by Robert Rand
Spanky let a groan of pain escape through his gritted teeth.
“Where the fuck you think yer goin’, punk?” screamed the sergeant.
Everyone in the immediate area knew instantly that there was big trouble to come. The tension in the air was already thick enough to slice through with a knife, now it was also charged with high voltage electrical current!
Spanky looked over his shoulder at the big black man. Sgt. Cook held a baton in his right hand, raised as high as he could hold it. “Fuck you, nigger” Spanky whispered, just loud enough for Sullivan, Spider, Rick and, of course, Sgt. Cook to hear.
The massive sergeant let out a guttural howl and swung his baton downward, striking Spanky in his left shoulder. The blow could be heard for thirty yards in all directions. Sullivan started to rise, as did Spider and Rick. Spanky rolled away form Sgt. Cook, narrowly missing another blow. Poised to take the chance, against astronomical odds, the sudden appearance of Dr. Maxwell brought everyone back to a prone position.
“What the Hell do you think you are doing, Sergeant?” yelled Maxwell, as he strode up to Cook and grasped the baton.
Cook tried to claim that he was defending himself at first, then switched stories. “They’re just low life inmates and they gotta be kept in line.”
A dozen guards had gathered near. Everyone knew Sgt. Cook was from the sadists school of correctional administration; but even the most cynical of the guards present thought that Cook was worse than 90% of the inmates he attempted to ‘Rehabilitate’. But he was a member of the same team. They all belonged to the same union and stood behind one another. But when the AOD ordered the lieutenant to take Sgt. Cook’s baton and have him escorted off the facility grounds pending a departmental review board inquiry, no one stepped forward to voice support for Sgt. Cook.
As Cook was being escorted off the yard, Maxwell knelt down next to Spanky, “Don’t move. I’ll have an MD check you out as soon as I can, but with this mess it may be quite a wait. Can you manage?”
“I’ve been hit worse and I’m still here,” Spanky replied.
Dr. Maxwell stood and began barking orders to the custody staff. “Lock down the blacks and whites and anyone else not involved, then escort three teams of paramedics onto the yard to assist with the injured.”
It was nearly two hours before Dr. Maxwell was able to return to the visitors waiting at the Admin Building. He walked into a crowd of hushed, worried and expectant people. They had watched as the ambulances, paramedics and fire department personnel came and went. They were wrought with fear for their loved ones.
April squeezed in close to the Doctor.
“There was a large fight between the Northern and Southern Mexicans” he began, having to hold his hands out in front of himself to stop the questions before they started, “There were no black or white inmates involved.”
April hugged Lisa to her breast as relief spread through her heart. She kissed her daughter on the cheek and slipped out of the crowd.
Most of the black and white people began to leave; Dr. Maxwell continued talking, assuring those remaining that he would be able to confirm or deny whether or not their loved ones were involved in the melee within the hour.
Chapter 28
The riot had kept the institution on lockdown for three days, after which the whites and blacks, and those listed as ‘Non-Hispanic Others’, i.e. Orientals and Native Americans were returned to ‘Normal Program’ status. The Mexicans were locked in their cells for the following three months. During that time, Sullivan contacted The Brand’s runner, Denise Amhurst.
Once the visiting approval was granted, Sullivan called the number Denise had sent him to make the arrangements for her to come to see him. “It’s gotta be this weekend or the one after next because my wife will be here in between.”
“No problem.” The voice was husky, deep, and mannish in its tone, and it was familiar. “I’ll be there Saturday morning,” she told him before hanging up.
“Well, Bro, how’d the call go?” Spanky asked when Rourk came back into the cellblock day room.
“She sounded like a man, and he-she will be here Saturday”
Spanky arched one eyebrow in response.
“Oh, yeah, Denise has a voice as deep as Pavarotti,” Sullivan added.
“Who the Hell is Ravioli?”
“Pavarotti. He’s a great tenor – sings opera,” Rourk explained with a smile.
