by Robert Rand
The attorney hadn’t seen or heard from his client since. The thought that Rourk had skipped town was heavy on Ralph’s mind as he paced impatiently.
Vasquez glanced at his wrist. The gold and platinum Rolex informed him that his client had less than three minutes to arrive, or face the possibility of being found in violation of the plea agreement and the probability that he would spend even more time in prison.
He worried needlessly, for Sullivan sat at a nearby bench, enjoying his final moments of freedom.
The past month had been an emotional one. Both he and April had shared enumerable concerns, mostly for one another, as they prepared for his impending incarceration.
The couple had brought baby Lisa home after a day and a half in the hospital. They were inundated with visits from family. The first week was spent at home as April rested and the grandmothers, aunts and cousins ooo’d and ahh’ed over the rosy cheeked cherub.
The next two weeks were spent on Mission Bay in San Diego. Sullivan took his wife and daughter to the Marriott, where they got a ground floor room with a beachfront entrance.
While at the hotel they were able to enjoy having the baby to themselves and spend some much needed time together. Sullivan and April were able to find laughter and romance, despite the cloud of despair that threatened to slip over their horizon. The baby slept most of the hours of the clock, giving Mom and Dad time to realize the beauty of the sunset, the calming effect of seeing a sailboat glide across the calm waters of the bay in the early morning and how being together in one another’s arms could take the loneliness out of even a gulls plaintive cry.
The couple enjoyed those two weeks more than any other time they had spent together. They never had much of a honeymoon – just the weekend following the civil service that was spent in Santa Barbara. This was their first vacation together. It would also be the last for a few years.
Packing to leave San Diego was a mixture of emotions, happiness and sorrow. However, their contemplation was thankfully displaced by the blaring wail of a wet and hungry baby.
From San Diego, they headed back home where Granny and Spanky were temporary houseguests. They had come up for two weeks so Granny could help April with the baby once Sullivan left, and so Spanky could teach him the do’s, don’ts, in’s and out’s of prison life.
It was a wild week of laughter and tears. Sullivan made love to his wife often those last couple of weeks. This very morning had been the last. It had also been when they said their good-byes. He didn’t want the tear filled goodbye to be at the courthouse, leaving a picture of him being led away in handcuffs as his wife’s last memory, so he took a cab to his rendezvous with destiny.
Returning from his reverie, Sullivan watched his attorney from where he sat. He was amused by the fact that ‘Esquire’ didn’t recognize him. He had shaved his close-cropped beard, leaving a Fu-Man-Chu style moustache. Spanky, after giving Sullivan the crash course in prison life, then talked Rourk into shaving his head.
“The idea is to look like a mean sum-bitch. If ya look bad, ain’t no one gonna jump up to see if ya really are bad,” was Spanky’s philosophy.
It was a philosophy that Sullivan bought into with conviction; thus it was a bald, mustachioed Sullivan Rourk, dressed in Levi’s and a long sleeved black tee shirt, emblazoned with the orange shield logo of Harley Davidson Motorcycles, front and back, that finally approached the impeccably dressed lawyer.
“Afraid I wasn’t going to show, Esquire?”
The lawyer did a double take, recognizing the voice, but the heathen behind the voice was unknown to him at first glance. As the realization of whom it was beside him struck, Vasquez turned back sharply and said, “Cutting it close, Sullivan. Are you all set?” then, before Rourk could reply, “Well, you certainly look the part.”
From the court holding cell, Sullivan had been taken, in leg irons and waist chains, to the Riverside County jail. Processing was a long, drawn out affair. Fingerprints, mug shots, medical screening, custody classification interview, and the trading of his personal clothes for county issue orange jumpsuit and beige rubber sandals.
It took twelve and a half hours before Sullivan was taken to tank 6B/6C. A sheriff’s deputy opened the gate to allow Rourk and three other white inmates into the cell. There were 21 bunks, stacked three high, lining the walls of B-section and another dozen in the adjoining C-section. There were also another 15 thin mats covering a large portion of the floor; the men sleeping head to toe on the floor numbered at least 20, bringing the total, including the new arrivals, to 56, in a cell designed originally to hold only 25.
