Criminal Option

by Robert Rand

  After a minute that seemed an eternity, the slide being pulled back on a rifle could be heard through the thuds of the kicks, the grunts of Rourk and the heavy breathing of the Brand.

  The words, “Get down, NOW!” were followed by the shrill sound of the emergency buzzer.

  Sullivan was grateful that the assault had stopped. Boots pounding pavement was the last sound he remembered hearing as the first guard to run into the yard swung his baton across his shoulders, sending him into unconsciousness.

  He had no idea how much time had passed, but assumed it was considerable, since he awoke handcuffed to the side rail of an infirmary bed. Focus was slow coming and memories of waking up in the hospital after getting shot fought with the reality of waking in a prison infirmary.

  Sullivan hurt. After being shot, he had been pumped so full of painkillers that all he felt was a bone-deep tiredness and dull pressure at a dozen different places. Now, he felt pain. He lifted his head a few inches, than sank back into the pillow. The movement caught the attention of the nurse who, unknown to Sullivan, had been keeping a watchful eye over him from an uncomfortable desk chair in the corner.

  “So, sleepin’ Jesus has arisen,” said the nurse as she got up and walked the three steps to Sullivan’s bedside.

  He looked up at the older woman through his half-closed eyes. The woman’s nametag said, “Hayes, R.N.” There was something familiar tugging at the edges of his memory. He drifted off once more…

  “Sullivan, can you help me up?” Grandma asked over the phone.

  “Help you up? What happened? Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “Hell, I just missed the damn chair when I went to sit. Just need a little help getting off the floor.”

  “I’ll be right over, Grandma Hayes!”

  Coming back into focus, Sullivan now recognized the familiarity of the name. He had been close to his cantankerous great-grandmother. She had been a nurse – many years before his birth. Now another nurse named ‘Hayes’ was taking care of him, and he was greatly comforted by the coincidence.

  “Are you ready for something to ease the pain?” asked Nurse Hayes.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if I can swallow any Motrin.” Sullivan spoke in a harsh whisper. The arm that had been around his neck had caused considerable bruising to his throat.

  The nurse smiled, a dozen creases lined her cheeks. “No Motrin,” she said as she turned and left the room. She returned a minute or two later with a small plastic medicine cup. “Liquid Tylenol” she said while handing the small container of red syrupy liquid to Sullivan.

  He reached with his right hand and was rewarded with a sharp pain in his wrist caused by the steel handcuff biting into his skin.

  “Careful Mr. Rourk” the nurse cautioned belatedly. She helped Sullivan take the cup in his left hand and guide it to his lips.

  He squinted against the pain of swallowing as the thick sickly sweet medicine traveled down his throat. “What time is it?” he asked in his wounded croak.

  “Six thirty, Thursday.” She looked into his surprised face, then added, “You’ve been out cold for thirty six hours. You’ve been through X-rays, CAT-Scan, CT Scan, you’ve even been to town and back.”

  Sullivan was dumbfounded by her comments. Those guys had nearly killed him after all. Then, slowly, his fog-shrouded memory began to clear. Whitey had said that they had to make it look good. He rubbed his neck with his left hand as the memory crept into view. Those three had done a pretty good job of ‘Makin’ it look good’. Complete with pain and blood, but…that bastard-ass cop…

  Another image flooded his mind. It was as if he was watching the scene on television; he could see himself on a gurney. He was in the sally port between the yard and the O-wing intake area. Sullivan’s heart raced as he watched Sergeant Cook’s hulking form approach the rasping, inert body on the gurney – a body he knew had to be his own.

  Sergeant Cook glanced around the room. Since he was momentarily alone, he quickly wrapped one beefy hand around the throat of Sullivan Rourk. He squeezed, crushing the flesh and cartilage beneath.

  Rourk’s eyes sprung open as he gasped for breath. He reached with both hands, grabbing hold of Cook’s thick wrist, but in his weakened state was unable to break the grip that was quickly taking away his life. Darkness narrowed his vision until there was no more consciousness.

