Skin Games

by Adam Pepper

  “You got any money, pal?” he asked.

  “No. I ain’t got shit,” I said, trying to get by without slowing too much.

  “What’s your problem, man? You scared?”

  “No. I just really have to piss.”

  Another man joined him, blocking my way. This guy was wearing a black ski cap and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days but didn’t exactly have a beard. He came at me and really smelled bad.

  “Empty your pockets. Now.”

  “I told you I don’t have anything. Now back off!” If there was one thing I learned growing up in the Bronx it’s that these guys were like hyenas: they smelled weakness. So I didn’t show any.

  Ski Cap Guy looked at Broad Shoulder Guy, then they both looked over at the guard, who was reading a newspaper on the other side of the cell, not seeming to care about anything.

  Ski Cap Guy stepped back, and Broad Shoulder Guy looked away. I walked through, bumping shoulders with Broad Shoulder Guy who wouldn’t give any ground. Then finally, I got to take my piss.

  I waited in the bullpen for hours. Occasionally some guy would come up to me asking for something: do you have a cigarette, or what are you in here for, kid? I mostly ignored them, but sometimes people were so persistent that you had to humor them with small talk for a few minutes. I didn’t mind small talk, but really, I preferred to be left alone. Other than a few grizzled-looking dudes, most of the guys in the bullpen weren’t intimidating at all. Most were in for traffic warrants or pissing in public or maybe got caught smoking a blunt in the park. There was a drunken bum asleep on the floor—right in the middle of the floor, legs fully extended, arms sprawled out each way. By the smell of it, I was pretty sure he took a shit in his pants. No one paid him any mind; they simply stepped over him or walked around him as we did our dance of waiting and waiting.

  I’d spend a few minutes sitting on a bench, then walk to the other side of the pen. Then I’d take a seat somewhere else. Everyone was doing the same dance. There was a Daily News sitting on one bench. And I picked it up and thumbed through it, then put it back down where it was grabbed by the next man.

  Two kids lit up a joint, and the place started to reek. The guard looked up and shouted, “Who’s smoking?”

  One kid stomped out the joint as the other kid sort of blocked him from the guard’s view.

  The guard stood up from his chair and walked to the edge of the cell. He looked in.

  “Put that shit out,” he said; then he went back to his chair and sat down.

  The two kids looked at each other and laughed. They were pretty proud of themselves that they got away with it. I was just kind of wondering how they got the weed inside. The place was so lax. Were these guys even frisked? What else were they hiding? It didn’t make me feel all that safe.

  A uniformed woman appeared. She carried a podium and set it up right at the front of the cell. She opened a folder and laid it on the podium’s shelf. She put on a pair of reading glasses, then called out a name.

  “Jose Gonzalez?”

  The room went silent.

  “Yeah?” A tall, slender man with an overgrown but thin moustache got up from one of the benches and walked over to her. She started talking to him, and the silence of the room evaporated into the noise of ten or fifteen separate meaningless conversations.

  The woman finished with Jose Gonzalez, and he found an empty seat on one of the benches. Then she called another name. Then another. Eventually, she got to mine.

  “Sean O’Donnell?”

  I got up. Ski Cap Guy and Broad Shoulder Guy were sitting on a bench about ten feet away from me. They both looked at me, Ski Cap Guy licking his lips while Broad Shoulder Guy punched his right fist into his left palm.

  When I got to the front of the cell, the woman behind the podium said, “You’re Sean O’Donnell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. O’Donnell, you’ve been charged with grand larceny. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have an attorney?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. The court will appoint one for you. Can you speak English? Do you require a translator?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t need a translator.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you of sound mind, and otherwise fit to appear before the court?”

  I put my hands in my pockets and shifted my legs.

  She looked up from her paperwork and took off her reading glasses, glaring at me impatiently.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m fit to...”

  “Very well. Take a seat. You’ll be called before the judge in a few minutes.”

