Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  “No, have you?”

  “Yeah, I have, Bubba. I’ve seen her. I see her all the time.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Pat.”

  “No foolin. Sometimes I be doin sump’n, turn around, and there she is.”

  “Don’t it scare you?”

  “Course not, it’s Mama. She wouldn’ hurt me.”

  “Does she talk to you?”

  “Naw … that is, up til bout a week ago. Bubba, please don’t think I’m crazy but jes like you know you lookin at me right now, that’s how sure I am it was Mama.”

  “What’d she say? C’mon, tell me. You got my ears wide open.”

  “The other night I got in bed and fixed myself in a good readin position. You know I havta keep up with my True Confessions. I wasn’t asleep, Bubba. I looked up frum my magazine and there she was sittin on the foot of the bed, jes lookin at me. She looked so troubled I asked her why she was so worried. She said, ‘I’m worried bout you. Be careful, baby. We shoulda poisoned him when we had the chance.’ ‘Who, Mama?’ I asked her. ‘You know who I’m talkin bout.’ An jes like that, she was gone. Whut you think, Bubba?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you except the same thing Mama said, be careful.”

  Sunday morning when I was ready to head back to Houston, Pat walked to the car with me. “Bubba, don’t stay away long.”

  I stuck my head out the window, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. You got me hooked on them collard greens.”

  I worked hard during the days and was tired at the end of them. One night the ringing of the phone woke me. Half-asleep, I picked up the receiver, “Hello.”

  “Bubba, is that you?”

  I glanced at the radio clock, 2:15. “Hello,” I repeated. “Pat? Speak up, I can hardly hear you, say that again.”

  “This is Clara, Pat’s friend ‘cross the street.”

  “Okay, I’m with you, what’s up?”

  “I’m callin bout Pat. She been shot.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t know, but you betta cum quick. The police and ammalance is over there now. They brangin her out on the stretcher.”

  “Where will they take her?”

  “Good Shepherd.”

  “Who shot her? Do you know?”

  “Naw. Wait a minute! I see ‘em; the police is puttin King in the car.”

  “Thanks for callin, Clara. I’m on my way!”

  I threw a few things in my bag and hit the road. It had just been a week since I was up there. About four hours later, I was exiting onto Highway 80 on the outskirts of Longview heading for the hospital. Once through the familiar electronic doors, I walked up to the admissions desk. The corridors were empty, and the big clock on the wall showed 6:23.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. Do you have Patsy Hicks here?”

  “Just a moment,” and she fingered through the cards. “Yes, she was brought in a few hours ago. Are you a member of the family?”

  “Yes, I’m her brother. Can you tell me anything about her condition?”

  Reading from the record, “Multiple gunshot wounds. She’s in ICU. Her doctor will be in around nine.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “No sir, the doctor left strict orders not to allow any visitors until after he sees her this morning.”

  She directed me to an area where I could get some coffee and wait, assuring me that when the doctor arrived she’d let me know. Waiting for nine o’clock, I drank a gallon of coffee and went to the john a half-dozen times.

  “Doctor,” the admissions nurse said, “this is Miss Hicks’ brother.”

  “Hello, come this way.” He placed the folders he was carrying on the desk, “I’m gonna level with you. Your sister has been very seriously injured, so seriously, I dare not tell her just yet. She’s got fifteen gunshot wounds from a small caliber weapon scattered over her body. Fortunately, all the bullets went through and didn’t hit any vital organs. But she lost a lot of blood. If we can make it through the next week or so without complications, she’s got a fair chance. But in situations like this where the patient is totally immobile, there’s always a possibility of blood clotting. Her being a diabetic could also cause problems with the clot preventive medication. How’s your stomach?”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “It gets much worse. Half of a broken Coke bottle was inserted into her vagina. It has caused major problems. I haven’t told her that yet.”

  My first reaction was utter shock. My next was I wanted to kill King so bad I could taste it. He was one lucky motherfucker to be in jail. “Is she conscious?”

  “Yes, she’s conscious. She’s sedated, but I talked with her just a little while ago. She’s fairly coherent.”