  Sitting up in his bed, Sullivan continued to watch the drama unfold as if he were a fly on the wall. Sergeant Cook continued choking Rourk for only a moment after he had lost consciousness. The sound of approaching footsteps caused him to release his grip. A self-satisfied smile spread across his dark face. The brightness of his white teeth formed a sharp contrast to the utter blackness of the man’s face as he looked down at Sullivan’s unmoving chest.

  The medical technical assistant, who had stepped back out to the Ad-Seg yard to give the other three inmates their requisite once over for medical concerns as required following any physical altercation, came back into the Sally Port along with Lieutenant Rhodes. The MTA glimpsed the slightly blue tinge to Rourk’s lips and eyelids and quickly pushed the Sergeant aside. After a quick check for a pulse, and finding none, the MTA began resuscitations.

  The nurse shook Sullivan’s arm, “Mister Rourk!” There was alarm in her voice.

  The vision disappeared. Sullivan was shocked to find himself gasping for breath, his one unchained hand held protectively near his throat and his pulse hammering in his ears. As he realized that he was safe, and alive, he sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes.

  “Are you in pain?” the nurses’ insistent voice brought his eyes open once more.

  “I’m fine,” he rasped, “want to call my wife.”

  “You aren’t allowed to use a phone until you’re released from O-wing, but if you know the number, I’ll call and leave a message for you,” offered nurse Hayes.

  “Nine oh nine,” he began.

  “Let me get my pen out,” nurse Hayes pulled a pen and small notebook from the pocket of her smock, “Okay, nine oh nine, go on.”

  “Five, five, five, two, seven, two, one… Tell April to come visit A.S.A.P.” The pain of talking caused Sullivan to tire quickly. He was asleep before the nurse had finished telling him that she would call as soon as she got off work.

  Chapter 26

  “The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout.” April’s fingers climbed an invisible waterspout as she sang the children’s song to the giggling baby in her lap.

  The phone rang, interrupting playtime. “Hold on, Lisa, Mommy will be right back,” April assured her child as she set her into the playpen.

  “Hello?” April always turned the greeting into a question when she answered the phone.

  “I have a message for April Rourk” came the no-nonsense voice at the other end of the line.

  “That’s me. Who am I speaking with?”

  Avoiding the question, Nurse Hayes went on, “Your husband, Sullivan Rourk, is in the infirmary at the prison. He is in stable condition following a ruckus, but he wants you to come see him as soon as you can.”

  They entered the sally port where Sullivan’s escort handed the bed card to a cute female correctional officer named Numrick. She was petite and, despite the bagginess of her uniform, Sullivan could tell that she had an attractive figure – like the small-breasted dynamite figure his old secretary, Stacy, had. Petite, sexy. A real attention-getter.

  “Rourk, when I open the gate to your right, go in and head up to the third tier. You’ll find your cell on the outer wall, that’s your left as you walk in.” Zigan’s directions were quickly followed by the loud click of the electric unlock of the gate.

  Sullivan walked in and headed for the stairs. Someone hollered, “Where ya from, Wood?” as he started climbing the stairs between the second and third tiers.

  “Palm Springs” he replied.

  “What cell ya going to?” a different voice asked.

  “Three twenty seven” Sullivan hol
lered out just as he rounded the top of the staircase.

  “Your name Rourk?” came yet another voice. This was one Sullivan knew and a smile creased his face as that recognition lifted his spirits.

  As loud as his injured voice box would allow, Sullivan Rourk yelled his reply, “Spanky! Where the fuck are you?”

  “Three twenty seven, Brother!” came the husky voice.

  Sullivan quickened his step until he reached cell 327. The red bearded face of his friend and mentor in prison lifestyles was framed in the small window that was set in the otherwise solid cell door. The bright smile, long red beard and twinkle that showed in the eyes of the big man reminded Sullivan of the young Kris Kringle in the animated Christmas special about Santa Claus that he used to watch every year as a kid.

  “When did you get here?” Sullivan asked through the glass.

  “Friday. Tell that bitch out there to throw the fuckin’ bar so you can get in.”

  Sullivan looked toward the center sally port where C.O. Numrick was just opening the bar that would allow the cell to open. “Tell your friend that the bitch is throwing the fuckin’ bar and she’ll throw his bitch ass in the hole if he keeps talking shit.”

