by LOU HOLLY
“Look up his number and tell him I’m at Oak Lawn. I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
“You’re only out a few weeks and you’re already in jail. Oh, let me guess. Is it drugs?”
“Look, I don’t need any lectures right now,” Trick pleaded. “Please. Just tell him to get someone over here right away.”
“And you wanted to get back together, have a normal life. This is how you were going to do it? Did you think about your son when you decided to deal again?”
An older uniformed officer walked up to Trick and yelled in his ear, “OK, time’s up!”
“I’ve got to hang up, just …”
The officer pushed the receiver button down and grabbed the phone out of Trick’s hand. “Let’s go. Fingerprint and picture time. Did you want a comb and mirror, pretty boy? Those big bubbas are gonna love you over at County.”
CHAPTER 36
His lawyer never showed up and Trick spent several hours in Oak Lawn lockup before he was transported to the infamous Cook County Jail the next morning. Trick dreaded what was ahead, processing at County, one of the roughest, most dangerous jails in the U.S.
Still in his street clothes, Trick was herded from one holding area to another at County with hundreds of others brought in that day, where they were evaluated physically and psychologically.
He hated the eyeballing from other inmates sizing him up, the fierce stares and intimidation tactics. He knew to look someone in the eye when being challenged but not get into a staring contest. He couldn’t control this world, just do his best to get along and stay alive. Get the wrong person angry and you could get a shank in your ribs while being distracted.
“Hey, man.” Trick turned to see a short, aggressive freckly white guy, who appeared to be a few years younger, barking at him. “What’s your name?”
“Halloran,” Trick replied, pushing his shoulders back and lifting his head. “What’s up?”
“I’m Bulldog,” he said in an overly practiced tough voice. “What’re ya in for?”
“Drug charges,” Trick replied reluctantly. “Cocaine.”
“Stick with me and do everything I do and no one’ll fuck with ya.” Bulldog’s head bobbed when he spoke, causing his exaggerated rusty-colored pompadour to bounce too. “I’m with the Gaylords.”
“This isn’t my first time coming through here.” Trick turned away. “I don’t need protection.”
“You look like a first timer.” Bulldog smirked, rolling up his black T-shirt sleeve. “Like you’re lost.”
“I’m OK.” Trick looked at Bulldog sideways. “I know the ropes.”
“Stay close to me,” Bulldog ordered, shooting challenging looks around, his body language overly aggressive and exaggerated.
***
Trick managed to ditch Bulldog when he had to stand in line for the sexually transmitted disease checkup. This was the part he hated most. After about forty-five minutes in line, it was his turn for the barbaric penis torture.
“Let’s go,” the man in a white coat, sitting on a stool in front of him, ordered, “take ‘em down.”
Trick unzipped his pants and pulled them down along with his boxers and stood for the examination. After having his testicles fondled, it was time for the intrusion. He wondered whether the man was an actual doctor or just some reasonable facsimile. The man in the white coat held Trick’s penis so it faced straight toward him. Trick knew that the worse thing he could do now was flinch. It could lead to serious injury. The man shoved what resembled a thermometer inside his penis and pulled it back out. He remembered when he went through this procedure three years earlier. It was going to burn for a few days when he urinated.
When Trick ran into Bulldog again, he looked like a different person. His would-be protector appeared smaller and paler. The stern expression on his boyish face was gone, replaced with a look of defeat and fear, making him appear even younger.
“Halloran,” Bulldog said in a trembling voice, visibly shaken. “I just vomited blood. The doctor said I’m having a nervous breakdown.”
Trick walked away shaking his head. “Tough guy.”
***
Trick stood naked with about fifty other guys, lined up along the cinderblock wall in a vast cold hallway, their street clothes in a pile behind them. He knew the drill, turn around, bend over, spread your cheeks and cough on order as the mountainous black guards filed passed. If they found someone keistering anything, they’d knock the hell out of you.
The guard captains’ voice boomed, “Stand with your arms at your sides and both feet on the ground at all times. Do not fold your arms. Do not cross your legs. Do not speak unless answering a direct question from a guard.”