  “Can I see her? Just to let her know I’m here. I won’t disturb her.”

  “All right, but only for a few minutes.”

  The admissions nurse directed me to the Intensive Care Unit. When I entered, the green-clad nurse met me at the door, “I’m here to see my sister, Patsy Hicks.”

  “Okay, she’s in that room,” pointing through the glass window.

  “Is it alright if I go inside?”

  “Yes, but don’t touch anything,” she warned and returned to her station.

  Stepping inside, a cold chill ran over me. There were tubes in her nose, both arms, and lower body. I quietly approached the big-wheeled gurney. “Pat, Pat,” I said softly, “can you hear me? It’s Bubba, I’m here.”

  She turned her head ever so slightly in my direction and whispered out, “Oh Bubba, I’m so sorry I had to worry you.”

  “Hey buddy, you can’t worry me. I love you.”

  “Bubba, that sonuvabitch went crazy,” she said weakly. “Mama warned me,” and a tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Was it King?”

  “Yeah, I want you to promise me you won’t git in no trouble.” She was fading out, “It ain’ worth it … don’t go back down …” The drugs took over.

  After leaving ICU, I saw Carl. “Hi, Race. I got here soon as I heard bout it. Is she gon be awright?!” he asked. We stepped to one side of the hall. I told him what the doctor told me, all but the last part.

  Over the next few days either Carl or I remained at the hospital. On the fifth day, she was moved from the ICU to a room that I realized was right next to the one Emma had died in. I saw her doctor and expressed how good I felt about how she was doing.

  “Don’t get too optimistic just yet,” he cautioned. “The next few days will be the most crucial. It’s a miracle she’s made it this far.”

  Regardless of what he said, I was optimistic. She looked so much better as the days wore on, and had even sipped a little soup. She seemed to be gaining strength.

  The next three days she was in very good spirits. We talked and she told me the whole story. “I was in a financial bind, Bubba, and needed six hundred dollars right away to take care uv some bills. I was too embarrassed to ask you for it. King came by the house and we got to talkin an I mentioned I needed to borrow six hundred dollars frum somewhere—and quick. He offered to lend me the money and said to pay ‘em back whenever I could. He’d been after me to take him back, but we been divorced for nearly six years, and I don’t love him. He knew that, but he couldn’ stand that I was in love with Carl.

  “We had a good game goin and Carl was at the house when King came over. He got in the game, and befo long him and Carl were arguin. And there I sat in the middle. It was gettin mo serious and I knew Carl was gettin ready to jump on ‘em. I felt like he would really hurt King so I asked him to leave. He thought I was takin sides with Carl, which I wasn’t. But he couldn’ see it that way an stormed outta the house.

  “It was past midnight Sunday when I got home. I got a funny feelin, specially when Buster didn’ bark. I figured he must be sleepin and didn’ hear me, he’s gettin old too. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me befo I turned on the lights.

  “There sat King on the couch with a rifle layin ‘cross his lap
. It scared me so bad, all I could think to say was, ‘Whutcha doin sittin up here in the dark? How’d you get in?’ Bubba, he never said a word. I started for my bedroom where I keep my pistol, that’s when I saw Buster on the floor … dead.

  “Befo I could reach my room, he got up and started shootin. I tried to grab him. I managed to get my hands on the rifle barrel, but he kept on shootin. I remember him knockin me back away frum him. I don’t know how many times I was shot, but I could feel the burnin inside me. I fell to the floor. He reloaded, stood over me, and shot some mo times. I played dead. I believe if I hadn’, he would’ve reloaded again. Then I passed out. How many times did he shoot me?”

  “The doctor said it was more than a dozen.”

  “Damn, I sure was lucky.”

  “Yep, you sure are.”

  She was more cheerful on the sixth day than she’d been since it happened. But she did mention that if she didn’t make it, she wanted me to give her rings to Mae Rose, Carl’s sister. “She’s been a real good friend to me.” Joking, “You get everything else, the house with the mortgage and all the unpaid bills. But at least that o’ car’s paid for.”

