The Change Agent

by Damon West

  Perhaps I was naïve to think I could take a shortcut to respect. If I wanted to enjoy a life free from a threat of violence from the blacks, or anyone else for that matter, and receive blanket respect, I was going to have to earn that. My life of corner-cutting, and even my innocence, came to an end only a few weeks removed from that Saturday basketball game, where I experienced Mr. Jackson’s coffee bean theory.

  Coming off the rec yard, I headed to my pod to get showered and cleaned up before last chow, the same drill I had been doing for the past two weeks. I was headed for my cell to get my shower shoes, shower bag, towel, and a change of clothes. Back in those days, the doors to your cells could be “jacked” by putting a piece of a Popsicle stick or the head of a razor into the locking mechanism. Knowing a little about locks, this was a natural fit for me, so I usually kept my door jacked to provide access to my cell when the guards were nowhere to be found, which was most of the time. Thank God my door was jacked that day. My life depended on it.

  Habitually, upon entering G-pod, I took a right and headed for the stairwell. This was the same route I chose the first day I entered the pod, after that first fight. Waiting for me on the stairwell between the first and second floor landing was a little Hispanic guy named Carlos. Carlos was an independent Hispanic from San Antonio, serving a life-sentence for attempted capital murder. He stood about 5-foot-5, and what he lacked in size, he made up for in lethality. Regardless, I enjoyed conversations with Carlos. He and his buddies would even teach me Spanish. All in all, I trusted him.

  One of the things you are taught early on in here is to read people’s body language. You either become fluent in reading people or suffer the consequences. Carlos’ body language was out of whack. The grim look on his face concerned me. He stopped me on the stairwell. Something was wrong.

  “Oeste,” he said to me, calling me “West” in Spanish. “Need to talk to you, homie.”

  “Sure, Carlos, what’s up?”

  “Oeste, we are friends, amigos, si?” he asked, sounding more like a statement.

  “Si. You’re my friend.” My antennas were definitely up now. What the hell had gotten into Carlos?

  “You trust me, si?” again with the question/statement.

  “Si.”

  “I mean no disrespect by telling you this, but you should never have started sporting and eating with the blacks. You have upset the natural order of things and drawn the worst kind of attention your way. Your life is now in danger, Oeste.”

  I knew what he meant by upsetting the natural order. More than a few people, white, black, and Hispanic, had told me this over the past few weeks. But as has always been the case, I am Damon, therefore, I do what I want my way. This conversation was more intimate than the passing barbs other inmates previously made. Carlos looked genuinely disturbed.

  “When you go to the showers today, your life will forever be changed. El Bandido Negro [The Black Bandit] is coming for you. He’s gonna rape you in the shower.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up when Carlos said Black Bandit’s name. Not only was this guy a giant at about 6-foot-4 and 260 pounds, he was also one of the cruelest and most evil people in the building. Coming by his name honestly, the guy lived to rob white people, mostly at knifepoint, of their belongings. His favorite thing to steal from white boys, however, was their souls. He was the biggest rapist on the block. And he was coming for me. I was paralyzed with fear.

  Stuttering a little, as if I were a child who was going to close his eyes so he didn’t have to see the monster in the closet, I said, “Well, I just won’t go shower today then.”

  “Oeste, don’t be an idiot,” he scolded me. “You cannot avoid the showers forever. You must understand this is your destiny.”

  He wanted to know what I was prepared to do.

  “What can I do. How? He’s got a knife. I don’t have a knife.”

  Carlos smiled, as if he were waiting for this response from me. Without hesitation, he unsheathed a knife that was over a foot long, from his pants. I had no idea this little guy could hide a weapon so big on his body. With the stairwell as our cover from suspicious eyes, he placed the knife in my hand.