“Well, next time say some’pin like ‘She sounds like Johnny Cash’. In case you don’t know, he usta sing at the Opery.”
They both laughed.
Once lockup time came they were able to discuss the more serious aspects of Denise’s impending visit.
“I think she is the same gal that I made payments to from the money laundering shit at the casino. I’m going to be leaning hard on you for advice, my friend,” Sullivan told his cellie.
“Ya know I’ll help any which way I can, Bro.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.” Sullivan sat on the edge of the toilet and faced Spanky, who was sitting on the lower bunk, elbows on his knees. “Spanky, you know I’ll do whatever I need to do,” he began. The read beard dipped in agreement. Then Sullivan laid out his concerns.
What seemed to trouble Rourk the most was how to go about retaliating against someone who failed to pay their debt or violated one of the numerous unwritten rules of doing time. The experience garnered by his brother-in-law proved to be an eye-opener (once again), as well as invaluable.
“Well, Bro,” the burly convict explained, “it’s like this. You got the keys to the car. That means what you say is law – like if this was one a them third world kinda places and you was the big Ali Babba. So if Joe Blow don’t pay his bill, you tell one a the crew to go smash Joe Blow, take the dudes TV, radio, whatever shit the lame’s got and either sell his stuff to pay the bill, or have the dude pay the bill to get his shit back.”
“But…” he continued, “When it comes to breakin’ the rules, ya gotta decide case by case. See, the best way to work is to build yer people up, not break ‘em down. So, if’n a new fish makes some mistake – like kickin’ it with the blacks – pull em’ aside and explain real nice, like how the world outside and the world in here is two different places, and that in here it’s still the nineteen-fifties and this ain’t California, it’s friggin’ Mississippi. If he makes the same mistake after that – ya send some youngsters up in the dudes cell to smash ‘em.”
That advice would be put into practice dozens of times over the next 2 ½ years that Sullivan Rourk would spend at Soledad. His natural ability to manipulate others – something he saw as a necessary talent in order to be an effective manager, whether in business or politics or prison – would serve him well.
That first visit with Denise was a learning experience as well for Rourk. The first thing he learned was that Denise Amhurst was the same woman he had met in Palm Springs. She was a tiny, girlish woman of about 30 years, who had beautiful, stick-straight, white-blonde hair that fell to the middle of her boyish butt. Her blue eyes were too big for her delicately featured face, adding an air of innocence to her that belied the company she kept. She wore tight fitting black slacks into which was tucked the hem of her spaghetti strapped, cream-colored shirt. Both accentuated the gentle curves of her body. A body that would have appeared pubescent in its development if not for the noticeable outlines of the rings that pierced her plump nipples and the experienced way she walked on the 4 inch spikes that served as heels on her patent leather pumps. Even with the extra lift provided by the shoes, Denise was only about 5’2”. An ‘elfin-fairy’, he had thought at the time.
However, that wasn’t the only thing he would learn that day. Denise was married to an attorney who worked primarily for the Aryan Brotherhood. Her connection had come through her husband. She explained the code that would be used to communicate via the mail. “It’s quite simple,” she said in her husky voice, a voice Sullivan thought masculine on the phone but found quite
sexy when spoken in person, “the code always hinges on the date. If the letter you receive is dated the tenth, subtract three and get seven – it’s always dated over by three – so now you go through and circle the seventh word of each sentence having seven words or more. The message will read backward, so after you circle all the words, start reading at the end of the letter to the front. Your message will be short. Usually only five or six words. Like, ‘Received no pay fourteen’. You’ll have numbers assigned to everyone who owes, so the message will be simple.” She had also explained how it would be necessary for him to get a few semi-serious write-ups in order to keep his custody level up, without jeopardizing his anticipated release date. Things like refusing to work or disrespecting staff would get him a loss of good time credits – which would be restored following a couple of months of good behavior – without causing him to be sent to the hole. It would also insure that he wouldn’t be transferred. The Brand wanted Rourk to remain at Soledad. Even though all of the members who had been there were now locked up at Pelican Bay State Prison; the Segregated Housing Unit, located in Crescent City near California’s northwestern boundary.