A burly convict, dressed only in his boxer shorts and sandals, climbed up on one of the four tables in the cell and addressed the new “fish.” “I’m Big Mike. You guys got a problem with the way I run this tank, we can deal with it.” He put on a good show. “Bunks go to parole violators and those who can fight and take them keep a fuckin’ bunk.” Big Mike hopped off the table and offered his hand to the new arrivals to Sullivan’s left, then to Sullivan, who had taken an instant dislike to the jailhouse bully. As Sullivan grasped Mike’s right hand in his, he dropped the bedroll from under his left arm and smashed his closed fist into Mike’s chin.
The big convict sagged to his knees, drifting in and out of semi-consciences. The tension level in the room was suddenly so high that it pressed in on Sullivan’s chest like a physical force. Card games ceased. Men crowded to see the excitement. A hush came over the room.
Sullivan looked down at Mike, who was shaking his head in an attempt to clear it of the fuzziness, and said, “I think I’ll take your bunk,” with more bravado than he felt.
One of the other men, another heavily tattooed regular visitor to California’s huge selection of penal institutions, told Sullivan, “You either beat Mike so bad that they have to take him out on a stretcher, or he will kill you.”
Spanky’s words of caution were also at the forefront of Sullivan’s mind, “don’t ever start shit you ain’t gonna finish, ‘cause someone will finish you if ya don’t.”
Mike started to get to his feet. Sullivan hit him with a right cross that ripped a two or three-inch gash into Mike’s left eyebrow. As the convict started to fall backward, Sullivan snatched him by his greasy blonde hair with both hands and pulled the bleeding face into his rapidly rising right knee, crushing Mike’s nose and shattering the partial plate that made up for the two front teeth someone else had knocked out during another fight some time in the past. He let the unconscious tough guy fall to the floor.
“Ain’t enough,” said the same veteran of prison battles who had spoken before.
“Any suggestions?” Sullivan asked with mock arrogance.
Someone else in the crowd said “Free-fall” and suddenly the entire cell had broken into a chant of “Free-fall! Free-fall! Free-fall!” Hardened convicts, first offenders, petty thieves, drunk drivers. Old men, young men. Overweight, middle-aged, middle managers serving time for too many two-martini lunches, from which they mistakenly thought they were sober enough to drive away from. All of them, filled with a primal blood lust, chanting, “Free-fall! Free-fall! Free-fall!”.
Sullivan addressed the veteran once more, “What’s a fuckin’ free-fall?”
After its explanation had been given, Sullivan again heard Spanky telling him not to start shit he wasn’t prepared to finish. His stomach was in knots, but there was no way to back down. ‘Show no fear – EVER!” had been another one of Spanky’s admonitions which came to mind as Sullivan climbed up to the top bunk and stood. He looked down at the prone figure of Big Mike. He had been arranged as if he were lying in a coffin on the floor.
Sullivan did his best Hulk Hogan impersonation as he leapt off the third bunk, pulled his knees up and held his elbows out. From eight feet in the air dropped 200 pounds. Most of Sullivan’s weight became centered on his elbow as he landed elbow first into Big Mike’s rib cage.
The blow to Rourk’s hip and shoulder hurt like Hell, but he quic
kly shrugged it off as the stench of human excrement assailed his senses.
People were laughing and cheering. Sullivan thought that this is what it sounded like when the Romans would throw a Christian into the arena with the lions.
“You knocked the shit outta him!” someone hollered, laughingly.
Sullivan looked over at Mike. Blood was still coming from his nose and mouth, but now his breathing was accented by a deep gurgling. Punctured lung.
As Rourk got up, people clapped him on the back in congratulations for a job well done. Sullivan Rourk wanted to throw up. He wanted to call out for help. He wanted to cry, and tell Big Mike that he was sorry. He did none of these things. Sullivan Rourk picked up his bedroll and asked the veteran, “Where’s my bunk?”
Sullivan threw out the dingy sheet and dusty wool blanket that Mike had slept with and covered the mat with his own dingy sheet and dusty wool blanket. “How do we get him out?” he asked.