  Their measurement of time was a lot different from mine because at least another hour passed. The woman at the podium continued calling names, and one by one men walked purposefully over to talk to her and then moseyed back to an open spot on one of the benches.

  A new guard appeared from around a dark corridor. He removed keys from his waistband, opened the door and called out, “Jose Gonzalez?”

  The man marched quickly to the front and out the opened cell door. The guard shut the door then followed Jose Gonzalez down the corridor and out of sight. This happened several more times until I heard, “Sean O’Donnell?”

  I waved. “That’s me.” And I started walking towards the door.

  Broad Shoulder Guy stood between me and the door, and as I walked past, he said in a mock-soprano voice, “Sean O’Donnell, that’s me.”

  I must have been tired because I made a rookie mistake: I looked at him. For just a second we made eye contact, and the look on my face said: Leave me alone.

  “Don’t be givin’ me no screwface, O’Donnell,” he said. And as I walked by, he intentionally shoulder-blocked me, this time harder than before.

  I lost my wind for just a second. As I blinked and gasped, Broad Shoulder Guy strutted towards the back of the bullpen.

  I got up to the door, and the guard grabbed my shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said as he pushed me ahead of him, and followed me down the corridor.

  We walked up two flights of steps then the guard took the lead and unlocked another door. He led the way down a short hallway and opened a wooden door with a small window running along the side. It let us out along the side of a mostly empty courtroom.

  The room was pretty large. There was seating for at least forty or fifty, although only a handful of those seats were taken. Along the far side wall was the jury box, which was totally empty. The side closest to me had wood benches with about five sorry-looking guys occupying them. More benches. The guard gestured for me to sit. These benches were wood coated with glossy shellac. I sat down and the guard stepped away.

  At the front of the wide room with high ceilings was the bench. A court stenographer sat on the side and sitting tall at the top was a crusty old, female judge. She had short brown hair and even from where I was sitting I could see way too much makeup on her face and huge bags under her eyes. But it was the expression that said it all: her top lip and bottom lip didn’t touch. Whether she was speaking or listening, her two lips seemed to push away from each other like magnets that no matter how hard you tried you could never quite make them touch.

  I sat on the bench waiting. A name was called and a guy to my right rose up. He sidestepped towards me and I backed up to let him pass. He walked around the bench and to a small table where the public defender, a middle-aged guy in a middle-aged suit, stood waiting. The public defender said a few words in hushed tones.

  “Are you ready to proceed, counselor?” the judge asked.

  The middle-aged suit continued whispering to the guy, who didn’t seem to care or understand a word of what was being told to him. Finally, the middle-aged suit said, “Sorry, Your Honor. Yes, ma’am. I’m ready.”

  “Good. Let’s move this along.”

  I heard the door open to my left, and I looked over. Ski Cap Guy walked in and sat down next to me. The door opened again
, and Broad Shoulder Guy walked in. He stepped over Ski Cap Guy and planted himself in the tiny opening between us. I slid to my right. So did he.

  “Sean O’Donnell,” the court clerk called.

  “Yes,” I said and I stood. “That’s me.”

  I looked to my left, but Broad Shoulder Guy wasn’t moving. I lifted my leg up and shimmied over the wooden bench, then I walked quickly to the middle-aged suit.

  “Mr. O’Donnell,” he said in a whisper while staring down at some paperwork. “You are charged with grand larceny.” He flipped through the papers. “The state is going to request bail. Can you post bail?”

  “I don’t really know. How much?”

  “I’d guess ten thousand.”

  In back of me, I heard Ski Cap Guy and Broad Shoulder Guy laughing.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Counselor,” the judge said in a long, drawn-out tone. “Can we get going here, please? I’d like to finish before next Tuesday.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Sitting at the table across from mine was a younger guy in a younger suit. His blond hair was parted to the side and he wore stylish prescription glasses. You could just tell he was fresh out of law school. “Your Honor,” he said with an energy level that doubled anyone else in the room, “The people request bail in this case to be set at...” He stopped mid-sentence as the doors opened and Owens and Gambini walked quickly down the aisle. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. Just a moment please.”

