“Show respect to Mr. Sampson,” said the English teacher, McNamara. “He took valuable time out of his day to come here and talk to you. Listen to what he has to say.”
There were murmurs in the room, and the boys’ posture slackened further.
“I got a question,” said Lattimer, stepping forward from the back of the room. “I knew you were coming to speak, so I read one of your books. You know that one, Brothers in Blood?”
“Yes?”
“The boy in that book is bad, almost all the way through. He’s in a crew, he gives other kids beat downs, he drops out of school. To him, all the authority figures, including the police, is hypocrites and fools. Then in the last chapter, the boy comes to his senses and turns his self around.”
“That’s right. The message is, you can make many mistakes, but it’s never too late to change.”
“See,” said Lattimer, “I kinda figured out what you’re doing. What they call the formula. You’re getting kids all jacked up on one hundred and eighty pages of violence and disrespect, and then you add ten pages of redemption in the end that they not even gonna read. What I’d like to see is a whole book about a kid who doesn’t do any wrong at all. Who stays on the straight even though he may be living in a bad environment, because that’s the right thing to do. Because he knows the consequences of being wrong.”
Scattered mumblings came from the crowd: “You stupid, Shawshank,” and “Why you got to talk?” and “Sit down, Mr. Huxtable.”
“I try to tell the truth, sir,” said the author amiably. “My books reflect the reality of the street.”
“A little more respect for authority is all I’m looking for,” said Lattimer. “That’s what these boys need to read about and learn.”
“I appreciate your comments.”
“Got to give Shawshank credit,” said Ali, staring at the boy from Langdon Park, who was still staring at him. “Man believe what he believe, and you can’t move him off it.”
“Shawshank’s a rock,” said Chris.
Luther raised his hand. “Can I be a book writer, too?”
“You can be whatever you want to be,” said J. Paul Sampson. “If there’s one thing I want you gentlemen to take away from this today, it’s that.”
“I want to be one now,” said Luther.
“It’s a goal to strive for,” said J. Paul Sampson, exasperation replacing the fading brightness in his eyes. “But it takes time. Like anything worth having, you need to work for it. Being an author is like having any other job.”
“I don’t want no job,” said Luther. “Fuck that.”
LAWRENCE NEWHOUSE had been put on heavier meds, rumored to be in the lithium family, and when his behavior improved it became contagious. Unit 5 was more peaceful when Lawrence was subdued, and at times the atmosphere was nearly congenial. There were arguments, but the fire in them died quickly, and people laughed at Luther’s dumb jokes and listened patiently to Lonnie Wilson’s boasts and three-way fantasies though they had heard them many times before.
Ali and Chris were in the common room one night, Chris sprawled out on the couch. A guard was nearby, but he was sleeping. Many of the boys from the unit were in media, watching television, Joneing on one another, cackling at whatever was onscreen, debating whether the male actors were real or soft, talking about the girl actors and what they’d do to them if they had the chance. Someone was riffing on an actress, twisting her name, predictably, into something obscene, and Ben Braswell was laughing. Also laughing, in baritone, was Scott, the big guard.
“You high?” said Ali, putting the book he was reading down on the floor beside the ripped fake-leather chair where he sat.
“Nah,” said Chris. “Just chillin.”
“You look like you’re high.”
“I’m not.”
“ ’Cause you need to stop doin that shit.”
“I been stopped,” said Chris.
“You know they gonna make you drop a urine. And you got that level meeting comin up. Ben does, too.”
“I haven’t given Ben any weed,” said Chris. “Not for a while.”
“That’s good. Ben needs to drop a positive so he can get out this piece. Just like you do.”
“Ben gets out,” said Chris, “he’s just gonna steal a car again and come right back in. That’s who he is.”
“Ben wants y’all to think that. He tells everyone how he was born to hot-wire, how he loves to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, how he can’t stop himself, all that. Truth is, it’s a crime he can do where he doesn’t have to hurt no one. All he wants is to get his self put back inside these walls.”
“Why would he want that?”
