheriff assured him the equipment hadn’t been damaged. A few minutes later, the lot boss escorted Steeple Head into the office, “I found ‘em hidin in the loft in the
hay barn.”
“Whutta you got ta say fer yoresef, nigguh?!” Big Devil roared.
Head lowered, looking at his feet, “Nuthin Warden,” he mumbled.
“You dun tore up a thousand dollars wurtha ‘quipment! Whutta you thank I oughta do to yore crazy ass, nigguh?!”
“I dunno, Warden Suh,” he trembled out.
“Naw, you don’t know! Thas cawse you don’t wanna know!” While the warden raked him over the coals, Steeple Head was shaking like a dog trying to shit a peach seed. “Tell you whut I’m gon do fer you, nigguh. Hell, I ought not ta do nuthin fer yore rotten ass,” he declared with a faked change of heart.
Steeple Head begged, “Pleeze, Warden Suh. I be merciful fo anythang you do fo me.”
“Well,” Big Devil continued, “I ain’ gon take it out on you fer a-scarrin up my floor wit that chair while you wuz a-floppin roun lak a damn chicken wit its head cut off. An I ain’ gon do nuthin ta you fer tearin up Guvment Property, but I am gon havta do sumthin to yore rotten ass fer runnin outta heah ‘thout permission.”
“Yassuh, Warden. Thank you, Suh.”
“See if you got sense nuff to go roun to that backgate an tell ‘at boss I said put yore rotten ass in that pisser.”
With a look of relief, Steeple Head left trotting off to the backgate. A small price to pay for proving we were all “tame.”
Working so closely with Big Devil, I was afforded a bird’s-eye view of his multi-chameleonic personality. His callous dealings with Steeple Head were just e pluribus unum in his repertoire of management styles. He moved in and out of situations with the bosses and cons with great ease, never showing the same face twice. He kept us off balance with his unpredictability. He was the devil one minute and a near saint the next, with a degree of humanity and understanding of which I would never have thought him capable. It was like working for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He knew all the cons personally and had the uncanny ability to deal with each one on an individual basis. Those who acted like men, bosses included, he treated with a measure of respect; those who didn’t, came head to head with Mr. Hyde. He was the best Dr. Jekyll I’d ever seen with Hip Cat.
After living on the tank with Hip Cat for a couple of years, I knew of his deep love for his mother. He was an only child. Unlike most of the cons on the tank, he never talked about old girlfriends and sex. Instead, he talked only about his mother and how close they were. His locker was full of neatly tied bundles of letters dating back twenty years. One day while I was in the barber chair, he went to his locker and returned with a badly worn photo of her that he’d painstakingly wrapped in cellophane from cigarette packs. Though it was faded in places, I could easily see the resemblance and felt privileged to look at it, especially after he said, “I don’t let everbody see this.”
During one of our talks he told me, “I ain’ seen her in twenty-fo years.”
“It’s been a long time since I seen mine too,” I commented.
“I know how she feels, Race. I know she wants to see me. I want to see her too, but not lak this. I tell her in ever letter I write to git that out uv her head, I don’t want her comin way down heah. It’s too far fo one thang, an she too old to make a trip lak that all the way frum Paris” (Paris, Texas, near the Oklahoma border).
It was midweek. I was taking a break in the visiting room when I saw the taxicab pull up out front. An elderly black woman got out. Assisting herself with a cane as she walked toward me, I knew she was Hip Cat’s mother because they sure did favor.
“Young man, can you tell me where the warden’s office is?”
“Yes ma’am,” holding the door open, “it’s right here.” After we entered, “Wait here, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
I stuck my head in the warden’s office, “Pardon me, Warden. There’s a lady out here to see you.”
“Tell her to cum on in.” She stepped inside his office. “Whut kin I do fer you?”
“Are you the warden?”
“I’m th’ warden.”
“Well sir, I come down here to see my son, Alonzo Curlee.”
Offering her a seat, “How long’s it been since you seen him?”
“Twenty-four years,” she said without a doubt.
Big Devil began telling her the visiting rules, “Sundays is visitin day, an visitin hours is frum nine to ‘leven in th’ mornin an frum one to three in th’ eenin.”
He hardly ever broke that rule unless prior written permission was granted through the Walls. I had seen him turn away lawyers who came down to the unit to see their clients.
“I didn’t know y’all had certain times,” she said, adding sorrowfully, “an I came on the bus all the way from Paris. Warden, please sir, can’t I see him even for just a minute?”
“Ol’ Racehoss!”
“Yessir.”
“Tell the picket boss to call inside an tell ‘em to send Ol’ Alonzo Curlee out heah.” While waiting, “I’m gon let y’all visit this time. Me an Ol’ Hip Cat, thas whut we call him, go back a long ways,” referring to being at Ramsey together. “He’s been a pretty good hand. I thank he’s got one uv the best attitudes on the farm.”