As the captain continued, a thirtyish black guy to Trick’s left absentmindedly folded his arms in front of him. One of the guards immediately got in his face and shouted, “Drop your arms!”
Instructions went on for several more minutes and Trick cringed when the guy to his left forgetfully folded his arms again. The same guard, that warned him previously, busted the inmate hard over the head with his billy-club. The man went down with a thud, his head bouncing off the hard cold floor like a basketball. The guard stated matter-of-factly, “That’s what happens when you don’t follow instructions.”
Facing straight ahead as ordered, careful not to move his body, apart from the heaving of his chest and direction of his eyes, Trick glanced down at the injured inmate. The man lay still except for involuntary spasmodic twitching. He was out cold. A pool of blood formed at his head which lay less than a yard from Trick’s bare feet. As the jailhouse directions continued to boom off the gray walls of the corridor, Trick spied the blood forming a tiny stream and heading toward his left foot. He knew that moving away from it would mean the same brutal treatment so he stood at attention looking at the wall in front of him.
A few moments later, he glanced down to see the unwelcome body fluid a few inches away. He’d heard rumors that the new AIDS disease was carried through blood and saliva and that intravenous drug users were at greater risk from sharing needles. Trick saw the telltale track marks on the man’s arms. The red stream was now less than an inch from his left foot. He carefully and slightly moved his foot away from the stream of crimson which continued creeping toward him. Standing still for a long time was proving tougher than it seemed and his lower back began to ache. With the dark red fluid dangerously close, he moved his left foot up against his right, making it even more difficult to stand with his weight less distributed. Again the blood gained ground and Trick felt he had no choice but to move both feet slightly closer to the young Puerto Rican man to his right when the guards were not watching him directly.
Trick heard commotion coming from the hallway to his left. A black trustee, in blue Cook County Jail clothing and white jacket, rolled a wheelchair up to the injured man. Trick couldn’t tell if the prone inmate was alive or dead. Even the spasms stopped. The orderly in latex gloves, along with the head-cracking guard, scooped the limp man into the chair and he was wheeled away with his head bobbing to the side.
To his relief, Trick heard the captain of the guards announce, “Put your clothes back on.”
Trick stepped over the tiny river of blood and turned around to retrieve his clothes. After everyone quickly dressed, they followed orders and proceeded to the next level of hell.
***
After Trick received his Cook County-issue clothing, his own things were put in a clear plastic zipper bag to be returned when and if he was no longer incarcerated. When a person walked into this jail, getting out alive was never guaranteed.
Groups of inmates were taken to various holding areas waiting to be assigned to divisions within the immense jail system which housed over 5,000 men and women. Trick was one of the last ones left in his group when a guard called out, “Patrick Halloran. Division 6. Come with me.”
Division 6, Trick knew that was the high bond and no bond division. Since cocaine charges had recently bee
n reclassified as a more serious offense, he would be housed with the most dangerous of all the inmates. With his bond set at $300,000, he would have to share overcrowded conditions with those charged with murder, rape, home invasion, kidnapping and other heinous crimes.
The Illinois state courts allowed inmates to be released by posting 10% of their bond. Trick didn’t have $30,000 and realized it might be several years before he was on the streets again. He imagined his son as a teenager and how Pat might react to seeing him again. He could not picture a happy ending. Instead he envisioned a sixteen-year-old kid, nearly as tall as him, disappointment and hate in his sky-blue eyes. A version of himself at that age, with a chip on his shoulder, daring someone to try and knock it off.
Hit with the smell of body odor and Lysol while walking into the thunderous noise of G Block, Division 6, the heavy steel gate rolled shut with a loud clang behind him. The lone television, turned up full blast, was mounted high in one corner near the chain-link fenced guard shack. But it could barely be heard over the commotion of men talking, arguing and playing cards.