The veteran replied, “Count is in about 15 minutes. The cops’ll get ‘em then.” He added, “Name’s Rick McClain. You might as well keep Mike’s canteen. He won’t get it even if it was sent out with him.”
Putting out his hand to the thin, long-haired convict with the German war bird tattooed on his stomach and a strange graveyard scene on his back, with a multitude of rune stones represented amongst the grave stones, “Sullivan Rourk.”
“The bank bomber. Nice to meet ya.” Rick smiled, showing stained, uneven teeth.
Too tired to correct him, Sullivan said, “Yeah, that’s me.”
The outer door to the catwalk in front of the cells bar face clanged open. Two deputies entered, yelling, “Count time! Count time! B-side in the head, C-side on your racks!”
People started piling into the adjacent bathroom from B-section, while Sullivan and those who lived in C-section climbed onto their beds.
“What the fuck?” One of the cops had noticed Mike. The reaction was swift and strong. Two-dozen baton-wielding, helmeted, riot prepared deputies lined the catwalk within 5 minutes of the first, ‘What the fuck’. The gates separating the sections were secured and two paramedics, along with the jail nurse, were let in to attend to the former cell leader, or ‘Shot caller’.
It only took a few minutes for the emergency medical staff to get Big Mike onto a gurney and on his way to Riverside General Hospital. His departure was followed by what Rourk would come to understand as a typical law enforcement inquiry into jailhouse violence involving inmate assaults carried out upon other inmates.
Deputy Sergeant E. Ruble, a man well rumored to threaten and coerce suspects, plant evidence, falsify reports, manufacture probable cause and any number of other illegal activities, all in the furtherance of justice, of course, conducted the investigation.
Standing out on the catwalk, he hollered into the cell area, “Anyone see anything?” He waited a half-second, and then continued, “No? Fine, he fell off the top bunk. Anyone disagree with my findings? No? Good.” With that, he turned and walked away.
For the next two weeks, Sullivan Rourk ran the tank. Having displaced the ‘shot caller’, and with no one stepping up to challenge Rourk; deference was automatically given to him. Many of the men in the tank were grateful for Rourk’s approach to jailhouse leadership. Big Mike, and most of his predecessors, had established a dictatorial society within the jail. Heavy taxation was levied against items purchased through jail stores; inmates were selected at random and pitted against one another as combatants for the entertainment of the ruling class. Not often, but still too frequently, an effeminate or slightly built young man would fall victim to rape. The conditions were barbaric, and the rulers in the cells barbarians.
As the new ‘King of the Hill’, Sullivan brought as much civility as possible to the concrete and steel enclosure they all shared. Taxation was discontinued, as was the “Saturday Night at the Fights.” Convicts were still given first preference when it came to beds. However, no longer would anyone be required to fight for a bunk. There were other traditions that he refused to change.
Like the day, following a news story about a child molester being arrested for the torture-rape of a pre-schooler, the suspect entered the tank. Sullivan threw the first punch, and quite a few thereafter. But every single man in the tank, from the 18 year old who stole a guitar, to the 73 year old with emphysema, who was an habitual drunk driver, most of their own free will, others coerced by threat, but all participated in the vigilante justice. 61 men took part in the murder. There followed an even less intensive investigation than the one Deputy Sergeant Ruble conducted after Big Mike had ‘fallen from the top bunk’. That was probably due to the fact that the child molester was not supposed to be housed in the general population area.
But Sullivan Rourk’s two-week stint as shot caller in tank 6 came to an end with a 3AM roll call.
“McClain, Richard; Newman, Andrew, Rourk, Sullivan, roll it up,” shouted the deputy, “Ten minutes, gentlemen, be ready to go when I get back.”
Rick and Sullivan clasped hands, happy to be going together. They grabbed the few items that they were allowed to take with them, said their good-bye’s to those who were awake, and Sullivan passed on his torch to an older convict who he felt would keep things running smooth.
The bus ride to Chino was filled with palatable anticipation of what lay ahead. 37 other men, who had been brought from other parts of the jail, joined Sullivan, Rick and Andy Newman. Twice a week, the Sheriff’s Department transported a busload of convicted felons that had been sentenced to state prison to the reception center at California Institution for Men at Chino.