  I emphasized, “But you gon make it, Sis. You’re comin ‘long fine.”

  “Yeah, but jes in case.”

  She took a turn for the worse on the ninth day and grew much weaker. The blood clotting was out of control. The next day she lapsed into a coma. Standing at her bedside, I watched her chest rise and fall for the last time.

  Never before had I felt so helpless. We’d had so little time together since I’d been out of prison. My heart ached and I felt near collapse as I helped lift her stretcher into the ambulance and rode along to the funeral home to make arrangements.

  The chapel overflowed. There wasn’t enough seating room. People lined the walls. I fulfilled my promise to her and gave the eulogy. She was buried next to Emma. I settled her financial matters, gave her rings to Mae Rose, and left. Pat’s death was a shattering, unexpected blow that left a hollow hole in my chest. I could hardly get my breath as I looked down the highway before me. Night had fallen and the road was long. Listening to the tires thump across the highway seams, I couldn’t help but wonder, What happened to “Don’t you worry about a thing.”?

  I had to somehow put the painful loss in a safe place in my mind. I threw myself into my work. I didn’t go back to Longview for King’s trial, but after it was over Carl called me at work one day and told me King had been sentenced to thirty years. How ironic: the same sentence I got for robbery.

  SIPPING LEMONADE

  In 1974, three months after Pat died, the director of the halfway house program, Sonny Wells, came to my office at the newspaper and offered me a job. I accepted and became the business manager for the ex-offender program, which was funded by the Criminal Justice Division. In December of the same year, the miracle of miracles happened. A statewide search had been launched by a very popular “maverick” state representative, Ronnie Earle, to find an ex-convict to direct a newly created prison-release program out of the Governor’s Office. After a lengthy interview he passed the dice to me; I was appointed Project Director of Project STAR (Social Transition And Readjustment).

  The penalty for possession of four ounces or less of marijuana had been reduced to misdemeanor status, but the Legislature had failed to make the law retroactive for the hundreds of inmates previously sentenced as felons. Using executive clemency, Governor Dolph Briscoe pardoned the inmates and Project STAR was created to help them find employment.

  Those affected would bypass the six-week pre-release program designed to plug them back into society. This was my job, to provide counseling and job placement assistance. It also meant that since I was the program I had to hurry!

  By the first of the year when it kicked off, I had contacted literally hundreds of potential employers across the state by phone and in person regarding hiring ex-offenders. Much to my amazement, after some straight talk about the matter and answering questions about the “risks,” the majority were willing to “take a chance.”

  By the time the first prisoners were released under the new program, I had job possibilities and somebody for them to contact already lined up. Of course, the individuals still had the responsibility of nailing it down; that’s where the “how to” and “sharing personal experiences” counseling came in. Armed with “big papers” bearing the governor’s signature, I was authorized to enter the prisons and counsel my clients prior to their release.

  At the guard level I was “that nigguh frum th’ Guvner’s Office,” but in the wardens’ offices I was “Mr. Sample.” The convicts viewed me with pride, “a stone-down gorilla,” and called me “Mister Racehoss.” As for me, it was an emotional high every time I entered the gates simply because I knew I could leave when I was ready.

  Of the 476 prisoners affected, 305 needed assistance. At the end of 1975, follow-up data on those who had been assisted by Project STAR showed that of the 305 I assisted, only 3 had been rearrested. Project STAR was heralded as “the most successful ex-offender rehabilitation program in the United States,” according to State Representative Ronnie Earle.

  On my final trip to the Walls to visit my last client, I recognized somebody I hadn’t seen in years, Big Devil’s son. I remembered when he was just a kid and used to come up to the office and hang around hoping I could come out and toss the football with him.

  I walked over to the security desk where he sat and spoke. He recognized me, “Hi, Racehoss,” extending his hand to shake.

  “Hi, Zan Jr. How long you been workin for the prison system?”

  “Aw, bout two years. Ever since I got outta the Navy.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  “Aw, jus fine. He retired, you know.”

  “No, I didn’ know. I didn’ think he’d ever leave the pen.”