Trick was somewhat relieved to see that most of the men in this tier were adults, thirty and older. This meant less daily fighting and confrontations compared to being locked up with younger guys. He glanced around, not making eye contact. He knew the protocol and didn’t want anything he did to be misconstrued as challenging. Don’t go around acting like a tough guy, there’s always someone tougher. Don’t start any shit and don’t take any either. Just be yourself, learn the rules, but mostly, just try and get along. This place was filled beyond intended capacity with vicious men forced to live with one another in brutal, overcrowded conditions. It was a situation where just a little friction could turn into fire.
Groups of inmates, the majority of them black, watched Trick as they leaned on the rail in front of the upper row of cells. There were forty cells, twenty upper and lower, two men assigned to each one. But with the overcrowding, at least fifteen more slept on the floor each night.
Wanting to attract as little attention as possible, Trick got out of the line of view and leaned against a support beam in the far corner under the upper deck where it was quieter. Surveying inmates seated at the steel tables and benches bolted to the floor, and others standing around talking, he couldn’t help but notice a short guy in his late twenties with pasty colored skin and black hair making eye contact with him. The guy slowly made his way over and asked, “You hooked up?”
“No,” Trick replied, knowing that he was being asked if he belonged to a gang.
“You’re neutron, that’s OK. About a fourth of the guys in here are. But watch yourself, People run this deck. There’s a lot of Folks up in here too but they’re outnumbered. The real dark guy up there in the dago-t, that’s Chili, he’s barn boss. Fair guy, keeps things in order. Hates thieves.”
Trick thought how confusing it would be for some average Joe Citizen to end up in Cook County Jail for the first time. Neutron meant you were neutral, not in a gang. The People Nation was an association of various criminal groups including the El Rukns, Vice Lords, Latin Kings and others. Their adversaries, the Folk Nation, consisted of street organizations such as the Black Disciples, Gangster Disciples and Spanish Cobras. Yeah, this guy was being helpful. An inmate offering you something, even if it’s just advice, was someone to be wary of.
The young man pointed to the crude tattoo of a crown on his forearm. “I’m with the Kings.”
Trick knew that meant the Latin Kings and sized him up. “You Latino?”
“My father’s German. Mother’s Spanish.” The young man spoke in low, surprisingly gentle tones. “What’s your name?”
“Halloran,” he answered, not wanting to mention the nickname Trick because of the jailhouse connotation of someone who’s a snitch.
“I’m Mike. Mike Weidmann. Whatcha in for?”
“Drugs.” Trick glanced down at the cheap commissary-purchased shower shoes Mike was wearing. “Got set up on a buy.”
“You got busted buyin’? Dealers usually get popped sellin’.” Mike pointed a thumb at his chest. “Shoulda come to my people. You wouldn’t be in here right now. I can set you up on the outside.”
“Don’t know if I’ll be seeing the outside for a while,” Trick sighed. “Anyway, I’m through with that dirty business for good.”
“Uh oh,” Mike said under his breath, turning his attention to the large, muscular inmate being brought into their housing unit. “Not good. This guy’s serious trouble. Goes by Shabaz. He outranks Chili. Meet the new barn boss.”
“He’s a big son-of-a-bitch.” Trick glanced at Shabaz, then quickly looked away.
“Stay the fuck out of his way. Don’t want to be on his radar.”
Trick looked around at the L-shaped tier of cells and the one big dayroom they were all squeezed into. “How am I supposed to do that? I don’t even have a cell to go to.”
Mike didn’t say a word. He just stared ahead as though deep in thought.
***
A paunchy white guy, who appeared to be well into his forties, struck up a conversation with Trick. The new arrival introduced himself as Pete and after some small talk, revealed he was in jail for murdering his wife. “Walked in on her fucking my best friend.” Pete put his face in his hands. “I don’t know … I just went crazy.”
Dinner consisted of tasteless mostaccioli with tiny bits of something rubbery resembling meat. Also on the tray was a slice of white bread with a pat of butter, a shriveled orange and a carton of milk. Sitting next to him was a twenty-year-old black guy, who called himself G-20. The thin young man relayed his story of how he ended up in jail. A teen from his neighborhood was unable to pay him $200 for some pot that he fronted him. So G-20, his girlfriend and his partner drove the unlucky kid to the forest preserve, tied him to a tree, tortured and killed him.