  A knife, or a shank, in prison is any piece of steel that has been sharpened against cement as its grinding stone. At night you can sometimes hear men sharpening their knives, preparing for combat at some point in their near future. These knives usually come to a pretty severe point because they are ultimately for piercing human flesh, tissue, and organs. The handles sometimes have tape or some sort of grip. Carlos’ knife had duct tape on the handle, likely stolen off of one of the many maintenance carts that patrolled the unit daily.

  The gravity of the moment was weighing on me. The knife felt like it weighed pounds, but I knew the it was measurable in ounces. The realization that I was contemplating sticking this object into another human that sent my mind into a state of extreme anxiety. In seconds, I calculated what I felt was surely to be the outcome of such an encounter.

  Holding the knife out to Carlos, I told him there was no way I could fight him with a knife. Black Bandit had years, maybe decades, of experience fighting with this weapon. Not only that, but a knife is a very personal, very intimate weapon. It was this fear that made me think I wouldn’t be able to match him with a knife.

  “There must be an alternative, Carlos. Please tell me what other weapons I have to choose from.”

  Without hesitation, Carlos said, “There is one other option, but we must act quickly. Can we access our cell?”

  Did I mention that Carlos was also my cell-mate?

  “Yes, the door is jacked.”

  Carlos secured his mini-sword into his pants and told me he would meet me in our cell, but he had to grab something from someone first. Rising up the stairs, I tried to remain calm and collected. I had to tell myself to breathe because I was holding my breath the entire walk to my cell.

  Within minutes, Carlos was in our cell. He pulled some wire cutters and a small flathead screwdriver out of his pocket. Where in the hell did this guy get tools? I didn’t dare ask him because it was not my business.

  “Gimme your fan, Oeste. Quickly,” he urged.

  I grabbed my fan off the floor, unplugged it, and gave it to Carlos. He worked quickly, disassembling the fan in seconds. Having no idea what he was trying to do, I watched in appreciation for the guidance and help he was offering me. When he was finished, he handed the motor of the fan to me. All coiled copper wire and metal casing, it weighed several pounds.

  Taking the motor back from me, he told me to empty my shower bag and give it to him. Our white-mesh shower bags were purchased from the commissary. They were primarily used for carting around your commissary or property, but were perfect for carrying your shower essentials and a change of clothes. I dumped mine out on the floor and handed it to Carlos.

  He shoved the fan motor into the bag, twirled it up, and started to swing it back and forth. “This is your weapon. Like one of those balls connected to a chain.”

  Although his description was less than eloquent, and I was no military-weapon historian, I had played enough Dungeons and Dragons as a youth to know exactly what his weapon’s name was. Carlos had just made a ball-and-chain flail, and a pretty lethal looking one at that. The situation immediately became more real.

  Swinging the weapon for effect, Carlos said, “Oeste, you must follow my instructions if you wish to be victorious. Your life changes today. You have fought many fights in the shower before, but this one will be a duel to the death. You must kill him before he rapes and kills you. Do you understand what I am telling you? You must kill the Black Bandit. Mátalo! ”

  Horrified by what he was saying, I said, “Carlos, I’ve never killed anyone, nor have I seen anyone killed here. This sounds extreme. Why are you saying I have to kill him?”

  “Oeste!” he screamed. “You must listen to me. T
his animal is coming to do something vile and detestable to you.”

  If I fought back, he said, Black Bandit would use his knife on me. He assured me that Black Bandit had stabbed several people for less. “You are going to kick a lion today. You must kill him when he roars. By getting the jump on him, you will have one opportunity to put this beast down.”

  Carlos then began detailing my strategy. First of all, he said, when I went to the shower, I needed to wear my regular shoes instead of my shower shoes because they would provide me the grip I needed to stay on my feet. He told me to walk slowly to the shower, as if I had no worries. I needed to find a way to draw attention to myself, so I would be spotted by his “pinche hermanos,” who would tell him which shower stall I entered.

  “You must shower up here, on the third tier. This way, you will be able to both hide the fact you are wearing shoes, and it will give you more time to bash his skull with the fan motor.”