“Because this is the only place where he feels right. I’m not talkin about that three-hots-and-a-cot bullshit you hear all the time. You notice nobody ever comes to visit him? I mean, we all got someone, right? Ben got nobody. His crackhead mother died young and then he got moved to foster homes, and everywhere he lived was shit. In here, at least he got friends. In the classroom, he listens, even though he doesn’t understand half the stuff the teachers be sayin, and you know he can’t read. The fact that anyone notices that boy or calls him by his name is good to him. Bad as it is, this here is his home.”
“He can’t stay, though.”
“No,” said Ali. “Neither can you. Won’t be long before I’m out, too.”
“You’re always saying how I don’t belong here—”
“You don’t.”
“What about you? How’d someone smart like you fuck up so bad?”
“Which time?” said Ali.
“I hear you,” said Chris, thinking on his many mistakes, how he’d piled them on top of one another without consideration or even a glancing thought.
“The last time, though,” said Ali, shaking his head, “with my uncle? That’s what got me put away.”
“Talkin about the armed-robbery thing.”
“Yeah. My mom’s half brother, he ain’t but five years older than me. He’s ignorant and weak, I see it now, but me bein a dumb-ass kid, I looked up to him at the time. He was more like a father to me than an uncle. I’m sayin, when he put his eyes on me, I wanted him to see a man. So when he asked me to come along with him, and told me I had to hold the gun and do the thing, on account of I didn’t know how to drive the car, I did it. You think I’m smart and maybe I am. But I wasn’t smart that day.”
“So now you got yourself a Pine Ridge education. You learned.”
“Not the way they wanted, though. They tryin to break us down to nothing, so we can get reborn. But all their commands and speeches don’t mean shit to me. I learned on my own. I’m not what they think I am and I’m not gonna be what they expect me to be. Once I’m out, I’m not coming back, but not because of anything they did to me in here. I’m gonna be right because I want to be.” Ali jabbed a finger at his own chest. “For me.”
“Nuff ’a that high-and-mighty talk,” said the guard, who had awakened. “You boys need to get to bed.”
Later, in his cell, Chris lay atop his scratchy wool blanket with his forearm covering his eyes. The unit grew dead quiet as one by one the boys fell asleep. Chris was not tired. His head was full of contemplation and, for once, regret. He sat up on the edge of his cot.
Chris stood and went to the wall where he’d taped Taylor Dugan’s drawing. He looked at his image, shirtless, eyebrow arched, mouth in a bold smile, his hand holding a beer, and it did not make him feel proud or amused.
Bad Chris. He was not sure who he was, but he was certain that he was no longer the boy in the drawing. Nor did he wish to be.
Chris peeled the paper off the wall, ripped it apart, and dropped the pieces in the trash. He went back to bed and fell asleep.
NINE
ON A cool, cloudy Saturday in May, a three-on-three basketball game was in progress on the asphalt court out in the middle of Pine Ridge’s muddy field. Chris Flynn, Ali Carter, and Ben Braswell were in maroon, up against Calvin Cooke, Milt
on “the Monster” Dickerson, and Lamar Brooks, all wearing gray. Lawrence Newhouse stood out of bounds, as did a boy named Clarence Wheeler, wearing navy blue. They had called next and would choose one from the losers of this game to round out their team. A rotund guard, Mr. Green, stood on a weedy patch of dirt, observing, a two-way radio in hand.
Chris had the ball up top. He was being covered by Lamar Brooks, a quiet boy who had no offense but whose darting hands were quick. Lamar was trying to slap the ball away, but Chris had turned his hip and was protecting the pill. Down below, Ben had boxed out Milton, a kid in on multiple drug charges, who was Ben’s size. Ben had his hand up and was calling for the ball.
Out beyond the imaginary three stood Ali, loosely matched with Calvin Cooke, the Langdon Park boy who had lately been mugging and shoulder-brushing him in the auditorium and cafeteria. Cooke wore his hair in small twists and had flat eyes and a smile of pain. He was in on a firearm conviction, having beaten a murder charge in court. The prosecution’s witness, too frightened to testify, had muted up on the stand.