  “Well,” he said and shrugged his shoulders, “you know how that goes. Him and Mama got ‘em a little place in Lovelady an settled down.”

  The doors were unlocking, “Say Zan Jr., I gotta run. Here comes my client. When you see the warden, tell ‘em hello for me.”

  “Okay, sure will.”

  After seeing that the new releasee was safely on the bus at the station, I got in my car and drove away from Huntsville. Driving along the highway listening to the music on the radio, mind wandering, I realized I had made a wrong turn somewhere when I saw the sign, LOVELADY 24. That sure wasn’t the way to Austin. I started looking up ahead for a place to turn around. Then decided “what the hell.”

  Five hundred yards after I entered Lovelady, I pulled into an Atlantic Richfield service station. The attendant came out, “Yessir.”

  “Hi, I just need some information. Can you tell me where the Harrelsons live?”

  “Sure kin,” pointing, “see ‘at little road,” no more than twenty feet away, “jes turn right there an follow it on roun til you cum ta a big oak tree. Thas where it makes a Y, stay to th’ right an you’ll dead end in they front yard.”

  It was no road, it was a dirt path, but the old guy knew what he was talking about. I followed it as directed and ended up in the front yard of a white frame house that had a big porch with a swing. I parked in the driveway and walked up to the front door.

  KNOCK! KNOCK!

  His wife came to the door, “Yes?” She didn’t recognize me, but I remembered her.

  “Is Warden Harrelson in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you tell him somebody’s here to see him?”

  “Jesta minute. Zan, Zan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s somebody heah to see you.”

  “Okay, be there in a minute.”

  I stood to one side with my hands clasped in front so he could see them. After stepping onto the porch, “Ol’ Racehoss!”

  “That’s right, Warden.”

  “Damn! When did you git out?” Motioning toward the porch swing, “Have a seat,” and we both sat down.

  “In ‘72.”<
br />
  “Well,” he said smiling, “you beat me out by little better’n a year.”

  “I didn’ know you retired til I saw Zan Jr. over at the Walls.”

  “Yeah, I hep’d git him on over there,” he boasted jokingly. “Whut wuz you doin over at th’ Walls?”

  “Meetin a convict.”

  “I see. Whut kind uv wek you doin?”

  “I work out of the Governor’s Office, the Criminal Justice Division.”

  “Is that so? Aw, I see,” mixing surprise with sarcasm, “you one uv them big shots now.”

  “No, I’m not a big shot.” Adding my own dab of sarcasm, “I’m still just Ol’ Racehoss. I bet you don’t even know my real name.”

  After a brief silence, he asked, “Whut all do you do?”

  “Well, have you heard about the marijuana release program?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m the project director.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I didn’ know you wuz headin up ‘at program.”

  “Yessir. I left the Walls after my client got out, made a wrong turn and ended up on the road to Lovelady.”

  “Well, Racehoss, I’m glad you did. Where you livin now?”

  “I moved from Houston to Austin about a year ago.”

  “Frum whut I hear, Houston ain’ nuthin but a trusty shack. Half the people who git out wind up in Houston. I betcha a third uv Houston’s population is ex-convicts. When you wuz livin in Houston, didja ever run ‘cross any uv th’ old-timers?”

  “I sure did,” adding, “I went to a halfway house for ex-cons when I got out. Know who was runnin it?”

  “Who?”

  “Ol’ Sonny Wells.”

  “You don’t say? Ol’ Sonny had a good head on him. He’ll do awright if he don’t start makin that chock,” he joked, referring to the time Sonny’s chock stashed in the kitchen exploded. “I heard Ol’ Cateye went to Houston too. You ever see him?”

  “Yessir, I saw him. Last I heard he was workin for Dr. Gates. Ol’ Ottie Dottie works for Sonny at the halfway house, and I saw Flea Brain standin on a street corner in Galveston. He’s still just as funny as ever. An Ol’ Forty’s workin at the halfway house too, got him a buildin tender job. Ol’ Thirty-Five’s preachin in Fort Worth. An let me see, who else? Oh, you’ll never guess who else I saw.”