The amount of money that ran between the prisoners under Rourk’s control and the Brand was amazing to Sullivan. “The average is twenty-three thousand a month from each of the three main yards,” Denise had told him with a straight face.
Surprisingly, the majority of that money moved about without any problems whatsoever. There were often several months that went by that Sullivan received neither letters nor visits from Denise. On those occasions that required a little pressure, responsibility was delegated, and the problem corrected.
Twice, Sullivan was given paperwork that showed a member of his race to be child molesters and six times there were informants, or ‘Rats’, found to be amongst their numbers. Rourk never hesitated to order such outcasts to be dealt the harshest hands available. The attempt was generally on their lives, but what usually occurred was a brutal assault with non-lethal puncture wounds and extensive slashing of facial skin with a razorblade – a permanent marker to show all the ostracism of that particular person.
Sullivan’s only respites were the biweekly visits April make – most often with Lisa in tow – and the family visits they were afforded every few months. Those were the best, and the worst. Sullivan would be allowed to spend 48 hours with his wife and child in a mobile home located within the secure parameter of the institution. He could push Lisa on the swing, read her bedtime stories and be the father she needed. He could also be the husband April needed. They would spend as much time in bed as Lisa would allow them. It was exhilarating to step into the ‘Real World’ for a couple of days. But the good-byes were wrenching. “Dad, tell the cops I want you to come home with me, okay?” had been one of Lisa’s first real sentences. It tore at his soul. Those visits were always followed by several days of depression and sadness. But his responsibility to keep order among his race always forced him back to the present.
The months became years. The end finally came into sight. He finally made arrangements for his friend, Rick McClain, to take over. Spanky would have been his first choice, but Spanky only had six months left to serve, whereas McClain still had another seven years.
“ Look, Sullivan”, Spanky was saying, “you gotta be careful once you git home.”
Sullivan smiled and said, “You mean I should wear a condom?” trying to shake his friend out of the sudden seriousness he possessed.
“No, man!” Spanky stood and paced the two steps that the cell allowed. Turning back to face Sullivan, real concern in his eyes, he continued, “You got into a real jam when you stuck Slap Mike. And you may think you got off when you was handed the friggin’ keys ta this here car, but don’t you go thinking’ yer done, jus ‘cuz you got out.”
“What are you talkin’ about, Bro?” Sullivan asked him.
“Them guys have a whole network of folks on the street, too.”
“So?”
“They are going to be knocking on your door, Sully. They are going to want you to keep doin’ for them. And you won’t be able to say no!” The big biker sat back on the bunk next to Sullivan.
“Watch me say ‘No’” Sullivan said with assurance.
Spanky put a brotherly arm around Sullivan’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes before he spoke. “They’ll go after April an’ Lisa.”
Sullivan saw tears threaten to spill over Spanky’s lids and knew he was as serious as could be. He was speechless. There was no way he could allow this Hell to touch his girls. He was paroling in the next half hour and was more scared than he had ever been in his life. The 36 months had passed, yet the worst of his horror may yet be waiting.
The sun was bright, the weather unseasonably warm for spring on the central coast of California. It was perfect, April reflected, as she sat on the fender of Sullivan’s Corvette, waiting for him to walk out the prison gate. Thirty-six months, twenty-one days. Finally, it was over. Finally, they could get their lives back together. She had so many hopes and dreams waiting to be fulfilled. She had found work at a small Palm Springs architectural firm. She was able to work mostly from home – which suited her fine – and since her boss was gay, she didn’t have any undue pressure for things beyond her skills as an architect.
She had booked a room for the next two days in Santa Barbara. The baby was with her sister, June, who had come down from Seattle for a few days. It would be just her and Sullivan.
