by Sophia Gray
“I do.” She wondered where this was going. She'd been prepared for a lecture, even a fight, but not this level of earnestness.
“Okay. Good. We'll get to that in a minute. Tell me—if you could find a gig that tripled what you make at the grocery store, plus full benefits, would you want that?”
Beth frowned. What did her job have to do with anything? “I guess I would. I mean, I'm pretty sick of working the deli counter, living in a shitty studio, and never having enough money for anything.”
“I thought so. See, I've been talking to our lawyer, and there's no two ways about it—Hank's going down for this beating. There's just too many witnesses, and zero chance of pleading self-defense, obviously. Worst of all, the judge and the State's Attorney know damn well what kind of shit Hank's done for the club in the past, even if he's never been arrested or convicted for any of it. So now that they've got him, they're gonna throw the fucking book at him. He's gonna serve two years, at least.
“The one piece of good news,” Bib continued, “is that we've got a guy on the inside at the courthouse, and he can tell us exactly where the judge will send Hank—specifically, Bluebonnet.”
Beth's breath caught in her throat. Bluebonnet was a maximum-security facility, known as one of the toughest prisons in the state. The thought of Hank spending two years there quickened her heartbeat with panic.
“We've got some Warriors who are already doing time up there, including Speed Bump, our former Sergeant-at-Arms,” Bib said. “But we've been thinking about having someone who's loyal to us apply for a job as a guard, just to help watch our guys' backs. With this whole Hank thing going on, you seem like the perfect person for the job. You'll be able to see him whenever you want, bring in stuff he needs, and report back to us on how he's doing in there. That's why I haven't wanted you to go visit him—so no one will know you've got any prior connection to him.”
Beth considered this. She had to admit that it sounded like a solid plan, and she loved the idea of being able to see Hank regularly and support him while he was serving his time. And if she could make his sentence easier by doing special favors for him, well, why not?
“Okay,” she said. “But what does it take to become a guard?”
Bib smiled. “Not a lot, as it turns out. You've already got your GED. Since Bluebonnet's not a federal joint, you won't need any college credits or special experience. You just apply online, and they'll interview you a couple of times. From what I understand, as long as you don't insult the interviewer's mother or accidentally set the office on fire, you'll get the job—they're desperate for corrections officers. Then you pass a drug test, take a three-week course which includes physical training, and boom, you're in.”
“Wouldn't it be scary, though?”
Her uncle shrugged. “What's to be scared of? The inmates are behind bars. You're the one with the badge and baton, so you've got all the power. Pretty much all the bad shit that happens inside is between cons. The last time a CO got seriously injured up in Bluebonnet was over fifteen years ago, and that was because of a riot, which almost never happens.”
The more Beth thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. She wanted to be kissed and held by Hank again without waiting two years, and this seemed like her only chance. Tripling her current income was a nice thought, too. She'd be twenty-five before she knew it, and that felt a little old to still be wearing an apron to work and slicing lunch meats for minimum wage.
“But don't they run a background check on applicants? You and I are related, so connecting me to the MC wouldn't exactly be difficult.”
Bib grinned, reaching into the desk drawer and producing some paperwork. “Their background checks are half-assed. And you'll have these.”
Beth scanned the fake ID, birth certificate, Social Security card, and GED. The name on all of them was “Bethany D'Amato.”
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Okay. Go to the application website on your computer, and let's do this.”
Hang in there, Hank, she thought. We'll be together again soon.
Chapter 5
Hank
The newly-convicted men stood in a line behind the courthouse. Their wrists were cuffed, their ankles were all chained together, and they were wearing the same clothes they'd had on during their trials and sentencing hearings—mostly cheap, rumpled, ill-fitting suits that looked about as natural on them as party hats and red clown noses.
Hank was no different. He hadn't owned a suit or tie at the time of his arrest, so Bib had bought them for him. Even though Hank had provided his measurements, the suit still felt tight on him in all the wrong places and the dress shoes pinched.
Given the predictable outcome of the case, Hank wished he hadn't bothered with the damn suit after all. If he was going to do time anyway, he would have preferred to face the judge wearing his MC patches and standing in his own two boots.
A repurposed school bus with flaking gray paint slowly backed up in front of the men, beeping. “Department of Corrections” was stenciled in black on the sides and back. The beeping stopped and the courthouse guards opened the back door of the bus, hustling the men into it. The individual seats had been replaced with long metal benches welded to the sides of the bus. The convicts sat in rows facing each other and the guards shackled their ankle-chains to bars running under the benches.
Then the guards withdrew, the door slammed shut behind them, the bus lurched forward, and Hank was on his way to prison.
He looked around to see if any of his traveling companions might be dangerous, but the other men mostly kept their heads down, staring pointedly at the floor. One of the only exceptions was a black boy sitting across from Hank, who couldn't have been older than sixteen. He stared out the windows of the bus with wide, frightened eyes, as though he was fervently trying to memorize every tree and building they passed. His jaw was slack, and his hands kept fidgeting in his lap.
