by Robert Rand
“Check it out, look out yer cell and make sure there ain’t no bottles and stoppers real quick.”
“What the Hell are you talking about?” Sullivan asked the voice in the vent.
Whitey laughed as he answered, “That’s hole talk for the man – Bottles and stoppers is coppers, Ike and Mike’s a spike – like in syringe, twist ‘n twirl…”
“Girl!” Sullivan was catching on, “Yeah, hold on.” After leaning his face against the bars and peering as best he could up and down the tier, he returned to the vent, “NO, didn’t see any of your bottles and stoppers, Whitey.”
“Check it out, tomorrow you’ll do the classification trip and they’ll send ya to the non-affiliated yard schedule. Let me know if you go to group four or five.”
“Sure,” Sullivan said, and then asked, “Why?”
Whitey whispered something about group 4 having a ‘coat and hat’.
Sullivan lay down and tried to figure out ‘coat and hat’.
Following the classification committee meeting the next morning, Sullivan returned to his cell and told Whitey through the vent that he was assigned to yard group 4.
“Cool. Now listen up. Slap Mike is gonna be at yer spot in a few to talk to ya.”
“Who is Slap Mike?” Sullivan asked.
“Don’t trip. He’s all white.” Whitey replied.
Once more, Sullivan lay back on his bunk, trying to contemplate what was beginning to revolve around him. He knew that whoever this Whitey person was, he had to have some power within the prison, ‘Juice Card’ it was called, if he could arrange to get an inmate on the tier without escort or handcuffs in the segregation area. They even cuffed your hands behind your back in order to escort you naked to the shower. These thoughts were soon replaced by ones of April and Lisa.
The emotional struggle Sullivan wrestled with every day was made all the worse by the fact that he was a man, and as such, was expected to keep it all inside. Especially in prison, where a display of emotion would be seen as a sign of weakness. And here, weakness was to be preyed upon.
Sullivan thought about the two gals he had left behind. The little redhead who captured his heart and the littler brunette who was his soul. Missing them was a physical pain. He felt a twisting of internal body parts and a heaviness on his chest. The breath of life was difficult to draw into his lungs.
He rolled over onto his side, curling his long body into a fetal position. He hugged himself, digging his fingers into the flesh of his upper arms. In his mind’s eye, memories were viewed, and with those memories came the emotion that had sealed them into place. He saw April’s eyelids slowly close as he leaned down to kiss her. It wasn’t their first kiss, but it was their first passionate kiss that replayed itself in his head. In retrospect, it was that kiss when he had begun to fall in love with her. He had hid from his emotions at the time, but now there was no hiding. That recall of emotion caused his heart to pound fiercely within his chest, just as strong as the day the kiss occurred.
He watched as April came out of a dressing room at a little boutique they had stopped at in Santa Barbara. He remembered trying to look the typical bored husband, but there was no hiding the delight in his eyes as April would twirl around, “twirlybird” she would call it in a sotto-child voice, showing off each new expensive evening gown. Every dress was very nice on the hanger, but made elegant and lovely by the sensuous curves of April’s body. A body that caught the eye of every man, young and old alike, as well as stirred the envy and ire of damn near every woman who saw their man looking April’s way.
There was more than the passion and the beauty. There was the wit and charm. Sullivan could still hear his wife’s voice sarcastically tear apart the young mechanic who made the mistake of treating her as if she, and all women, were mechanically ignorant as he gave her an overly simple explanation of her Jeep’s braking problems.
“Well thank you so very much for explaining to little ol’ me without a brain in my head. And to think, all this time I thought you stepped on the little thingy and the squirrels stopped running so the car would slow down!” all said in an exaggerated bimbo voice, with a few flips of her hair for extra added effect.
She could make him laugh, but she also made him stand proud as she linked her arm in his. They would cause heads to turn everywhere they went. He was sure it was because April, who, dressed to the nines or right out of bed in the morning, was beautiful. He would be surprised to learn that she always thought it was her tall, handsome husband people turned to see.