April was brought out of her reverie by the sound of one of the building alarms. The incessant blaring filled her with fear and trepidation. She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands, trying not to cry. Afraid to look up, she stayed that way for a long time. Just how long, she couldn’t say, but long enough for her hopes of seeing Sullivan to nearly disappear.
“Hang down your head, Tom Dooley,
Hang down your head and cry.”
She knew that voice and smiled into her hands, but forced herself not to look up.
“Hey little girl, why the long face?” Sullivan asked, stopping two feet in front of her.
“I’ve got this convict ol’ man getting out of jail today, and I wonder if he’ll still think I’m pretty” she replied without looking up.
Sullivan smiled and said, “Why don’t you let me take a look at ya and give my opinion?”
Slowly, April looked up. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her smile wide. She wore only a hint of make-up and she had added blonde highlights to the mane of red hair that tumbled over her shoulders.
Sullivan reached out with his left hand and cupped her chin – turning her head left then right before proclaiming, “Ugly as sin, never seen anything so goddamn ugly.”
“What’ll I do?” she asked innocently.
“Well, it just so happens that ugly turns me on, so I guess you can take me instead of that superficial ol’ man of yours who is so hung up on beauty.”
April leapt up into Sullivan’s arms, clinging tightly; afraid to let go for fear he might disappear.
“Just a minute!” June hollered as she made her way through an obstacle course of kids and toys, toward the front door.
Looking through the peephole, June saw two leather-jacketed skinheads staring back at her. Quietly, she turned the deadbolt, securing the door before asking, “What do you want?”
“Is April Rourk here?” asked the taller of the two.
“No” was June’s quick reply.
“Look lady, we ain’t gonna cause no trouble, so why don’t ya have some manners and open the door so we can talk eye to eye?” The taller one seemed to be in charge, since he was doing all the talking.
June was scared. These kinds of people didn’t come to this area. This was Indian Wells, not Desert Hot Springs. “April’s not here. You’ll have to come back next week.”
“If April ain’t here, who the fuck are you?”
Reaching for the phone, June quickly dialed 9-1-1. The operator came on after two rings, “Nine-one-on
e; what’s the nature of your emergency?”
“There are two skinheads at my front door and they won’t go away” she spoke in a whisper.
Crash! Crash! Crash! They pounded on the security screen door. “Come on, April, open the fuck up. We got a message for Sullivan.”
“Please hurry!” June whispered urgently as she tried to usher three children into the kitchen.
The operator kept talking. “Stay calm. What is your address and name?”
“June Kellerman. I’m at 39921 Arroyo Grande.” June screamed as the living room window exploded into a thousand shards and the trashcan that had been at the curb awaiting pickup, came crashing amongst Lego’s, Barbie and the Fisher-Price playpen.
“Check it out, bitch – you tell yer ol’ man that he ain’t done workin’ for the fellas and next time you better open the fuckin’ door or I might just burn this pretty house down with yer ass in it!” yelled the leader before both men ran and jumped into a Toyota four wheel drive truck. The children were screaming. The operator was yelling at her to get into another room. Sirens. June heard sirens and finally began to feel safe.
Sullivan grabbed a handful of April’s ass as they walked up to the hotel registration desk. His wife gave a little yelp of surprise and a big smile.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rourk, we have a reservation” April said to the wafer thin clerk, who gave them a dazzling smile in way of a greeting.
“Sure thing – it’s room one-oh-one, which is on this floor, beach side. Here are your keys. I’ll have your luggage brought in for you,” her preppy voice sounding almost mechanical in its pitch. April slid her American Express Card across the counter, and then turned into Sullivan’s embrace. They kissed like they were newlyweds, on their honeymoon, which they may as well have been considering their quick civil ceremony wedding two weeks before Sullivan turned himself in to begin trial, with dinner at his Mom’s as their wedding celebration.