The outside picket boss let him through the front gate. Hip Cat came in the office and stopped at the warden’s doorway, “Yes sir, Warden.”
“Cum on in. There’s sumbody heah to see you.”
When he stepped inside the door and saw her sitting to the side, he was totally speechless. She stood up. Then he cried out, “Lawddd!” and wrapped his arms around her. They embraced. Weakened by the shock of seeing him, her legs gave way and they both almost fell when she went limp. Hip Cat gently helped her back into the chair.
He dropped to his knees weeping and she cradled his head against her bosom, rocking back and forth and stroking his head. Cooing, “Hush, hush. Les don’t cry, baby. The Lawd has brought us together again. I been prayin so hard for this day to come.”
This was the only time I had ever seen a show of compassion in Big Devil. He was sniffling as he stepped out of his office, pulling the door shut behind him. “Don’t let nobody in my office til I git back.” He got in his car and drove off. He’d broken another rule. A boss is supposed to be present during all visits with free world people.
About thirty minutes later, he returned and took a seat in the outer office with me. Hip Cat opened the door after a while and Big Devil went back in and sat down behind his desk. I couldn’t hear all of what they said, but I did overhear him telling her, “The next time Ol’ Hip Cat cums up fer prole, he’s got a good chance uv makin it.”
Breaking another rule, offering hope.
While waiting for the taxi from town, she thanked him for his kindness. As Hip Cat assisted her out the front door, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I’m gon pray for you.”
When she got to the sidewalk she stopped. “You keep on bein a good boy so you can hurry up an come home to Mama.” Hip Cat did get out and we learned a short time after that he had died from natural causes. At least he died at home with his mother and not in the pen.
And, the warden was the worst Mr. Hyde I’d ever seen two weeks later, on the Sabbath. The visiting room was packed. It was my responsibility to issue freshly starched and pressed whites to each con that the boss brought out for a visit. Before entering the visiting room, the con changed into the pristine whites, giving the impression he dressed that way all the time. Once the visit was over, he put his dingy grays back on. The cons had dressed out in the back room and were seated on one side of the long, glass-partitioned counter.
As a fringe benefit, Big Devil allowed me to be the runner to the coke machine for the cons and their visitors so they wouldn’t lose any time visiting. Plus, it was a security measure since visitors weren’t permitted to hand anything to them. I was into my third or fourth trip, and busily passing out the drinks when unexpectedly, the warden stepped in.
He stood in the doorway for a minute or two, looking things over. A well-dressed, middle-aged, li
ght-complexioned lady turned around in her seat and asked, “Pardon me, are you the warden?”
“Yeah.”
With a friendly smile, “How’s my son doing down here, if you don’t mind me askin you? Has he been behavin himself?”
Still leaning against the doorway, Big Devil cast his eyes across the counter on her son, contemplated for a moment, then looked back at the mother. “How many children you got?”
“I have just the two. My daughter here,” pointing to the teenage girl sitting beside her, “and my son.”
With the same empty face, he shook his head, “You ain’ got no son. You got two gals,” turned and left. Exit Mr. Hyde, leaving the con’s mother in a state of shock.
I had been working in the office almost four years now. For the past year it had been rumored that a warden rotation plan was in the making. The grapevine was right again. The administration assembly line rolled out the plan in a memo that sent Big Devil through the roof. It stated that he would be one of the first wardens rotated because he had been at one unit for so long, and henceforth, wardens would be rotated every five years.
Besides dismantling the long-time dynasties, Dr. Beto, the new director who was a penologist and Lutheran minister, would be assigning an assistant warden and farm manager to each unit to help free the wardens so they could focus more on their administrative duties.
Big Devil ranted and raved to Boss Jack and me, “I been runnin ‘is farm over twenny years, an now they gon ship me off summers else. This is th’ kinda shit they cum up wit when they ain’ got nuthin else ta do. Up til now I been goin ‘long wit all their educated puke, but I’ll be damned if they gon start runnin me roun frum pillar to post!”
He fought the new policies tooth and nail, but he would be transferred to the multi-racial Eastham Unit and the Eastham warden would be transferred here. The assistant warden and farm manager would be down within the month.
A mood of uncertainty swept through “hell” as it slowly but surely sank into the quicksand of progress. In addition to the warden rotation, the administration was raising the educational requirements of the prison employees and would be doing all future hiring rather than leaving it up to each individual warden. No more walk-ons like Boss Humpy. Current personnel would be frozen in their positions until they met certain educational standards and could pass written examinations for promotion. Long-time employees who were below the new educational requirements would have job performance evaluations done on them to verify their proficiency in maintaining their positions.
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