Chris faked a chest pass to Ali, then bounced one around Lamar and in to Ben, who caught it, turned, and hooked it up. On a normal hoop it would have dropped, but this iron granted no favors, and the ball bounced off the back of the rim. Ben threw his ass out on Milton, got his own rebound, and passed it to Ali. Ali was the shortest man on the court but had the greatest vertical leap. He went up, way over the outstretched hand of Calvin, and put one through the chains.
“All right,” said Chris.
“You gonna play defense on that retard?” said Calvin to Milton. “Or you gonna let him pick apart your candy ass?”
“Wasn’t my man made that bucket,” said Milton.
“Mini Me lucky,” said Calvin.
Chris walked the ball to the top of the key and looked at Lamar.
“Checked,” said Lamar.
Chris bounced the ball over to Ali. Chris clapped, and Ali tossed it back. Lamar was three feet away, playing him loose, so Chris went up and gunned it. From out here, he knew it had to be all net or a kiss off the backboard. It felt right as it left his fingers, and the chains danced.
“Splash,” said Ben.
“Luck,” said Calvin. “None ’a these bitches can play.”
“Six-nothin,” said Ali, and Ben grinned.
Mr. Green’s radio crackled. He listened to its message and his face told the boys that it was urgent. He said, “Copy that,” and turned to the inmates. “Ya’ll play on. I got an emergency situation I got to attend to. I’m gonna be right back, hear?”
The boys watched the overweight guard jog laboriously across the field toward one of the unit buildings. They could see heightened activity there. Guards streaming in, a guard posted at the door. It meant that there had been some kind of violence.
“Now that Tubby the Tuba gone,” said Calvin, “we can play for real.”
“Look to me like they been playin,” said Lawrence Newhouse.
“I ask you somethin?” said Calvin. “Take a pill and dream you a man, Bughouse.”
Lawrence, his eyes glassy from his meds, smiled at Calvin Cooke. A wind came up and whipped at the boys’ shirts and cooled their sweat.
“Ball up top,” said Chris.
“Checked,” said Lamar.
“Cover that Gump,” said Calvin to Milton.
“I got him. Get your mans, too.”
“He too scared to come inside,” said Calvin.
Chris dribbled and faked a move to the left. In his side vision he saw Ali slashing into the lane and he put English on the rock and bounced it in. Ali took it and put the ball down on the asphalt and made his move, driving toward the basket with Calvin in front of him. Ali did a jump-step thing and elevated, and as he went up, Calvin threw a forearm into Ali’s shoulder. Ali released a shot as he fell back. He landed hard, and the ball clanged off the back of the iron.
“Don’t even walk past the front of my house,” said Calvin.
Milton pounded his fist. “Eastside.”
“Ball,” said Chris.
“That wasn’t no foul, White Boy,” said Calvin. “Your boy flopped like Reggie Miller.”
Ben reached down, grasped Ali’s hand, and pulled him up off the asphalt.
“You all right?” said Ben.
“I’m straight,” said Ali. “Play it.”
“See?” said Calvin. “Your own man say that shit was clean.”
“Don’t matter what Holly say,” said Lawrence. “You fouled his ass.”
Lamar Brooks quietly stepped off the court. Clarence Wheeler, the boy in the navy blue polo shirt, took a few steps back and separated himself from the group.
“What you say?” said Calvin, stepping up to Lawrence.
“I said you got him. You throwin forearms ’cause you can’t fuck with Unit Five.”
Calvin smiled. “And you a stone faggot.”
“Then do somethin,” said Lawrence.
Calvin Cooke’s right fist whipped out and connected. Lawrence’s head snapped back and he lost his legs and dropped to the ground.
Calvin grunted with effort as he kicked Lawrence in the ribs. He pulled back his foot to kick him again.
“Don’t,” said Ben, moving quickly and wrapping his arms around Calvin from behind. Calvin struggled wildly in his grasp. Ben lifted him off his feet. “Don’t!” he said in an imploring way.
Milton Dickerson charged Ben, and Chris stepped in front of him. Dickerson hit Chris like a nose tackle, and it knocked the wind from both of them as they went down.
Chris broke free and rolled away. He caught his breath and got to his feet.
