He presented a lock box, but not just any lock box. It was the one from Warden Johnson’s prison. He gave it to me with the key.
“How?”
Jake explained: “When you are one of the lead investigators searching for bad behavior in a prison, and when you are on the committee to hire a replacement for the position of warden in that said prison. You just walk in and pretty much take what you want.”
I opened it. It was all there.
I put on my rings and my dad’s shoes. And even though my Battle Ring wasn’t red, I felt great.
Brave.
Super duper.
The nurses entered my room. “Steven, are you ready for your physical therapy?”
I rose from my bed, shook Jake’s hand, and remarked, “Hell yeah!”
The nurse brought the customary wheelchair, which I waved off. That led them to following me at least three paces behind, causing a commotion. They insisted that I sit while they rolled me like an old man to therapy.
I was well ahead of them as I entered the exercise area. I spotted a stationary bike and hopped on it in stride. I adjusted the lever to provide the most resistance.
The nurse protested. “Steven! It’s much too early to be pushing yourself this hard!”
I started pumping my legs as Jake entered the area. “Go, man, go!” His words inspired me as I pumped harder. Jake egged me on. “Who’s a dead man?”
“Miguel,” I answered.
“Who?”
“Miguel.”
Jake continued, “I don’t think I heard you! Who’s a dead man?”
I screamed, “Miguel!”
I heard one of the nurses call for security. They came and escorted Jake out of the hospital. He left with his arms raised in victory.
And I went back to my room and had my best night’s sleep in a very, very long time.
***
The next morning, I rehashed in my mind the events of the previous day. It was a rollercoaster. First, I was mad about the newspaper article. Then, with the lock box back in my possession, I was euphoric. Jake had known exactly what he was doing. He had known that the article would upset me, so he had brought my belongings to cheer me up.
I was sure she had been able to tell that, when Dad was alive, I had favored him over her, and that maybe Dad had favored me over her. That had probably made her feel like an outcast. Here I was, eighteen years old and just now realizing that Dad and I had ostracized her from her own home.
But then again, she had always been at work. I had always held that against her. She put that money-grubbing church ahead of her only family. It had never seemed to bother Dad. I’d like to think that if my own child were in as much trouble as I was in now, I would be by his or her side all the way. Since my legal troubles had begun, I hadn’t heard anything from her. I felt guilty about ruining my family name and disappointing my father with my exploits.
There were days when I thought that if I saw her, I would hug her, cry, and apologize for all the trouble I had been to her. Then there were the days when I was in denial of my own actions and would blame her for this whole ordeal. If she wouldn’t have been so involved with church then I wouldn’t have had a close relationship with Beth. And then I wouldn’t have met Miguel. Why couldn’t she have been just a regular mom? Packing lunches, cleaning the house, and maybe, just maybe, paid a little more attention to her husband and her son.
Her whole attraction to religion was a mystery to me.
There had to be more to the story.
Jake and I would talk at long lengths about the events that had unfolded. I held nothing back, including my feelings for my mom. He was a great sounding board. It would always lead to the eventual questions: “Do you think Alexa is still alive?” and “Why did Father Patrick lie to me?”
Jake would comfort me and say, “I don’t know, Steven. I wish I knew.”
Chapter 21
Jake entered the room. He seemed hurried and distressed. “One more week until we have a hearing. We have to form a strategy.”
I really didn’t know what he was saying.
“We have to work quickly.”
I was still in the dark.
“There will be no trial! They have waived all of the charges and are going straight to a hearing. It will just be you, me, the prosecutor, and the new judge. They are pushing for you to serve the remaining time of your term at the state prison―you know, the big house!”
Whether it wasn’t hitting me with the impact that Jake was expecting, or it was the fact that I had my Battle Ring on, my wedding rings on, and my father’s shoes on, but it didn’t seem to faze me.
“If that’s my only choice, I guess that’s where I’ll go,” I said.
“You don’t understand, Steven,” Jake said. “That place is full of hardened criminals. Murderers, rapists, thugs that will think nothing of slitting your throat for no reason!”
I remained calm and spoke: “Look, Jake, that place could not be any more dangerous than the place I was in before. You want me to mature and do my time and then go and kill a demon? What better place than a state prison? If I can survive the next nine years, I’ll be ready to face anything.”
I could see that Jake was considering my argument. Then he confessed, “I guess I got caught up in what the prosecution wants. I just hate seeing them get their way. If that’s what you want and firmly believe is in your best interest, I will concede.”
Jake left, looking defeated.
In a matter of days, the hearing date was set. I readied myself to relinquish my most-prized and only possessions. I had only had the rings and shoes on for less than two weeks. I wondered if I would be strong enough for this test without them. Jake assured me that I could continue wearing them up until the announcement of my remaining sentence.
The next few days gave me a time to reassure myself that I would be alright and that all the stories I had heard about prisons were just that: stories. I fiddled with my rings, pulling them off and on, seeing if I could tell a difference in my emotions. I couldn’t.