G-20 giggled like a schoolgirl. “Boy shit himself he was so scared.”
Trick nodded as the young man continued, doing his best to act nonchalant and not reveal the horror he felt at the total lack of human compassion.
“Only reason I got caught is that goofy bitch I was goin’ out with. Heard I fucked her little sister so she turned me in.” G-20’s tone turned sinister. “Stupid cunt didn’t know she’d be charged with murder as an accessory. She’s over in juvie right now.”
As nighttime approached, Trick found there weren’t enough thin foam rubber sleeping pads to go around so he had to sleep on the cold, hard floor. He could only get his hands on a thin, smelly pillow with no pillowcase that seemed to be seeped in decades of facial oil. The small, scratchy, wool blanket wasn’t much better. He hoped there were no bedbugs or other parasites living in the olive-drab blanket as he lay on half of it and did his best to pull the remaining part over his body.
The sound of the gate opening announced another late night arrival. The skinny, young inmate being brought in seemed to be looking everywhere at once with wild, dark Puerto Rican eyes darting in every direction.
G-20, who was hanging in front of the TV with fellow gang members, made his way back to Trick and Pete. He filled them in on the new arrival who would be sharing floor space with them. “Crazy ass mutha fucka strangled his mama in her sleep.”
Pete’s head shook with a slight palsy. “C’mon. Let’s pull up next to each other in case he tries to get one of us while we’re sleeping.”
After the main lights went out, Trick lay sandwiched between murderers Pete and G-20, realizing the absurdity of the situation.
He had a horrible nightmare of being in jail, only to awake to the real life nightmare of his new world.
CHAPTER 37
The next day, Trick noticed that Mike Weidmann, who was friendly the day before, was avoiding him. Not an easy thing to do in such a confined area. Trick approached him and said, “Hey, what’s up?”
“Walk it off.” Mike flicked his cigarette ash on the floor. “I can’t be seen with you no more. Go on, go.”
“What’r
e you talking about?” Trick spread his hands out like a pastor giving a sermon.
“You owe the wrong people a lot of money.” Mike finally made eye contact. “Right now they’re waitin’ to see what happens to you. If it looks like you won’t be able to pay them, you’re dead. Either in here or the penitentiary. But it’ll happen.”
“You know who these guys are? Are they with the Latin Kings?” Trick reached out. “I need to know.”
“Don’t ever approach me again. If you do, I’ll shank your ass.” Mike turned and walked away.
***
While Shabaz talked with fellow gang members A.D. and Chili, Trick couldn’t help but notice the way their eyes intermittently darted toward him. Later that night, Trick was surprised he was assigned a cell so soon. The usual waiting time was about a week. When he found that he would be sharing a cell with Shabaz, his insides ached.
***
Trick stood at the locked cell door looking out through the bars at the darkened, relatively quiet dayroom. He heard Shabaz get off the lower bunk and walk up behind him. Not knowing what he wanted, Trick considered swinging his elbow hard into Shabaz’s throat. He hesitated, then regretted it when Shabaz grabbed him around the neck from behind with a heavily muscled arm. He knew not to struggle when he felt the cold steel of a homemade shank against his lower throat.
“What do you want?” Trick gasped through the tight grip.
“I want what ya got, mutha fucka,” Shabaz whispered in his ear with breath that smelled like rotting crabs.
“You’ll have to kill me. Go ahead.” Trick’s body stiffened. “The only way you’ll have me is dead and lifeless.”
“What ya think? I’m gonna rape ya? Don’t flatter yaself. Ya got money on da street and ya gonna hand it ova ta my people.”
“You heard wrong.” Trick struggled for breath. “I’m broke. What I made after I got out was ripped off, the rest the cops confiscated.”
“Don’t gimme dat shit. Ya got bread out dere.”