Ben had Calvin in a hug and was swinging him, attempting to gain some kind of control but stumbling back.
Ali shouted, “Let him go, Ben!”
Ben whipped Calvin around, and Calvin’s head caught the steel pole of the backboard. When it hit, it sounded like a bell.
Ben released him.
Calvin fell to the ground, landed on his back, and for a moment was motionless. Blood began to flow from one of his ears and bubbly saliva poured out the side of his mouth. His eyes were open and crossed, and his body began to spasm.
“Help,” said Ben, horrified, his voice soft and low.
Several guards ran across the field toward them. Chris looked at Ali, and Ali lowered his eyes and shook his head.
Chris lay down on his stomach and waited. He felt his arm twist up violently behind him. He felt a knee grind into his back.
IT SEEMED as if it took a long time for the emergency medical technicians to arrive. When they came, the ambulance driver drove the vehicle very slowly across the muddy field, as if he were wary of getting stuck. The boys were being led toward the guards’ building then, and they watched the ambo pass.
They were taken to separate rooms and interrogated by Pine Ridge authorities and police. Warden Colvin and a visibly agitated Glenn Hill, the director of the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services, were in attendance. When the interviews were done, Chris and the others were taken to their cells, where their dinners were brought to them. Chris did not touch his food.
They found out later that Calvin Cooke had suffered what one of the guards called “a cerebral hemorrhage caused by trauma.” It was said that the slow response time by the emergency people had allowed Calvin’s brain to swell up and that was why his condition would not improve.
In a J. Paul Sampson novel, the boys from Calvin’s unit would have been out for revenge on the boys of Unit 5. There would have been eye-mugging, shoulder brushes, talk of get-back, and maybe another minor tragedy of some kind, but in the last chapter the boys of the two units would have met in another contest on the same court where Calvin got his dome crushed, and the game of basketball would have united them. They would have agreed that revenge was a dead-end street and decided to honor the spirit of Calvin and shake hands and walk away as comrades rather than enemies.
The reality was, no one thought to avenge Calvin
. The boys in his unit understood that what happened to him was an accident he’d brought upon himself, the cost of boasting and stepping to someone, and anyway, they never did like him much. Calvin did not return to Pine Ridge, and no one spoke of him. When he died two years later, of infection brought on by bedsores, he had been forgotten.
In his cell, Chris lay on his stomach, his arms dangling over the sides of his cot. On the floor in front of him was an open notebook, a pen resting on a blank white sheet of paper. Chris could hear Ben Braswell, speaking to himself and crying, from his cell down the hall. He could hear the guards out there in the hall, walking back and forth, talking and chuckling, making one another laugh to try and cut the boredom of their suicide watch.
In his mind, Chris saw a spring day down on the Soapstone Valley Trail in Rock Creek Park. Darby galloping clumsily though a carpet of leaves, Chris’s mom in a new down vest, a shade of green that was her favorite color. His father swinging out from behind the trunk of a tree, a stick in his hand, making machine gun noises, a lock of black hair fallen across his forehead. Chris jumping from rock to rock across the creek, the sun dancing off the water.
Chris picked up his pen. Across the paper he wrote: “Signal 13.”
In his bedroom on Livingston Street, Thomas Flynn woke suddenly, startled from a dream.
PART THREE
SIGNAL 13
TEN
THE JOB was north of Logan Circle and south of U Street, in a section of the city that people in the past had broadly called Shaw, but now got called Logan by many real estate agents and some residents. In midtown the homes were row houses, mostly, some topped with D.C.-signature turrets, all backed by alleys. There were houses here and there whose disrepair went back generations, but the majority had been restored and remodeled, and the general impression was one of transformation.
A white Ford cargo van rolled down U Street, its two occupants in matching blue polo shirts, taking note of the sidewalk parade, people strolling past restaurants, bars, and boutiques. Different skin colors, a mash-up of straight and gay, non-flash money and hipsters, heads, hustlers, and intellectuals, young couples, bike messengers, old folks who remembered the fires of ’68, everyone trying this new thing together. It wasn’t perfect because nothing is, but down here it seemed as good as Washington had ever been, and for some, it was a dream realized.
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