***
The morning of my hearing was upon us. They had kept me at the hospital a bit longer than needed. It was just more convenient than transporting me to a jail for two or three days. I had gotten close to some of the nurses and aides and felt I had left a positive impression on them. I could tell that they knew I wasn’t the heinous murderer that the papers had referred to. I was just a young kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Jake entered my room with a satchel that had some regular pants and a pull over shirt.
“No blue suit?” I asked.
“There is no need to try and convince anyone you are innocent now,” he said, sporting an unfamiliar frown.
“Jake? What’s wrong?” I asked.
He replied, “If you must know, this is the closest I’ve ever come to losing a case. I feel I failed you.”
For all the consoling that Jake had done for me, now it was my turn.
“It’s not your fault, Jake. Think back to where all of this started. Miguel, Father Patrick, Alexa. The wheels of this case all started turning before you even got involved. The way you, Don, and Judge O’Neil talk, this is my destiny or my fate or whatever you call it. Let it go.”
Jake seemed appreciative of my words and got back to business.
He threw the satchel hard but playfully at me and said. “Put these on and let’s get this over with.” His smile was back.
I caught the bag and made a halfhearted groan like it hurt me.
Jake really hated the losing.
I put the clothes on, and within minutes, two sheriffs appeared at my door, ready to take me to my hearing. It all happened so fast. They grabbed me by the arms, pushed by Jake, and hurried me down the stairs and through the lobby.
The nurses yelled at them, insisting that they sign a release form. The sheriffs ignored them. I glanced at my Battle Ring, and it was bright red! I yelled for Jake, but he was out of range to hear. I was t
hrown into the back seat of the sheriff’s car and driven at high speed to the court house. I was pulled from the car and slammed against the wall. The one officer pulled his night stick and swung at my head. I grabbed the stick from his hand and thrust it into his stomach. The other officer grabbed me in a choke hold. I easily broke his grip and tossed him aside
I looked at my Battle Ring. It was crimson.
By then, I was overcome with police personnel pummeling me. It was if they were coming in slow motion and I was reacting faster than a mere mortal. I felt stronger than ever as I tossed them, one by one, off to the side. I realized that surrendering was in my best interest, so as to not make things worse. As they handcuffed me, I was struck and kicked in the face.
I felt that I had held my own against overwhelming odds.
They led me to the courtroom. Jake looked at me, noticing a black eye.
“What the Hell happened to you?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and showed him my Battle Ring. It was still crimson.
I remarked, “Friends of Miguel’s, I guess.”
Jake was outraged. “Where are they?”
“At the hospital.” I smiled.
As the Judge entered the courtroom, everyone rose. I looked over at some of the officers who had been involved in the skirmish. They all looked befuddled as to how a young man of eighteen, who weighed 130 pounds, could toss them around so easily.
But I knew.
As the judge read from his notes, he commended Jake on his flexibility of the sentence, then asked me if I agreed to the terms, which were nineteen consecutive years at the State Correctional Institute, with possible probation in nine years. Jake nudged me. I had been busy trading dirty looks with some of the officers.
“Yes, your honor.”
“Your sentence will commence immediately.” The judge slammed his gavel and left. And just like that, I was surrounded. I shook Jake’s hand and pulled off my wedding rings, my Battle Ring, and my dad’s shoes. I saw him place them in a lock box and give it to a court clerk. He showed me the key. Jake gave me a helpless look, as this happened in a matter of seconds.
I looked at Jake, and I mouthed, “I’m OK.” But I knew I wasn’t.
I was cuffed and loaded into an unmarked car by some of the same officers who had been involved in the outbreak that had occurred when I was brought in. This time, they were heavily armed and kept their distance like I was a wild animal. They stood, guns cocked, as one of them shackled my hands and legs.
The trip to the state pen was without incident. I guess that was the reason for the quick decision and the hasty exit: to escape any media that may be following.
I was soon exposed to a most ungodly looking monstrosity that was the state penitentiary. As we rolled through two guard gates, we saw that there were religious crosses imbedded in the ground. A sign above the gates read: “The Road To Redemption Starts Here.”
While the outside of the insane asylum looked inviting, there were no false fronts here. The rusty fences, the brick work that had been pieced together, and even the guards’ uniforms looked tattered. If it was meant to look that way to intimidate incoming prisoners, it was working.
I was led to the bottom floor. With my hands and legs shackled, I was struggling with the stairs, and the guards seemed oblivious to my troubles. My first thought was, Why would the warden’s office be in the basement? I soon discovered that seeing the warden was not on the agenda. The guards instructed me to stand on a designated red spot as they unshackled me.
In walked a slender man clutching a folder. He had sunglasses, a cowboy hat, and a toothpick in his mouth. He had a different uniform than the rest of the guards. “I’m Lieutenant Cobb,” he said as he paced the floor.
Another door opened, and two guards escorted a Hispanic male into the room. They instructed him to stand next to me on another red spot. After several minutes of Cobb looking at the papers in the file, which I assumed was mine, he introduced us, never looking up.
“Steven, this is Raphael. Raphael, this is Steven. Steven, Raphael is your cellmate. He will be orientating you on the ways of this prison. Here is a list of dos and don’ts. Also included is your cell number and your prison inmate number. Memorize them.”