  “Make it snappy,” she said.

  The young suit conferred with Owens and Gambini, then he said loudly, “Your Honor, the people request bail to be set at twenty-five thousand.”

  “Oh, come on!” the middle-aged suit snapped. “This is just a kid, here. With no criminal record.”

  “Your Honor, we have evidence that demonstrates this man has ties to organized crime. He is clearly a flight risk.”

  The judge looked down, then at me, then back down. “Granted. Bail is set at twenty-five thousand.”

  The judge smacked a gavel against the bench and immediately turned a page in the notebook in front of her. The suits at each table, young and middle-aged, turned their pages, too. Gambini pumped his fist and Owens shook his head, then they both turned and walked out of the courtroom.

  A guard walked over to me and touched my shoulder. “Let’s go, buddy.” He reached around my back and snapped on handcuffs.

  He pushed me ahead towards the door. I kept my eyes looking straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ski Cap Guy slap Broad Shoulder Guy’s thigh while smiling and pointing at me with his other hand. Broad Shoulder Guy puckered his lips at me as I walked past.

  “You got a bail bondsman?” the guard asked.

  “No.”

  “You wanna call one?”

  “Okay.”

  The guard took me into a small room where I called my mother. She promised to try and raise my bail money. We both knew that wasn’t going to be easy.

  The guard said, “If you can’t post bail, then we have to send you to Rikers.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Well, you’ll have to work on it at Rikers.”

  The guard led me down a new dark corridor, which let out into an alley behind the courthouse. There was a van with its back doors open and two uniformed cops standing beside it.

  “Go on,” the guard said, gesturing towards the van.

  I walked towards the back of the van, and one of the other guards grabbed my arm while nodding to the first guard. He pushed me up and into the back of the van.

  Inside, there were four other men already seated and cuffed. I took a seat and waited.

  All was quiet. No one looked at one another. No one spoke to one another. We just sat and waited as the cool night air rushed into the open van.

  I tried not to look at the other men. But when I snuck quick glances, I mostly saw blank stares laced with hints of fear.

  I heard two voices approaching, cackling and laughing. Two uniformed guards pushed Ski Cap Guy and Broad Shoulder Guy up into the van. While the other men in the van looked pale and nervous, these two were laughing like it was just another day for them. I suppose that’s exactly what it was.

  Broad Shoulder Guy sat down next to me and said loudly, “O’Donnell! What’s up, kid?”

  I looked ahead, not saying a word.

  “O’Donnell, don’t be dissin’ me, kid.”

  “Yeah,” Ski Cap Guy said, “You do not want to be dissin’ my man. Nobody disrespects my man.”

  I looked over and said, “I’m not dissin’ anyone. Okay?”

  “Nah, man,” Broad Shoulder Guy said, “It’s not okay.”

  I looked forward and stopped talking. Broad Shoulder Guy looked sideways at me as I looked straight. His breath hit my face. The pace of his breath sped up, and he blew harder.

  “You mine, O’Donnell. You hear me?”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “I don’t like you, man. You got a bad attitude.”

  “Forget him, man,” Ski Cap Guy said.

  Broad Shoulder Guy’s breath was hitting my cheek. I turned slightly and it blew into my ear and sent the sides of my hair up into the air.

  “Ah, fuck him,” Broad Shoulder Guy said with a laugh, then he turned to his buddy, and the two whooped it up while the rest of the van stayed quiet.

  The doors shut behind us, and a guard smacked the back two times and said, “Ready.”

  The van lurched forward and began to move. We bounced around in the van for several minutes. There were no windows in the back, and now that the doors were closed it quickly got stuffy and smelly. Two guys across from me were speaking low in Spanish while Ski Cap Guy and Broad Shoulder Guy continued their party of two.