  Sullivan turned back and looked at Spanky and both men began laughing uproariously. Sullivan’s throat burned with pain, but it didn’t stop him from laughing.

  The cell door opened and Sullivan walked in to Spanky’s embrace. That was one of the things that seemed odd to Sullivan about this society of convicts; killers, drug dealers, thieves, men capable of sliding a sharpened piece of steel into your belly; these hard-asses showed more physical affection between one another than the men in the free world. You never saw a man hugging another man on the streets – unless it was Santa Monica Blvd. But here tough guys seemed to embrace one another in open displays of brotherly affection, more than most men in the real world would show to their wives or girlfriends outside the privacy of their bedroom. But, somehow, Sullivan was finding that the quickly formed bonds that were obtained in the prison were strong, if not lasting, and hugging another man in this setting seemed a normal expression of that bond. It wasn’t sexual; it was more like a child who has found fear within, but love and safety in the warmth of his father’s embrace.

  At least those were the thoughts that flashed through Sullivan Rourks mind as he hugged his friend, but pain shot through his body as the bigger man bear-hugged him. When Spanky finally released him, Sullivan staggered the two steps to the lower bunk and sat down, slowly filling his lungs with air as the pain in his rib cage subsided.

  “Hey, Bro, you okay?” Spanky asked, kneeling down to look into the pale, drawn face of his friend.

  Sullivan took a few more slow breaths before he answered, “Had a little problem, couple weeks back.” He went on to explain the events that had gone on since his arrival at Soledad. “And now I’m here. It’s good to see you, you son-of-a-bitch” he finished with a smile.

  “You know my Momma, do ya?” Spanky laughed, then said, “Yeah, words already out that you got handed the keys.”

  “You’ve been here two days and you know all that’s going on and you’ve got a color TV in your cell! How’d you manage that?” Sullivan asked, looking up at the silent television that sat on a piece of plywood that was suspended from the ceiling.

  “Wait ‘till you meet Drew” Spanky said.

  “Drew? What’s meeting Drew got to do with you getting a TV in the cell?”

  “Drew is the finest drag queen on the yard, Bro! She’s the one who took one look at this fine peckerwood and licked her pouty lips and said ‘I want to be a real woman and have your baby’, after that it was cake to get her bringin’ me anything I want.”

  “Are you telling me that you are fucking a man named Drew?” Sullivan was a little stunned at the thought.

  “Fuck, no! I ain’t no queer!” Spanky said indignantly, then added, “I jus let the little faggot suck my dick, is all.”

  “Suck your dick? Spanky, didn’t anyone ever tell you that it takes two people of the same sex to make a homosexual act – and they are both queers?” Sullivan said with a laugh.

  “Fuck you. This is prison.” Spanky’s face had turned a deep crimson. “Jus wait, before you go home to my pretty lil’ sister, you’ll be beggin’ me not to tell her how you let a pretty boy gargle yer gonads.”

  “Never! April was here with the baby this morning. They’ll be back tomorrow. Will I have contact visiting?”

  “Yeah. How they doin’?”

  “Better than me.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Brother. April’s a tough girl, but is still jus a girl.”

  “Rourk, three twenty seven, step out for a visit” Numrick’s voice blared over the P.A. system the next morning.

  Sullivan had been up and ready since breakfast, watching the Sunday news programs, Meet the Press, Face the Nation; programs that he had grown to enjoy through years of watching them with his grandfather.

  He could feel the stares as he walked across the now active yard. Whites were stopping what they were doing to take a look at him. Word had spread about the stabbing and that the tall convict with close-cropped brown hair and Fu Man Chu moustache was now the man with the keys to the car. They sought reassurance in the way Sullivan Rourk carried himself, and found it, for he walked with his shoulders squared and head held high. He had been anointed by the ‘Gods of Prison Politics’ to lead his race and his first impression was one that was respected.

  Sullivan stopped at the weight pile where Spanky was just warming up on the incline bench.

  “Bro,” Spanky began as he pushed 150 pounds off his chest, “this is Spider.”