Sullivan squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but that didn’t keep the tears from leaking through. Love was the most wonderful thing in the universe until you were separated from the one you love by the cold, unfeeling concrete and steel of a penitentiary.
He was losing his fight with his own emotions as he lay there in his bunk. Sullivan sat up abruptly, and got out of bed. There was plenty of room in the cell to perform calisthenics. He channeled his sorrow and self-pity into his push-ups and jumping jacks.
As he switched to running in place, he began thinking about his ‘partner’, Chuck Freely. Sweat poured down his face, neck and chest. Sullivan envisioned Chuck out there spending HIS millions, and his anger grew. So focused on staring into an imaginary circle of hate as he ran to catch Chuck and destroy him that he didn’t hear his visitor until the second time he called through the bars.
“Rourk!” the harsh, urgent whisper broke into his reverie. He stopped as abruptly as he had started and turned to see his guest.
A stocky built convict, close cropped brown hair, cold blue eyes and tattoos from high on his neck, faded and distorted with age, led down into his open neck shirt. His face was chiseled granite covered in leathery flesh. With only a moment’s impression, Sullivan knew with absolute certainty that he was looking at a killer. When he noticed the blackened-in lightening bolts and the shamrock, Rourk realized that Whitey and his friend, Slap Mike, who now was sizing Sullivan up, were members of the Aryan Brotherhood. Not just killers, but the most ruthless of sociopath murderers to ever be produced in any of America’s prisons.
“Whitey says you gotta spill an thrill da punk on yer yard,” came the gravely voice of Slap Mike.
Sullivan stepped close to the bars and asked in a whisper, “What are you talking about?”
Mike pulled an eight inch piece of sharpened Plexiglas from his waistband and handed it to Sullivan as he replied, “The dude wit the long blonde hair, he’s a coat n’ hat.”
“I don’t know this hole talk, you need to speak English.”
Anger flashed in the cold eyes as he answered impatiently, “Coat ‘n hat, dude’s a rat, see, spill n’ thrill means you gotta kill.”
Sullivan looked at the knife in his hand then back at Mike. Rage ripped through every cell in his body as the realization that these people wanted him to kill someone for them – and just because they said the guy was a rat. Sullivan shot his left hand out through the bars and grabbed Slap Mike by the back of his bull neck, pulling him into the steel bars. “If you want the fuckin’ coat and hat to spill and thrill then,” with an unthinking thrust of his right arm, Sullivan plunged the homemade knife into Mike’s stomach and held it there as Mike’s eyes grew wide with surprise, and finished, “then pull that pig sticker from your guts and stab the punk yourself. I ain’t your puppet.” With that said, Sullivan let go of the knife and Mike.
Blood blossomed dark across the front of Mike’s shirt and pants. Sullivan looked down at the blood on his hand, then quickly turned and plunged it into the clear water in the toilet bowl. He pushed the flush button several times, as he used the cold water to wash away the blood. When he turned back to the front, Slap Mike was moving slowly away on unsteady legs. Someone yelled out “Man down! Man down!”
Slap Mike told the guy to “Shut the fuck up!” However, it was too late. The guards were already rushing down the tier. Mike collapsed as the first guard reached him, but it was out of Sullivan’s view.
The eme
rgency buzzer shrilled and within a matter of a few minutes, the scene of the crime was effectively destroyed for evidentiary purposes by the massive influx of personnel traipsing up and down the tier.
Every inmate in the cellblock was up. Most held homemade mirrors, which were made by burning a piece of plastic, such as one of the white plastic spoons that came with each meal. As the plastic burned, thick black soot rose into the air with the smoke. The con would hold a plastic yogurt container so that the smoke would rise into it and the coal black soot would cling to the interior. Once the interior was fully coated, they would pull a piece of cellophane, tight and wrinkle free, over the opening, and it would become reflective with a ghost-like quality similar to a very old mirror. These handmade mirrors were good enough to get a general idea of what was going on. For example, they could tell at a distance of 200 feet that Slap Mike had been lifted onto a gurney without having a sheet pulled up over his face.