  We came to a stop and the doors in back opened. There were three guards standing outside. One held a shotgun, resting on his shoulder and pointing towards the sky.

  “Let’s go, fellas. One at a time. Step on down.”

  We filed out the back of the van, slowly but systematically.

  “One at a time. Let’s go.”

  In a single file, we walked down an alleyway and then up a small flight of concrete steps. A guard held open a heavy door, and we walked through. They led us into another processing cell and left us there handcuffed for an hour or so. The two Spanish guys continued whispering to each other, and Ski Cap Guy and Broad Shoulder Guy just laughed it up. The rest of us kept quiet and waited.

  A guard opened the door and pointed at several of us. “You, you and you, let’s go.”

  The two Spanish guys walked out first, and I followed. We were led into a room with small cubbies, each cubby about six by six.

  “You,” the guard said as he pointed at me. “This way.” We walked into a cubby. “Strip,” he said.

  I took off my shoes, then my shirt, then my pants, then I looked up at him.

  “All of it.”

  I nodded and pulled off my holey white socks and then my underwear.

  The guard took out a plastic bag and whipped it in the air to open it wide. “In here,” he said.

  I pulled my clothes into a heap and then picked up the heap and dropped it into the plastic bag. He snapped it shut, then took a sharpie magic marker from his pocket and marked the bag.

  “Okay. Turn around,” he said.

  I looked at him, not sure exactly what he wanted me to do.

  “Turn around and spread ‘em.”

  I turned.

  “Spread your cheeks.”

  I reached back and spread my ass cheeks for him.

  “Okay. That’s good.” The guard handed me an orange jumpsuit, a pair of underwear, socks and plain white sneakers. “Put this on.”

  I put the jumpsuit on.

  He handed me a toothbrush, soap, and small tube of toothpaste. “Hang on to those. Don’t lose ‘em.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guard walked me to the end of t
he room and then handed me off to another guard. The new guard didn’t gesture or say a word. He just waited for me to start walking up the hallway, and then he followed behind. The hallway ended at a door with thick glass. It buzzed and then came open.

  I walked through.

  Once on the other side of the door, I heard noise. A lot of it. Undistinguishable and chaotic, just a mass of voices ringing out in the wide-open room filled with cells on each side as far as my eyes could see.

  I heard a loud voice, well louder than the others, shout, “New blood!”

  This turned the random shouts into purposeful taunts and catcalls. “New blood! New blood!”

  I heard lips puckering and tongues spitting out. Guys were shouting. I knew not to look. Avoid eye contact. Keep head up and forward. No signs of weakness.

  I grew up in the Bronx. Keeping up a firm exterior was second nature for me. But inside, I was sure hoping my mother would find a way to post my bail, and soon.

  The guard walked me up a flight of steps and down a long corridor. Small cells ran along my right and to my left was a railing. Each cell had two guys in it.

  The guard grabbed my shoulder and said, “Stop here.” Then he called out, “Open seventy-two.”

  The door to the cell opened, and I turned. Inside there were two small cots. Some guy was laid out on one of them, passed out. I walked in and sat down on the other cot.

  “Close it,” the guard called.

  The door slammed shut, and I looked around my cell. There was a toilet, with no lid, and a tiny sink. I didn’t see any tissue or toilet paper. My cot had folded sheets at the foot of it and a grungy-looking pillow at the head. I got up and made my bed.

  An awful snore was wailing out of my cellmate’s lungs as if they were clogged with tar. I could smell his breath from the other side of the room. I couldn’t see all of him, but I could see a gray-speckled five o’clock shadow and a wiry small frame.

  He wasn’t intimating, so that was good. The guys on the outside were one thing; this smelly old drunk I could take, if push came to shove.

  The noise outside my cell started up again, and I heard the door to the outside open. I stood up and looked out. I saw Broad Shoulder Guy walking down the hallway. He was smiling wide and nodding to guys as he passed their cells.