  He had seen me fight enough to know I was right-handed. For this reason, he said, I must use the shower on the left. It would provide me the proper angle for my ambush. “You will do this from the changing area and bench on your right, where you enter the shower.”

  Once in the shower, he said to get the water going. This was so it would appear I was showering, with the steam providing cover for me. He told me to wait for Black Bandit in the changing area. “You will surprise him only once, so you must not waste this opportunity.”

  He paused before finishing the most important detail of his instructions.

  “Oeste,” he said, looking into my eyes, “you must kill him. If you hit him in the head, you will stun him enough that a few more blows to the head will end his life. It is your destiny to kill this man, this beast. Put him down!”

  I took a deep breath and nodded in confirmation of the instructions he gave me. Still, I had more questions. “What will happen to me after I kill him?”

  Without hesitation, Carlos answered, “They will arrest you and most likely beat you once you are in lockup. They will confiscate all of this,” he waved his hand around the cell at all my property. “The guards will lock down the pod and investigate the crime scene.” In the end, I would either receive another life sentence or they would give me the death penalty. Either was preferable to doing nothing and letting him rape me. Carlos promised my life would forever be changed in those few minutes. “Have no fear, you’re doing the right thing. This is prison. This is your home now. You’ll never leave this place alive.”

  Having assumed as much, I nodded. Never having seen anyone killed in prison, I didn’t know for sure what awaited me. However, many people told me that in recent years TDCJ had severely punished inmates who killed other inmates, giving the worst of the murderers the death penalty.

  Murderer.

  That’s what I was about to become. I came in here a drug addict, a liar, thief, a burglar. Now I was going to be labeled a murderer. The word sounded so harsh, considering the fact I was about to fight for my life. I would argue I had no choice, but that wasn’t quite true. I did have a choice. I could have “caught out” of the pod and told the guards I feared for my life. That would label me a coward and a snitch, neither of which I was willing to become.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Carlos said, making the sign of the cross as he left the cell. He glanced back and whispered, “Mátalo.”

  In a slow, methodical approach, I undressed down to my boxers, placed my dirty clothes on the floor by my bunk, and put my shoes back on. Grabbing the bag with the motor in it, I covered my weapon with my towel and walked over to the desk in my cell. My Bible and rosary were on my side of the desk, as always. I picked up my Bible Ms. Dee gave me and reread the 27th Psalm:

  “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom do I fear?

  The Lord is my Life’s refuge; of whom am I afraid?

  When evildoers come at me to devour my flesh,

  These my enemies and foes stumble and fall.

  Though an army encamp against me,

  my heart does not fear;

  Though war be raged against me, even then do I trust.”

  On my knees, I asked God’s forgiveness, although not so much for the murder I was about to commit, because I truly believed the world was going to be a better place because Black Bandit would not be in it. The forgiveness I sought was for the rage in my heart that had built up. Hate had consumed me to the point it was coming to a head at this moment. I hated myself more than I hated prison or Black Bandit. My choices and my actions had brought me to this place. A place I would never leave; a place where I would die. I hated myself for what I put my family through, what they were going to go through when they got word that I had killed another man. Would they understand it was self-defense? Or would they think I was always a bad seed? They told me more than once they loved me unconditionally.

  Unfortunately, I was going to test them, yet again.

  Praying to God, I thanked Him for carrying me on His back, and humbly asked that He carry me through this premeditated act of extreme violence. Did He find it absurd I would ask for His help with this? Whatever the answer, I thought it appropriate to seek His blessing, and His courage. Without God, I was nothing. This much I had learned.

  Closing my Bible, I walked over to the faded mirror above my sink, looked into it, and said, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” I left my cell for what I thought would be the last time.

  The walk to the shower was short, as my cell was the closest one to it. Remembering what Carlos said about getting their attention, I yelled down to the day room, reserving a spot in line to use the phone after my shower. Mission accomplished, as all heads turned towards the white boy screaming from the third tier. I allowed myself a small smile, knowing that Carlos shared the inside joke, but it quickly vanished, replaced by the serious look of a man who was about to fight for his life. Suddenly, my knees started getting weak, and the few steps left to the shower were like a mile. I had to regain my composure, and fast.