The Cyclone double fence, topped with razor wire, wasn’t near the deterrent from escape that the armed guards in the towers lining the perimeter were. Dressed in forest green pants and tan uniform shirts, forest green jackets to ward off the early morning cold, the California Department of Corrections guards held Ruger Mini-14 assault rifles at a casual port arms, ready for use as the shackled prisoners walked the short open space between the bus and the receiving and release holding area.
Once inside, the chains and leg irons were removed and everyone was issued a box lunch consisting of 4 pieces of bread, 2 pieces of lunchmeat, 2 cookies, an apple and a paper packet of instant drink mix, and then were instructed to hold the noise down and wait.
Several hours later, the day shift staff began to arrive. From then on, the intake process would be an alternating current of hurry up or wait.
Every man was seated on the wooden bench. A guard called out each name and handed each man a large plastic bag and a large manila envelope as they answered up. When each man had been accounted for, the guard announced, “If you want to send your clothes home, put them into the bag, along with the mailing label that’s in the envelope. Put your clothes in the red bin if you don’t want to send them home. Put your personal paperwork and anything you want to keep in the envelope and give it back to me. You can keep legal papers, legal books, 1 Bible, Koran or Torah, 1 dictionary, 10 personal photos, stamps, envelopes, stationary, 1 pencil, a wedding ring, unless it has stones, and one religious medallion necklace. Everything else is donated or sent home. NOW STRIP! EVERYTHING OFF!”
As all the men began taking off their clothes, most were tossed into the donation bin. Once everyone was naked, the guard collected the bags and envelopes. “When you hear your name, step out of the cell and line up on the red line.” The guard then began reading off names in groups of five. Midway through the list, he reached Sullivan, “Regan; Reynolds; Rourk; Smith, David; Smith, Robert; line it up!”
The five men exited the cell, Regan self-consciously covering his genitals with his hands, the others affecting a nonchalance they didn’t feel, while casting covert glances at one another, measuring themselves against what the next guy has hanging between his legs. One of those foolish “guy things.”
Once lined up, another guard stood before them and directed them through the strip search. “Open your mouths, wiggle your tongue, run your righ
t index finger between your cheeks and gums.” The guard looked into each mouth. “Okay, lift your hands, robbery style. Put ‘em down. Grab your dick and balls in one hand…lift ‘em up. Now, with your other hand, reach between your legs and rake forward from your ass! Keep going until I say stop!” he shouted his commands as if he were a Marine Corps drill sergeant. “Stop! Bend forward at the waist and run your hands through your hair. You with the braids, pull ‘em out!”
All the guys remained bent over, running their fingers through their hair, while one of the black guys untwisted his twin rows of French braids. Once he was done, the guard continued, “Turn around! Lift up your left foot and wiggle your toes! Right foot! Now grab your ass cheeks, bend over and spread ‘em! Stay there. When I count to three, I want one hard cough…one, two, three!”
Sullivan forced a deep cough, so did the rest of the men in line. They were finally allowed to let go of their ass cheeks, after having a bright flashlight beam directed at their, as Webster put it, ‘excretory opening of their digestive system’.
The process included more photos, more fingerprints, blood samples, clothing, and a physical by doctors who appeared to be rejects from various third world medical schools. No matter the ailment, Motrin was the prescribed treatment – from headache to hemophilia, hepatitis to high blood pressure, “I give you Motrin, you better soon or go sick call. Next man…you go now” was the standard line of bullshit from a medical staff that was conspicuously absent of any white-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant presence.
‘Affirmative action at it’s best,’ thought Sullivan, as he pulled his boxer shorts up, following his physical – which was really nothing more than a body part inventory.
Following medical, all the new fish were required to sit on the floor in the longest hallway Sullivan had ever seen. It must have been twenty feet wide and over a quarter mile long. An inmate clerk would occasionally call out some names and give out bed assignments. Sullivan and Rick were called, “McClain, Rourk, you’re going to Birch Hall as overflow. Don’t trip, they’ll move you out in a couple of days.”