  Spider was a wiry man of indeterminate age, possibly late 20’s or late 40’s. He was well tanned and heavily tattooed, from the words FUCK YOU that were emblazoned in four inch high Old English letters across his throat, to the ‘LOVE’ across the fingers of his left hand and the ‘HATE’ on those of his right, with a myriad assortment of demons, nude women and Nazi symbolisms in between. He nodded his head slightly and tried to stand a little taller as the introduction was made.

  “This was Spider’s yard until this mornin’” Spanky continued speaking as he repeatedly bench-pressed the bar. After ten reps he sat the bar into the rack at his head and sat up.

  Sullivan put his hand out to Spider, who took it in his own. “Good to meet you, Spider.”

  “Yeah, same here” he replied.

  Though Spider had the act down pat, Sullivan noticed right away that this man before him lacked the cold look in his eyes that warned a person that they were in the presence of a killer. Turning back to Spanky, Sullivan asked if he wanted him to give April any message.

  “Yeah, tell ‘er to find that cunt who lives in my pad and bring ‘er up next time she comes to see ya.” Spanky smiled. “Oh, yeah, tell ‘er I love ‘er, and that she-brat of yer’s, too.”

  “No problem” Sullivan told him before walking over to the visiting gate.

  April was standing at one of the two-dozen tables that were scattered around the visiting room. She was dressed in a pair of white jeans that appeared to be painted on. The blue and white striped tee shirt accented her firm breasts and narrow waist. She wore her red hair in two girlish pigtails and her eyes shined like two emeralds in the noonday sun.

  Sullivan walked over, and for a moment just stood before his wife and stared down at her. Their embrace was at first tentative and awkward, but the familiarity of one another’s touch quickly flooded them both with emotion as they clung tightly to each other.

  April lifted her face up to accept Sullivan’s kiss. A guard came over and warned them that they were only allowed a brief hug and kiss. “Keep it up, I’ll terminate your visit, Rourk,” the guard warned.

  Sullivan and April quickly stepped apart and the guard returned to his podium. April turned and picked Lisa Ann up from out of the playpen that the visiting room had supplied. Handing the wide-eyed infant to Sullivan, she said, “Here’s y
our Daddy, sweetheart.”

  “She’s getting so heavy!” Sullivan exclaimed as he cradled his daughter in his arms and sat down.

  April sat across from him – as visiting regulations required. “I expected to have another one of those horrible phone visits, not this.”

  “Me, too!” Sullivan’s voice was still a little raspy, but quickly returning to its normal tone.

  They spent the entire day together, talking, playing with the baby and enjoying one another’s company. April was thrilled to learn that Spanky was in the same cell with Sullivan. She thought that Spanky would keep her husband safely away from the politics that could erupt in even more violence for Sullivan. Sullivan didn’t mention that without asking or wanting, he had become the figurehead for the prison politics she feared.

  “I’ll sign up for a family visit tomorrow and we should be able to spend an entire weekend together within forty-five days” Sullivan promised as their visit came to an end.

  “I’ll come up at least every other weekend” April promised in return. They exchanged ‘I love you’s’ and a farewell kiss before Sullivan headed back out to the yard.

  Chapter 27

  Once through the gate, Sullivan stripped off his long sleeve blue Chambray shirt. Spanky and Spider were waiting for him.

  “How’s my lil’ sis and the curtain crawler?” Spanky asked, but his serious expression and furtive glances around the yard put Sullivan’s senses on alert.

  Sullivan didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one of his own while taking in the lay of the yard, the various groups gathered in larger numbers than usual, “What’s going on?”

  Spider answered, “North and South.” His simple statement was understood in California prisons to represent the feud between two factions of Mexicans. The Northern Mexicans, or Norteños, had been at war with the Southern Mexicans, or Sureños, since the 1960’s. There probably wasn’t a person on the yard that could claim first hand knowledge about how the war started, but rumor had long held that it had started over a pair of shoes being stolen. Now it was into the third generation of hate that this war had continued. Though there were often long periods of peace at various prisons, that hate that was attached to whatever side of the Fresno County line you lived on, remained at a simmer, waiting to boil over.