  Breathing in and out rapidly, I calmed down. I opened the little saloon half-doors to the showers. These doors would be the only thing hiding me from being seen in my ambush spot. Stepping into the shower, I followed Carlos’ instructions to the letter, turning on the water and waiting in the changing area, weapon in hand, ready to ambush this rapist.

  I was terrified. The wait seemed to go on forever. Not sure if it had been a minute, two minutes, or five, the only sound I could hear was the beating of my heart. Boom! Boom! Boom! Surely my heartbeats would betray my position. Surely, they could hear it in the day room, for it sounded deafening in the shower.

  While I waited, a sudden calm came over me, like a permission statement from God. It is difficult to explain, as if He were saying, “Damon, let’s do this together. Let’s kill Black Bandit.” I felt a sudden excitement. Just in time, too, because Black Bandit’s right hand grabbed the right half-door.

  He was here.

  I distinctly saw the light from the shower glistening on his bushy eyebrows. He had a grin on his face, like a man who was intoxicated with the thought he was about to get laid. In his left hand, he held his knife. When he looked back to see if anyone was looking, I stepped into him, swinging my weapon with all my might.

  I missed his head, and instead hit him square in the breast-bone. It gave a hollow, sickening thud, and he shot out of the shower doorway like a cartoon character being shot out of a cannon. Damnit, I missed my mark. No matter, he was stunned and on the ground. His knife fell out of his hand when I drilled him.

  He tried to get up, but I was on him in a vicious rage, swinging my weapon all over his body. His arms blocked the blows aimed at his head. Something inside me broke and I lost my mind. I began screaming and swinging like crazy. There was nothing choreographed about this fight. I heard ribs crack beneath my blows. I threw my weapon down and started kicking him all over, stomping on his head, trying to crush his skull.


  Two of his Mandingo Warrior brothers were climbing the stairs furiously. They were on us quickly. This was not good.

  “West, you lay another hand on him, we gonna throw you off the run.”

  I’d violated the only rule of prison fighting, never hit a man while he’s down. They were going to enforce the code by throwing me off the third tier, over thirty feet in the air, onto the cement day room floor below. I snapped out of my blind rage and looked around. Black Bandit looked like hell, but he was still conscious somehow.

  I got into a defensive posture and said, “Y’all know what time it is. This son of a bitch was going to rape me. I did what I had to do.”

  “Man, get out of here, West. You made your point. Go!” one of them screamed. It was a miracle they were going to let me live.

  I grabbed my weapon and raced to my cell. Once inside, I threw the bloody weapon down, remembering Black Bandit was HIV-positive. Checking my body for any blood or cuts, I saw that I had none. I ran to my Bible, grabbed it, and held it against my chest as I slid down the wall, crying. I had survived, but I lost something out there. I had crossed over into a world of hate, violence, and rage. I had stepped into another dimension, where human life had less value. Could I ever be normal again? Crying my eyes out and feeling adrenaline evaporating by the second, I fell asleep on the floor, sitting against my cell wall.

  I awoke to cell doors rolling. I looked around, confused. Then it all came back. Black Bandit was not a nightmare, as evidenced by the bloody weapon by my cell door. What time was it? I glanced at my clock, 7:15. I must have slept through last chow. I realized I was famished.

  When I got up to go to my locker, I looked out my slit of a window and saw that the sun was coming up, not going down. Wow! I’d slept more than a half of a day away. It was my body’s reaction to the stress and adrenaline. Grabbing some food out of my locker, I looked at all the inmates moving around the day room getting ready for traffic and recreation. Not sure if my life was in danger, I prayed that I would make it through the day. I dressed in my dirty clothes from the previous day and went out to face the pod with the thickest, most uncaring face I could muster. Prepared for trouble, I was shocked at what I found.