Lt. Cobb looked me over. “Raphael, see if you can secure some protection for Steven.”
“Dismissed.”
Lt. Cobb left the room, and I told Raphael jokingly, “He seems nice.”
Raphael replied, “He’s a jackal.”
The two guards escorted us through a series of doors. I couldn’t help but notice that the paint was peeling from the walls and there was asbestos insulation hanging from overhead pipes. The guards then disappeared as we entered a common area where the inmates spent their free time.
I soon found several hundred eyes focused on me. The insults flew. I was spit on and shoved around. Sexual advances were yelled my way. I had Bibles opened in front of me showing scripture as I was called a sinner. Raphael seemed unfazed as he paved the way to our cell.
Upon arrival, Raphael tossed me a towel to wipe saliva from my face.
“You got quite a welcome. I’ve been here for three years. That’s one of the best I’ve seen.”
Raphael seemed to enjoy the response of my arrival.
“So I guess they know who I am?” I asked.
“Yep, your reputation precedes you,” he said.
I asked Raphael, “How come I didn’t get an orange jumpsuit?”
Raphael replied, “For one thing, it separates you from the inmates, and it lets them know that you’re new here. It gives them a psychological edge and puts you on the defensive―all part of the warden’s plan to rehabilitate inmates. The other thing is that if you wear your own clothes in here, it’s your clothes that are being spit on. If they spit on another orange jumpsuit, it would be like they were spitting on their own kind.”
I complimented Raphael, “You sound kind of smart.”
“I have a BA in Psychology,” he replied.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Got drunk and stole a car. Wrecked and killed my best friend. Almost ripped his head off. I got twenty years but figure I’ll kill myself before that.”
Raphael was mid-story when a guard passed an orange jumpsuit and a pair of five-dollar tennis shoes through the bars along with a plastic bag.
Raphael instructed me, “Put the jumpsuit on, put your clothes in the bag, and leave it outside of the cell.”
“What do they do with my clothes?”
“Steven, does it really matter?”
I followed his instructions, but because of my small frame, I had to roll up my sleeves and pants legs. Raphael turned so as not to laugh.
I continued asking questions. “What was the protection Cobb talked about?”
“We have several bodyguards in here, inmates that handle any trouble you might have with any of the other prisoners. You have any money?”
I thought he was joking. I pulled the inside of my pockets out, revealing nothing.
“No, do you have anyone on the outside that handles your finances? Someone that could front you the money?”
“How much are we talking?” I asked.
“Fifty dollars a month.”
“So would you be the one to protect me?”
Raphael laughed, “Oh, Hell no! I need protecting myself. I use this guy they call Bo. His real name is Beauregard Stinson. He’s in here for double murder. He’s serving a life sentence with no chance of parole. He sends all of the money home to his wife and kids. They need it.”
I asked, “Does the warden know about this? Sounds like extortion to me.”
Raphael laughed. “Man, you’ve got a lot to learn about prison life.” As he talked, he grabbed my paperwork. “You’ve been assigned to the library, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. That’s pretty cushy duty. That’s usually for the older prisoners and special cases. That’s going to piss some people off.”
“Great,” I said. “What is y
our duty?
“I’m in the laundry. All the Mexicans are,” he replied.
“That’s kind of racist.”
Raphael laughed some more. “Like I said, Steven, you’ve got a lot to learn about prison life.”
I laid back on a lumpy mattress with a flat pillow, determined to get some rest. My stomach rumbled. “What time is supper?”
“Sorry, you missed it. Nothing until morning.”
A buzzer sounded, and the common area began emptying as the prisoners headed for their cells. Several passed my cell and continued the barrage of insults.
“Five minutes till lights out, Steven.” Raphael lay down in bed, grabbed an old transistor radio, and tuned in to some staticky Latin music.
Chapter 22
A loud buzzer rang, and I opened my eyes. I had, surprisingly, gotten a few hours of sleep. Raphael pulled the covers from me. How I wished I was still at the Karcher Estate.
“C’mon, Steven, you don’t want to be late on your first day.” Of course I didn’t. “Just follow me,” Raphael said.
We stood in a line while the guards blew whistles, and we started walking to what I would discover was the cafeteria―a dining area that no Health Department would ever let pass inspection. Bread, oatmeal, and some sort of processed egg was the breakfast of choice. In fact, it was the same food they served every morning. I pushed it aside.
“Steven, you better eat. You’ve only got fifteen minutes. In here you’ve got to keep up your strength.” He paused, then let out a laugh. “Oh, I forgot; you work in the library!”
He said it loudly enough that most of the inmates within a small area heard him, which got me some dirty looks.
I sarcastically thanked Raphael, and he silently apologized. “Sorry, man.”
He got up and talked to one of the guards. He returned with a piece of paper. “I got a pass to take you to the library. I told him it was your first day.” A buzzer rang, and the inmates quickly dispersed, many gulping down the remaining food on their plates. One guy grabbed my plate’s contents and was choking as he shoved it into his mouth.
A lanky black man jogged past me with some friends and taunted me: “See you later, Library Boy.” They all laughed.
The Killing of Miguel Page 9