Well, we've got at least an hour ahead of us before we get to Bluebonnet, Hank thought. If all I do is stare at the dirt and boot prints on the floor of the bus, I'll be dead from boredom long before we arrive.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked.
The boy looked at Hank with a stunned expression, as though a boulder had suddenly started speaking to him. “Raheem. Raheem Jenkins.”
Hank nodded. “Nice to meet you, Raheem. My name's Hank. What did a kid like you do to get sent to Bluebonnet?”
“Oh, I didn't do nothin',” Raheem answered, shaking his head vigorously. “I'm innocent. They said I robbed Mr. Getty's store an' shot him, just 'cause I was wearin' the same shirt as the guy who did it. I ain't never even fired no gun before. My lawyer said I hadda tell people I did it anyway, though, or I'd go to prison for longer. Maybe even life.”
“Didn't they do a powder residue test to see if you'd fired the gun?” Hank asked. “Seems like that'd clear things up pretty quick.”
Raheem blinked. “No, they didn't do nothin' like that. They just showed me to Mr. Getty, an' he said 'Yeah, that sure was him,' an' that was pretty much it. Mr. Getty, see, he's white, an' he always had trouble tellin' black folks apart. Most times I went into his store, he thought I was my cousin D'Aundre.”
Jesus, kid, Hank thought ruefully. When they were handing out public defenders, you sure did get the shitty end of the stick. No GSR tests, no proper lineup—nothing but a pat on the ass on your way to the slammer.
“Well, I damn sure ain't innocent, ha,” the man beside Hank piped up cheerfully. He was an overweight white guy in his late thirties with rosy cheeks and thinning blonde hair. He offered a pudgy hand to Hank. “Foley Cartwright. Pleased to meet you.”
Hank shook the man's hand, grimacing at how sweaty his palm was. “What are you in for, Foley?”
Foley grinned like a jack-o-lantern. “I'm a con artist, ha. Swindled a bunch of retired folks out of their savings. One of them got wise to it at the end, though, so I had to crack the old bitch upside the head. Put her
in a coma for a couple weeks, ha. They gave me ten years, but my shyster said if I play my cards right, I can be out in three.”
Several of the other men sitting around Foley were starting to steal sideways glances at him. If he noticed, he gave no sign.
“You don't seem that worried about heading up to Bluebonnet,” Hank observed. “You been there before? Got anyone there to watch your back?”
Foley chuckled. “No and no, ha. But ain't you been listening, pal? I told you, I'm a con artist. Emphasis on the 'artist.' I can see all the angles, figure out all the right moves. Just give me a day or two and I'll own the fucking place, ha.”
The guard in the passenger's seat slammed his baton against the metal grate that separated the drivers from the prisoners. “All right, that's enough of the gettin'-to-know-you bullshit! You men can keep your mouths shut for the rest of the ride.”
“Why?” Hank asked mildly. “Talking isn't against the rules, is it?”
The guard glared at him. “First of all, convict, you're in my bus on the way to my prison, which means 'Y' ain't a letter in your fuckin' alphabet no more. You'll do what you're goddamn told if you know what's good for you. And second, you want to keep flappin' your lips an' pissin' me off, go right ahead. But you're gonna look pretty fuckin' funny tryin' to talk with all your teeth busted out.”
Hank lowered his head and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. He found his mind drifting to thoughts of Beth. He wished he'd been more sober that night, so he could have retained clearer memories of fucking her—as it was, he was only left with a series of vague impressions of the way she'd looked at him, how she'd smelled and felt and tasted.
He'd been disappointed that she hadn't visited him in jail, but not surprised. How could she still have feelings for him after seeing what he'd done to that yahoo?
Had she had genuine feelings for him that night? Or had it just been a childish crush, mixed with booze and pity?
And what about his feelings for her? Were they real, or...?
Hank shook his head, trying to clear it. Playing tug-of-war with himself over this was a waste of time. Whether they'd had feelings for each other was a moot point now. He was going to prison for two years, and by the time he got out, she'd be with someone new. They probably wouldn't even bring up the thing in the bathroom ever again—it'd be just another experience for both of them, something to carry around without dwelling on it.
Just focus on keeping your head down and doing your time, Hank told himself. Let go of everything else.
Especially her.
Chapter 6
Hank
The dusty chain link gates of the Bluebonnet Maximum Security Correctional Facility squealed as they slid open, allowing the bus into the courtyard. The guard in the passenger's seat—whose name tag identified him as Officer Lindhurst—walked around to the back of the bus, opened the door, and unchained the men from the metal bar under the seat. Hank and the others shuffled out, still chained together at the ankles.
Lindhurst led them into a large room where two more huge, broad-shouldered guards stood waiting. Another bored-looking older guard sat behind a long desk. There were pairs of thick red and blue lines denoting narrow paths on the squeaky gray linoleum floor, and they led to a row of yellow squares in front of the desk.