The guy in the cell next to Sullivan was a South-sider, often called Surenos, which signified his Southern California, Mexican gang affiliation. He whispered to Sullivan in a slow, intentionally accented voice, “Hey, Wood, put your blanket in the toileto and start flushing. We need to flood the tiera to wash the blood away.”
Sullivan didn’t hesitate. He ripped the dark gray wool blanket from the bed, and before he could start flushing it into the toilet, his neighbor hollered out, “Sur! Flood the tiera!” calling out to all the Surenos to aid in the effort.
Within a minute, water was pouring out of most cells, washing away any evidence that the guards hadn’t already trampled. It took almost 10 minutes for the staff to get the water shut off. By that time, not even a faded pink blur of blood could be found.
Guards now lined the tier, flak vests covered their chests and back, helmets with clear Lexan face shields protected their heads. One by one, each inmate was ordered to strip inside their cell and go through the same indignity as when they had first arrived. Sullivan was so used to bending over and pulling his ass-cheeks apart that it no longer embarrassed him. Following the strip search, each inmate was ordered to back up to bars.
“Put your hands through the tray slot behind your back!” The fat black guard hollered at Sullivan.
As soon as his hands were out, cuffs were clamped tightly around his wrists.
“Get on your knees!” shouted the guard.
Sullivan knelt in the cold water as directed, while the guard closed leg irons around his ankles. Now the C. O. felt safe enough to open the cell door.
Sullivan was treated just like every other convict. One guard lifted him by the arm, while another grabbed the short chain that connected the handcuffs together. He gritted his teeth against the pain as his arms were pulled upward behind his back. Once he had gained his footing and could stand, the guards eased up on their painful grip. Sullivan shuffle-stepped down the tier under escort.
“Rourk, isn’t it?” asked Lieutenant Rhodes, when Sullivan was brought into the watch commander’s office.
“Yeah” Sullivan replied, as he glanced between the half-dozen people present. Four correctional officers, one sergeant, the lieutenant and Associate Warden Chambers, who was sitting on the edge of the lieutenant’s desk, and the only one dressed in civilian clothes.
“What happened, Rourk?” the lieutenant went on, “Before you answer, let me tell you that if you don’t cooperate, you’ll find yourself assigned to the Affiliated Yard.”
“I’m not affiliated with anyone except my wife and kid. If that makes me a member of the family gang, then I’ll sign on for a lifetime membership.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Rourk” growled Associate Warden Chambers, as he stood and grabbed a handful of Sullivan’s chest hair.
The act of aggression would have been an intimidating one, if not for the absurdity of the man’s appearance. The too tight, off the rack, Montgomery Wards suit stretched across Chambers’ bulging waist. His apoplectic eyes were magnified behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses. Sullivan smiled as he tried to keep from laughing. There was no way he could take seriously the threats of a short fat man whose toupee was beginning to slide into his bulging eyes.
Sergeant Cook, a massive black man with a wide nose and perpetually narrowed eyes, slammed his open hand into Sullivan’s forehead. “Don’t disrespect the A.W., asshole.”
From the floor where he had suddenly found himself, minus a handful of chest hair, Sullivan gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his shoulder and asked the sergeant, “Is that A.W. Asshole or A. W., comma, asshole?”
Sergeant Keshawn Cook’s eyes narrowed even further as he took a step toward Rourk. As the senior officer in the Ad-Seg wing, he would be the one to get the most flack for an inmate being allowed on the tier without restraints and without escort. It could easily cost him his stripes, if not his job. His anger swelled, but a step was as far as he got before the lieutenant stopped him.
“Sarge, back off!” shouted Rhodes. Then “Get him off the floor.”
Two guards grabbed Sullivan, one under each arm, and jerked him to his feet. His head swam in a near blackout from the pain. He swallowed against his rising gorge.
“Play it your way, Rourk. As of this moment this classification committee finds you to be an active member of the Aryan Brotherhood and, as such, Title 15, section 3341.5 A-2, you are deemed to be a severe threat to the safety of others and the security of this institution. You’ll be housed in Ad-Seg here until transferred to the Segregated Housing Unit at New Folsom or Corcoran where you’ll remain in SHU until you parole, if you parole. Lieutenant Rhodes was calm and business-like as he gave what Sullivan thought was a death sentence.
He could feel the blood drain from his face and his skin chill as it paled. He had just stabbed one of the Brand – a term used by Aryan Brotherhood members in recognition of the shamrock tattoo that they would all get ‘branded’ into their skin signifying membership – and now he was being sent to live with, or die with, them.
Chapter 25
Sullivan stood just inside the yard 1 outer gate as the C.O. removed the handcuffs that had pinned his arms behind his back. There were three men on the yard, two of them thin and lanky, the other muscular enough to be a professional body builder, all of them heavily tattooed in the black ink style of prison art. However, what Sullivan noticed most was their eyes. There is a certain look to be found only in the eyes of a killer. You don’t find it in war veterans, with the exception of those who slid into the insanity of war and found pleasure in the kill. It was a slightly glassy look, similar to when a person is on the brink of spilling tears, but beneath the liquid glass was a diamond hard base that glinted steel. All three men possessed this look. This look was focused on Sullivan Rourk.
As soon as the cuffs were removed, the guard tossed Sullivan’s pants and tee shirt on the ground next to him, and then walked back into the building.
Sullivan pulled on his jeans, then his shirt, while keeping an eye on his surroundings.
The twenty by forty-foot yard was encased on three sides by a twelve-foot high chain link fence and on the fourth side by a fifteen-foot wall. All sides were topped with a double roll of coiled razor wire. The small yard was situated between two guard towers. The guards had kept their Hecklor and Kotch Model 93 assault rifles trained on Sullivan while the other C.O. was on the yard, but now, he saw, they had turned their backs to the yard.
‘They want me to get killed,’ Sullivan thought, while the sinking feeling in his stomach worsened.
Sullivan took several steps toward the other prisoners, then bent and picked up a blue handball. He tossed the ball against the wall and slapped it with his open palm as it bounced back at him, sending it into the wall again.
“So, how’s it feel to be a part a the Brand, Rourk?” asked the smallest of the three men.
The ball bounced past Sullivan and into the fence as he turned to face the owner of the voice. A voice he knew.
“I was wondering what you looked like, W
hitey” Sullivan replied.
“Why’d ya do Slap like that?” Whitey asked, as the three men encircled Sullivan.
“Like I told him,” Sullivan tried to keep the fear he felt out of his voice, “I’m not anyone’s punk. I don’t take orders for your crazy bullshit.”
Whitey laughed a humorless laugh before telling Sullivan, “Took guts, ya prick. I can respect guts, but now ya either associate or we put “He Had Guts” on yer friggin epitaph.”
There was a way out! Sullivan saw only a way out and that was the opportunity he was looking for.
“What do you mean, Whitey, ‘associate’?”
“Simple, they got us slammed ‘til Christ comes back or maybe longer. You got no rocks, so you’ll get sent to the main line next classification and when you go, you go with the keys to the yard and you just keep our little dope racket movin’ for us.”
Relief filled Sullivan like water filled the Titanic, with a rush. He didn’t hear all of what Whitey had said; the pulse pounding in his ears was too loud. But he understood enough to know that he had escaped a death sentence.
Whitey went on, “Look, you’ll get a letter from some broad tellin’ ya to send a visiting form. She’ll come see ya to pass messages back and forth. But we gotta make it look good for these bottles and stoppers, Rourk.”
The momentary look of confusion that crossed Sullivan’s face was replaced by the sudden fear of understanding as the body builder stepped in behind him and wrapped his beefy arm around his neck. He felt his air supply being choked off between the slab of thick forearm and huge bicep.
The other convict swung a combination of lefts and rights into Sullivan’s ribs and Whitey tossed a right cross into his mouth.
The quick assault was effective. In a matter of seconds, Rourk found himself in a breathless, pain wracked, bleeding heap, as he was released to fall to the concrete. The three convicts added several kicks as Sullivan curled into a protective ball, giving his assailants as little area to kick as possible.