“Okay, shitbirds, this is how it's going to work,” Lindhurst bellowed. He enunciated every word as though he was speaking to a room full of slow children. “I'm going to unchain you one at a time. Once I have removed the cuffs from your wrists and ankles, you will walk between the red lines to one of the yellow squares. If you say a goddamn word or put so much as a toe outside of those red lines, Officers Breyfogle and Calhoun are going to beat you 'til you shit blood, and then you can spend your first month at Bluebonnet in the fuckin' hole.”
Hank sighed inwardly. He was already sick of this asshole's attitude, and he couldn't imagine how many more there were in Bluebonnet who were just like him.
“Once you reach one of the yellow squares, you will strip down to your bare ass and hand your clothes and personal possessions to Officer Morton behind the desk. This will include watches, earrings, wedding rings, cock rings, anything you've got that isn't permanently attached to your body. No holding out, no exceptions. He will catalogue these items, place them into storage, provide you with prison uniforms and bedding, and assign you a number. You will memorize this number, and you will by God answer to it when it's called, or you will be one sorry motherfucker. When you have your clothes, bedding, and number, you will put on your uniform, step back and walk between the blue lines to the area on the other side of the room.”
On the outside, with the Warriors at his back, Hank would never let anyone talk to him like this, uniform or no. He'd stomp some respect into them, then hop on his bike and ride off—anywhere, nowhere, whatever he pleased.
But now there was no one to back him up, and nowhere to ride to. Blue skies and free air had been replaced with cement blocks on all sides and the stink of rusty iron, dirty concrete, and body odor.
Lindhurst approached the row of men with his keys, starting at one end. There were three men before Hank, including Foley. As Foley pulled off his clothes, some of the other convicts whistled and catcalled at him. Foley looked back at them, startled, then put on a shit-eating grin and tried to laugh along. Still, Hank could see the first glimmer of fear at the corners of Foley's eyes.
Instead of yelling for the prisoners to quiet down, the guards just smirked to each other knowingly.
When Lindhurst reached Hank, he gave him another hard glare, as though daring Hank to defy him in any way. Hank forced himself to stare straight ahead blankly until Lindhurst unlocked his wrists and ankles. Then he walked between the red lines to the yellow square and stripped naked, tossing his clothes onto the desk.
“One pair of dress shoes, brown, size 12,” Officer Morton droned. He noted each item on a clipboard before tossing it into a cardboard box. “One pair of socks, black. One pair of trousers, black. One leather belt, brown. One button-up shirt, white. One suit jacket, black. One tie, red and white stripes. One pair of underwear, boxers, gray.”
Morton removed the form from his clipboard and added it to the box. Then he put a lid on it and taped it down before throwing it on top of a stack of identical boxes. He produced a magic marker, writing a series of letters and numbers on the side.
“Your prison number is 17H404,” he said, handing Hank a folded uniform, socks, slippers, and a set of sheets. “You'll be reporting to cell block G. Please get dressed and follow the blue lines.”
That's all I fucking am in here, Hank thought. Just a number and a box full of clothes I won't see again for two years.
A suffocating wave of claustrophobia enveloped him, and his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins. He'd been through so much in his life, and he thought he'd be able to take incarceration in stride—just an inconvenience, something unpleasant to get through and forget about. But now that he was inside the prison, he could feel it pressing down on him, as though he'd been buried alive. His head started to throb and his mind jittered crazily, insisting on his individuality even as it was methodically stripped from him.
Hank put on the uniform. The fabric was cheap, and it felt stiff and itchy against his skin. He walked between the blue lines, joining Foley and the others against the wall. He saw Raheem putting on his uniform, and noted that it looked about three sizes too big for him.
When all of the convicts had taken their places against the wall, Lindhurst hit a button next to the inner door. An alarm honked, and the door opened from the inside.
A huge guard stepped through the door. He had a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a professional wrestler—Hank could see the man's uniform straining against his enormous pecs and biceps. There was a deep scar extending from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, giving him a permanent snarl of disapproval.
; He stood in front of the prisoners, addressing them in a booming voice.
“My name is Officer Butler, and I am the captain of the guards. Welcome to Bluebonnet. Life can be uncertain in this place, but I can promise all of you one simple thing: Your time here with me will be exactly as difficult as you make it. The rules are easy to follow. No buying, selling, using, or hiding drugs. No weapons or contraband items. No fucking or fighting. You do what the guards say, when they say it, without cussing them out or horsing around. You abide by these rules, you and I won't have any problems. You break these rules, I will make sure that all of your nightmares come true and I will have fun doing it.”
How many times has this hack practiced this little speech in front of a mirror? Hank thought.
“Those of you who have been assigned to cell block B will be escorted there by Officer Lindhurst,” Butler continued. “Block C, you'll go with Officer Calhoun. Block F, Officer Breyfogle. Those of you going to block G will be escorted by me personally. Line up by cell blocks and follow the appropriate officer, and do not dawdle.”
